Children of the Wolves

by Jessica Starre

  “No,” Teresa said, the color draining from her face. “You wouldn’t — you didn’t — you killed him, Michael! You killed him!”

  “Teresa, I’m sorry about what happened. And it is my responsibility for bringing him with me. But I didn’t want to leave the tribe unprotected. That was why I convinced Rufus to stay. I knew Rodrigo wasn’t ready to lead the riders. Putting him in command would risk not just his life but the lives of everyone in the tribe.”

  Jelena saw the lines of fatigue on his face, the deep lines of care and worry, the distress and despair in his blue eyes. Did no one else see what she saw? Why did they let Teresa abuse him so?

  “You killed him,” Teresa said.

  “Teresa, you — none of you — understand what it means to fight, to defend — ”

  “You killed him,” Teresa repeated. “And you dare to bring this traitor into our midst!” Teresa flung an accusing hand at Jelena.

  Jelena couldn’t even imagine what the other woman was talking about. She glanced at Michael. His jaw tightened and he narrowed his eyes at Teresa. What had Jelena ever done to earn her hatred, to be called a traitor?

  “Don’t you think,” Teresa said, speaking to the elders, “that it was quite a coincidence that she ran away — forcing Michael to follow her? And that we then heard rumors about her — rumors that lured the riders away from the village?”

  “Teresa, you cannot make these accusations — ”

  “And you!” Teresa exclaimed. “You just happen to be traveling north with Rodrigo and look! You meet up with Jelena, who has somehow miraculously survived what no one else ever has.”

  “Michael,” Maurice said, leaning forward, his brow furrowed, his eyes troubled. “Michael, you would not betray us?” But the question in his voice belied his words.

  “He might — for the sake of that woman!” Teresa was nearly screaming now. “Don’t you see? Rodrigo is dead. Our warrior is dead. How was that accomplished, I ask you? It is because Michael was jealous. Eaten with jealousy, that Rodrigo would be everything he was not!”

  Jelena stared. The elders didn’t try to contradict Teresa. And yet they’d known Michael all these years, known who he was and how he sacrificed for the tribe. She looked at Michael, whose face was ashen, to Teresa, triumph etched in every line of her body. The council members gathered around the table were listening to Teresa. Jelena opened her mouth to correct Teresa about Rodrigo’s true calling, and then closed it again when Maurice spoke.

  “Michael, she makes serious and credible accusations,” Maurice said.

  “If, after all these years, you believe me capable of that kind of treachery, then there is nothing I can say to dissuade you,” Michael said.

  Maurice drummed his fingers on the table. “Yes, that is true. Many years of service. And I don’t believe you are … err … a bad man,” he said, looking around at the other elders to see if they agreed with him. “But perhaps — misguided. Led astray.”

  “What?” Jelena demanded. “I don’t understand why you let Teresa sit here and fill your ears full of bile and spite — ”

  “Teresa has never been anything but a good, productive citizen,” Maurice flared. “I’ll not have you say anything against her.”

  “Are you formally accusing me — ” Michael interjected.

  “Of course not,” Cara snapped. “We believe you are at heart a good man. We merely believe you have been seduced from the Way.”

  “They mean me,” Jelena said. “They’re blaming all of this on me. Michael, this is just as before, with the wolves. They must take the easy explanation — ”

  “You will be silent!” Maurice thundered. “You will not address the council in that tone!”

  “I don’t recognize the authority of the council,” Jelena said, and turned to leave. She was seized from behind before she could take a step. She looked up, startled to see that the sentries had come in. One blocked the door. The other had her by the arm and forced her to face the council.

  “The council recognizes their authority over you,” Cara sneered. “And we have just discovered that owing to you, we are under constant threat and have been attacked.”

  Jelena didn’t even know what to say to that accusation. “I’m even more competent than I thought. Traveling all of that distance, fending off the Jackals and starvation — and, according you, plotting treachery against the Wudu-faesten. I’ve been quite busy.”

