cracked the stopper, and dabbed her slim finger in an oily ink. Poised, she waited. Johan nodded shortly.
Murmuring, or humming, Shauku painted the purple lizard-skin at Johan's breast with a glyph. Stepping a circle around her guest, she daubed more squiggles in a chain across his chest, shoulders, and back. Johan tilted his horned chin. The glyphs were simple up- and downstrokes with curlicued cross-bars. The ink was vitriol dissolved in linseed oil. Nothing looked sinister.
Yet, Johan recognized that the spell encircled his chest, heart, and head. What might it be? Enslavement? A deluding spell? A withering curse? A brand marking him for sacrifice? An oath of undying fealty or allegiance to Shauku? Johan felt like a steer paraded at the stockyards for auction and slaughter. Worse perhaps, for while a steer would only be eaten, a fool who bargained with a fiend might die a thousand painful deaths.
Still, the tyrant wasn't worried. In centuries of delving in black arts, he'd learned precautions. He was charmed against most curses, dosed immune to common poisons, warded against mind-control, and even had eyes tattooed on his back lest he be watched in secret. When needed, an impenetrable shield of mana sprang forth to protect him, and gems in his pockets would shriek in alarm if spell-struck. So any clumsy sorcery Shauku might ply would fail.
'There!' Shauku raised a stained finger and gestured at the book. 'Does that signify?'
Johan opened the tiger-skin volume and caught his breath. The page read, 'Tigers survive the Sukurvia in oases that extend across the desert. Four tribes dwell within: the Efravans, Hooraree, Khyyiani, and Sulaki. Each tribe boasts nine clans. Most worship a human-shaped god named Terrent Amese, but one tribe pays homage to his rival Ergerborg…'
'I've found it! Found it!' Intrigued, oblivious to his surroundings and host, Johan carefully turned the yellowed page and read.
Smiling, Lady Shauku swished away, down the tower steps.
Chapter 15
Whistledove Kithkin pelted hell-for-leather through the forest, red hair flying back in a wedge, little legs churning, making no effort to hide.
'Heath's taken! Men in black leather captured him!' 'Murdoch! Jedit!' ordered Adira. 'Get after-' The tiger flashed past his chief in long loping strides, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on four, bounding through the forest as others struggled to keep up. This patch of forest was a maze of boulders and brush. The break in the unending pine canopy was nice, for they could glimpse the overcast sky. On the other hand, it was perfect country for ambush.
Adira Strongheart, Simone the Siren, Sister Wilemina, Whistledove Kithkin, Sergeant Murdoch, and Jasmine Boreal trotted behind their captain. Adira limped from blistered toes. Like her crew, she was hungry, tired, aching, and unprepared for battles in the wilderness. Having survived the shipwreck, the sailors and corsairs from Buzzard's Bay had simply walked away, north toward home. Adira had forged on with their mission, marching into the dark pine forest with pirates and one tiger reluctantly tagging along. Now came ambush in unfamiliar territory by an unknown foe, and they had only a few blades and tiger claws. Adira prayed that, if anyone must be killed, let it be her for foolish pigheadedness.
A tiger's roar split the air. Between the towering pines four men carried Heath like a sack of potatoes. Queer looking enemies, thought Adira, like giant wingless wasps clad in leather armor, black and shiny from boots to pate. A hood let only a slit of eyes show, and even the faces behind had been blackened with soot. The four carried only naked slim swords and twists of black rope. Heath was bound by such a sinister thong. Why, Adira wondered, would wasplike soldiers kidnap folk? To be taken to the castle of Shauku?
Then Jedit struck, and the four soldiers got the fight of their lives.
Despite the frightening sight of an upright tiger charging, the soldiers kept their heads. Two shielded their prize captive while two fell elbow to elbow and raised their swords, one even switching to his left hand, so the blades could swing freely. The pair timed their strike perfectly-but missed.
Even running like a raging bull, Jedit was canny enough to plant his feet and skip in place. Skittering backward, the swords skimmed his belly fur. In the half-second the blades crossed, the tiger-warrior struck. Claws slashed the men's arms from shoulder to elbow. Black leather sheared, white skin parted, and red blood spurted. Jedit coiled stumpy clawed fingers around the men's elbows and yanked. Twin pops, sickening and loud, resounded as arms were yanked out of joint. The hooded men went down in a bloody tangle as Jedit vaulted over them.
