C. J. Cherryh & Mark C. Perry - Elfquest - Swift-Spear

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Swift-Spear

by C. J. Cherryh & Mark C. Perry

The wolf Blackmane heard them moving through the woods, but he was not frightened. These new humans were a soft

breed; they ran from elf and wolf alike. Besides, he was not done with his meal yet. ...

The men moved closer through the undergrowth, their sweat staining the summer air with the scent of their

fear. They knew this was one of the werewolves that the forest demons rode. But their fear was overridden by hot

anger. The calf the wolf had stolen was the fifth that these dark ones had killed in the two months since the tribe had

come here. They could not afford such loss.

"Are we cowards?" their leader, Kerthan, had cried when the wolf had taken the calf. He had stood in the

middle of the village holding his magic spear aloft. "Must we hide in fear whenever the demons' wolves are hungry?

How long before they kill full-grown animals? How long before they get a taste for our children's flesh? The gods have

promised! The world is ours! We must cast the demons out or lose favor in the gods' eyes forever!"

Kerthan's head resounded with his speech as he inched closer to the great wolf that fed in the clearing. It was

he, Kerthan, who had led the people to this territory, he who had made the first stone hut in the plain below the woods

and dared to declare the land his own. He grasped the spear tightly. He must kill the wolf, or the people would turn on

him and leave. He must kill the wolf. . . .

Blackmane sniffed the air and moved from his prey, growling as he saw one of the men creep from the woods'

cool shadows and stand upright, staring at him. Blackmane growled again, warning off the scrawny man-things—it

was his kill, and these were none of the pack—but the man did not retreat or advance; he held a spear-fang and

pointed it at him, and the acrid, strange smell of the weapon coming faintly against the wind made Blackmane's short

hairs bristle. He had never smelled this cold thing before in his short life; it burned with the scent of anger and fear,

seared the air about him. . . . The human pack moved on either side of him, to drive him from his prey in his own

hunting-range.

He snarled, indecisive, measuring the man with the harsh smell; then backed a step away, misliking the

situation, almost ready to run and leave his prey. He had hunted alone. He was apart from his pack. They were in

theirs. Danger. Danger in this, and they outnumbered him.

Then the scent wafting on a wind-shift behind him set the hair bristling up again and flattened his ears to his

skull. . . . The human pack had closed behind him, surrounding him; and the man-leader held the spear-fang, muscles

tensed—that meant—attack!

With a howl he charged straight at the man. . . .

Kerthan's spear flashed in the sun, driving deep into the wolf's thick shoulder. The force of the blow spilled

the beast to the ground.

The humans behind him cried with one voice and surrounded the struggling animal. "Kill it," Kerthan cried, and did

not cease to jab at the wolf with the keen-edged spear while the hunters with him hit it with clubs and sticks and fell at

last to gashing it with knives, wounding each other in their frenzy.

Swift-Spear raced between the trees, his heart light with the freedom of his strength . . . freedom for the

moment from the demands of the chieftainship his father Prey-Pacer had bequeathed him. He ran beneath the summer

leaves, leaped up the gray rock outcrop that rose on the margin of the stream, and looked back grinning and panting at

the elf- woman who ran behind him, at Willowgreen, whose hair flew and whose bare feet skipped lightly enough over

the forest mold—but not the match for his speed, or his long stride. Tall herself, with the high ones' blood in her—she

had their languor too; she was fair and pale and breathed now with great gasps while she laughed. ... " 'Show me a

sight,' " she breathed as she climbed after him. " 'Show me a sight,' indeed! What is there to see here?"

He had the answer ready, his mouth opened.

And stumbled to the ground, grabbing his head. There were men and there was the smell of metal. He saw the

hunters. He heard a cry inside, first of anger, then of terror and of pain. He felt the tear of flesh.

"Blackmane!" he shouted aloud, even as his mind sought his friend. He felt a brief flicker reach to him, then

gray emptiness. Swift-Spear fell to his knees.