  “Jelena,” Michael said and she heard the warning in his voice. She glanced at him, shaking her head. “They’ve made up their minds and nothing I can say will change that.” She shrugged. “Well, then, let them pronounce the dōm. I’ll be exiled first thing in the morning and I’ll go back home.”

  “But the dōm for treachery and treason is not exile,” Michael said. “The dōm is death.”

  • • •

  “You will kneel before the council and you will remain silent while the dōm is pronounced,” Maurice said.

  Jelena remained standing, though she braced herself for what was coming. Ah, here it was: the sentry planted a foot in her back and sent her stumbling forward. But she did not fall. Yanking her away from the table, the sentry swung his sheathed sword against the back of her knees. This time her knees buckled and she did fall.

  Her eyes never left Michael’s face. She kept her own face free of expression. His sapphire eyes held hers and she mouthed one word: “Topaz.” She didn’t follow Michael’s movements as he slid into the kitchen where she believed he would ask Bertha to release her wolves so the villagers wouldn’t hurt them.

  She couldn’t bear to think her wolves would be hurt. She’d lost Garnet, who died defending her; she couldn’t think of her wolves being killed by the villagers out of superstitious fear. Her wolves loved her and protected her and trusted her and she had led them into this peril. She had known this place was ruled by the weak and easily led, and yet she’d allowed herself to be lured back, subject to their laws.

  She let her gaze fall on Teresa’s face, staring at the other woman until she unwillingly met Jelena’s gaze. The gloating look on her face sickened Jelena but she showed no emotion. She held Teresa’s gaze and the gloating look passed.

  You cannot win, Jelena thought, looking at Teresa. You cannot win because the enemy you seek is in your own heart. But you refuse to look there.

  “Jelena the unawakened, you are accused of the heinous crimes of treachery and treason.”

  She wasn’t going to be asked her opinion about anything. She turned her gaze to Maurice, who squirmed under it and looked away.

  “The council has examined these charges and holds that you are guilty as accused.”

  She sensed a movement behind her as Michael slipped back into the room. She met his eyes and he nodded once. She felt her shoulders slump in relief. At least the wolves were free.

  Jelena gritted her teeth as she waited for the pronouncement. Surely they wouldn’t — and Michael would have to act, wouldn’t he?

  The faint sound of a disturbance reached her ears. The sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard. Then she heard a squeal of alarm from a child. The sharp smell of burning thatch and tinder snaked into the hall. The Sithans, she thought.

  The sentries must have thought the same thing, for they wheeled out of the room, Michael fast on their heels. In the confusion, Jelena leapt to her feet and ran into the kitchen, pausing only to grab a kitchen knife from the block. The thunder of hooves grew louder as she darted outside, ducking behind the nearest outbuilding, glancing over her shoulder to see Emma herding the children towards the caves of the saved, shouting, “To the caves! To the caves!” The frightened villagers scattered in all directions, the iron shod horses thundering across the compound.

  Jelena grabbed the threshing flail from the wall as a villager fell beneath the hooves of a Sithan horse. Darting around the
corner into the main courtyard, she saw the child she’d heard scream, now motionless on the ground, her chest crushed by the weight of horse and rider.

  The horror welled in Jelena’s throat and then a Sithan rider was upon her. She pivoted and slashed at his thigh with the kitchen knife. The flail spun in her hand as she blocked the sword thrust, deflecting it and causing the startled Sithan to drop it. She grabbed the hilt, swung the sword high in an arc and sliced into the shoulder of the nearest rider.

  A horse went down, its rider tumbling to the ground. He scrambled quickly to his feet. She spun the flail in one hand and held the sword in the other. She feinted with a flick of the flail, then stabbed forward with the sword, pulling it across the warrior’s body, eviscerating him. She barely paused before reversing the sword and thrusting behind her. The attacker there dropped to his knees before she spun around and finished the job.

