Mercedes Lackey - Anthology by Flights of Fantasy Read Free Book Online

need." Arikan paused, as though mildly
disturbed by children's rudeness, then added, just as
mildly, "A shame were the tales disproved."
                 Oh,
that struck the mark! He saw the warriors stir uneasily, wondering, as anyone
might, if this stranger might not be more than he seemed, Other than he seemed.
                 "Wait,"
one said. "We will speak with our shaman."
                 I
can imagine you shall! But Arikan kept his face innocent. "Do as you must,
of course."
                 He
waited, seemingly doing nothing at all. But Arikan was seeing signs of tension,
of a people who were not at peace. Why? The rains fell here as they did
elsewhere; the hunting should be just as good. He saw children . . .
                 But not that many. Not as many, surely, as should be in a
healthy village.
                 Ah,
is that it? Was there disease here that slew the young, or prevented the young
from being born at all?
                 And
do they think Wenketh and, through him, all the Eagle Spirit People to blame?
Wenketh does not deal in such dark magics!
                 But
these folk might not accept that. And if their shaman had then stolen away the
eagles in retaliation—
                 No,
Arikan realized suddenly. For sacrifice.
                 Have
they already been slain? Have I come here, risked my life, for nothing?
                 A
bit late to worry about that, he answered himself dryly. For here came the
warrior again, and with him, a tall, lean figure that must surely be this
People's shaman.
                 No.
No, he wrasn't. "The shaman cannot speak with you
now," the man said portentously.
                 Ah,
of course not! Any magic powerful enough to catch Wenketh off-guard must
certainly need a great deal of recovery time. "I would not wish to disturb
him," Arikan said piously. "If I may just rest a
while?"
                 He
held out his hands again in the universal gesture of: See? No weapons.
                 "What's
in the pack?" the lean man countered.
                 "Oh, this. Nothing much, see?" Kneeling, Arikan unwrapped it: A worn, stained hide such as a poor man might
carry, and within it, the bits and pieces someone not quite . . . right might
carry—a shard of flint, a coil of twine, some bright pebbles, and a shred of
dried meat. "Would you like some meat? A pretty pebble? No?"
                 "No."
                 "Oh."
Arikan wrapped everything back up and slung the makeshift pack over his
shoulder again. "May I . . . ?"
                 After
a moment, the lean man grunted and waved him on. Arikan wandered through the
village, then sat down in the shade of a lodge, cross-legged, and pretended to
be nothing more than a footweary nobody.
                 All
around him, life went on. And for all the underlying tension, this was still
the ordinary life of ordinary people, women carrying water, gossiping, men
tending weapons, everyone doing their best to ignore the stranger in their
midst. The children, though . . . they must have been warned to stay away from
him, but that didn't mean that they wouldn't stare, curious as the young ones
of his own people. Too few of them, definitely, for a village this size, but
looking healthy enough. They also looked like the children of his own people, and Arikan reminded himself sharply again,
No. They are the enemy. These are all the enemy.
                 Where
were the eagles? They must surely be kept near the center of the village, near
where he sat ...
                 They
were.
                 Had been. Arikan fought a fierce battle with himself: He
must show no emotion at the sight of the cage and the charred bones within,
even though the shock of horror that raced through him was almost beyond
bearing.