“I will end you!”
“Then come for me. Do it. Maybe I’ll show you what blade I do have.”
Tokela was tempted. Still stripped to clout from Spear Dance, Mordeleg’s hands were at his sides. He hid no weapon Tokela could see. It had been relatively easy to take Mordeleg down in Dance. Surely Tokela could do the same now.
“Or are you afraid, little hareKin?”
Abruptly, Tokela was. Something quivered, deep-set and dark-clouded, in Mordeleg’s voice. Tokela couldn’t sound it, couldn’t parse it. The oddling not-stone at his spine no longer spread warmth, instead seeming to leach the heat from him. The Riverling’s burble shattered into the silence.
Enemy. The open, blank eye sockets of the set-aside hareKin mask winked warning. Predator.
Something scratched between Tokela’s shoulder blades, a faint tease of spark and feeling.
Bring him in, Hare whispered.
The not-stone’s hum increased in pitch. Tokela’s eyes watered. His temples pounded. “What do you want?” he whispered back.
“Come away from that thing and I’ll show you,” Mordeleg answered.
“I didn’t mean…” You, Tokela finished silent, uneasy.
“Or I can leave you here and find your little cousin. I saw him wandering off by himself earlier. He was pretty upset, not paying attention to much.” A glint of teeth, more snarl than smile. “Does he really think nothing can touch him?”
Tokela rocked forwards. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Mordeleg shrugged. “You’re sure? River took your dam and sire… if he was your sire. A wrong step on the strand, and River would take him, too. An accident, surely. So many things can happen.”
So many things. The Hare-voice bade Tokela’s hands twitch, led his fingers sliding in some unconscious Dance upon Air. Mist breathed chill into his lungs, not quenching, but kindling Fire in his heart.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, low and quiet.
“I told you. You owe me.” Mordeleg came forwards a few steps. “And I think I know how you’ll pay.”
“Or I could just go, now, and tell them what you’ve threatened.”
To Tokela’s surprise, Mordeleg laughed. “Do you think they’ll believe you? You brought an outlier into Dance. And now I find you… here. At this place forbidden to everyone. Except—” he stepped a tiny bit closer “—you, perhaps? The ehšehklan, visiting his sire’s home—”
“That’s a lie!”
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. The question is, will it matter if they find you’ve been visiting this place?” Another step, another smile-that-was-not. “Ehšehklan.”
Tokela stood firm, though his trepidation stirred, murky and treacherous as Mordeleg’s gaze. Strangely unreadable, the latter—more murk, rising about them, invisible but there. Until now, things had been clear: Mordeleg wanted to see Tokela beaten, wanted to be the one who did it. Whys were unimportant.
Until now.
Tokela’s fingers kept stroking. Some trick of light trailed blue-white in their wake, as if Tokela had graphite and leaf, sketching… only these were symbols he didn’t know.
Because they weren’t. Symbols. Only a trick of light.
Are you so sure? Hare whispered.
The words quickened Tokela’s heart and filled it. Like the yaiyai of the elders, singing warrior courage into being. Like the t’rešalt at his back, humming and sparking…
“You want me?” Tokela sneered. “Come and take me.”
Mordeleg hesitated, slight but there. Tokela took the chance, feinting to his knife hand then darting opposite. Mordeleg followed the first motion, and Tokela ploughed shoulder-first into Mordeleg’s knees.
Arms windmilling, Mordeleg floundered, seeking purchase against the soft loam.
Tokela struck again, a shoulder against Mordeleg’s hip, then whirled with a twist and turn to dart away, snatch up his knives—
Instead a hand snarled in his hair, gave a brutal yank. It enabled Mordeleg to find his footing; he heaved himself upright, dragging Tokela with him. Tokela gave a yowl and twisted, lashing out. Mordeleg cursed as the blow landed; he grabbed Tokela’s arm and twisted it behind him, propelled him against the t’rešalt. Another brutal shove sent Tokela face-first, bloodying his nose. With a growl Tokela twisted, nearly won free, but Mordeleg lunged forwards, slamming every bit of his considerable weight against Tokela, pinning him.
All the breath popped from Tokela’s lungs in a wrenching grunt. He lurched and bucked; it made no difference. He might as well have moved the Great Mound.
“Be still.” Mordeleg growled. “Don’t you want me to answer your question?” One of the hands holding to Tokela suddenly softened. It trailed downwards, across the wyrh tree stippled onto his ribcage, slipped on a remaining bit of oil in the small of his back.
Tokela froze.
“You asked me why I was doing this.” Mordeleg shifted, rocked his hips forwards. The end of his clout tickled at Tokela’s thigh, the hard, thick knot beneath making many things altogether clear.
Hands quivering, wanting to draw, but no blade to hand, nails trying to dig into slick not-stone, teeth bared to bite at air.
Trapped. Panting Hare for real this time. Helpless.
Here.
“Now you see,” Mordeleg whispered. “I don’t need weapons. I choose closer means.”
So, the whisper came again, do We. Thick, wet heat reverberated against Tokela’s cheek, rising behind his eyes with convulsive flares and sparks, humming and jerking down his back, setting his heart lurching and stuttering in his breast. It nerved him, impeding any movement save an uncontrollable twitch and spasm: his hands, fingertips tracing tiny pictures against the t’rešalt, blue-white sparks travelling up his pinned arm.
Mordeleg tried to shove Tokela further against the thing, but instead hissed a midLand curse by Tokela’s ear. It slipped from anger into panic; the grasp turned from stone to sand. Tokela thought to resist, but a… a croon, it was, deep within his breast, and it sent another odd twitch/spasm up his arms. As if something deep within had disconnected him from his body, a preparation for some reflex he hadn’t known he possessed.
The sparks rose about him, lifted his hair. His fingers kept sketching. Kept…
A dull, meaty thud and a hoarse yelp broke the spell. Mordeleg fell sideways, so limp-heavy that Tokela’s knees collapsed and he slithered downwards. The opportunity of freedom further broke the fugue, and he twisted, put his back to the t’rešalt and raised spark-filled
