SHADOW LEADER
Tara K. Harper
A Del Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1991 by Tara K. Harper
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy¬right Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Lim¬ited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-91811
ISBN 0-345-37163-1
Printed in Canada
First Edition: May 1991
Cover Art by Edwin Herder

In memory of Brent E., who taught me how to finesse a climb, and showed me that one of the greatest challenges is that of facing your fears.

Chapter 1
In gray tones, speak the wolves; The whisper of their hunt is soft. But when the poison masa walks Even the wolves flee the woods.
Aranur staggered to a stop and caught his breath. The rustlings behind him grew louder, and the coils of the poison masa were already creeping along the branches overhead. He half straightened and threw a glance over his shoulder. If those sucker vines got any thicker. . . With a curse under his breath, he pulled his long knife from his belt-his sword would be useless if he became tangled-and shoved himself away from the tree. Longear's scouts could be on his trail even now, he knew, but that was not what worried him-the masa was stirred up enough to keep the scouts from his footprints for days. No, it was the wolfwalker for whom he feared.
He broke into a jog. The hungry vines snaked through the trees above him as he ran, and the feeder roots were as thick as his wrist. Dion had never seen poison masa before. If she stepped into a masa coil unknowing . . .
He ducked under a low branch and vaulted a rotten log, slipping on the loose bark that scattered under his boots before he caught himself again. He glanced around for signs of the wolfwalker. Thank the moons he was close-cleanly cut stems still oozed with fresh sap where Dion had sliced off the wild herbs with her knife. But then the wind rose briefly, and a new scent hit his nose. Fresh water. A lake? Or a stream hidden in

a gully he had not seen from the ridge? His knowledge of this county's border was scant. If there was a pond here, there would be clear bands of soil near the banks-and that would be ripe hunting ground for the masa . . .
He doubled his pace, ignoring the branches that caught and snapped on his mail as he ran. A deadfall leapt-up under his feet, and he jumped it without thinking, sliding down on the other side as the ground fell away in an unexpectedly steep slope. The soft earth piled into his boots, and rotting sticks stabbed his legs where the studded leather slid up to his hips. He landed with a grunt, rolled, and came up running, the humus scattering like chaff.
The ground became marshy, and the softness of the sweet dirt gave way to mud. His feet drove deeply into the ground with splucking sounds as he shoved his way through, one hand holding the hilt of his sword so it did not catch on the brush, the other in front of his face to ward off the branches that stabbed at his eyes. Before him, a tiny hillock served as a dike to the mountain runoff. He charged up it until his weight collapsed one of the rodent tunnels that honeycombed the dike and he slammed to the ground face first at the top of the hill.
Wait.
He froze.
That voice-it was Gray Hishn, the wolf that ran with Dion, the massive creature's tones husky in his mind. Watch, the gray wolf said softly.
Motionless, Aranur caught his breath. What was going on? Where was the wolf? And where was Dion? He glared across the lake over the top of the dike, his narrowed gray eyes stabbing each shrub that hung out over the silent water. He could see no sign of the enemy scouts that patrolled the borders in greater numbers than ever. But there-to the right-he lo¬cated the wolfwalker before spotting Gray Hishn hiding behind her. The woman's worn, leather mail melted so well into the brush that she was nearly invisible, but the silver headband, which marked her as a healer, glinted dully in the sun. It gave -away her position and turned Aranur's angry apprehension into puzzled curiosity. He hardly noticed the chill where the mud soaked his leggings. What was that fool woman doing now? She looked frozen in place, like a statue, her hands out in front of her as if she had been turned to stone in the middle of clapping. Behind her, three small, neat piles of herbs testified