Maverick

by Curtis, Greg

  He dropped lightly to the lower branches and then the ground, years of hiking through the woods and living the life of a woodsman having made him very strong and limber, especially for a wizard, and then started back tracking the wolf spore. It was easy enough to do, the wolves had no concept of covering their tracks, and though their werewolf master probably did he wouldn’t have cared to. He was a hunter not prey. Marjan carefully chose not to look at his corpse. Even knowing what he was and that dark magic had transformed a man into a beast and removed his essence, his form was still too similar to that of a man, and that in turn brought up unpleasant memories.

  It didn’t take long to find them, the cave at the top of the hill was surrounded by wolf tracks as the beasts had apparently encircled them for hours if not days, unable to get in because of the large stone that had conveniently covered the entrance, protecting them, but at the same time trapping them, making sure the prey couldn’t escape.

  “Hello.” He called out to them, letting him know he was there, and then when they didn’t answer, knowing it was something that he didn’t want to do in case he got a stick in the eye, but also that he had to look, he poked his head in through the small opening.

  “Oh sweet lords!” He only whispered it under his breath as he saw the group huddled together in the back of the cavern, dishevelled, all of them far too small to be adults, and all of them obviously terrified as they clutched tightly to one another, but not all of them human, very few in fact. Since some of them were elves by their pointed ears with their preternaturally sharp hearing, he was sure they heard him. On the other hand they were children, and whether they understood trade was another matter.

  “Are you alright children?” It was a foolish question to ask of them when he could see the answer for himself. They were frightened and he could smell the disturbing tang of blood in the air, hear their stifled breaths, and knew it was possible that some of them were hurt, or worse.

  “Who are you?” A boy, dwarven by the look of his short and more than sturdy frame, and surely not more than nine or ten years old, asked the question ahead of the rest, and Marjan knew it was his ancestry showing through even at such a young age. Dwarves were naturally forceful and they didn’t like surprises. They also didn’t like being demeaned in any way and Marjan knew he had to be careful of what he said around the lad. He wouldn’t like the idea that he had had to be rescued, even if it was the truth, especially if it was the truth.

  “A friend.” It was best that he start with the important things he realised, and the most important to these poor children was that they didn’t think him a part of those that had attacked them.

  “The wolves are gone, dead, and I have a cabin near by where you can rest and get some food.” And more importantly tell him what was going on, but hopefully they would explain that without his having to ask.

  “Are any of you hurt?” He asked again knowing that someone was, he could smell the blood, and no doubt that was one of the things that had helped the wolves track them as well.

  “Mistress Essaline. A wolf tore at her.” It was a girl who spoke this time, a very frightened, very young girl in a torn and dirt covered dress, and with a face that had recently been filled with tears. They still weren’t that far away he suspected.

  “Then you’d better bring her to me, and I’ll carry her to my cabin.”

  “And how do we know you’re not one of them?” The lad had returned to his suspicious, garrulous ways, and Marjan knew he hated to let anyone else speak for him. That was simply his nature. The suspicion though, that was born of fear. But the lad surely also knew that they couldn’t stay hidden in the cavern forever, and Marjan knew he would soon have to let his suspicions pass. He just didn’t know who ‘them’ was and that troubled him. He wasn’t sure that the children knew either. They were so young, and he suspected they would have put any stranger in that group. Still it was a concern that they should think they had enemies, and a greater one that they probably did.

  “My name is Marjan and I’m a friend. I’ve killed the wolves and the werewolf that led them. Your young elven or dryad friend is asleep on my porch, exhausted, your mistress needs care, and the rest of you need food and rest. I’m not one of those hunting you, but believe me or don’t believe me, you still need my help.” It was the truth and all of them knew it even if they didn’t like it, and as they whispered among themselves, unsure and yet certain, he waited patiently.

  In time, and it was a longer time than he would have liked, a few of them started heading towards the front of the cavern and the light where he could see them more clearly, and he realised once more that they were children. Far too young to be out in the deep forest without their parents. In truth, far too young to be out anywhere alone.

  Marjan counted six, a dwarf, two elves, a gnome, a human and maybe a dryad, a highly unusual bunch to be certain, and Mistress Essaline he saw when they dragged her limp form to him, perhaps their teacher, was an elf as well. That troubled him, only one human among the group in what was after all a human realm, though not as much as the blood running all the way down their teacher’s left arm and covering her vest. By the looks of things she’d been clawed. She had deep wounds that had bled freely for days, and such wounds tended to fester, especially when left untreated.

  One of the children pulled at something, and the rock obscuring most of the entrance to the cave suddenly slid away, letting him get a closer look at his new friends. They were much as he had seen before, and yet the sudden light of day hitting them told him more than he’d guessed. For a start they were all surprisingly well dressed. Their clothes might be torn and dirtied, but they were well-tailored clothes, made from good material with neat hems and quality stitching, and their boots were of gnomish craftsmanship. That spoke of wealth. These were not street urchins or runaways.

