Half Claimed novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Luna's Table

The beacon pile at Stag Ford was taller than I was, and a fire-pot sat smoking beside it.

"Odell," I said. "Do you trust me?"

"Not even a little," he said. "What are you doing?"

I snatched a brand from the pot and ran for the pole.

Eleven wolves of Blackwater broke into a jog behind me.

Nobody lights a beacon for a drill.

Anyone who lights one brings every Silverpine wolf within twelve miles.

I shoved the brand into the base of the pile.

The pitch caught with a roar, and flame climbed the pole, orange against the afternoon.

On the ridge, the bell began to ring.

It rang the border pattern, slow and loud, the real one.

The black-coated leader skidded to a halt ten feet from me, with his hand on his belt.

He looked at the fire.

He looked at Odell, who had stepped between us with a very white face and a very steady knife.

"Blackwater wolves, armed, on a Silverpine post, in a Gathering," Odell said. "Do keep walking. The Moot will love it."

The leader looked down the road toward the ridge.

Far away, dust was rising.

They turned and went back into the trees without a word.

I sat down in the dirt and put my head between my knees.

"That," Odell said shakily, "was the stupidest, best thing I've ever seen."

Forty riders came down the ford road in a long thunder of hooves.

The one in front was a huge pale man on a grey horse, sword drawn.

He saw me in the dirt and hauled the horse up so hard it reared.

His terror hit me through the bond like cold water.

Then it drained away into something much worse.

He swung down and walked toward me, fast, and stopped.

Nine paces off, exactly.

His chest was heaving.

"I felt you," he said. "At midday. All of it. I thought."

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