W&W 38

Apologies for the slow updates---writer's block is a true condition, and Real Life don't help either. But enough excuses---here it finally is.

Do'nar had spent almost twenty years as a Shadow Rider, since the day the irascible smith Rainclaw had decided to foster the wailing orphan. "Quit sniveling, brat, and start avenging your losses!" the old man had spat, shaking the weeping boy in disgust. "You've been robbed of parents and siblings, most of your Tribe in fact, by a pack of sneering Southern scum. To mourn awhile is natural and proper. But anger trumps grief for a true warrior, by the Nine Hells. There's better ways to honor the dead than turning into a damned fountain! And I'll be proud to help teach a man these things, but I don't have time to coddle a bawling baby!"

He'd already been a Rider in his heart, Do'nar supposed. Because even at eight years he'd felt no hurt from the gruff remarks, not at all. The grim old bastard's words not only made sense to him, they seemed far more kindly meant than any overt sympathy he'd received. Possibly the fact that Rainclaw had fed and housed him silently for days prior to losing his temper and delivering this speech had also convinced Do'nar of his good intentions. The codger was a damn fine cook, another reason to be respectful of his opinion! And to be apprenticed to a smith was an honor, and close enough to the craft he'd decided on when still a member of his decimated tribe.

So he'd dried his tears, wiped his nose messily on his sleeve, and started on the long and surprisingly rewarding path of becoming the Shadow Riders' most fierce and skillful warrior, instead of a peaceful carpenter like his murdered father.

Now, standing before the Witchwoman's tent, biting his lip and scared nearly witless, Do'nar wished fervently that the mean old buzzard who'd become his family was still alive. Nothing intimidated Rainclaw. He'd still been around the year that Sa'thal had come to them, in fact, and had hobbled right up to the glaring woman and demanded to know how the flashing green cock clenched in her fist worked and who had crafted it. That was Rainclaw for you! The fact that she immediately backhanded him into the dirt with the device hadn't fazed him a bit, though it did gain her a lot of respect from all of the surrounding Riders in spite of their shouts of laughter.

Rainclaw's apprentice was a lesser man, alas. Just the sight of the shaman's white deerskin tent, stark and stern and throwing the glare of the chill autumn sun brightly back into Do'nar's oversensitive eyes, was enough to stop the big warrior in his tracks with dismay. By the Gods, the place was scary in its utter blankness! "It's a Martha Stewart tent," the Hawk had said dismissively. "Or a dentist's office! I sure ain't gonna make any casual stops there!" Well, Do'nar had no idea what either of these things was, but by Thor if Firehawk was wary that meant trouble without question.

Most Riders even if less than artistic would inscribe a good-luck rune or two on their home just for decoration. And being practical sorts, the unlettered would hire those with craft to place their name, spirit animal or some other identifying mark on their residence. "Like an address," Firehawk had noted approvingly. "Makes sense, in a place this fulla people!"

But generally there was more than just a tentholder's identity. Foxmoon, for example, could be a hornet with words if you messed up the interior of her dwelling. But she was lenient with the outside and artwork covered the place. Vibrant patterns not only from her younger days, but also the markings of twenty-some offspring of various skill levels.

By the gods, even the dreaded Nightwolf's tent bore testimony to creativity, though the High King was amazingly talented in comparison to the average ham-handed warrior with an urge to make his mark for the world to see. Actually, the warchief kept his work private at first, but to step inside his quarters even in the early days was to enter a fantasy world of stormclouds and brooding oceans.

But since the wizard's coming, fire-touched sunsets and vivid forests had become a motif on the inside of those leather and silken walls. And on the bright morning after their abrupt yet god-blessed Bonding, the warchief's tent had sprouted a pair of flaming wings---on the outside. The man must have spent most of that moonlit night crafting them, for besides the beauty of their coloring they truly looked ready to take the sizable residence into flight.

Do'nar grinned to himself as he remembered the look on the wizard's face the next day. Firehawk had come outside for a morning stretch, and stared at the beautifully decorated tent with his mouth hanging open. Then shut it with a snap when he realized Do'nar was standing there in the path smirking at him. "He paints my dick up on there, I'm going back to the South where people are more modest!" the wizard had sputtered, but there was no doubt at all he was flattered beyond measure at the silent, eloquent tribute. Usually the warchief just voiced his praise loudly in the night, by thunder!

By Thor! The witchwoman's tent was medium small, of hammered white doeskin lined with pale blue silk. It bore not a single rune of identification nor praise to the gods. And even worse, to Do'nar's mind, it did not seem to be lived in. Didn't reflect the personality of the somewhat bitchy, mouthy, tattooed and silver-pierced woman he'd come to know as Sa'thal. Or any personality at all, for that matter.

