thought, turned their full attention back to the owls. That was when Wintermoon gave the signal to charge.
Cymry, larger and heavier than the dyheli, charged straight up the
middle of the pack, striking with forehooves and kicking with hind, before whirling and retreating to the safety of the crevice. The dyheli came in on either side, just behind her, and trampled the wyrsa that dodged out of the way. They too retreated, as Skif and Wintermoon followed as a second wave, swords out and swinging.
Skif's world narrowed to his enemies and himself; nothing more. As always, fear temporarily evaporated, replaced by a cool detachment that would last only as long as the battle. Talia had told him that he was really temporarily insane when this came over him-as emotionally dead and uncaring as an assassin. He hadn't always been this way, but like so many in Valdemar, the war with Ancar had changed him.
He ducked away from snapping jaws, and decapitated one wyrsa. Two more came for him, poisoned fangs gleaming in the moonlight, but one of the dyheli got in a kick that distracted the first, and he fatally disemboweled the second when it couldn't limp out of the way fast enough.
Cymry screamed a warning, and he ducked the one that the dyheli had kicked; hit it with the flat of the blade, and knocked it into Cymry's path. She trampled it; bones crunched and popped, and a hoof crushed its skull as it snapped at her.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and struck at a third as it jumped for Wintermoon's back. His strike wasn't clean; he only sliced at its foreleg, but that disabled it. Wintermoon finished that one off, and Skif looked around for more of the beasts.
There weren't any more.
'We did it.' Skif could hardly believe it. It had happened so quickly-he leaned on his sword, panting, his heart still in his mouth over the near-misses he'd had with the creatures' poisoned fangs. Very nearmisses; the cloth of his breeches was torn in one place, and his tunic damaged by claws.
'We were lucky,' Wintermoon said flatly. 'Very, very lucky. Either these were very stupid wyrsa, or your tactic took them by surprise. One touch of a fang begins to dissolve flesh far worse than any poisonous serpent. And wyrsa often travel in packs twice the size of this one. We would not have defeated a larger pack this easily.
Skif nodded, and the battle fever that had sustained him drained out of him in a rush, leaving him weak- kneed and panting. He cleaned his sword on a handful of dry grass, and sagged against the stones that had sheltered them. 'Havens. No, if there had only been one more of those things, I don't think we could have done this. I've never seen anything move as fast as they did.' He closed his eyes as a rush of exhaustion hit him.
'I think,' Wintermoon said, in a voice as drained-sounding as Skif felt, 'that we should camp now.'
Wintermoon decreed a fire, after they cleared the carcasses of the wyrsa out of the way, pitching them into the forest, upwind of the camp, for scavengers to squabble over. Not the easiest task in the dark; they were heavier than they looked, and their fangs were still deadly and had to be avoided. Then they collected arrows and arrowheads, all that could be found. There were more arrows in their packs, but every arrow was precious, and every broken-off head might be needed. By the time they had the fire going in front of their crevice, there was something out there, fighting over the remains with other somethings, all of them squalling and barking. Skif wondered how they would dare to sleep; he kept glancing at the forest where the noises were coming from, even though he knew the chances that he'd actually see anything were remote. Hopefully, they hadn't attracted anything too large...'We stay awake until they carry away the remains,' Wintermoon said, as if answering his thought. Skif was only startled by it for a moment; he was probably pretty transparent, and Wintermoon had read his expression. 'Once the carcasses are gone, the scavengers will go.
The fire will keep them away until then. The night-scavengers are cowards, and fear fire. We had best not move away from it.' The Hawkbrother settled down on his blanket roll, got one of his packs and took out a small, fire-blackened pair of pots, and filled both with water from one of their bottles. He looked up to see Skif watching him with puzzlement.
'So long as we are confined to the fire we might as well make use of it,' he said. 'The owls will only be able to hunt enough to fill their bellies; they are too weary to hunt for us tonight. I prefer not to resort to unembellished trail rations if I have any choice at all.' With that, he reached into his pack for a slab of dried venison and a few other things. He broke off bits of meat and dropped them into the first pot, which was already simmering, following that with the multicolored contents of a gray paper packet, and a sprinkling of what looked to be herbs. Into the second pot went more herbs, dried fruit, and several small, round objects that Skif didn't recognize.
'Can I help?' Skif asked. 'I should warn you, I tend to ruin anything I cook on my own, but if you keep an eye on me, I should do all right. ' The scout chuckled, and handed him a wooden spoon. Skif pulled the edges of his cloak a little closer around his body, and stirred the meat pot as he'd been directed. He was very glad of the fire; now that they weren't moving or fighting, the air, though windless, was very chilly.
He expected to see thick frost on the ground in the morning.
'I have needed this myself,' Wintermoon said, breaking the silence.
'I am often out alone, and the hertasi do not care to be outside the Vale or their settlements. My lovers have always been casual, so there has never been anyone to share such-domestic chores with.'
'Forgive me if I am stepping beyond the bounds,' Skif said, 'But I can't imagine why. You seemed popular.' Wintermoon coughed politely. 'Well, none of the scouts have felt easy about having long-term affairs with one who hunts the dangerous hours of night by choice, and no woman of the Clans would ever consider a long liaison with a man who has no magic.'
'But you have magic,' Skif felt moved to protest. 'Better than mine, in fact.') Wintermoon shrugged. 'It is not magic by Starblade's definition,' he said, too casually. 'I do not know how these things are reckoned in other Clans, but it is that way in k'sheyna.' Skif stirred the pot vigorously, and tried to think of a tactful way to approach the subject of Starblade. Darkwind had been so relieved at the release of his father, that he was likely to look no further, but Skif did not trust Starblade's ability to assess his own strengths and weaknesses.
Tact had never been his strong suit; he finally gave up searching, and tried bluntness instead.
'What do you think of Starblade?' he asked. 'Now, I mean-now that he isn't being manipulated. Do you trust him?'
'Much the same as I have always thought of him,' came the surprising answer. 'Not often, and not a great deal. This revelation has changed very little between Starblade and myself, whatever it has done for Darkwind.'
' But-' Skif began. Wintermoon looked up from his task, briefly, and the firelight flickering over his face