One wasp-man stuck to his mission by shouldering the unconscious Heath and jogging off through the forest, naked blade pumping in one hand. The other fought a delaying tactic. Squatting with legs spread wide, the soldier cocked his sword overhead, blade flat, hand outstretched. Watching, Adira was impressed at the graceful and unassailable stance. Even the tiger was wary.
Doing the unexpected, Jedit let his feet slip to half-crash on his haunches. Pine needles were so thick he slid almost past the crouching soldier. Not wasting an opportunity, the assassin swept the sword like a scythe. Its tip would brush the carpet of needles and cut everything in its path. Yet Jedit again eschewed common sense. The tiger snap-rolled onto his belly and slapped both paws flat to lunge.
Mighty fanged jaws snapped shut on the soldier's black boot, cutting leather, tearing flesh, crushing bone. Slapping both paws again hard, Jedit jumped to his feet. Clamped in his jaws, the assassin dangled like a mouse. The man gargled as broken bones ground together, but nonetheless he swiped with his blade to slash his foe. With both arms free, Jedit walloped the man's spine with a fist like an anvil, then snagged the man's sword arm in two hands and twisted. The wrist tore free like a roast chicken wing. Jedit tossed the clenched fist and sword a dozen feet, then dropped the crippled mercenary to bleed to death.
Still running toward the fight, for the three-fold slaughter was over in seconds, even Adira Strongheart was stunned by the tiger's ferocity. But no matter.
Dashing past, she shouted, 'Stop larking! Have you forgotten Heath? He's-Oh!'
Ahead, the path was crowded by tall people in leathers and furs. At their feet lay a black-clad warrior shot full of arrows as a porcupine. Lying nearby was Heath, woozy but whole. Yet perhaps a prisoner.
For a while, the pirates just stared at the natives. Many goggled at Jedit Ojanen. In the light of late afternoon, he loomed huge and terrifying as some primitive forest god. Both paws were bloody to the wrists, as was his muzzle, and he licked blood off his whiskers with a broad pink tongue.
For time to think, and because her blisters tortured, Adira plunked on her bottom and yanked off her boots. She hissed massaging all ten toes. Her good seaboots had been ruined by soaking and drying by fires. It was little things, she thought, that make or break you.
Like ghosts in a graveyard, with the patience of hunters, the foresting men and women waited. They looked so well-fed and well-armed that Adira instinctively resented them. Thin, tall, tanned, and dressed in hides and furs decorated with feathers, their faces were long and lean with slanted eyes that suggested wolves. Knotted arms looked capable of swinging their iron-headed knouts, axes, spears, and- mallets. The Circle of Seven stood very still with hands in sight.
Still rubbing her toes, Adira said to Jedit, 'I suppose it's too late to keep one wasp-man alive for questions.'
'Legionnaires die but never surrender,' quoted the woods-folk leader. More quiet. Adira was reminded of the pause between lightning and thunder.
Weary, Adira Strongheart didn't even rise, but sat with arms folded across her knees and wiggled her aching toes. 'What will you have? You can keep Heath. Any scout that gets kidnapped deserves to be boiled in oil. He couldn't track a bleeding bull through a baron's ball, obviously.' Heath blinked in dismay.
A woman shifted a spike to the crook of her elbow. The hardwood shaft was painted red and topped by an iron head like a whale's tooth. Her dark hair was braided tight to her head1 and stuck with white feathers. She wore a long oyster-white shirt with a wide belt, a mantle of silver fox, and boots wrapped with elkhide. A cased bow and quiver hung over one shoulder. She spoke in a odd low-pitched whisper.
'We are the people of the pines, and this is our land. You intrude. We demand to know where you go.'
Aggravated, Adira could only think how elegant and proud the pine dwellers looked, and how she must look like a drowned muskrat. Her party had almost nothing. Adira had her twin daggers, Simone a cutlass, and the rest
