Free The Leopard (Marakand) by K.V. Johansen Page B

prey to hunt. He would not be a random monster in the nighttime streets, at least. It might even be justice, Ghu supposed, for a change. The kings of the Praitannec tribes had champions to fight for them, to settle disputes short of war—though that was only rarely to the death. Why not the gods? But a goddess should not hunger after another’s folk. It was wrong, though. An elderly priestess was not much of a champion to set against a warrior who did not die.
    Ahjvar knelt, head bowed, like a man awaiting execution, and Ghu cut new lengths from the coil of thin rope to bind his arms behind his back. Ahjvar hissed and clenched his fingers white and said, “Tighter. Damn you, make the knots tighter.”
    “We could try what happens if I hit you,” Ghu said doubtfully. “I didn’t really mean to do it, but if you think I can’t kill you, I will, only I wouldn’t want to be the one to prove you wrong. About not dying, I mean. Your wrist is festering, Ahj. There are maggots in it.”
    “Knocking me out wouldn’t last the night. Pour the barley-spirit on the wrist to clean it; that’s what I brought it for. In the morning, not now! Wet rope will stretch.”
    “It’s going to rain.”
    “Then tie the damn knots tighter!”
    Ahjvar was trussed to his satisfaction at last, lying amid long grass on the hillside, eyes clenched shut. Shivering, but he said he wasn’t cold. He felt fevered, in fact. Too hot, skin dry, as if he lay near a fire.
    “Go,” he muttered, as Ghu still crouched, doubtful, a hand on his forehead. “See you in the morning. Smoke’s getting thick. Go. She’s waiting. She’s coming. She’s here, Ghu. Go!” He cried out, a sound like a tortured animal, and kicked at Ghu with his bound feet. Ghu grabbed up the swordbelt and sprang away to the white mare’s back, dragging the weary horses into a trot down the hill, along the stream at the bottom. There was a track there. Too well-trodden for his liking. They were getting into a settled land again; some village must lie nearby. He rode on, till he could not hear Ahjvar’s screaming any longer. There were words in it, but he did not want to hear them. It was not truly Ahj anymore. He would have made camp there—the horses desperately needed rest—but it was not nearly far enough, he knew Ahjvar would say, and there was something on the wind. Smoke. Not the ghost-fire of Ahjvar’s madness. Smoke and roasting meat.
    He rode on, a little, as the rain began, a swift and rushing patter, drowning even the noise of the stream. Willows lined the valley, and when he heard voices even above the rain on the leaves he went back a ways, into shelter under the oldest of the trees, unbridled and unsaddled the horses and fed them some of the grain they carried. He didn’t bother to tie them. “Stay here,” he murmured, patting each smooth cheek in the darkness. Ahj laughed at him for speaking to the horses so, but they always did as he asked. Ahj pretended not to notice.
    Then he went on afoot. An outlying herdsman’s hut or a travellers’ camp, maybe. Whoever it might be, they weren’t likely to go roaming the hills in the dark and the rain, but he should keep an eye on them, in case.
    No dog barked to announce him as he worked his way up the ridge again, which argued against herdsmen. The fire was out-of-doors, a high blaze. He went over the hillcrest on his belly and lay to watch it. Five dark shapes in close, or six, and only one small horse, no shelter but a great chestnut tree. Chunks of meat were angled in over the fire on sticks. They didn’t look likely to go roaming, to stumble upon Ahjvar. Five sat close together under a shelter that was only cloaks or blankets sagging on propped branches. The sixth sat apart, hunched. Another stood up, crossed to it, and struck it in the face. Ghu bit his lower lip, frowning. Still on his belly, he worked his way in nearer. The standing figure hit the other several times more.
    “Leave her alone, so long as