visited only for hunting and seasonal grazing, claimed by no clan. It rolled gently, rising now and then to something you might call a low hill, or sinking more and more often into swamp and marsh.
This particular stretch was dry and sandy, sun-dappled between tall wide-spaced trees, oak and hickory and tall sweet-scented pines; the lower ground was patched with a layer of sassafras-bright scarlet now-dogwood, and hophornbeam. The leaves of the oaks had turned a soft yellow brown where they weren’t flaming red, and the hickories had a mellower golden tint; the leaf-litter was already heavy, rustling about their feet. To the east and south the woods grew denser, with water-loving types like tupelo and persimmon and live oak; that was laced together with wild grapevines and kudzu.
It was thick with birds now, as well, parakeets eating acorns off the trees, grouse and wild turkey on the ground, and squirrels rustling through the undergrowth after the nuts. And not only birds…
“Ah!” King exclaimed softly, going down on one knee.
A wetter patch of ground showed where he parted the spicebush. In it was the mark of a narrow cloven hoof, driven deep. The tips of each mark were too rounded and the impression too square overall for a deer…
“Wild boar?” the Imperial asked softly.
“Don’t know what a boar is,” Robre said equally quietly; they often had to hunt for a word like that, though the Imperial had become fluent enough at the tongue of the clans, if thickly and weirdly accented. “Wild pig, right enough.”
He cast forward, following the trail and gauging the weight and length of stride. “Big un, too. My weight ’n’ half again. Might be a bull-pig with a sounder”-group of females and their young-“if one of the sows is in season.” Wild pigs bred year-round in this mild climate.
“Let’s go look, then,” King said with a grin, wrapping a loop of his rifle’s sling around his left elbow and pulling it taut; that gave him a firm three-point brace when the weapon was against his shoulder. “We could use some fresh pork.”
Robre made a note of the trick with the sling; he’d been getting a thorough rundown on Imperial firearms and how to use them. He also noted that King wasn’t the least bit bothered by the thought of going into thick bush after tricky, dangerous game. The clansman put an arrow to the knock of his recurved bow, a hunting broadhead with four razor-sharp blades to the pyramid-shaped iron head.
Damn, but I can’t help but like this buckaroo, Robre thought. Toplofty or no. Aloud, he said, “You’ve hunted them before?”
“Boar? Yes. But in India we take them on horseback, with lances,” King said casually, and Robre blinked at the thought.
“Well, mebbe yours are a might different. Ours here, they’ll mostly run, ’less you get between a sow ’n’ her young uns. Or a boar that’s breeding, he’ll charge you often as not ’cause he feels like killing something. Or sometimes they’ll fight out of pure cussedness.”
They followed the trail downhill, one to either side, walking at a slow steady pace with as little noise as possible; they kept trees between themselves and their goals as much as possible, and the wind was in their faces, giving no warning to any sensitive noses ahead.
Sonjuh was panting a little, trotting through an opening in the woods with the twenty-five-pound weight of the wild turkey on her back; she’d cleaned it and cut off the head-and removed her crossbow bolt-before throwing it over one shoulder and holding it by the feet as she headed back to camp, but it was a big cock-bird fat with feeding on fall nuts and acorns. It would make a pleasant change from dried provisions, now that the remaining venison from two days back was gone off, even if it would also be a chore to pluck it. But get the feathers off, rub a little chipotle on it, and roast it over a slow hickory fire with a few handfuls of mesquite pods thrown on the coals now and then-she’d bought a sack in Dannulsford-and stuffed with some corn bread, the pecans and mushrooms she’d gathered…
No better eating than a fat fall turkey cooked that way Her mouth watered. Then her gorge rose; sometimes just thinking of the word eating was enough to bring back the screams and the blood… For a long moment she halted and pressed a hand to her eyes, fighting for control. Slasher’s low warning growl brought her back to the light of day; he’d been trotting along, utterly content with the live-for-the-moment happiness of a dog out in the woods with his master, and wouldn’t make that noise for anything but a present threat.