It was an aloof virgin's tent. And aloof this woman might be at times, but virgin she undoubtedly was not even before he'd shared fun with her! Do'nar shifted uneasily at the thought, abashed at even remembering such things while this chilly domicile looked down its nose at him.

One piece of luck, anyway. Sa'thal's home and workplace was markedly secluded from the remainder of the camp. She had the closest residence to the sacred grove naturally, to make her meditations more convenient. But by the same token it was quite a ways from any neighbors, near the stream that twisted through the lower part of town. No other tents stood nearby. None of the major pathways where gossipy Riders traveled and congregated disturbed the holy peace of the spot. Even the stream's bridge was further up in more trafficked areas. There was only the small pebbled trail that Do'nar now stood on, bobbing and gulping and trying to work up his courage to hail that haughty-looking tent.

In fact, it was probable (and hopeful) that his trip here had actually gone unnoticed. Yes, he thought, peering around with a dangerous look and gusting a sigh as he spotted no one. Maybe he should just forget this stupid idea right now, and hustle back to his own abode and a good stiff mug of Death. By Thor, that was the best plan he'd had all day! Talking to Sa'thal while sober was becoming a more alarming thought every second he stood there, and now he honestly couldn't remember why the damnfool notion had crossed his mind in the first place.

But damn! Hawk was a powerful wizard; had the warchief on his side as well. Things would work out, surely---Hawk would not be happy about some dumb old fighting man meddling in his business in any case. He'd holler like a Southerner being roasted in his own armor if he found out! And then bake Do'nar alive for merely trying to help. So best to leave it be, offer support in a less intrusive manner. Encouraging words, the patting of backs, that sort of thing he could handle. And he could definitely put forth an axe-blade when it was officially requested!

Do'nar turned to depart with a sigh of relief, pleased at the outcome of his rationalizations. He would backtrack to home, and drink until he forgot the entire bleeding muddle. Come around later and see if things had gotten better. Usually they did, when people didn't mess with Fate.

But Do'nar was a warrior by both trade and inclination. The thought of retreat sat sour on his tongue, and he spun around with a measured oath before getting twenty feet toward his own home.

Fate. The word slammed into his brain like one of the barbed, lead-weighted darts the Black Moon boys used to get the advantage on their enemies.

Much as he would prefer to believe that a man was in charge of his own destiny as Rainclaw always insisted, at the age of eight he had learned this was not true. The old man had also believed that the gods had little interest in man's affairs, not because they were snooty bastards but because they had lives of their own which were of more interest to them. Do'nar had often wished Rainclaw still walked among the living, but the reason now was not from missing the old man. He wanted to grab the stubborn coot and shake him hard, make him take a good look at this situation and admit he was wrong, plague take it!

Tyr was in the mix, for some reason wanting to sacrifice Firehawk on the altar of his lust. A god cloaked in the Nightwolf's body, and the wizard willing to submit merely to save his Bonded's feelings. So much for gods not messing with humans! "Mess" in fact was the only way to describe this situation.

This was all wrong, by Odin's bloody eye! And only Sa'thal understood the reasoning of the gods and he had to ask her what could be done to change their so-called minds.

Firehawk was his sword-brother now. Had been since he arrived, though neither of them had realized it. And the wizard never asked directly for help, even when he desperately needed it.

Hawk was a warrior in his heart, blood and bone. And like all warriors, thick-headed beyond belief! He'd asked for help just by sharing his troubles, and by all the holy hells Do'nar would find that help or die trying!

And thus nearly tripped over Irenea, who had snuck up behind him like a by-Odin thief in the night on her soft feet. His dangerous looks had only extended to the sides not his tailbone!

She staggered backwards a little, with a soft cry, and he caught her arm instinctively to steady her. She flashed him a look that was less annoyed than he would have expected, in fact she even smiled a bit. Which was pleasant indeed; it stopped him in his tracks yet again.

"Greetings, Captain. I thought it was you, coming this way. To visit the Witchlady---obviously." She eyed his fingers on her arm with a small laugh. "Thank you for steadying me," she remarked sweetly. The darted look from under her eyelids made him release his grip instantly and start yammering.

Her hair fell to her shoulders in heavy waves. Much like Firehawk's did, though Irenea's hair was dark. It didn't catch your eye with color and dazzle your senses. It wasn't spectacular, like Firehawk's hair. But the rich mink tones, shot with cinnamon, were rather pleasing to Do'nar. In fact he stopped dead and forgot where he was going for just a second, his eyes dropping to her bosom and then bouncing off confusedly. "Um---yes! The Witchlady---business!" he barked out, and Irenea nodded gravely, obviously not believing him in the slightest.

"I didn't mean to follow you, Captain. But I wished to ask a favor, and you keep to your tent so religiously---except when visiting the Witchlady." Her teasing look was beyond his experience and once again he forgot what he was doing.