  The way that their hair, whether long or short, was messed up, that their faces were smudged with dirt, that the smell of stale sweat and even urine wafted up to him, that spoke of something else however. It spoke of fear, and of running for days at the least and hiding in a cave for too long as well. It spoke of being on the road without bathing facilities for too many days if not a full tenday. But then Gunder, where he assumed these children were from, was a long way away, at least three full days ride, five days by wagon, a tenday at least on foot, and they had no horses with them. Yet being from wealthy families, they should have along with people to protect them. So they’d misplaced their horses, protectors and wagons before leaving the road. Naturally he knew that this wasn’t the time to ask how.

  “Alright children, you’re going to need to follow me closely, and be careful. The way down to my cabin is quite steep at first, the ground is muddy and full of roots and the bush is thick.” With no more than that he hoisted the unconscious woman into his arms, and he had to admit that even completely limp and covered with blood, she was a pleasant armful, and started down the hill. He knew that the children would follow, they had no other choice. But he was still fifty paces away by the time he heard them stop whispering among themselves and start scurrying after him

  By the time he’d arrived at the proper tree line, they were right on his heels, keeping up with him and for the most part silent. When they did speak, they whispered among themselves, making sure he could hear nothing of what was said. That was a relief since he had little idea of what to say to most people let alone children. Probably he’d lived alone for far too long.

  Besides he could guess what they were whispering. The questions on their lips. Who is he? Can we trust him? Why has he got that massive double headed axe strapped to his back? Or a bow as tall as he is? He has our teacher. All the things he would no doubt have wondered about in their position.

  On the way to his home they passed several of the wolves he’d killed, and he heard the whispers among them grow as they stared at the giant, blackened bodies still lying where they’d fallen, some of them still with wisps of smoke wafting from their mouths, but none
of them asked him anything about them. By then they’d probably been through too much, and simply following him was as much as they could handle for the moment.

  Barely half an hour later they reached the small clearing where his cabin was sited, and there was almost a stampede as the children saw their friend, still curled up on his rocking chair, fast asleep and ran for her. By the time he made it across the hundred paces or so, they were already surrounding her, waking the poor girl up, and devouring the remains of his lunch as well. It seemed that they were hungry, something he should have expected. They obviously hadn’t eaten for days. But that at least was something he could deal with and it would keep them out of his way for a little while.

  “Inside children, you’ll find more bread and cheese, and water in the taps as well. There’s fruit in a bowl, and more on the trees out back.” He didn’t have to tell them twice, and it was almost like magic as they opened the door and vanished in front of him, but that he figured was a good thing. Mistress Essaline was hot as well as wounded, and that was never a good sign. He needed to tend to her immediately and he didn’t need the children under his feet as he worked.

  Inside he unceremoniously laid the elf maiden out on the dining table, pleased to be able to finally set her down. Years of living as a woodsman had made him strong, surprisingly so for a wizard, but even for him she had become a heavy burden after a while. But then while she was an elf and with the natural slender build of her people, he could see some muscling in her calves where her torn dress had fallen away, and he guessed she was a dancer. The elves were passionate about the arts, dancing, singing and music, and the title ‘mistress’ suggested a teacher to him. Who better to teach such things than an elf, and he knew there were some hired by the private schools in Gunder for just that purpose. Besides, dancers had strength to go with their grace and artistry, and the muscle that gave them that strength weighed more than other flesh. Perhaps he would ask her about it when she awoke, but first he had to make sure she did awaken.

  Quickly he started assessing her condition so he could treat her. The claw marks, once he’d pulled off her jerkin to be able to see them properly, were deep as he’d feared, and there was a redness around them that spoke of the demons of fever and poison taking hold. The attack had happened some time ago. Her face, underneath her natural dark gold, was pale, too pale, and he knew she’d lost a lot of blood. But most worrying of all, she wouldn’t wake up. Her breathing was too shallow and too fast for his liking, her heart was beating too fast as well, and she was surely in pain even in her sleep as she moaned quietly under her breath, but even when he patted her cheeks she wouldn’t wake up.

  While the children raided his cupboards and devoured what they found like starving lions, and stared at him and their teacher in silence, he went for some towels and hot water. It was lucky that the pot had been on when he’d left, since he needed the hot water. Then, after tearing most of the remains of her cotton vest off so he could reach what he needed to without it falling in the way, he started cleaning up her wounds, washing her down as he looked for other injuries. There was a lot of blood, too much really as it covered half her front, and for a while he wondered if she had another major wound somewhere else, but he couldn’t find any other tears. The rest of the blood covering her seemed to be just transfer from the shoulder, and he was grateful for that.