Now he crouched and bristled, his nose pointing like an arrow to some chest-high underbrush. The girl lowered the gutted bird to the rustling leaves and squatted in cover, bringing her crossbow around. A chill struck at her gut-could it be swamp-devils? This was farther west than her father’s steading had been, but it was possible No. The bushes were moving, but in a random way; swamp-devils would be more cautious. Animals, then, but ones confident enough not to care if they were heard. That ruled out deer. Wild cattle or woods-bison would be visible, so Wind blew toward her, mild and cool. The dog’s nostrils flared, and hers caught a familiar scent, gamy and rank.
Oh, jeroo, she thought, trying to make out numbers and directions. At least a dozen, counting yearlings; there were glimpses of black bristly hide through the shrubs, and the ground was too begrown for a human to run fast or straight. A sounder of wild pig would go through it easy as snakes, and they were nearly as fast as a horse in a rush. She’d walked right into their midst in a brown study. Stupid, stupid. This could be more lively than I’d like. It all depended on which way they ran-it was a toss-up whether they’d flee or attack if they scented a human.
The ground rose to the south, and the underbrush opened out under tall hardwoods. She came to her feet and began to walk, placing her feet carefully and trying to look in all directions at once. If she was very lucky, none of them would be in her way.
Luck ran out. A low-slung form burst out of the reddish-yellow sassafras where it had been feeding on the seeds, squealing in panic; from its size, a four-month spring-born piglet. By pure reflex, Slasher spun in place and snapped, taking a nip out of the young pig’s rump and lending a note of agony to its cries.
“Oh, shee-yit on faahr!”
Sonjuh was up and running when the piglet’s squeals were joined by others, deeper and full of rage. She risked a look behind her and wished she hadn’t; the young pig’s momma was coming for her with legs churning in a blur of motion, big wicked head down, little eyes glinting and tusks wet and sharp-what woodsmen called a land- pike. It weighed more than she did, a long low-slung shape of bone and gristle tipped with knives, and well used to killing-wild pig ate anything they could catch from acorns and earthworms to deer and stray children, and even a cougar would hesitate to take on a full-grown adult. If this one caught her, they’d all feast this morning and crunch her bones for the marrow.
Slasher spun and charged the pig, mouth wide open and his growl ratcheting up into a roaring snarl-howl. Sonjuh spun, too, forced herself to steadiness, took stance, whipped the crossbow up to her shoulder. The fighting-dog was dancing around the wild pig, feinting, leaping back and rearing on his hind legs to dodge a slash that would have laid his belly open, then dashing in to snap at the hindquarters. The sow kept those down, pivoting and whipping her short tusks in deadly arcs. The girl brought the business end of the weapon down, sighting over tailfeather and bolt-head, then squeezed the trigger.
Twunk!
The hickory thumped her shoulder through the shift. A blur nearly too fast to see, the bolt hit the sow behind her shoulder, sinking almost to the stiff leather fletching. The animal screamed in pain, spinning again as it tried to reach the thing that hurt it, and the sound went out in a fine spray of blood from its muzzle. A lung-shot, fatal in minutes if not instantly.
Sonjuh didn’t wait to see. She was running again instantly, slinging the weapon as she went, dodging and jinking through the underbrush, shouting: “Slasher! Follow!” over her shoulder.
More squeals followed her, and some of them-another glance over her shoulder showed what was coming. A boar, full-grown. No, two of them-they must have been getting ready to fight for the females, just when she came along. Coyote had sent her luck, his kind; or maybe Olsatyn: Lord o’ Sky must be asleep, or out hunting, or sporting with his wives, because he certainly wasn’t listening to her prayers.
Now both the boars were after her, with the instinct of their kind to mob a threat added to the mindless belligerence of rutting season. Both of them were huge, night-black except for the grizzled color of the bristles that thickened to manes on their skulls and the massive shoulders, better than twice a big man’s weight, their short straight tails held up like banners. Long white tusks curled up and back on either side of their glistening snouts, sharp-pointed ivory daggers that could rip open a horse or bear, much less a human. They fanned out as they came,