"Ayooooo!" he cried in agony. He knew that Blackmane was dead.

In moments the wolf lay battered and chopped beyond recognition. The men laughed and danced, spotted

with the wolf's blood, and Kerthan cut off the still warm ears as a trophy.

"They can be killed!" Kerthan said, his voice loud and strong in victory. "No longer must we fear them." He

shook his spear, hot drops of blood from it spattering them all. "Kerthan will protect you with his spear! This is our

land and no one will take it from us!"

"Swift-Spear!" Willowgreen cried, and shook him with both her hands as he sat crouched atop the rocks.

There was no response. The elf sat with his hands clasped between his knees, his brown eyes wide and shocked. She

took his face between her hands and peered into those eyes in search of sense, but there was no reaction at all, not in

the eyes, not in the mouth, which remained slack; his skin was chilled and he did not shiver; and there was no contact

with his mind, none that she dared seek. Blood, she got. And, metal. And after that she leapt up and went flying down

from the rocks, panting as she ran the winding forest trails—

—past the marks the elves knew, past the familiar rocks, and over the fallen log, and through and through the

trees with constantly a shriek in her mind: **Help, help—**

Wolves cried out in the forest. None were hers. She was too tall, too fair, too strange for them, and they

always distrusted her. **Help,** she called out to them, and did not know whether they heard her or understood. The

pain was sharp in her side, and branches raked her hair. She stumbled and caught herself on the old ash, and ran and

ran, all but mindless with the pain and the terror as she skidded down a hillside and through the thicket.

And crashed full into the arms of a presence she had not felt, hands that seized her by her arms, and eyes

yellow and terrible as any wolfs, a face narrow and hard and familiar to her.

**Willowgreen,** the mindtouch came to her, and the grip held her and shook at her till the thoughts came

spilling out, the things she had seen, the fact that Swift-Spear was left helpless because she knew nothing of weapons

and nothing of what had brought Swift-Spear down, and only ran, ran, ran, for help.

The elf's hands released her, pushing her away. He was less than her height; he was small and slight and his

hair was not elf—it was black-tipped and strange, strange as the mind which could stalk so silently and insinuate itself

unfelt. "Fool," Gray wolf said. "Helpless fool!"

Which stung worse than the thorns, for he was Swift-Spear's cousin, and had never loved her, never thought

her of any worth.

"Go tell the tribe," he said; and said with his mind as he left: **Quickly!** with such force and anger that she

stopped in her tracks and did not follow him. **Quickly!**

She fled, in motion before she had decided; she flung up her arms to shield her from the branches, and ran,

breathless and aching.

There was still that quiet, that most profound quiet that had held Swift-Spear motionless. No one could hear

that silence and move. And yet, he thought in that dim, remote center where he was, yet if he could move, and break

that quiet, then none of it would be true, and that silence would not exist, and the world would be whole again.

He tried, desperately. He felt with his mind wider and wider after that essence which eluded him.

He felt a presence finally, and sought after it. It was wolfish and familiar. For a moment he hoped he had

found what he sought . . . but it grew and grew until he knew it was something else; it filled the space about him,

driving other things away. In that presence were yellow eyes, and a voice in his mind that was like a wolfs, which had

the essence of a wolf but an elvish mind all the same.

**No,** he said with his thoughts, forcing it away. But it was too late, the presence he had wanted was

gone, and this one had made it impossible to recover it. "No!" he howled aloud and struggled in a hard-handed grip

that closed upon his arms. He flung himself up and struck at the intruder, knowing as he struck who it was, and seeing

with the return of his vision the wolf-mane of hair, the narrow, elvish face, and yellow eyes. He raged and shoved

away, but Graywolf was as quick on the rocks, and prevented him with a grip on his arms and a touch at his mind:

**Blackmane?**

He had not wanted to think the thought. But the question had its answer. Dead, dead, dead. So it became

true. So he knew he could not get back to that place where he had been, deep inside, where a motion might disturb the

dead. He had admitted that thought and therefore the other thought was beyond recall.