  Once the wounds were clean, three nasty gashes that ran all the way from the top of her left shoulder to her wrist, he placed a poultice on top of them, infused with his healing magic, to draw away the twin demons of fever and disease, and waited for it to do its work. It was good magic, as strong as he could make it, but it still took a little time to work. But finally, after the longest ten minutes or so he could remember, its work was done and he could pull away the poultice to see clean pink flesh and a little bright red blood underneath, while the dark corruption from the wound was buried in the fabric of the poultice.

  Next he started rubbing hot demon ginger salve into the wounds, a pouch of which he like probably every other woodsman kept in case of injury, though they probably bought theirs while he made his own, and then prepared for the longer and more difficult job of sewing her gashes closed, with a needle and thread he kept just for the job. If he didn’t they’d just keep bleeding and more poison and fever demons would enter them, and the movement would mean that they wouldn’t heal right, leaving her with terrible scars and limited mobility, if she survived.

  He also made sure to cover her torso with a wetted towel that would cool her as well as cover her, not that he wanted to, she was a beautiful woman and perfectly proportioned, not that he had a lot of knowledge of such matters, while he was only a man and a lonely one at that, but it was undignified for her to lie there in front of him like that, indecently exposed and unaware of it, and he felt guilty for it. Besides her near nakedness distracted him and he needed to concentrate.

  It wasn’t an easy task sewing her wounds closed, but it had to be done, and slowly he began drawing the torn flesh together under his fingers and then holding it that way with a standard lock stitch. He’d done the same thing to himself on occasion and to his animals when the need arose, but what was different about this was that every time he pulled one gash together the tension pulled the two others beside it further apart. To stop the bleeding from becoming even worse, he actually had to stitch all three gashes closed at the same time, sewing one lockstitch on each in turn with three different needles.

  In time, and it was surely at least half an hour, hundreds of stitches, yards of thread, and a full pouch of salve he had all three gashes sewn closed. It was easily the most serious wound he’d ever had to deal with and it was lucky the wounds weren’t any deeper or she would have bled to death long before he’d got to her. Still he was pleased with the results of his efforts. His work with the needle while neat wasn’t perfect, and he knew she would have some scars, probably for the rest of her life, but at least she had a chance. And maybe it was just lucky she had remained comatose for the operation, pushing the hot needles through her flesh time and time again as he pulled the waxed thread dipped in boiling water through her flesh would surely have hurt even through a nerve pinch, as would rubbing the salve in. Besides she would no doubt have been upset at lying half naked in front of a strange man, even covered with a towel, and even if he was tending to her wounds.

  It was with a sense of relief that he cut the last of the threads, dressed her wound with some more salve and another poultice imbued with his own limited but usually effective healing magic, covered it with a patch of gauze dipped in alcohol, and carried her over to the largest of his three couches to sleep more comfortably. Then he placed a cool, wetted cloth on her forehead, covered her with a blanket and collapsed on the couch beside her, after picking up and placing her feet in his lap. They were nice feet he couldn’t help noticing, delicate and perfectly formed, as was their owner, but he couldn’t pay a lot of attention to them just then. He’d sat on the couch beside her not just because he was tired, but because he needed answers and that particular couch faced the kitchen and dining area where the children were still eating everything they could find and staring at him.

  Still he took his time before asking them the questions he needed answers to. For some reason he was tired, and it wasn’t just the killing of the wolves, carrying the elf maiden back to his home, or even treating her wounds that had had worn him out. It was the worry of not knowing what was going on in his woods or what he had to do about it. He already knew he had to do something.

  Children, outland children in the human realm of Gunderland, running through the forest, chased by dire wolves and a werewolf, their teacher seriously wounded, and still the smell of burning in the air and the images of battles in the eyes of the birds. It all added up to something bad in the land, in his forest, and he didn’t like it. Children should never be attacked, not near him, and foul creatures like dire wolves and werewolves did not belong in his forest or any other. Add to that the
disturbing darkness he’d felt within the dire wolves and their master, the frightening flashes of insight he’d been getting from the owls, and the constant feeling of dread he’d known for the last tenday, and it all spoke of something worse than he knew. He might not know what, but his wizardly senses were always sharp and he trusted them, and they were telling him to leave, fast. Death was coming.

  “Alright children, could one of you please tell me what is going on. Who are you? Who was chasing you? Where are you from? Where did those wolves come from?”

  “Will Mistress Essaline get better?” It was a tiny elven or dryad girl who asked, and after a moment he recognised her as the one who had first come across his cabin. Only now instead of lying exhausted on his rocking chair, she was sitting on a chair on the far side of the dining table where he had just been working, staring at him with eyes so wide that he thought they might almost fall out of her head, and more tears glistening on her cheeks. She was worried and scared, and from what little he knew, she had every reason to be.