an abomination of the filthiest
sort. There is no option but to respond with the power of the older
abomination.”
Only crazy old Zertan remained adamantly against having any
intercourse with the packfast.
Skiljan said, “Gerrien and I talked while returning from
the Laspe packstead. It is our feeling that another message must be
sent. The silth must know what we have learned today. It might
encourage them to send help. If not that, they must know for their
own sakes.”
The motion carried. One of Gerrien’s huntresses, Barlog,
was selected for the task and sent out immediately. Meth did not
enjoy traveling by night, but that was the safer time. By dawn
Barlog should be miles ahead of any nomad who might cross her
trail.
What could be done had been done. There was nothing more to
discuss. The outsiders went away.
Saettle called the pups to lessons.
Marika took the opportunity to ask about the wehrlen. Saettle
would not answer in front of the younger pups. She seemed
embarrassed. She said, “Such monsters, like grauken, are
better not discussed while they are howling outside the
stockade.”
It was plain enough there were no circumstances under which
Saettle would explain. Baffled, Marika retreated to her furs.
Kublin wanted to talk about it. “Zambi
says—”
“Zambi is a fool,” she snapped without hearing what
her other littermate had to say. Then, aware that she was behaving
foolishly herself, she called, “Zambi? Where are you? Come
here.”
Grumbling surlily, her other littermate came out of the far
shadows, where he had been clustered with his cronies. He was big
for his age. He looked old enough to leave the packstead already.
He had gotten the size and strength and endurance that Kublin had
been shorted. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want to know what you know about this wehrlen
thing.”
Zamberlin rolled his eyes. “The All forfend. You waste my
time . . . ” He stopped. Marika’s
lips were back, her eyes hot. “All right. All right.
Don’t get all bothered. All I know is Poogie said Wart said
he heard Horvat say a wehrlen is like a Wise meth, only a lot more
so. Like a male sagan, I guess, only he don’t have to be old.
Like a male silth, Horvat said. Only I don’t know what that
is.”
“Thank you, Zambi.”
“Don’t call me that, Marika. My name is
Zamberlin.”
“Oh. Listen to the big guy. Go on back to your
friends.”
Kublin wanted to talk. Marika did not. She said, “Let me
go to sleep, Kub.” He let her be, but for a long time she lay
curled in her furs thinking.
Someone wakened her in the night for a brief stint in the
watchtower. She bundled herself and went, and spent her time
studying the sky. The clouds had cleared away. The stars were
bright, though few and though only the two biggest moons were up,
Biter and Chaser playing their eternal game of tag. The light they
shed was not enough to mask the fainter stars.
Still, only a few score were visible.
Something strange, that sea of darkness above. Stars were other
suns, the books said. So far away that one could not reach them if
one walked a thousand lifetimes—if there was a road.
According to Saettle’s new book, though, the meth of the
south knew ways through the great dark. They wandered among the
stars quite regularly . . .
Silth. That name occurred in the new book, though in no way that
explained what silth were, or why the Wise should fear them so. It
was silth sisters, the book said, who ventured across the ocean of
night.
Nothing happened during Marika’s watch, as she had
expected. Meth did not move by night if they could avoid it. The
dark was a time of fear . . .
How, then, did these silth creatures manage the gulf between the
stars? How did they
breathe?
Saettle’s book said
there was no air out there.
Marika’s relief startled her. She felt the tower creak and
sway, came back to reality with a guilty start. The nomads could
have slipped to and over the palisade
sort. There is no option but to respond with the power of the older
abomination.”
Only crazy old Zertan remained adamantly against having any
intercourse with the packfast.
Skiljan said, “Gerrien and I talked while returning from
the Laspe packstead. It is our feeling that another message must be
sent. The silth must know what we have learned today. It might
encourage them to send help. If not that, they must know for their
own sakes.”
The motion carried. One of Gerrien’s huntresses, Barlog,
was selected for the task and sent out immediately. Meth did not
enjoy traveling by night, but that was the safer time. By dawn
Barlog should be miles ahead of any nomad who might cross her
trail.
What could be done had been done. There was nothing more to
discuss. The outsiders went away.
Saettle called the pups to lessons.
Marika took the opportunity to ask about the wehrlen. Saettle
would not answer in front of the younger pups. She seemed
embarrassed. She said, “Such monsters, like grauken, are
better not discussed while they are howling outside the
stockade.”
It was plain enough there were no circumstances under which
Saettle would explain. Baffled, Marika retreated to her furs.
Kublin wanted to talk about it. “Zambi
says—”
“Zambi is a fool,” she snapped without hearing what
her other littermate had to say. Then, aware that she was behaving
foolishly herself, she called, “Zambi? Where are you? Come
here.”
Grumbling surlily, her other littermate came out of the far
shadows, where he had been clustered with his cronies. He was big
for his age. He looked old enough to leave the packstead already.
He had gotten the size and strength and endurance that Kublin had
been shorted. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want to know what you know about this wehrlen
thing.”
Zamberlin rolled his eyes. “The All forfend. You waste my
time . . . ” He stopped. Marika’s
lips were back, her eyes hot. “All right. All right.
Don’t get all bothered. All I know is Poogie said Wart said
he heard Horvat say a wehrlen is like a Wise meth, only a lot more
so. Like a male sagan, I guess, only he don’t have to be old.
Like a male silth, Horvat said. Only I don’t know what that
is.”
“Thank you, Zambi.”
“Don’t call me that, Marika. My name is
Zamberlin.”
“Oh. Listen to the big guy. Go on back to your
friends.”
Kublin wanted to talk. Marika did not. She said, “Let me
go to sleep, Kub.” He let her be, but for a long time she lay
curled in her furs thinking.
Someone wakened her in the night for a brief stint in the
watchtower. She bundled herself and went, and spent her time
studying the sky. The clouds had cleared away. The stars were
bright, though few and though only the two biggest moons were up,
Biter and Chaser playing their eternal game of tag. The light they
shed was not enough to mask the fainter stars.
Still, only a few score were visible.
Something strange, that sea of darkness above. Stars were other
suns, the books said. So far away that one could not reach them if
one walked a thousand lifetimes—if there was a road.
According to Saettle’s new book, though, the meth of the
south knew ways through the great dark. They wandered among the
stars quite regularly . . .
Silth. That name occurred in the new book, though in no way that
explained what silth were, or why the Wise should fear them so. It
was silth sisters, the book said, who ventured across the ocean of
night.
Nothing happened during Marika’s watch, as she had
expected. Meth did not move by night if they could avoid it. The
dark was a time of fear . . .
How, then, did these silth creatures manage the gulf between the
stars? How did they
breathe?
Saettle’s book said
there was no air out there.
Marika’s relief startled her. She felt the tower creak and
sway, came back to reality with a guilty start. The nomads could
have slipped to and over the palisade
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