Wolf and Raven

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Long tooth, we are falling!

  If you were a raven or a hawk, we could be flying!

  Landing precluded further discussion. I faintly recalled something about martial arts and breakfalls. I used one, but broke my left arm instead of my fall. The rest of my body slammed into the ground a second later, the breakfall not withstanding. The impact knocked the wind from me and reduced my left side to one huge bruise.

  Pain blazing through my body, stale air burning in my lungs, I lay on my back staring up at the jagged black hole in my apartment window. Lynn screamed again and I could do nothing. I fought to clear my head and tried to roll up to my feet, but I only slumped back. My left arm hit the ground again, sapping all the strength I had.

  You must get up, Longtooth. They are coming for you.

  I can’t.

  You must. You must fight them.

  I’m in no shape to fight anyone.

  Then I must fight them.

  No!

  It was too late. With the full moon in the sky, the Old One was at his most powerful. At these times of the month the control I can exert over him is stretched thinner than a politician’s sense of self-restraint. The Old One no more wanted my consent to what he was going to do than he thought he needed it, but we both knew my concession would make things easier.

  Just not the woman, Old One, not the woman.

  I will not harm your bitch, Longtooth, just those who would harm her.

  The transformation, when I fight it, is a horrible experience. Now, having given my body over to the Old One, I heard my bones breaking as he recreated me in his image of what we should be. I felt the pain, but it seemed distant—like music heard in the background of a telecom call. I could feel it, and I knew it was pain, but there was not enough of it there to hurt me.

  My facial bones broke and jutted out into a muzzle. My arm bones telescoped inward, shortening them so my muscles could exert greater leverage in strikes. My hands became blunt-fingered paws that ended in claws. My feet stretched out and my ankles shifted so my legs took on a characteristic lupine shape. Fangs, elongated ears, and a thick gray pelt completed the transformation.

  I had become his creature. With the Old One at the helm, concepts like discretion, sanctuary, and ambush were all tossed into a bin marked cowardice. The Old One could be as murderous as Kid Stealth, and with two bullets blowing the lock out of the security door that led into the apartment complex’s backyard, I felt no inclination to restrain him.

  One of the Weenies kicked the door open and light from the hallway splashed out in a narrow stripe down the center of the barren yard. “Hey, Wolf’s not here!”

  Had I been in control, the Halloweenies would have had a smart remark’s worth of warning. The Old One has no taste for humor. He stepped us into the light so they could behold the monster they had helped create, then he set about building an even stronger correlation between learning my secret and premature death.

  The Old One doesn’t view killing as performance art, but he did leave a number of abstract sculptures in the apartment’s hallway and yard. Most were still identifiable as human and, no, not everything tastes like chicken. In fact, a couple of the chromed guys tasted like Harley-Davidsons in sore need of an oil change. Regardless, the Old One boiled through them before most had drawn their weapons—which he took as great evidence of his skill, but I put down to misguided orders to take me alive.

  The Old One’s transformation had not healed the wounds I had taken earlier. While the transformation did fracture bones and knit them back together, the process could only heal the damage it caused. My pelt remained ragged where the gillette had cut me, and I still nursed a broken arm and ribs. His rage and power still pushed the pain away, but even he kept my broken arm hugged to my chest.

  We bounded up the stairs to my apartment so quickly we didn’t even pause to snarl at some of the neighbors sticking their heads out of the doors to see what was going on. Someone said something about calling Animal Control, but that just made the Old One howl with glee. I saw images of him summoning a grand canine army to storm through the concrete forest of the metroplex, and part of me liked the idea of being Napoleon Roverparte.

  Half-man, half-wolf in form, but fully lupine in spirit, we recognized and sorted out the various scents still lingering in my home instantly. The musty smell I knew as the odor of a troll—the tall thing that had originally tossed me about. At once I felt fear and anger: fear because they are purported to be hideously powerful creatures of a particularly malignant bent. The anger came because the troll’s scent mixed with and masked Lynn’s scent. The co-mingled scent trail led to the broken-out window, showing me how the troll had gotten out of the building while I raced up the stairs.