  She dropped the flail and picked up the fallen warrior’s sword. Her teacher had fought with two swords, one in each hand. The echo of a voice said, and if a fat old man can do it, a young agile woman should have no problem.

  She hefted the new sword, testing the balance experimentally. She had aiki, impassive mind. She hoped for nothing, she feared for nothing. She remembered standing on a hill in a foreign land, practicing the empty handed forms, hour after hour — the simple, silent dojo with the tatami mats where she would practice with the wooden sword against the wooden dummy, the training matches with live blades that bit into her flesh.

  A black horse thundered down on her and she stepped nimbly aside. She dimly heard a cry and the sound of a dozen more horses and riders joining the fray.

  The black horse wheeled and she saw the rider settle in the saddle and prepare to run her down. Jelena smiled and remembered, you use the high kick to knock them off their horses.

  With pleasure, she saw Marguerite go sprawling, tumbling from the horse. She turned to parry a curved scimitar blade. Marguerite screamed for her comrades’ aid. Two figures slashed at Jelena; she parried the thrusts, a sword in each hand. She kept the two warriors off with skilled movements of her wrists. Then she ducked and rolled, slashing the tendons in the back of their legs as she went. Both fighters fell as she sprang to her feet.

  A warrior loomed in front of her but her swords were not in position. She heard the thwack of a released bow, saw the arrow slam home and turned in relief to see Michael astride his horse. He reached down and grabbed her up with one hand, settling her behind him on the horse. They drove forward, forcing the intruders away.

  It was over in minutes, the surviving Sithans thundering away on their horses.

  “Where are the people?” Michael asked, breathing hard, as he slid off the horse and helped her down. She stood beside him surveying the devastation.

  “At the caves,” Jelena said slowly, but she gestured hopelessly at the bodies in the courtyard. Not all of the people had made it.

  “Viktor,” she said, looking down at one of the bodies. Tears sprung to her eyes. “Oh, in the name of the first born.” She turned to Michael, unsteady. His arm came up around her.

  “Quite a time for my awakening,” she said.

  “Indeed.” That was all Michael said. His eyes were sad, his lips unsmiling. Just as she did, he knew it changed everything — and nothing.

  “I’m a swordswoman. A martial artist. I knew what to do, how to use the swords. I have never picked one up since my newbirth.”

  “You gave your blood sister one emphatic kick,” Michael said. “Jelena, do you think — if you are awakened and if you find your calling — ”

  “Oh, I know what my calling is,” Jelena said, reaching for his horse’s reins. “I’m just not sure I’m going to survive it.”

  “Wait,” Michael said, catching up with her, grabbing her shoulders and swinging her around. “You are our warrior. Will you come back here, where you belong?” His breath came unsteady but that could have been from the fighting. “Jelena, please — ”

  “They have pronounced the dōm,” Jelena said. “I cannot stay.” She swung up on the back of Michael’s cavalry mount. Stealing another horse. But Michael didn’t seem inclined to prevent the theft.

  “Have a care, Michael.”

  “I will.”

  “Give Bertha my love. And walk in the spirit of the wolves,” Jelena said, her lips curving into a smile.

  “It is the Way,” Michael said, answering the ritual way, and despite everything, he smiled back.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “It’s a narrow blade,” Jelena said. “Long. A slight curve in the center, but not a scimitar. It’s a katana. You fold and fold the metal a thousand times.”

  “You fold the metal a thousand times,” Derek retorted. “I left the Wudu-faesten because I was tired of being a smith.” He wiped his sweating face and grinned at her.

  “I’ll help,” she said.

  “Yeah, a lot of help you are, hanging over my shoulder, asking me if I’m done yet,” he grumbled, turning back to the fire.

  She kissed him on the cheek and went to see how the others were getting along. A group of people worked with their wooden swords against a straw-filled dummy. She was dubious about the validity of this training method, but it was still winter and the training gave them good exercise and something to think about.