He scratched his head, astonished that she knew a thing about his doings. "Um----well, the metal speaks to me somewhat. In a way." He eyed her narrowly to see if she thought he was dotty, but to his amazement she only looked sweetly respectful. "And some of it has a less warlike nature. That I craft into jewelry, true."

Her eyes were dark wine coated with golden sheen, silky and searching. Damn! Sober as a Southern priest he was, yet her look had him instantly feeling a little tipsy. "Are you asking me to craft for you, is that it?" It seemed reasonable, that such was all she wanted.

The smile that touched her very red lips took his breath away. "Yes---in part." She fluttered her eyelids at him, and it must have made him lose his mind because he spoke before thinking, in a flirting tone that sounded idiotic to his own ears.

Urk! That had sounded beyond stupid. But before he could stutter out an apology she was laughing up at him, not seeming at all offended. And what she said nearly made him fall over.

"The main part is, that I am a little jealous of the witchlady. You are not a bad-looking man, Do'nar," she said frankly, stunning him completely. "Perhaps you should bathe more often, and shed those foolish furs you pile on yourself. But what I saw of you when you were---ah---attacked by the witchwoman seemed more than presentable."

She twinkled up at him prettily, waiting for a reaction, and finally frowned when he merely stood there staring at her with his eyes near to bugging.

"Can you craft in gold?" she asked, dropping her flirting and becoming businesslike. "I find the starmetal rather ugly, to be honest, though Firehawk goes on about the different colors that run through it. But it doesn't strike my fancy as jewelry."

He came to himself with a start at this heresy----starmetal, the most glorious stuff in the world, called "ugly" by this chit! It was almost as mind-boggling as her saying he was attractive. "Firehawk has the right of it, lady----oh great Thor! Firehawk!"

Thoroughly rattled, Do'nar turned and hustled into the white tent without so much as a goodbye to Irenea. Remembering what he had originally come here for was like a shock of cold water, true, but he was almost grateful for an excuse to flee. Irenea flirting with him! Now he really believed the end of the world was coming.

And maybe sooner than I would like, he thought, as he belatedly realized he hadn't bothered to hail the tent before entering. If Irenea hadn't been there he would have bounced back outside like a child's play-ball. But he was damned if he wanted to be made fun of any further! So he set his jaw and proceeded to look around as if he owned the place and had every right to walk in unannounced.

The inside was neat but comfortable, and smelled pleasantly of dried herbs and incense smoke. To his surprise, warm colors predominated, deep browns and gold tones mainly. A crimson hanging cut richly across one wall. The furniture was sparse---of course the damn tent was none too big to be stuffing your belongings in! A packrat himself, Do'nar studied the nearly empty room with wonder. A bed, surprisingly large and furred luxuriously with expensive bear pelts. A few pillows tossed on the floor for sitting. A desk----

Sa'thal in tears? Impossible! "I'm sorry I didn't call out, lady---" he began, then squinted in the dim light and grunted in surprise as Jalin raised his head and looked at him.

"You should," Do'nar said bluntly. At the boy's miserable expression, Do'nar relented and crossed the room to ruffle Jalin's shining hair, which he would have known at once if he hadn't been so rattled. Sa'thal too was a blond, but the difference between her tow head and the pale silk Jalin owned would be obvious to a half-blind man!

"The Hawk's not angry with you; apologized for yelling in fact. So you see he has a soft spot for you; but if you ever talk to me that way I'll tan your hide with a battle-axe." Do'nar looked as threatening as he could; most of his irritation with the youngster had bled away the instant he saw how really ashamed Jalin looked.

There was something about the suddenly intent look in Jalin's crystal grey eyes that made Do'nar nervous. He's going to ask a question that I won't like, sure as rain comes to a battlefield to make things even nastier. "Well, boy? Where the devil is the witch-lady; I've a need to ask her questions about this Fire---- I mean, about something, um, of a spiritual nature. I don't have time for idle chat."

His attempt to forestall Jalin didn't work, although generally the boy was obedient. He asked his question, and sure as hell Do'nar wasn't pleased by it particularly.

"Do'nar," Jalin said in his soft, seductive voice, staring at the increasingly jumpy warrior with an expression like a sad kitten. "Why is it that you couldn't love me?"

Too flabbergasted to speak, Do'nar goggled at the boy much as he had gawked at Irenea. Holy shit, as Hawk would say. "Why am I so damned popular today?" The words nearly left his lips, but he realized in time how they would hurt this boy and managed to yank them back, with a gargling sound that could have passed for a noise of surprise.

"I tried so hard," Jalin continued fervently, almost as if in the grip of madness. "My hands broke open the second day of training and every day after that, and I wrapped them and wore gloves so you wouldn't notice the blood. I could barely walk after the fourth day. It was awful, but I'm not a quitter no matter what everyone thinks! But I only cared what you thought. And all you ever did was shout at me."

