SHADOW LEADER

  Tara K. Harper

  A Del Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS · NEW YORK

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1991 by Tara K. Harper

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy­right Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Lim­ited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-91811

  ISBN 0-345-37163-1

  Printed in Canada

  First Edition: May 1991

  Cover Art by Edwin Herder

  In memory of Brent E., who taught me how to finesse a climb, and showed me that one of the greatest challenges is that of facing your fears.

  Chapter 1

  In gray tones, speak the wolves; The whisper of their hunt is soft. But when the poison masa walks Even the wolves flee the woods.

  Aranur staggered to a stop and caught his breath. The rustlings behind him grew louder, and the coils of the poison masa were already creeping along the branches overhead. He half straightened and threw a glance over his shoulder. If those sucker vines got any thicker... With a curse under his breath, he pulled his long knife from his belt—his sword would be useless if he became tangled—and shoved himself away from the tree. Longear's scouts could be on his trail even now, he knew, but that was not what worried him—the masa was stirred up enough to keep the scouts from his footprints for days. No, it was the wolf­walker for whom he feared.

  He broke into a jog. The hungry vines snaked through the trees above him as he ran, and the feeder roots were as thick as his wrist. Dion had never seen poison masa before. If she stepped into a masa coil unknowing ...

  He ducked under a low branch and vaulted a rotten log, slipping on the loose bark that scattered under his boots before he caught himself again. He glanced around for signs of the wolf­walker. Thank the moons he was close—cleanly cut stems still oozed with fresh sap where Dion had sliced off the wild herbs with her knife. But then the wind rose briefly, and a new scent hit his nose. Fresh water. A lake? Or a stream hidden in a gully he had not seen from the ridge? His knowledge of this county's border was scant. If there was a pond here, there would be clear bands of soil near the banks—and that would be ripe hunting ground for the masa ...

  He doubled his pace, ignoring the branches that caught and snapped on his mail as he ran. A deadfall leapt-up under his feet, and he jumped it without thinking, sliding down on the other side as the ground fell away in an unexpectedly steep slope. The soft earth piled into his boots, and rotting sticks stabbed his legs where the studded leather slid up to his hips. He landed with a grunt, rolled, and came up running, the humus scattering like chaff.

  The ground became marshy, and the softness of the sweet dirt gave way to mud. His feet drove deeply into the ground with splucking sounds as he shoved his way through, one hand holding the hilt of his sword so it did not catch on the brush, the other in front of his face to ward off the branches that stabbed at his eyes. Before him, a tiny hillock served as a dike to the mountain runoff. He charged up it until his weight collapsed one of the rodent tunnels that honeycombed the dike and he slammed to the ground face first at the top of the hill.

  Wait.

  He froze.

  That voice—it was Gray Hishn, the wolf that ran with Dion, the massive creature's tones husky in his mind. Watch, the gray wolf said softly.

  Motionless, Aranur caught his breath. What was going on? Where was the wolf? And where was Dion? He glared across the lake over the top of the dike, his narrowed gray eyes stabbing each shrub that hung out over the silent water. He could see no sign of the enemy scouts that patrolled the borders in greater numbers than ever. But there—to the right—he lo­cated the wolf­walker before spotting Gray Hishn hiding behind her. The woman's worn, leather mail melted so well into the brush that she was nearly invisible, but the silver headband, which marked her as a healer, glinted dully in the sun. It gave -away her position and turned Aranur's angry apprehension into puzzled curiosity. He hardly noticed the chill where the mud soaked his leggings. What was that fool woman doing now? She looked frozen in place, like a statue, her hands out in front of her as if she had been turned to stone in the middle of clapping. Behind her, three small, neat piles of herbs testified to the gathering she had done. He squinted, shifting silently to a better position. But he could see no danger around her—and, too, the wolf would not be lying in the brush behind Dion if she sensed anything wrong—so what in the name of all nine moons was going on?

  Suddenly Dion let out a short, sharp yell and brought her hands together with a clap that echoed across the water.

  “By the gods—” Aranur almost jumped into the nearest tree as the banks of the lake—on every side—erupted, and thou­sands of startlingly green lizards leapt up from where they had lain, perfectly hidden, in the mud of the shore. They were a full meter tall on their hind legs; they ran like half-size men toward the water and then, to his amazement, rushed out on the surface of the lake as if it were a mirage and solid as the banks he stood on. Frantically they sped toward the center of the lake in a spattering thunder, tiny wakes cutting back from their webbed feet and chopping up the water like a thousand knives. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they sank out of sight. And then there was—nothing. Just the lake, the banks, and the wolf­walker standing there with a foolish grin on her face.

  And she had the audacity to giggle. Aranur closed his mouth with a snap and got to his feet, stalking down the dike. It did not help that he slipped twice and caught himself only once. By the time he reached Dion, who had already picked up her herbs and motioned for the wolf to join her, he was wet, muddy, humiliated, and coldly enraged. He wiped a last handful of marsh mud from his scabbard and flung it on the shore.