  Beneath the troll’s scent I discovered that of another foe, and hackles rose on my back. Charles the Red had been in my domain. He had undoubtedly orchestrated the earlier ambush and this battle under orders from Mr. Sampson. My bestial mind did not concern itself with why Charles had been here, or what he had hoped to accomplish. It only cared that he and the troll had taken Lynn. The Old One demanded that both of them die quickly and I was ready to taste their blood.

  Under the Old One’s tutelage, my decisions were easy. Like a gargoyle, I perched for a moment in the moon-washed hole in my apartment’s exterior wall, then leaped into the night and stalked my enemies.

  * * *

  Their scent trails died at the street where a vehicle picked them up, leaving me no clear way to follow them. Whereas a man might have been frustrated by this, the Old One was a consummate hunter. He started us loping in a big circle around the apartment house, and halfway through it we cut across a fresh trail containing the acrid edge of extreme nervousness. We followed it like a shark trailing a bleeding fish. I wanted to hurry to catch and destroy the person, but the Old One held us back.

  He knew we were following a Halloweener, and as we trailed him I managed to intellectualize what the Old One picked up by instinct alone. The lack of spectators in my neighborhood meant that either nothing was going on, or people had been frightened back into their homes. The Halloweeners had obviously stationed lookouts in various places who then tipped Charles and the troll to my arrival. The lookouts took off, their role in the events finished, and I had managed to cut across the trail left by one of them.

  We lowered our muzzle to the ground at the entrance to an alley that led to a warehouse. This fact I knew from previous encounters with all sorts of low-life scum. Yes, Charles is here. Lynn is here. My heart started beating faster yet than it had before I crept forward.

  Through a rent in the warehouse’s corrugated tin wall I saw Charles addressing two dozen Halloweeners—including two ogres[35]. Their presence—and the addition of a troll—meant that Mr. Sampson had brought some serious power to the Halloweeners. We had no idea what his game was, or why he was using the Halloweeners as a power base, but I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t some exec slumming for cheap thrills and a flea bite or two.

  The Old One snarled, fending off my attempt to insert reason into his thought process. He had come to kill those who had stolen my bitch. He considered thoughts about why the Weenies were present to be a matter for forensics experts to piece together later. He wanted to create a crime scene and rescue Lynn, and he didn’t see the need for rational thought in accomplishing that end.

  Unthinking—a state in which the Old One operates most comfortably—he sprinted us forward and through an open side door. Announcing me, he howled in a low and cruel voice that brought all of the henchmen around to look at us, and drained the blood from many of their faces at the same time. Charles looked about ready to stroke out and took several steps back away from me.

  Only Mr. Sampson, looking self-possessed as he stepped from the small office in the corner of the warehouse, did not seemed shocked or even surprised. He gave me a perfect smile. “Ah, our guest has arrived. Welcome, Kies. Your woman lives.”

  The Old One bared our fangs, giving me
a chance to croak out a sentence. “She’ll be the exception to the rule here in a minute!”

  The Old One launched us into the knot of gangers and ripped away with ecstatic abandon. My right hand punched through the chest of a Weenie and ripped his heart out. I crushed it in front of him, all before his eyes had informed his brain that I had closed to striking range. I slammed my left elbow against a gillette’s face and felt his facial bones crumple beneath my blow. My right paw flicked out again, shredding another man’s face. He reeled away, desperately trying to piece together the fleshy puzzle I’d made of his handsome looks.

  The Halloweeners had just enough brains to recognize the fluid their buddies were leaking and broke. Charles tried to stem the tide of their retreat, then allowed himself to be swept up in it and carried back toward Mr. Sampson. The ogres, befuddled and surprised, backed away faster than the Halloweeners and took up positions behind their leader.

  Mr. Sampson looked at his cowering henchmen, then at the bodies lying at my feet and clapped his hands like a theater patron applauding a virtuoso performance. “Excellent!” Then his face and voice filled with menace. “Golnartac, deal with our guest!”

  I never would have forgotten the troll.

