"Aye, M'Lord."
"What in the name of the gods are ye doing here?"
The deep voice offered a rumbling laugh. "A mercenary goes where he is paid to go, my friend."
Both men ceased their disappearing act and moved to clasp arms, attracting the Lieutenant's attention so that he halted and turned to face them. "Captain Balthain. My apologies, Sir. I did not hear you. Lord Lindall and Ambassador Yarwyn are here to see you, Sir."
Balthain himself was a member of Seanen's guild? And he was head of Mâkakao's security, just as Seanen was Lady Lochinvar's head of security. Interesting. Another piece of the puzzle of the Rogue's Guild fell into place. Perhaps their reputation as thieves was no more accurate than the reputation the Ranger's Guild managed to cloak themselves in…
"I can see that. I will escort them from here, Lieutenant. You may return to your post."
"Aye, Sir."
Balthain lead them to an office in the second story of the guard tower overlooking the front gates. "Mâkakao and Cassadara disappeared before the dawn yesterday just before the storm hit," he began abruptly, his words still masked in Thieves Cant. "I found but a cryptic note saying the Lady had been summoned and I was to maintain security in his absence. I can tell you nothing else except that he left in light armor and well armed, with perhaps a two to three day supply of food from the kitchens. We do not know how the message reached the Lady. The guards reported no page at the gates. The head of the Bards Guild has no report of any note being delivered. I have received no word or token from any member of our guild traveling through."
Balthain drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. "There is word from the north that the Dark ones are showing their faces in daylight well past the gates of Talandar. That ruined city is said to be on the mend, though no open attacks have as yet been reported. Yet I fear Lord Mâkakao travels straight into the path of danger. At the very least he travels directly into the heart of the storm."
Seanen and Yarwyn exchanged glances. "'Twas about the same time, then. Early in the morning, well before dawn yesterday, I received the same Summoning. Your security has not been breached. There was no written or carried message. Word came to me as a voice in my dreams, compelling enough to wake me from a deep sleep. I believe that word to have been sent by my patron, Lady Evalayna Lochinvar. I go to her now, and Yarwyn with me. We would seek a few hours rest here before we move on."
"You would do well to wait out the storm here. There is nothing to be gained by attempting to travel in such weather. The apartment you used last is empty. I shall provide you with an escort."
"We can find our way. We shall be on our way at first light, weather permitting. Forgive me if we do not say our formal good-byes in the morning. The fewer who know we travel here the better...and you are well to maintain your defenses. If Talandar is indeed on the mend, our guild must be alerted. Spread the word as quickly as you can."
"It shall be done. Well met, my friend. Good journey to you. May we meet again under better circumstances."
"Well met indeed."
Yarwyn blinked, looking around what appeared now to be an empty room. Only Seanen's hand on her arm guiding her steadily out the door betrayed his presence, so that she could focus on him once again. She could have sworn his image had less substance than his own shadow.
When she would have spoken, to ask him how he accomplished this, he turned enough to grin down at her, his eyes wolfishly hungry, and she forgot what it was she had wanted to know. His apartment seemed suddenly miles away, instead of merely at the other end of the great house. Tomorrow seemed even farther away.
* * * * *
A lone wolf's cry split the night air, the only warning they had. Mâkakao surged to his feet, his scimitars singing as they cleared their sheathes, whirling to face the unseen enemy. He knew that voice. 'Twas his mate's call. Fear pumped through his veins as he answered, his voice singing out clear and true through the night, a beacon to guide her to safety.
The attackers moved in swiftly, appearing out of nowhere, dark shadows twisting across the frozen ground.
Tyrell, too, leaped to his feet, staff at the ready, but it was Ayailla who saved them. She looked up from her stew without spilling a drop to flick her fingers at the night. A wall of fire more than four feet high suddenly surrounded the camp, pushing back both the night and the storm.
Orc voices raise in hideous shrieks as those caught within the flames perished instantly. Unfortunately only those caught in the flames were affected. At least six attackers had made it inside the circle of fire, and more awaited just beyond the perimeter of the camp.
The ones outside could wait. Mâkakao set his blades to the ones within as Ayailla calmly wiped her chin and reached for her staff, sending a globe of light to hover over the camp, allowing them to see the forces massed on the far side of the dying flames.
Many. Too many. Mâkakao made the assessment even as the Orc who's head he'd just severed rolled to the ground. Tyrell's current attacker stepped back into the gore, losing his footing as his bare toes tangled in his dead comrade's hair.
Ayailla lifted her staff to point it like a mother pointing her finger at a naughty child, and three of the attackers outside the circle ran screaming into the night, the smell of burning fur trailing in their wake.
The lone wolf's cry came again. Ayailla shifted the focus of her staff, quelling the flames in her fire ring long enough for Cassadara to leap safely through. Mâkakao moved to fight at her side as she shifted, raising an eyebrow at the long bloody gash that ran the length of her left arm, but offering no words of reproof.
Ayailla renewed her wall, and the three Shaman turned their attention to blasting those on the other side into oblivion, while Mâkakao finished off the two who remained intent on burying themselves on the blades of his scimitars. Once they were down, he turned to Ayailla, indicating with a brush of his blades where he wanted the funnel to point. She obliged him instantly, peeling the flames back until they formed a chute, as for ushering farm animals toward their sacrifice at a butcher's altar.
It was bloody, gruesome work, for the Orcs had not the intelligence to see that for all their comrades who lay dead, the only blood they had yet drawn was the gash on Cassadara's arm and a few small tears in Mâk's favorite traveling tunic. It took the best part of an hour to kill them all, and for all the carnage, Mâk had nothing to show but an angry heart and a fouled campsite. When there was nothing left to kill, he turned to wipe his blades, but could find no unadulterated ground.