  “All right, Dion,” he snapped. “What the hell was that all about?”

  The wolf­walker, her violet eyes sparkling, gestured toward the lake. “Green tobi lizards. Did you see them take off for the water? There must have been a thousand of them lying on the shore.”

  “Dion,” he said in a quietly dangerous voice, “why are you out here alone this far from the trail?”

  She looked at him then. “I was gathering herbs, Aranur. I told my brother where I was going before I left.”

  He wiped another streak of mud from his scabbard. “Rhom hardly knew you would be gone this long or this far.”

  She gave him an irritated look.

  “Look, Dion, you weren't scouting trail, so no one knew where to find you. It took me half an hour just to locate the spot where you left the rocks back near the main path, and now I've left traces there, as well. We're too close to the border of Bilocctar, Dion. You don't realize what can happen.”

  “Gray Hishn's with me,” she protested quietly. “She sensed no danger—”

  “That wolf doesn't know everything about these mountains, and neither do you. What if these tobi lizards were venomous? What if this little trick of yours drew the attention of a bad-gerbear or worlag or one of Longear's men instead of me?”

  “Aranur—”

  “Gamon sighted a group of scouts barely an hour after you'd gone.”

  In spite of her irritation, Dion was startled. “But we're still two days from the border. And we've been a long time crossing the mountains from the coast—they could not know where we are yet.''

  “I don't know how they did it, but they are in these hills just as we are. And if they catch sight of us—or of you,” he reminded her sharply, “then all this—” he gestured at his worn boots and stained leather mail. “—will be for nothing.”

  Dion was silent for a moment. “Hishn and I would not have been seen,” she said finally. “The Gray Ones are seen only when they wish.”

  “Moonworms, Dion,” Aranur exploded, “you're not a wolf. You're a woman, and as easily seen as the rest of us.” He ran his fingers through his hair and forced his voice to be calmer. “Look, Dion, if it were merely Zentsis's soldiers who were after us, I might not be so concerned. But Longear's men—like their master—are far more ruthless and cunning. You're a good scout as long as you keep your mind on what you're doing, but you get so caught up running around with that wolf that you forget the dangers that could take others as well as you.” He gestured sharply. “You've got to stay closer to the group. If you ran into trouble out here, we would not even know it.”

  Dion gave him a strange look. “You might.” She did not explain, but instead turned on her heel and stalked back toward one of the trails that led away from the lake.

  “Dion—”

  She did not turn. But the wolf, with a sly smile at Aranur, trotted after her. With a flick of her tail, Hishn sneezed just as she came even with Aranur so that he had to move his boot from her path, as well.

  “Dnu droppings,” he muttered. “Dion, wait there,” he ordered. “I will go first. There is masa growing down here.”

  “I know,” she said shortly. “I went around it.”

  But she paused for him to step in front of her on the path. Hishn, also waiting, cocked her head at him and panted. Aranur, still reeking with the mud of the marsh, glared at the Gray One and snapped, “And wipe that grin off your face, you gray-skinned mutt.”

  Dion touched his arm. “You didn't have to hurry so, Aranur. We did scout the area before we came down to the lake.”

  “Paths can change in a matter of minutes when the

re's masa around, Dion.” He ducked into the game trail the wolf had indicated and catalogued at a glance the tracks that lay on the path. Even though he was keeping his voice low, it still seemed loud.

  “What do you mean, 'paths can change'?”

  “Masa walks. Haven't you ever heard that?”

  “Yes, but it's not that thick here,” she returned, brushing her hair back from her face.

  Aranur glanced over his shoulder at Dion. Her straight black hair heightened the color in her cheeks, and her violet eyes, so like those of the moon warriors of legends, were quick and clear. She was slender, but tall enough to come up to his shoulder. Tall enough, he reminded himself, to stand up to him when she took issue with his words. He snorted, making his way around a deadfall that blocked the trail, but as Dion slipped silently after him, he nodded to himself in approval. In spite of her slimness, she was strong and quick with her sword— something that had surprised him until he learned to count on it—and fought as well as any of the men who rode on his venges back in Ramaj Ariye. An odd woman, he thought. One who knew the woods as well as another woman would know politics. Where most women were content to run the businesses and act as elders to the councils, Dion preferred the forest and the stark heights of the mountains. She would have been a master healer in any city, but she chose instead to take her healing skills to the tiny villages that perched on wispy cliffs and the scattered towns that squatted in the remote valleys of Randonnen. Not all wolf­walkers were healers, he knew, though most of them had skills in that science. But this need to run the ridges with the wolves—he wondered if all wolf­walkers were like that.

