The Blood of Ten Chiefs by Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey, Richard Pini Read Free Book Online Page B

shut, was about the least of their problems.
    At last, well after midday, they came upon a flock of wattle-necks intently devouring a small glade of wild spelt. The fair-sized, slow-flying birds took no notice of the hunters as they fanned out around the glade.
    **All together ... now!** the She-Wolf sent as she sprang into the glade, spear high and ready for the kill.
    The birds squawked, flapped their wings in the dust, and defended themselves with beaks and wickedly sharp claws. Still, when the commotion settled, they had killed five and could fairly taste the juicy meat in their mouths. Seven hunters, five wattle-necks; they had a long way to go and much to learn but they weren't going to starve just yet.
    No ... wait. Only six hunters. Zarhan was missing.
    The She-Wolf gathered her energy to send his name in every direction before she heard thrashing in brush beyond the glade.
    **Zarhan!** She let the energy loose, knowing full well that at such a short distance it would echo between his ears.
    The brush froze, then emitted a wattle-neck and a sending-staggered elf. He'd trapped the bird, but he couldn't bring himself to strike it. The spear went wide each time he thrust, then it would swing in a swift arc and bat the bird back to the ground. The She-Wolf raised her own spear to end the spectacle.
    Another hand fell gently over hers. **It's his—if he can. If not—it lives.** Sharpears reminded her of the hunt laws by which she, herself, had lived.
    She relaxed and let the frantic duo return to the glade. The true-elf's face was nearly as red as his hair when, as much by accident as design, his spear struck home.
    "I killed it," he muttered, sinking down beside the still-twitching body. "I killed a living creature. ..."
    Laughter stuck in the throats of the first-born. Fastfire had no wolf-blood singing in his heart to tell him that hunting and killing were the ways of the predator, but he had elf-blood that let him share his stunned emotions with all those who could feel. There was little that passed for consciousness in the wattle-neck's brain, but it had known terror and it had felt death.
    **Never in jest or the lust of the hunt,** the She-Wolf told them, making her first laws. **Never with cruelty or meanness. And never a mother with young if there's another choice to be made.**
    They voiced their accord as the hunt had always voiced it—with heads thrown back and a wolf-howl wrapped around their tongues. Zarhan Fastfire tried, choked and fell over backward. The suppressed laughter made its escape.
    Zarhan looked around, his mind that dark swirl of hidden thought which told all of Timmorn's children when their elders were angry, disappointed, or worse. With equal parts of distaste and determination he got the bird through the carry-noose of his borrowed spear and put his back to them.
    The true-elves were inexperienced and disinclined, but they weren't incompetent. Zarhan strode out of the glade in the proper direction; the first-born hurriedly gathered their own kills and raced to catch up with him.
    "Talk to him," Laststar advised as they jogged through leaves the same color as Zarhan's hair.
    "Why," her silver-haired sister replied.
    "They are the elves—Timmain's blood. Their anger hurts."
    "They are as arrogant as Threetoe and even more dangerous."
    The She-Wolf glowered at Laststar until the other female looked away.
    "It will get worse, She-Wolf," the elder sister said, and there was an image under her words that had nothing to do with hunting.
    It did get worse, though not in ways any of the first-born had anticipated. Their entire group had shrunk to less than a third of its summer size. They needed less meat, but in actuality there were fewer hunters to provide it. The firstborn, with Zarhan, Talen, and others of the younger, hardier elves, braved the snow-covered forest every day. On more than one bitter occasion they returned to the camp with little more than sacks of fist-sized rodents, which even