Therefore he slumped down with Gray wolfs small brown hands clenched on his wrists; he sat on the rock

and he looked his friend in the eyes. . . . More than Gray wolf had come. There was the wolf-friend, prowling below the

rocks, hump-shouldered, ears flat to the skull—Moonfinder was his name. Not Blackmane. Moonfinder, second in the

pack—till now. Till Blackmane was dead and Gray wolf s friend came to sudden primacy.

"Where?" Graywolf asked, jolting him. "Where dead? How?"

"Humans," Swift-Spear muttered, and shoved off the grip that hampered him, thrust himself over the side of

the rock on which he sat and landed on the next and the next, so that Moonfinder shied away and flattened his ears.

He paid no heed to this hostility. He cared nothing that Graywolf and his wolf-friend followed him, or that all

the woods were roused, the call going through the forest in wolf-howl and the rising of birds. He had his spear in

hand. He ran without sight in the present, searching out of his memory all the detail of the place where Blackmane's

mind had stopped.

Trees, growing in such a pattern, of such a type, a broken branch, a thicket. It was like all other places. There

was only one such specific place. He ran and he racked his memory of the forest on the borders of men. He listened to

the sounds of the wolves and the cries of the birds. He heard his own harsh breathing and heard the steps which

coursed like a whisper behind him.

He ran, for all that, alone. His friend, a wolf he knew. None of these were help to him. The pack-leader was

dead, Blackmane was dead; humans had intruded into the woods, the humans who had encroached closer and closer

to the tribe with their strange stone buildings and their diggings and hewings and making of things. They had brought

death with them. But when did they not?

It was the forest edge. That much he knew. He knew the way the light had fallen. Knew the size of the

clearing. Knew the prey Blackmane had taken. It was all burned into his mind. He gave these things to Graywolf, as he

gave them to the forest, to anything which would listen—he knew that Graywolf and Moonfinder searched with their

own under- standing; and Graywolf was half a wolf himself, not the shapeshifting kind, but wolf by disposition, wolf

by senses and by instincts, elf by mind and by a curious blend of elvish and wolfish cunning.

And it was Moonfinder, or it was Graywolf, who first smelled the blood. He was not sure. It came from both

minds at once, and into his own, so that he changed his direction on a pivot of his foot and followed the scent of

blood and of men. But both scents were cold.

Memory of trees and reality of the forest began to merge. Birds flew up and screamed warnings; but only

selfish ones: the enemy was gone, the chance of revenge was fled, like the warmth in the blood.

**The tribe is coming.** He caught that thought from Gray wolfs mind. He did not care. He plunged ahead,

fought his way through the underbrush, and at the last, having caught the scent of the place (or his companions had,

and he knew it) he did not run. He had no wish to find what he had now to find, what, his senses told him, was

screened from him by the brush.

Willowgreen came with the hunters. Her skin was torn and her feet were bleeding, and worst of all was the

pain in her side; but she followed as best she could. She had no weapon. She had her little magic, which could heal the

worst of her cuts if she had had leisure, but she took none and only bit her lips and followed at what speed she could

the swift-coursing Wolfriders, limping heavily at the last, after even the wolves were winded.

She came hindmost into the clearing, among Wolfriders who gathered and stared numbly as Swift-Spear

cradled the bloody corpse.

They all waited. The silence went on and on.

"Graywolf." Swift-Spear's sudden voice was harsh. Graywolf looked up, a small figure, fey and furtive, by

Moonfinder's side. And Swift-Spear rose and turned to the others, his slim form covered with his wolf-friend's blood.

"Graywolf goes with me. The rest of you go back to the tribe, move them farther into the woods."

"What will you do?" someone asked.

Swift-Spear turned and looked down at the mutilated corpse. "I go to get his ears back." He looked up again,

his eyes dark with emotion. "I go to get myself a new spear." He licked the blood off his hands. "A man-hunting

spear." The hunters lingered a moment in shock. Then they began to move. But Willowgreen limped forward, one

pace and two.