  The Old One, on the other paw, had decided he would save the troll for last.

  Those who would be last were put first, and that put us in a world of hurt. The troll came in from behind and moved with a speed that should have been impossible for such a massive creature. I spun, but only barely got my right arm up in time to block the punch that would have taken my head off. The troll’s fist smashed my arm back into my head and I saw stars.

  Snarling wildly, I launched myself and buried my fangs in his forearm. My teeth sliced through dry, leathery flesh, but the troll didn’t react. I bit harder, hungering for his blood and a cry of pain, but I got nothing. Furious, I tore at the troll, ripping my head to the right in an attempt to take a hunk of flesh out of him.

  I succeeded and defiantly spat the mouthful out, but it made no difference. I looked up at the thing looming over me and saw only amusement in its dull eyes. I felt Golnartac’s left hand close like pliers on the back of my neck. He plucked me from his arm as if I was an insect. Effortlessly he hurled me across the warehouse and into a shipping crate.

  I don’t know what was in that crate, but it was a tad harder than my skull. Mr. Sampson’s laughter ringing in my ears, I struggled to free myself from the crate. I got to my feet. Then, as the troll eclipsed the overhead lights, his fist surged in and bashed me into unconsciousness.

  III

  You never forget the taste of your own blood, especially when it’s bubbling up from inside with each painful breath. Charles the Red pulled his right fist back, then drove it down onto the left side of my chest. My body heaved backward with the impact, as it had with every other punch he’d thrown, lessening the effect of the punch somewhat, but that mattered little. With the two ogres holding me in place, he could make up in quantity what his punches lacked in quality. At least he hadn’t popped another rib.

  Mr. Sampson tangled the fingers of his gloved left hand in my hair and tipped my face up toward the warehouse’s ceiling. “You’re making this much too hard on yourself, Kies. Just tell me where Dr. Raven makes his home and I’ll end your pain. If you don’t tell me, I’m sure Lynn Ingold will.”

  I wanted to give him my top-of-the-line nasty stare, but having both eyes all but swollen shut precluded that. I thought about spitting at him, but split lips make it damned tough to pucker. I decided to go with my fallback plan. I had nothing to lose because I knew he never intended to free Lynn or let me leave the warehouse alive.

  I let my body sag in spite of the pain that shot into my upper arms when the ogres tightened their grip. My hair pulled free of Sampson’s hand and I purposely hung my head in defeat. I let blood and saliva drool to the floor in glistening ruby ropes. I mumbled something in a voice barely audible over the rattle in my chest.

  Even as Sampson bent over and asked, “What? What did you say?” I knew what I was about to do was stupid and foolish. I already had at least two cracked ribs, a broken arm, blood seeping from the slashes on my right flank, and my left lung had partially collapsed. I desperately tried to concentrate enough to reach inside and touch the Wolf spirit in me to boost my reflexes and give me more strength, but the burning pain in my chest and the lightning stabbing through me with each breath denied me the willpower to reach the Old One.

  Still, no matter how foolish it seemed, I had to do something. I knew, if they continued, I might give up Raven’s secrets, but even doing that wouldn’t save Lynn. If she was lucky Sampson would turn her over to La Plante to win some favor with the crime boss. If she wasn’t, Sampson would use her to verify what I had told him, and since she didn’t know where Raven lived, she’d go screaming to her grave protecting a secret she didn’t know.

  I couldn’t allow that, and not just because I loved her. It was my fault that she had run afoul of the Halloweeners, and it was my duty to get her to safety.

  Mr. Sampson brought his head down toward mine as I started to mumble again. Suddenly I snapped my head up, clipping him in the chin with the back of my head. Stars shot through my vision with the blow, but the sharp click of Sampson’s lower jaw smashing into his upper teeth more than compensated for the pain.

  At the same moment I gathered my feet beneath me and shot upward. My right fist came up and around, bashing one ogre’s Adam’s apple. I tore my right arm free of that ogre’s grip, then pivoted around on my left foot. I jammed my right foot into the other ogre’s groin. Slipping my left wrist from his grip, I side-stepped to the right as the behemoth collapsed screaming in a soprano voice.

