Free Etruscans by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

them, she merely pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No animal did this,” she said shortly.
    â€œNo beast either,” replied Wulv.
    â€œAn … enemy,” Repana reluctantly admitted.
    â€œYou do have dangerous enemies,” Wulv conceded. “But you’ll be safe from them at the glade of stones.”
    Or so he hoped. He was beginning to get an itchy feeling at the base of his skull, an old hunter’s wordless warning. As they forced their way through the dense thickets of the Great Forest, he kept his spear at the ready. His movements were stealthy, cautious; his gaze
ceaselessly examined the dense undergrowth. Nothing attacked them, yet he felt the weight of watching eyes.
    They reached the glade of stones, as he had predicted, late in the day. Gesturing to the women to stay in the shelter of the trees, Wulv went forward to reconnoiter the time-honored sanctuary before he would allow them to join him.
    He walked into an eerie stillness.
    This place always chilled him, so in the past he had avoided it whenever possible. A blood-red sun was setting, casting a lurid hue over the scene. The glade contained a circle of standing stones each as high as Wulv’s head, so roughly hewn that it was impossible to tell whether their shape was natural or carved. In the crimson twilight, with the shadows writhing down the ancient stones, they resembled a circle of gnarled and twisted old men. Local lore named these stones the Twelve Whisperers. At certain times of night and certain times of year, or so folk claimed, a question whispered into the ear of the tallest stone would result in a whispered response.
    Wulv only half-believed that it was the wind.
    But he knew that nothing living occupied the glade.
    Relieved, Wulv beckoned to the women.
    They set up camp between the stone circle and the trees. Wulv used fallen branches to build a wattle shelter and made a surprisingly comfortable bed for Vesi and her mother out of boughs and leaves.
    â€œYou are very skilled. And you are being very kind to us,” Repana said, as she observed the little touches he added: the crushed flowers and herbs among the boughs to scent them, the mud chinked into the walls of the shelter to keep out the wind.
    The Teumetian mumbled something in embarrassment and looked away. But he was pleased she’d noticed.
    â€œWe will stay here,” he told the woman, “until …”
    â€œUntil what?”

    â€œWe receive word from your friend that it is … safe.”
    A twinge of pain tightened the skin around Repana’s eyes. She doubted that they would ever receive word of any sort from Pepan. She knew also, from the look in the hunter’s eyes, that he too believed that Pepan was dead.
    I will never see him alive again, she mourned silently. Oh, my love! My lost and never-to-be love. Why did I not speak to you as I should? Why did you not speak to me?
    Guided by the sound of chanting, six hooded figures made their way toward the Rasne city. They moved slowly, with a peculiar gliding motion, but they never stopped. When they saw the walls ahead of them, glowing with the pale golden hue of delicately tinted brick, they lowered their hoods and exchanged congratulatory glances. Gathering closer to one another, they offered silent prayers to Pythia. Then they raised their hoods once more and approached the city.
    The single guard remaining on duty at the gates of the spura was feeling sorry for himself. He resented being excluded from the Dying. There had been no Dying for several moons. He had felt cheated when the Repana woman ran off with her daughter rather than providing such a ceremony.
    When he saw the six approach, he reacted more aggressively than he normally would have. “Halt!” he cried, striding toward them and dramatically flourishing his spear. Pilgrims, farmers, brigands—they could be anyone; they had no business in the spura when a Dying was in progress. As he