"Get back to the tribe!" Swift-Spear snarled at her. And with his thought came resentments that she was what

she was, that she had hurt herself and that she was helpless to heal even that. **Take care of yourself,** the thought

came. **Or can you do that much?**

It struck her to the heart. She stood there with her hands held out to offer sympathy, and then she did not

know what to do except to let them fall, and turn and walk away after the. others, with no strength left—he had said

it—even to heal herself.

But Swift-Spear set out with that tireless run that meant distance, and Graywolf ran behind him, afoot, with

Moonfinder coursing along the game trails. There was blood on the trail. It was not that hard to follow. And that

Swift-Spear had no haste to follow it was indication that he had no haste for his revenge.

Gray wolf marked this. And marked the thoughts that strayed to him from Swift-Spear's mind—wordless

thoughts, like pain and rage that did not care what it wounded, like a wolf in its extremity snapping even at a familiar

hand. He kept silence himself and did not invade this privacy, which leaked resentments of him, whose Moonfinder

had the primacy now. They were very secret thoughts he intercepted—Follow me because you could be chief, you

with your wolf-friend that bowed only to Blackmane—do you want what he wants? Follow because you expect I

may fall, and you will come back bringing the dead—to challenge my sister, is that it, cousin?

Thoughts like that fell like blood, scant and seldom, smothered in anguish and self-reproach: Graywolf, my

friend—which was the way with wounds, which tried to seal themselves; and Graywolf, whose mind could go silent to

his prey, still as deep waters, heard things of private nature. It was his gift, and his curse, to live with too much

honesty. Like now, that he had sense as Willowgreen had not, to put these things away and to remember them for

what they were—private fears, the things in-spite-of-which. They made Graywolf wise. Like knowledge of his own—I

hate you, my friend, I hate myself that I hate you, I hate the fair, the bright elves that hate the sight of me, of which

you are chief, and kindest, giving me no enemy. Fool, do you think they would ever follow me?

If we die we will only please our enemies in the tribe, mine and yours, cousin.

But, my fair, my bright, tall friend—temper is your privilege. I have had to master mine, or go mad. So I

follow you, and indulge yours.

But all the latter was quiet in that still depth where Graywolf stored things and mulled them over, and where

he made his choices.

In this case the choice was already clear.

And in Swift-Spear's another kind of thought that shot like lightning through the moiling anger: a chief's

thinking, a cold, clear reason that sought to use the anger for its own ends. Revenge can serve two purposes. There

are always two purposes. The tribe would not approve this. But if I win they will; and after that, they will approve

anything. And he knew he was right, for it was his gift to know such things. He had the magic of the born leader, the

empathy for others' dreams and wishes, and the strength to stave off the corruption such power always brought.

It was that kind of thinking that daunted Graywolf, the kind of thoughts anyone had, but that came to

Swift-Spear most surely in his hottest rages and his coldest passions. It was that faculty for planning that surpassed

any of Graywolf's own capacity that made him doubt, deep in that secret well of opinions, whether he, Graywolf, was

not indeed the lesser, born deficient in elf-blood and with too much wolf in him to be capable of such calculation. So

he was doomed to be pack-second, deservedly—and perhaps ... in his blackest self-despair, he wondered whether

other elves also had some mental attributes he lacked, secret things, like his own inner secretiveness, that let no

thoughts out to betray what proceeded there. In that sense he was deaf and helpless, not knowing whether he was

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Swift-SpearbyC.J.Cherryh&MarkC.PerryThewolfBlackmaneheardthemmovingthroughthewoods,buthewasnotfrightened.Thesenewhumanswereasoftbreed;theyranfromelfandwolfalike.Besides,hewasnotdonewithhismealyet....Themenmovedcloserthroughtheundergrowth,theirsweatstainingthesummerairwiththescentoftheirfear.Theyknew...

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C. J. Cherryh & Mark C. Perry - Elfquest - Swift-Spear

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