  The thought of the woods brought his mind back to the masa, and, edging around a bush, he listened carefully for sounds of creeping runners as the vines threaded their way through the brush. The masa was closer now, but the trail ahead seemed to be clear. He motioned for Dion to hurry.

  “Masa does not grow in your county,” he said in a low voice, pausing to clear a branch from his own dark hair. “It's the altitude. But we're only a hundred meters off sea level here, and the masa grows thickly. Larger than I've seen it before.”

  Dion looked down the path. “We had to go around two major growth circles before Hishn found a clear path to the herbs I wanted.”

  Aranur bit back an acid comment. “The problem is, Dion, that the masa is large enough here to attack creatures our size and bigger. Look, see that root over there?”

  She nodded. “It's as thick as my forearm.”

  “I saw vines as thick as that gathering on that other game trail.”

  “They were not there when I went by.”

  “That's what I mean. Masa walks.” He scowled as the trail faded out and left him facing a wall of brittle peatrees. Only tiny paths led through the dense growth before them, and Ara­nur pulled his sword from the sheath with a mutter and began hacking his way through. “Each growth circle sends out feeder roots along the ground,” he said, grunting as he slashed through a thick clump of blackwood stems. “At the same time, the vines creep out over nearby trees before they kill the other plants.” He took two steps and bashed another wall of sticky brush, “When the runners find a spot with clear space beneath the branches, they coil up like snakes on the upper limbs. Then they wait for the feeder roots to sense pressure and move­ment. “ He slipped between the thick shrubs and made his way for another ten meters before he had to hack at the brush again and stop, forced to clear his blade of the clinging growth after just two more cuts. “Then, when an animal comes by that weighs enough to tempt the plant, the vines drop, and kapow. You're history.” He paused for a moment and looked back. “It's a good thing we're taking another trail back. By now, that first path's a death trap.”

  “But how could the trail change so fast? Even if you took your time, I went through barely twenty minutes before you did.”

  “I didn't take my time,” he said shortly. “Close to the lake, I went through barely five minutes after you. It's like this, Dion. If the feeder roots sense more motion in one direction than another, the plant shifts its vines over there. You and the wolf must have been pretty tempting fare.”

  Hishn cocked her head at the healer, and Dion paused, hear­ing the gray voice easily in her head. “To the right,” the wolf­walker said. “Another trail opens up.”

  Aranur glanced back, then to the right. “How far?”

  “Five meters, maybe more.”

  He cleared his blade, wiping the steel on his leggings and shoving it back in his scabbard. Clambering over the peatrees, he forced his way through the heavy bushes till the tangled brush suddenly halted and he stepped abruptly out on a thin trail, just as the wolf had said. But as he saw the tracks that littered the path, he halted. Behind him, Dion froze. She waited silently while he examined the tracks, but even at a glance he could see that the largest tracks were old. The last predators on that trail had been a band of beetlelike worlags that had passed days before, and the marks of their long, insectoid claws had already been partly filled with dust and caved in by the other prints of rabbit and grouse. He motioned for Dion to join him.

  “There are few animals using this path,” he commented. “And it is running in a fairly straight line toward camp.”

  But she hesitated and pointed along the trail. “All the large animal tracks are old here, Aranur. Only the small ones are new.” She shook her head, and the Gray One bared her teeth slowly.

  “And masa walks,” he said softly to himself.

  “Would the masa let the small animals through so that larger ones would follow?”

  He shook his head slowly. “A trap like that implies intelli­gence, Dion.”

  She chewed her lip, a vague uneasiness making her unwill­ing to set foot on the path. “Let's think on this a moment, Aranur. What if this masa is intelligent? It's not native—the ancients brought it across the stars when they came. And they did a great deal of crossbreeding before they developed the plants we use today. They could have bred these vines the same way.”

  He snorted. “For what purpose?”

  She motioned, and the wolf snarled deep in her throat. “This masa is an almost perfect barrier,” Dion said softly. “Better than the thornbush, since that cannot move or chase its prey. If this masa grows throughout the foothills as thickly as it does here, it would keep anyone from invading across the mountains.”

  “Maybe.” Aranur stood up, glancing down the trail one more time. “But I think if the ancients could cross the stars and tread on worlds as easily as the legends say, they would not have used something like masa to keep them from each other's throats.”

  “Who's to say it was themselves they were guarding against?”

  Aranur smiled grimly. “Whoever or whatever worried them, the ancients left these hills long since. This masa now ...” He looked down the trail again and frowned. “We will never see the feeder roots on the ground in all this brush. If there are coils up in the trees big enough to haul us up, we will have to be fast to avoid them before they catch us.” He squinted. “They are not quick so much as they are unexpected. And strong. You can get snagged and caught before you know what hit you, and the toxin in the vines' suckers is just like that in water eels—it works fast.” He took two steps forward, paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Watch the trees overhead. You'll hear the leaves rustle just before the coils drop.”

 

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