  Bloodshot tunnel vision only allowed me a hazy glimpse of the Halloweeners. They looked stunned and shocked, more worried about the fact that Sampson was reeling away with both hands pressed to his mouth than that a barefooted, severely beaten man was loose in their midst.

  A heavy hand landed on my right shoulder and latched on with a grip somewhere between that of a leech and a Hoovermatic industrial vacuum. The second I felt the gritty flesh rasp against mine and the railroad spike talons rake my skin, I knew I was in deep trouble. I tried to spin away, but the pressure on my shoulder increased and forced me to the ground.

  The troll. How could I have forgotten the troll?

  Pinned to the ground on my back, I struggled hard and snorted explosively, clearing my nose of the blood that had caked it since the beating had begun. Instantly the dry, musty scent filled my head and started my sinuses bleeding again. I tried to force my body backward in a somersault motion to kick the troll in the head, but he just grabbed my right ankle in his free hand, then stood and held me dangling like a child.

  Hanging there, upside down, I saw a real live troll from a perspective that I hope never to have again. Nearly 3.5 meters tall, the creature looked like something cooked up in an industrial genetics vat. I’m not sure what all they used to make it, but I do know they added ugly until it overflowed. His black mane had been braided into a long queue that snaked down over one shoulder. The dry, dusty part of the troll’s scent came from the fact that most of its skin was flaking off like the outer layers of a sandstone onion[36]. His dark marble-like eyes burned with malevolence seldom seen outside the ranks of drill instructors or kid-hating spinster ladies with yappy dogs, and he tightened his grip on my leg just to let me know my assessment was not off the mark at all.

  The troll grabbed my other leg and turned me around so I could face Mr. Sampson again. Sampson’s kick landed over the fractured ribs and I screamed. A fit of coughing shook me and I tried to hug my chest, but I couldn’t find the strength to lift my arms. Blood, fresh and coppery-tasting, coated in the inside of my mouth and ran in slender ribbons up to my hairline from the corners of my mouth.

  Mr. Sampson snapped his fingers and the lightweight quack mage he’d had working on me all night dropped to his knees beside me. I felt the warm tickl
e of a spell ripple over me and the pain slackened.

  The mage looked up at Sampson. “He’s bleeding internally. His lung is collapsed and three ribs are heavily bruised or broken. His arm is broken, his nose is broken, and he’ll lose some teeth. What do I fix?”

  Sampson dabbed at his split lip with a white handkerchief. “Stop the bleeding temporarily. Open up at least one of his eyes. I want him to see what we’re going to do next. Charles, bring the woman here.”

  The mage hit me with the same bargain basement spell he’d used all night to keep me from dying. It plugged holes and patched leaks, but repaired none of the structural damage they’d done to me. It strictly ignored anything that was causing me pain and I knew, with the next kick or punch to my chest, the busted spurs of rib would open my lung up again.

  As the swelling around my eyes went down, I practiced my nastystare on him. “I’ll remember you.”

  The spellworm didn’t look impressed. “I’ve heard that before. I still sleep nights.”

  Sampson snapped his fingers again and the man withdrew. On their feet again and almost back to their normal, off-green color, each of the ogres took one of my ankles from the troll. They started pulling in opposite directions as if they were planning to make a wish, but a sharp command from Sampson stopped them when they got my legs out at a 150-degree angle.

  He nodded and I heard a muffled rumble of thunder as the troll sank to one knee behind me. “Golnartac, despite his size, has an exquisite sense of delicacy. You won’t know when, but at any one of a dozen prearranged signals he will hit a portion of your anatomy with a swift, precise blow. He’ll only use one finger, but you will find the blows most painful. He may stab a talon through a nerve center, or he may shatter a vertebrae.” Pain sharper than a scorpion’s sting lanced through my left thigh. It shot in both directions along my leg and up into my groin. I writhed in agony, prompting the ogres to pull on my legs to prevent me from slipping free. I felt a grinding in my hips, then they let me slip down again.