"Boy----" Do'nar stammered, actually breaking out in a sweat. "I like women and you know it! I mean, I'm flattered, but well---this is awkward. I thought you loved the Hawk!"

"I do love Firehawk," the lad said tensely, almost as if Do'nar had insulted him with the remark. "But he was not the first person, to be kind to me."

"Damn, boy!" Do'nar roared, so confused and upset that he forgot to be gentle with this young lunatic. "Is that what you do, fall in love with everyone who's kind to you? That's dangerous and stupid, and you're brighter than that!"

Jalin smiled. It was not a pleasant expression, even on a face as flawless as his. "I'm not bright at all. I fuck anyone who asks. And then fall in love only with those who don't want me. The Hawk has Nightwolf, and that's as it should be. Oh, he cares for me a little, but he belongs to someone else heart and soul; I can touch his body but that's all. And you---" he eyed Do'nar with a tired smile that belonged to a man of sixty rather than a lad going on seventeen. "I can't even have that, can I? If I made a move on you would you tan my hide with a battleaxe?"

Jalin laughed. It was even less pleasant than the smile had been. "Don't worry, Captain. You're safe from my lustful attack. I would never do anything you'd hate me for later."

By the gods, aside from the uncomfortable subject matter, something was wrong with the boy. He suddenly wasn't talking like himself. For a weird moment, Do'nar felt like he was the stripling and Jalin the adult, studying him with sad amusement. "Lad," Do'nar said, choosing his words with great deliberation. "I had no idea; with all your glaring at me, how would a man know such a thing? If you'd told me, I'd have let you know that I care for you like my own son---"

Jalin snorted, obviously not appreciating this honor in the slightest. It wasn't in his character to do such an inelegant thing, and it surprised Do'nar almost as much as the declaration of love. He went on manfully, though he was beginning to suspect the boy of being possessed. Where the hell was the witchlady? By the gods, this whole day was stood on its head and here he was facing it dead sober! Life sucked!

"I mean it, rot you! And even if I, er, well, was interested in such a thing, look at you! I'm a dumb old fighting man, and you're, um, well, damn attractive. You could do better than me."

He couldn't help noticing now that Jalin's sweetly chiseled face trumped Irenea's rather over-lush looks by a wide margin. He'd always been drawn to beauty, probably because he possessed so little himself. But he also was slightly intimidated by it. Since Jalin had been his student, though, he'd noticed the boy's delicate, shimmering appearance only as a minor detail. And probably one that would work against him unless he got toughened up!

Now, to his great alarm he couldn't stop his errant brain from "sizing up" the lad, as Hawk would say. There was no doubt any sane man would drool at the sight of him. But I like women! Do'nar repeated the words in his brain like a mantra. If he got an erection while looking at this wisp of a boy, he'd go home and chop his own fat head off in sheer embarrassment!

Jalin studied him, and a faint teasing smile touched his lips. "Save the 'dumb fighting man' routine for someone who didn't tutor you in your letters. Your mind is sharp as a whip even with all the rotgut you swill. And as for "old"---I can count as well as read. You're not yet thirty. Less than twice my age. Yum."

"'Yum?'" Do'nar roared; he by now actually felt near to passing out at the continual wallops of astonishment this miserable brat was dealing him. "What kind of remark is that to throw at your armsmaster---bypassing the fact that it's not like you in the least!" He paused then, and added in a different, rather pleased tone, "What do you mean by 'yum', anyway---no, by thunder, I don't *wanna* know that!"

It was a good thing he had no interest, because Jalin didn't enlighten him. Instead, he stepped smoothly from behind the desk, graceful as liquid smoke. Do'nar fought back the nervous desire to backstep again, but Jalin approached no closer than a yard's distance, studying him almost clinically.

Do'nar was disgusted with himself at the small sting of disappointment. I like women, he repeated silently, but the mantra had lost its power somehow. Deuce take it, like it or not there was no denying that this was---well, exciting!

But excitement was dashed at Jalin's next soft words. "I have walked with dragons again, Do'nar. I can't help but be different, for a time."

For some reason, Do'nar's flesh began to creep at that quiet admission. He didn't really understand it, but he knew the feel of danger, and power.

*That* was what was different about Jalin. Though the unhappy teenager still peeked through, there was something else surrounding him, a dark halo of what he would become given time.

Do'nar wasn't sure how he knew this, but he did. He stared at the boy wordlessly for a moment, then said quietly, "Iceflame. The people who think you're a coward don't know you at all."

But something else, ancient and knowledgeable, lurked in the grey smoke of his eyes. And when he stepped forward firmly and reached out to brush Do'nar's face with just the tips of his fingers, the big warrior didn't move away.