Carraign’s brown tongue touched his lips, and Ar’tor grinned without mirth. He had indeed read the pervert correctly.

Ar’tor skinned back his shirt, exposing more of his smooth, sun-bronzed skin, corded with new muscle, and he moved, spinning, revolving heel to toe, singing more loudly. He was within three steps now, and from the comer of his eye he saw that Yelloweye was watching him, but he heard no mindspeak.

He spun to a halt in front of Carraign. “Oh great hunters, let me give you—death!”

Much too quickly for the swordsman to respond, Ar’tor’s hidden knife flashed out to stab deeply into his stomach. The man screamed and reared back, screaming like a castrato. Ar’tor had already turned his attention to the bowman, who was struggling with shock, stumbling backward trying to get a pace of distance between himself and the whirling dervish who had suddenly unleashed death upon them.

But it was too late. Ar’tor’s blade licked out once, twice, and Carraign was down, fingers fruitlessly attempting to stem the tide of blood from a gashed neck.

Ar’tor turned back to the other man and finished him with a thrust up under the ribcage.

Only then did the grief sting his eyes. Ar’tor crouched close to his friend. Yelloweye licked at Ar'tor’s hand.

You have done well. It seems that we have no more time together.

“It was enough.” He examined the wound. The arrow had driven down, piercing the lung. Yelloweye’s flanks spasmed, and he coughed blood.

Stripling, Yelloweye said, there is one last thing you must do, in order for our work to have meaning.

“What is it? I will do anything.”

Ar’tor listened closely. Although he refused at first, Yelloweye finally convinced him. Good, the big cat said. You . . . you were not such a bad cub after all. I think ... my other cubs would have approved.

“And my uncle would have approved of you.”

Do not fail us, Ar’tor.

Yelloweye exhaled one final time.

Ar’tor sat hunched there for a long time before he moved again.

Before Ar’tor left that place, he built a mound of brittle twigs and branches over Yelloweye, with the corpses of Carraign and the swordsman at his ass. It blazed to the heavens, and Ar’tor watched it flare, mindless of the tears starting from his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand. Now was no time for sentiment. It was a time for deeds.

Ill

It was the night of the Rite of Spring. Snow had melted from the ground, and the first warm day of the year breathed life into the mountains.

This should have been a time for a celebration of life and love, but the songs of the Windrunners’ village were muted with shame. There were champions who would resist Tluman, but none was of the Blood. The line, the fragile cord that bound the Hilltribes together, had been severed. Their chief had died, one nephew had died, killed by Old Cat, and the other had disappeared. Though they had combed the mountains for him, no sign had been found. The only possible answer was cowardice. He had run away from his birth duty, leaving the tribe to fend with only Steel, without Blood.

But by the flaring light of the council firepit, a hundred spear-carrying warriors stood ready. It was in vain. Without Blood, the lineage of the tribe would revert to its older line: that of the Steelteeth. Opposition of the rightful successor to the Steeltooth tribe would place them in disharmony with the other Hilltribes. They could refuse to war, and find themselves at war with the entire Nations.

It was a trap, a brilliantly executed trap, and they knew it.

And when Tluman Carpter entered the compound, he entered knowing himself already to be the winner.

Half a hundred of his warriors accompanied him, moved behind him as silently as ghosts. Among the Steelteeth he was a veritable giant; none of them stood higher than his shoulder.

“Who speaks for the Windrunners? Who speaks for Steel and Blood?”

There was silence for an awful moment, then Gretcha spoke. “There are none who speak of Blood. But every man of the tribe speaks of Steel! Just this once, let Steel speak freely. Let us have our choice of actions.”

“You know the ’Ginni Truce.” Carpter laughed, baring sharp white teeth. “1 act within it. You also, or you are not of the Tribes. How say you?”

“Damn you,” she whispered. “I see. I see. You may win, but sleep lightly, Tluman—”

There was a banging at the gates, and a hushed murmur from the crowd. “Hold within!” Ar’tor cried, and the gate swung open fully.

“What . . .”

Ar’tor entered. He was crusted with dirt and blood, and carried something lumpy and blood-crusted rolled on one shoulder. He limped, his left ankle bandaged.

Tluman narrowed his eyes. “The nephew? But the nations all know that you fled your duty. You have no part in this, boy.”

“I fled no duty. I swore to bring the skin of Old Cat, and here it is!”

He unfurled the untreated skin of his friend, and stood, fists knotted on his hips, trying not to let the fear or the acid rage sound in his voice.

The tribal elders murmured in hushed tones, and one of them examined the dark skin. “It is Old Cat. It is!”

Gretcha strode to Ar’tor. “You are blood of Blood. Kinsman, do you speak for Blood and Steel?”

“1 do.”

Their eyes met, and such pride as Ar’tor had never known a human voice could carry lived in the next words. “Kinsman Ar’tor speaks for Blood and Steel!”

Among the warriors that accompanied Tluman, there was a ripple of uneasiness. A battle between equals was one thing. The slaughter of a child was another.

“Listen,” Tluman said, shifting uncomfortably. “I would as soon not kill this crippled boy—•”

Ar’tor drew his knife. “1 challenge you, great bag of feces. Eater of offal and buggerer of babies. 1 challenge you!”

Tluman purpled with rage. “Are you so eager to die, boy?’ ’

Ar’tor bowed floridly. “Aye. With the taste of your blood in my mouth.”

Tluman gritted his teeth and unfastened his leather buckler. “Then I shall give you half of your wish at least. All right, boy, prepare to die.”

Tluman’s body was enormous. Ridges of muscle girded his waist and framed his back like metal bands on a barrel. He drew a dagger three inches longer than Ar’tor’s and slashed the air with it.

“Are you sure this is the way you want it, boy?” Tluman was confident, almost pitying.

Ar’tor felt the fear squirt up into his mouth again. He couldn’t do it. No one could do such a thing.

Then he remembered Yelloweye. Don’t look at the sharp claws. Look at the soft belly.

Ar’tor moved in clumsily, dragging his left leg, the bandaged ankle still trailing.

Tluman shuffled in, bladed right hand in the front, left just behind, fingers sensitively spread.

Ar’tor circled and circled, and then slashed out clumsily, his ankle turning under him. Tluman flashed in, eager to end this charade. Ar’tor’s ankle suddenly straightened, and Ar’tor lunged out, gashing Tluman’s right wrist with a speed and precision more feline than human.

Tluman’s hamlike left slammed out instinctively even as he realized he had been tricked.

Ar’tor tried to retreat from the blow, tried to roll with it, but was too slow. The grazing backhand snapped something in his chest.

He hit the ground and tumbled backward almost into the fire.

Tluman examined his wrist. Blood squirted out of it, puddling onto ground. He squatted to snatch up the knife, then struggled to find a tourniquet for the wrist. A scrap of tom shirt, a belt, anything.

Ar’tor didn’t let him have time. The only hope was now, before Tluman fully absorbed the shock.

He bore back in, feinting and slashing now, putting everything he had into the attack. There would be no second chance, no other opportunity. For this instant, the mighty Tluman was confused. He stumbled back, guarding with his left, fighting to stop the blood that gushed from his right wrist.