  She knew they wondered about her relationship with Derek. She supposed Derek probably wondered about it, too. Perhaps that was what it meant to be a leader of a tribe like this — you had to love everyone equally, and no one could claim a special hold on your heart. You never knew, it could be true. She pushed away a vivid memory of Michael’s face when he had asked her to stay.

  When she lost one of her tribe — and she had lost more than one — it was like losing a child of her flesh and blood, borne of her body. The skills newly awakened in her thrummed through her veins. She would do all she could to keep her people safe. She would do anything.

  “That’s right, balance on your feet. Move quickly, effortlessly, no shuffling, no stumbling.” She clapped a fighter on his shoulder as he circled his training partner. Even as she spoke, his eyes never left his opponent, which was an excellent sign of progress.

  Beyond the oak trees she could see Sarah and Cat and William debating the merits of various plots of land for planting. This spot was perhaps too close to the river, that too far. This might have sandy soil rather than good rich loam. There was always danger of clay this close to a river. They’d have to wait until the spring thaw to determine for certain but if they worked hard to clear and plow the fields, they could begin a three crop rotation, with the vegetable garden closer to the caves where they lived.

  Tasha and Geoff were planning where to place the paddock and how it might best be constructed. The lack of wood in this area presented a special problem. They knew the wild herds of mustangs would move this way in the spring and if they could manage it properly, they might catch a few of the feral horses, break them and turn them into trained mounts.

  They did not have much in the way of draft animals, although the bay stallion could probably pull a plow, and they had the cavalry horse Jelena had stolen from the riders, and they argued amicably back and forth with Sarah and William about the best way to manage the farming. Should they trade for draft horses or drift down further west and steal a burro or two from the tribes that dotted the high plains?

  Some of the people from a gulf tribe speculated on the chances of catching fish in the river and the best way of setting traps for trout and other delicacies. Yahood talked with Matilda about how to construct their looms, wondering if the tribe would ever get out of the caves and into proper homes. Jelena often wondered that herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was time. Michael hoped that it went well, or he would live to hear the dōm pronounced against himself.

  After the
Sithan attack — which Teresa shrilly denied was perpetrated by the Sithans, and hadn’t anyone noticed how Jelena had managed to escape in the confusion — the unrest and disquiet in the community grew. Their troubles could no longer be blamed on wolves.

  Michael had a plan. He shared it with Rufus, who agreed that it wasn’t a bad plan, as far as plans go, but only a fool would mistake it for a good plan.

  It was evening and the sun was sinking in the western sky. Everyone would be gathered in the dining hall for evening meal. It was now or never. He left his room in the meeting hall and covered the distance to the main hall in moments. He hailed the sentries as he passed across the courtyard and they responded without suspicion. He climbed the wooden steps and pushed open the wooden front door.

  He strode to the table where the elders were seated, breaking bread. Teresa, naturally, nestled there among them. He stood for a long moment, a few steps back from the table, until the hall quieted and people turned to see what he was doing.

  When he had everyone’s attention, he pointed to Teresa and said, “I accuse you, Teresa the Broker, of treason, theft and calumny, deceit — and murder.”

  Teresa leapt to her feet at his accusation, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “What do you mean, coming in here like this and attacking me — ”

  “Be seated,” Michael said. Rufus came up behind her and forced her back onto the bench. “And be silent.”

  The dining room had been quiet and still. Now the people began to leave their tables and drift over to surround the table of the elders.

  “We riders recognized the Sithan warriors who attacked our village,” Michael said. “Despite the lies that Teresa has tried to spread about. They were Sithans and they did attack — unprovoked.”

  Teresa opened her mouth to protest but Rufus’s hand on her shoulder, pressing harder against her, persuaded her otherwise.

  “Ay,” Emma said. “I recognized two of their kind. Their dead bodies were in our courtyard. Don’t tell me to pretend otherwise. Don’t mock me.”