The hound lunged again, still trying for my throat. Dimly I heard Del, on the other side of the cairn, crying out in Northern. She sounded startled and furious; I made no answer, having no time to make the effort, but hoped she’d do something other than shout. Which, of course, she did, with Boreal at her beck.
My own sword was buried beneath tumbled bedding. Now I lay on dirt, hard, cold dirt, with my head at the cairn stones. The hound might take my throat; the coals might take my hair.
No one wants to die. But least of all with no hair.
The beast made no sound. But Del did, and loudly, as she told me to flatten myself.
I tried. I mean, no man aware of Boreal’s power risks himself so readily. But even as I kicked over and tried to dig myself into the dirt, the hound evaded the blade. Del’s skill was better than that, but my head was in the way. So were my flailing hands, locking themselves at a furred throat. I wanted nothing more than to try for my knife, but dared not take a hand off the hound, or I’d lose my brief advantage.
I felt teeth at my own throat. Snapping, grasping, grabbing. The stench was overwhelming. It smelled of rotting bodies.
Something snugged taut against the back of my neck. Something like wire, or thong. And then I realized it was my necklet. My string of sandtiger claws.
Hoolies, it wanted my claws?
But I had no time to wonder beyond my initial surprised response. I heard Del’s muttered order to watch my head, which I couldn’t actually do since my eyes were in it, and ducked. But she missed again, though barely; I heard Boreal’s whisper as steel sang past my head.
“Just do it—” I blurted.
And then the beast was lunging away, evading the blade yet again. It left me in the darkness and fled away into the trees.
I lay sprawled on my back, one hand at my throat busily digging through woolen wrappings to see if I was whole. To feel if my flesh was bleeding. I yanked wool away with some violence, then heaved a sigh of relief as nothing but skin met my fingers. No blood or torn flesh at all; only whole, unbitten skin.
Meanwhile, Del ignored me entirely and stepped across my body to follow the spoor of the beast. Just in case it might double back. Just in case it might have companions. Not a bad idea, but she might have thought of me. After all, for all she knew I could be bleeding to death right there on the ground, dwindling bit by bit—or bucket by bucket—before her eyes.
Except she wasn’t looking. Which sort of ruined the effect.
I felt the thong at my neck, heard the rattle of claws, felt relief wash quickly through me. Which meant I was perfectly entitled to be testy, since there was nothing wrong with me.
I let Del get four steps. “Don’t bother,” I said. “It got what it came for.”
She swung back, sword aglint. “What do you mean, ‘what it came for’?”
I sat up slowly, still massaging the flesh of my throat. It felt bruised; no surprise. “The whistle,” I told her hoarsely. “The Cantéada ward-whistle. That’s what it wanted.” Not my claws after all, though I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t think she’d understand why I’d worried about it at all.
Del glanced back into the shadows. I knew the beast was gone; the stink of it had faded. But she waited, sword at the ready, until her own suspicions died. And then she came to me.
“Let me see,” she said.
Finally. But I shrugged negligence as she knelt down, setting Boreal close at hand. “I’m all right. It didn’t even break the skin.”
Del’s hands were insistent. She peeled back wrappings, shoved my hand aside, carefully examined flesh in the thin light of the moon.
It was odd having her so close to me after so long a separation. I smelled her familiar scent, felt her familiar touch, saw her familiar face; the faint frown between her brows. At moments like this it was hard to recall just what had come between us.
And then there were other moments when I remembered all too well.
Ah, hoolies, bascha … too much sand blown out of the desert.
If Del was aware of my scrutiny, she made no sign of it. She simply examined my throat carefully, nodded slightly, then took her hands away. “So,” she said, “they have learned. And we are back where we started.”
“Not quite,” I muttered. “Too much sand blown out of the desert.”
Del frowned. “What?”
For some reason, I was irritated. “We’re not back where we started because too many things have changed.” I shifted position, felt the pull of newly stretched scar tissue, tried to hide the discomfort from her. Just as she hid her own from me. “Go back to sleep, Del. I’ll take first watch.”
“You’re in no shape for that.”