A howl sounded on his right. An answering call drifted in from his left. The wolves were circling him. His back against a thick tree, Riverwind tore at the lacing binding his saber. While doing this, he shouted, “Kyanor! How many more of your brothers are you willing to sacrifice to get me? I have arrows and steel to deal with you all-is it worth it? Is it, Kyanor?” His saber was finally free and he drew it silently. Moonlight glinted on the long, polished blade.
An eerie screech in the darkness made the hairs on his neck bristle. He could imagine the hard, lithe bodies flitting among the cedars, seeing with precision in the night, though they were veiled from Riverwind's questing eyes.
Riverwind broke away from the tree and sprinted a few yards to another, flinging himself back-first against the fragrant, ragged cedar bark. Branches waved not far away; was it the wind? The forest was as calm as a scene of death.
“Plainsman! Can you hear me?” Kyanor called.
“I hear you, Kyanor.”
“I'll remember you, plainsman! I'll know your scent should we cross paths again!”
“I'll save an arrow just for you,” Riverwind said. Unseen, Kyanor howled a summons to his kin. They answered, a chorus of yips and barks individual to each animal. Then the forest was silent. Riverwind kept his back to the tree for a long time, listening.
Eventually, crickets began to whir in the undergrowth. That was a good sign. Riverwind sheathed his sword and let out a sigh of relief. If the wolves were still prowling nearby, the woods would be quiet with fear.
Riverwind ran, dodging through the pines and cedars. As he did, he was beset with a horrible thought: if the pack doubled back behind him, they could follow his trail to the place where he'd left Catchflea…
The great cedar bore no signs of violence. Indeed, the only sign of life Riverwind detected was a gentle snoring coming from above. He climbed to where the trunk split and found Catchflea there, sleeping peacefully.
Riverwind settled in the other side of the tree. He loosened his sword belt and passed it around a tree branch to hold him in the tree. His saber he jammed into a limb overhead. Riverwind tried to fall asleep, but every whisper of the wind, every nocturnal creature's cry, brought him to full wakefulness. It was a long night.
Sun filtered through the dark green fronds, the patterns of light and shadow weaving across Riverwind's face. The smell of resinous wood burning interrupted his slumber. The sudden remembrance of his fight the night before jolted him awake. Below, Catchflea was puttering around a small fire. Riverwind released his belt and swung down to the ground. His muscles ached from his fight and flight. The long scratches on his throat had dried with a coating of sticky black blood.
“Are you hungry?” asked Catchflea, his back to River-wind. “There is food, yes.”
“What food?” asked Riverwind. He was famished.
“Mushroom broth, greens, herb tea, and topa pods.”
Riverwind approached and peered over Catchflea's shoulder in surprise. In the early hours of the morning the old man had risen and foraged for food. In Riverwind's copper pan he'd boiled wild mushrooms and dandelion greens. He'd brewed tea from sage and mint growing in a clearing not far away. And most surprisingly, he'd found a stand of topa bushes, whose green seed pods were delicious eaten raw.
Catchflea handed Riverwind a cup of tea with a mint sprig floating in it. The old man sat cross-legged by the pine twig fire, slurping mushroom broth and nibbling a seed pod. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the scratches on Riverwind's neck, but all he said was, “Eat, eat.”
Riverwind sank down on his haunches. “You've been fooling me, old man.”
“I?”
“Yes, You play at being the witless soothsayer, but you're really an old fox.” Riverwind swallowed a mouthful of tea. It was good; the warmth spread down his throat and soothed his empty stomach.
“No one lives to my age by being a fool,” Catchflea replied. “Careful, yes. Foolish, no. Especially when they have the ability to glimpse the future.” He munched another topa pod. “What happened to your neck? Did you fall down?”
Riverwind told him about the wolves, Kyanor, and how he'd lost the sheep. Behind his beard, Catchflea paled.
“Wolves?” he murmured. “With fingers? You never said anything about wolves of any sort!”
“Anything can happen in the wilderness, my friend. There are worse things than wolves, with or without fingers.” Riverwind drained the tea from his cup and dipped it in the soup. The brown forest mushrooms had a strong, woody flavor he found bracing. “What I want to know is: was Kyanor a beast that talked like a man, or a man confined to the body of a beast?”
“A man. He must be a man, yes?”
Riverwind chewed a stringy piece of mushroom. “Why so?”
“Only men can seek knowledge through magic,” Catchflea said. “Men and like races. Animals do not have the wits to incant.”
“So this Kyanor is a man who takes wolf form? Why would he do that?”
The old man shrugged. “Over the mountains is the lost domain of Istar, where magic ruled centuries ago. Many strange things came out of there when the Cataclysm claimed the land and sank it beneath the sea. This wolf-thing might be the offspring of an Istarian sorcerer.” Catchflea dabbed his lips daintily on his sleeve, never mind that the sleeve was dirtier than his face. “Or Kyanor could be a man like us, but under a curse,” he added.
“He did not complain of his place at the head of the pack,” Riverwind said.
They went down to the spring Catchflea had found so Riverwind could wash his slight wounds. As they walked, Riverwind asked, “What happened to your bells? Your beard is silent.”
The old man flushed. “I removed them,” he replied. “I decided they didn't suit my new role as a woodsman, yes.” Riverwind smiled.
The old soothsayer reclined on the pine needle-strewn bank and watched Riverwind clean the cuts on his neck.
“Do they hurt?”
Riverwind winced as he pressed a damp rag to the cuts. “No.”
“They might fester,” Catchflea mused. “I can make a poultice from blueroot.”
“Not necessary. The cuts are clean now.”
“Perhaps a salve to ease the pain? I believe I saw some numbweed nearby. Or I could use arrowgum, or perhaps-”
“Keep still, will you?” Riverwind said impatiently. Catchflea's face fell.
“I only want to help.”
Riverwind didn't answer. He felt sheepish that, for all his admonishings about stealth and hunting, it had been Catchflea who'd fed them. His discomfort made him short with the old soothsayer.
Before night fell again, the two men set out to cross the Forsaken Mountains. Riverwind avoided the trail where he had encountered the Nightrunners, choosing instead to go up the stony face of Thunder Notch itself. Catchflea didn't balk at the task; in fact, he kept up with Riverwind much better on broken ground than he had on level terrain. Strong he was not, but very agile.
The twin caps of Thunder Notch loomed over them as they worked their way up the western slope. In most places they were able to walk upright, stepping carefully to avoid loose shale ledges and crumbly sandstone outcroppings. Sometimes, though, Riverwind and Catchflea were forced to go on all fours, clinging to the brittle face of the mountain with fingers and toes.
A little after midday they entered the Notch. All the plain of Abanasinia lay at their feet. Riverwind felt in good spirits.
“Farewell, Abanasinia!” he called to the wind.
“Farewell, Que-Shu!” Catchflea added.
Till we are together once more, Goldmoon, Riverwind thought. Broad white clouds raced over the Notch, a silent panoply hurrying west.
Catchflea fished the acorns from his clothing and put them in the gourd. He knelt on a flat table of rock and began to shake the gourd.
