Nezeru did not hesitate, but swung herself over the edge and then let herself down the steep rock face, testing each hold before giving it her weight because the sandstone cliff was old and crumbling. In moments, she was dangling by one arm and balancing on the ball of one foot beside a bird’s nest and its lonely occupant, a single pale, brown-spotted egg.
A seagull’s nest, she decided as she examined the frowsy accumulation of sticks and feathers and mud. Few gulls made it all the way inland to Lake Rumiya beside the great mountain, but those who did were of keen interest to the Hikeda’ya and their servants, whose diets were always limited by the bitter cold and frosty ground of their native land. Nezeru knew very well both the look of a seagull’s nest and the taste of the birds and their eggs.
She carefully lifted the speckled thing, testing its weight. It seemed early in the year for egg-laying, but there was no question that something warm and alive slept inside. For a moment she considered taking it—Hand Chieftain Makho was very sparing with food—but after hours standing atop the cliff, Nezeru felt almost like a guest in this place. Also, the nest held only one egg, which made it seem something to be admired rather than used. It was an odd feeling—one that most of her training refuted—but Nezeru gently set the egg back down in the nest.
The light was waning as she climbed back up the cliff, the sky above her bleeding its violet into growing black. She paused to look out to the west where the sun had sunk and the last light of day was fighting and failing. Far out on the horizon, so distant it would have been invisible to less keen eyes than those of the Hikeda’ya, she saw the pale geometry of sails. She glanced down to the beach, but felt certain that the approaching ship must still be hidden from Makho and the rest. As she scrambled to the top of the bluff, pleased to be the one bringing news, a swirl of air brought the sharp and sudden smell of danger.
Nezeru peered above the edge; a boar had appeared, out for its evening forage. It was unaware of her, at least for the moment, but she knew that ignorance would not last long. At first she thought it must be a large male, since it looked to be at least three times her own weight, with viciously sharp tusks as long as her fingers, but the scent and the time of year suggested it was an older sow, in which case it was probably protecting piglets and would be especially aggressive. Worse, to make climbing easier, Nezeru had left her sword and bow with her pack down on the beach.
As she pulled herself onto more or less level ground she slipped her knife from its sheath, although it didn’t give her much confidence. A dying boar pierced by a heavy spear could still drive itself on sturdy, strong legs up the shaft toward its attacker and rip out a hunter’s guts before collapsing.
Nezeru had killed before, and not just animals, but wanted no part of this if she could avoid it. This creature had not sought her out. It might have young to protect. Still, the stink of the sow was powerful, even against the prevailing ocean breeze and its blend of complicated smells. If the creature had recently farrowed, it might not accept anything less than a fight to the death or Nezeru’s running for her life, and a Sacrifice did not run—especially not one of the Queen’s Talons.
It saw her. It will swing its head side to side to strike with those tusks, she thought. My knife is not long enough to reach its heart, but a well-aimed thrust might take it in the eye—
Before she had time to finish the thought, the boar scrambled toward her, back legs shoving hard against the loose, cold dirt, grunting and squealing as Nezeru dodged its first lunge. It turned on her again with such surprising quickness that she had time only to leap up and put her hands on its shoulders, hard bristles digging into her skin as she vaulted into the air. The boar threw up its snout to catch her as she went over, swinging its great head; the muddy tusks missed Nezeru’s belly by less than a hand’s breadth.
She landed and spun, knife out. The boar moved sideways, doing its best to keep Nezeru trapped against the edge of the precipice. Vegetation was so sparse here that she knew if she was forced over the edge she would find nothing to grab, nothing to arrest her fall all the way down to the stony beach. Still, leaping over the huge beast had barely worked the first time; if she tried it again, her belly or her leg might well be torn open by one of those deadly ivory scythes.
She quickly checked the distance to the cliff’s edge behind her, then crouched, knife extended now, tracking the boar’s head from side to side. Nezeru decided she would go for the animal’s eye, or perhaps if she was lucky and avoided the first slash of the tusks, make a quick attempt to rip open the belly or the throat. “Are you sure you want this, Little Mother?” she asked. “I would not take your life except in defense of my own.”
The angry red eyes gave no hint of similar sentiments. The wild sow shook her head and let out another grating bellow. An instant later the huge pig was thrown sideways to the ground as if struck by lightning. It let out a shrieking squeal that sounded like the terror-cry of a thinking being, then began to crawl unsteadily away toward the undergrowth, dragging a long spear shaft through the bloody dirt.
Kemme, one of Nezeru’s fellow Sacrifice warriors, strode forward and set his booted foot on the sow’s ribs to yank his spear free. The boar screamed again and its legs kicked, but he seemed to have torn a hole in its guts and the animal’s last struggles ended quickly.. He wiped the head of his spear on the bristling hide, then looked up at Nezeru with poorly hidden distaste. “The ship is here,” he said. “Chieftain Makho orders you down to the beach.” He set his spear on his shoulder, turned, and walked away without a second glance at the twitching animal.
“But what about the boar?” said Nezeru after a moment, when her surprised, swirling thoughts had turned back into words.
“We have enough to eat.” Kemme was clearly displeased to have to explain himself to a younger Sacrifice. “A war-hand, especially one made up of the Queen’s Talons, does not drag food around with them as helpless mortals do.”
“But there will be mortals manning the ship,” she said. “Surely they can find some use for the meat.” She did not know if she could carry the dead beast down the hill by herself, but she was willing to try. It was better than wasting it.
Kemme did not even bother to look back at her. “Leave it,” he said.
? ? ?
The ship was anchored far out in the bay. As Nezeru reached the bottom of the cliff a few paces behind Kemme, a longboat rowed by a half-dozen bearded men was already nearing the beach. She had no real fear of mortals, but simply seeing so many of them together lifted her hackles. Their hand chieftain Makho was speaking with Ibi-Khai of the Order of Echoes, but Nezeru kept her distance, in no hurry to be reprimanded for dallying on the hilltop. She was wondering where the fifth member of their hand had gone when she felt a presence behind her, as though someone or something was about to touch her. She whirled, drawing her knife again. The blade stopped an inch short of the halfblood Saomeji’s throat.
The magician did not blink or lift a hand to defend himself, but his pale lips curled in an expression that might have been amusement. “We could not find you,” was all he said. Unlike the rest of the Talons, the Singer did not wear his cloak with the black side out, now that they had left the snows, but continued to wear the white as proudly as if he were in the Singers’ Order-house back in Nakkiga. For someone who was as much of an outsider as Nezeru was, Saomeji never seemed to fear setting himself apart from the rest of the company.
“Thank you, hand-brother,” she said, making her words as neutral as possible. She was determined not to give him undue respect, although she feared him as she feared all his order. No, it was because she feared him that she would give him nothing. “I was only atop the cliff, watching for the ship.”