Page 207 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dazzik

I t does not take me long to pick up my old tribe’s trail. They have done their best to confuse it, sending runners out to the sides and doubling back and laying all manner of false paths. But I know these tricks. I learned them from the elders just as those who taught Arztal did.

They have quite the head start on me, and I am forced to stop, to gather a few roots to chew to stave off hunger, to give me strength.

When I run, I push as hard as I can, forcing as much speed out of my limbs as I can muster.

I am a warrior trained, slower, heavier than a hunter, but my tribe will have sent warriors to attack Walset, and they are likely more burdened than me.

My near empty pack bounces against my back, full of useless stones and shells, but I do not discard it.

I have so very little with me - my pack and Arztal’s knife.

I would not lose half of the things I have, and any advantage that they might provide me with it.

By the time the sun rises, my skin is slick with an almost feverish sweat, but I have gained on my old tribe, come close enough to need to steal into the trees to track them more carefully.

They run through a stream to hide their trail, and the splashing of the water covers my sounds as I move from branch to branch with more haste than silence allows, desperate to see that my Sam is not among the things that they have stolen from Walset’s brothers.

Let her be back with Walset’s brothers. Let this chase be a pointless one. I send my prayers out as strongly as I can, hoping that I can soon drop back. Let my old tribe disappear along the river and return home, gather my things and go to Walset to find my Sam.

She will be frightened, perhaps a little in shock, but safe and protected and…

One of the males ahead of me shifts, and as he steps left to move around one of the others, I see that the male he passes is running slower because he cradles something in his arms.

Then I spy a flash of colour. My Sam’s bird nest hair.

I nearly snarl to see her cradled against another male’s chest, but at least they carry her.

At least they do not force her to run. I move faster, risking a foot breaking a weak branch, or raising so much noise that I am discovered.

Neither happens, and I can only think that Lina guides my feet.

That she could not stop my Sam from being taken, but lends what strength she can to me so I can save my mate.

I count the raskarrans as I move. Seventeen altogether, a few I recognise.

Jortan is at their head, leading the way.

A warrior a season older than me. We fought many times in our youngling days, him my instructor, as we sought to learn our warrior skills.

He was a good male, had a kindness and patience in his spirit as he helped me to learn things that were already second nature to him.

The elders praised him often for his skill as a tutor, and he used to preen with delight to hear it.

Looking at him now, he is a male grown cold, all the kindness and patience frozen out of him.

As I look round at the others - some familiar, some not - I see that they are all the same.

Raskarrans turned bitter and hard. They do not appear troubled that they have a captive, a female, amongst their plunder.

It is a thought that sits heavily in my stomach, making it roil and bubble.

My kinsman, fallen so far. This is not what they were supposed to grow to be.

Jortan would have been a good male. A loving mate and father and friend.

Even after the sickness, he was still good, but something has twisted him into a new shape.

Basran. The thought of his name is accompanied by a stinging pain in my cheek, as if the scars he gave me were freshly made.

I push the memories and the feelings down deep in my heartspace, let them simmer there along with my rage that my Sam has been taken.

I fear I will need all the strength that rage will provide me before this is done.

It is not long before Jortan strikes out into the forest, leaving the stream behind.

He grows less cautious, moving at an easier pace, not changing his direction so often, giving me the space to move slower, with greater care, and study them closer.

I spy Garvel among them, another youngling now grown.

He was always so easily influenced by others - the target of all our teasing as younglings.

He could be convinced anything was truth, but he had no malice in him.

If he is fighting other raskarrans now, there is a chance he does so only under Basran’s command.

But if it comes to fighting him, there will not be time to establish whether this is truth.

I will have to cut him down the same as the rest.

It is a thought that hurts me, even though it should not.

Just as taking Arztal’s life hurt. They are my brothers, even if they have not been that in truth since I was outcast. Even if some of them had not been that in truth for some seasons before.

They are my tribe, and that is not something a raskarran gives up on lightly.

If I thought it would not be a risk to my Sam, I would try to speak to them.

But they have taken her, and I can guess for what purpose.

I will not be risking her safety for the sake of my old brothers.

But I will not be hasty in my approach, either.

Jortan and the others have not realised I am trailing them, so I continue to do so, waiting for the opportunity I need to strike.

I cannot take them all on at once, much as my heartspace thunders at me to do so.

If I am to save my Sam, then I need to be clever and careful.

My chance comes when they pause in their running to rest a moment, eat and drink. Jortan gives the signal, and as one they all but collapse to the ground, breathing hard, massaging their aching thighs.

“There is no chance that Walset trailed us all that way,” one I do not know says. “Perhaps we can go a little easier from now on?”

“We have been going easier,” another snaps. “And we’d be fools to go easier still. Or do you forget we’ve taken something of great value to Walset?”

As one, the group turn in the direction of the male carrying my Sam.

He has set her down on the ground, and I get a good look at her for the first time.

It does not seem possible, but she appears even smaller here than she does in the dreamspace, her dainty body curled around itself.

Her wild hair is stiff with blood, her nightclothes muddied.

Her hands have been bound with vines, and I grit my teeth so hard I think my jaw might crack to see it.

How could they bind her like a prisoner?

Hands and feet, also. Do they think she could fight them?

Do they think she could outrun them? It is a cruelty for the sake of being cruel, and my blood boils in my veins at this treatment of her.

At least the male carrying her is gentle enough as he sets her down, and he steps a little in front of her, as if to shield her from view.

“Where’s Walset found himself a female from?

” another male says. Like the snappy one, he speaks in the manner of the Great River tribes.

These males have come together from several different tribes, then.

My own Deep Forest tribe, bolstered in number by others they have come across.

Or others they have fought and bested and forced to their way of thinking.

“What manner of female is she?” Garvel asks, staring at my Sam with unabashed curiosity. “She is not raskarran.”

“We have all come to that conclusion ourselves,” the snappy one says, bite in his tone and derision on his face as he looks to Garvel.

“It will not matter to Basran what manner of female she is,” Jortan says.

The snappy one snorts. “He will be most pleased, I’m sure. Perhaps he will even loosen his grip on our supplies. Let you have your share.”

He rises to his feet, goes to Jortan, a wickedness in his smile as he approaches. “Will the food sit comfortably in your belly, Jortan? Knowing what Basran will be doing to that poor female while you eat your fill?”

Jortan pales some, but he stiffens his back, stands tall. He is larger than this other male, but he does not exude as much power as I think he must believe he does.

“She is not raskarran,” Jortan says stiffly. “Why should I care what happens to her?”

The other male shrugs a shoulder. “You should not. I care little. You could rut her on the ground right now and I wouldn’t feel so much as a quiver in my heartspace.

But I think you are not as strong as you pretend to be, Jortan.

I think deep down, you don’t have the backbone for this new life of ours.

Weakness brings our tribe down. One male not doing his part puts a greater burden on all our shoulders.

And times have been so very hard of late. ”

He toys with his knife as he speaks, idly twirling it between his hands. Jortan does not fail to recognise the implied threat.

“Put your blade away, Sansla. Unless you wish to challenge my lead? Basran gave me command of this excursion, not you.” Jortan puffs out his chest, making himself as big as possible.

He should have the advantage. If the fight was fought fair, one on one.

But this Sansla is a male forged in the seasons that followed the sickness.

I think he will not follow any of the rules that our ancestors upheld.

Honour means nothing when you have no future, no hope.

Sansla merely laughs at Jortan, but he does set his blade back in its place on his belt, turning to a cluster of other hunters. They are all Basran’s tribe, but these four hunters and Sansla are their own unit within it. I do not doubt they are the most dangerous of the group.