It was Tyrell's voice that broke the deadly calm of the after-battle silence as he moved to examine Cassadara's wound. "I see ye did not fair so well alone, Sister."
Mâkakao fought to contain a smile at his brother-in-law's gentle reproof. Cassadara's gaze met Mâk's as she answered her brother. "I made a foolish mistake, Brother. I underestimated both the strength and intelligence of my enemy. I thought to out-trick the tricksters. I was lucky to get away with my life. Had ye not been here–all of ye–'twould have been a much shorter night for me."
"Wolves fight as a pack," Ayailla observed, her tone a less gentle reproof.
Cassadara shook off her brother's ministering hands as she moved to Mâkakao's side. "'Twas a foolish misjudgment. Forgive me, my husband, for forgetting the ways of my people."
Mâkakao stepped outside the charred circle to clean his blades in undefiled snow. "You cannot protect me, Mia~Ell, if you are not at my side."
Cassadara winced as her brother found her arm again. "Nor can ye protect me by sheltering me within thy great house."
Mâk drew in a long breath as he sheathed his scimitars. "Agreed. We fight together, as a team."
"As a pack," Ayailla corrected. "And as a pack let us move out. This place smells of death. Storm or no storm, I will no' rest here longer." She ran the tip of her finger lightly along the long gash Tyrell had just cleaned. "I am sorry, Granddaughter. I am too late. Ye shall have a scar to remind ye of this night's misadventures."
"No matter. '
Twill not be the first." Cassadara held out her hands toward him, and her eyes met his across the wreckage that had been their camp. "'Tis only the scars of the heart that do not fade with time. Join with me, my mate."
Mâkakao met her halfway, the battle rage cooling as quickly as the blood that congealed all around them. He took her hands, and laid his cheek against hers, breathing in her scent as the magic consumed him, and then once again they were wolves, and the night was their home.
* * * * *
Even for wolves, traveling in such a storm was not easy. They took turns breaking trail, plowing through snow that was nearly chest high now, leaping through drifts and scrambling over unseen obstacles that lay buried beneath the smooth white surface.
They made but a few miles before Tyrell brought the party to a halt in the lee of a sheer cliff that towered out of sight into the night. "Let us camp here and continue on in the morning, when the drifts have crusted over again."
He said nothing about Ayailla's age, or the way her breath came harder than theirs, although they had carefully kept her from taking the lead. Instead he turned his attention to the night around them. "I would have something more than just a conjured campfire this night, Grandmother. Mayhap ye might teach me a few of thy tricks?"
Ayailla donned her Human form once again. "'Tis no trick. Picture the thing that ye want. Then make it so."
Tyrell closed his eyes, frowning heavily. "It's not working."
Ayailla shook her head. "Ye work too hard at the magic, my heart. The spell is no' important, or at least it is no more important than ye make it to be. I teach ye the spells because ye expect them. Ye believe in them. 'Tis what ye believe in thy heart that makes the magic work. Ye receive what ye expect to receive."
"I do not understand."
Ayailla waved her hand at the clearing beneath the shelter of the cliff. "What do ye want? Do ye wish tents?" She waved her hand and three tents appeared, each of tight woven white canvas, their sides lit from within by small glowing fires. "Or would ye prefer something more substantial?" She waved her hand once again, and the tents turned into small cabins, with thin trails of smoke issuing from their chimneys.
Cass blinked in surprise. "How did ye do that, Grandmother?"
Ayailla shook her head. "I was not born in this time. I was not taught the magic as ye were. Perhaps it is easier for me because I have not the constraints of thy knowledge. I simply picture what I want and it appears. But the elements must be at hand. Ye cannot make a log cabin out of the air. Ye must have wood about, that the elements are to be formed from. For a tent there must be vegetable matter, that the magic might spin the cloth, or the thing ye make will be insubstantial, no more than an illusion. I can no' create food to feed an army with no more than a puff of the wind…Do ye understand at all, Granddaughter?"
"Some," Cass admitted. "I was a poor pupil when the Mage sought to teach us our spells. I mastered the combat spells early, but gave too little heed to the everyday necessities of life. I am only now learning many lessons I should have learned years ago."
If Mâkakao understood that she meant more then The Book of Ways, he kept the thought to himself, his face still dark and brooding as he took her arm to accompany her to their cabin.
"Figuring out what ye need to learn is half the battle," Ayailla offered as she turned toward her cabin. "We move out in the morning, with the dawn. Try to get some sleep."
Ayailla's eyes met Mâk's, and Cassadara could have sworn the old woman was grinning wolfishly at her husband.
Impossible.
Mâk was surely not grinning as he led her toward their cabin. His grip tight on her arm, as if afraid she might once again try to escape. Cass turned to face him as the door shut behind them, ready to meet his arguments with apologies, but he had other ideas.
Her mouth had but barely opened when his clamped over hers, his tongue rough and demanding, his hands yanking her against the hard muscled length of his body. His anger lent him a strength that matched her own, and she felt, for the first time, some small fear of this Human.
"I have paid the price we agreed upon," he hissed. "I have earned my freedom. I am no longer your slave. I am your husband, and as such I have certain rights."
"Yes," she agreed, her body flaming as his hips pressed hard against her.
Quickly, efficiently, he stripped her of her armor. One hand claimed her breast while the other held her pinned close against the heat of his pulsing cock. "I may not be born to your clan, but I am well trained as a Warrior. A Warrior does not sit at home while his mate puts her life in danger."
Her eyes closed as his teeth fastened on her neck in the traditional grip of a pack leader demanding acquiescence. She was shocked to feel her body respond so completely to his dominance. A shiver of anticipation washed over her. "Wolves fight as a pack," she repeated, her voice sounding breathy to her own ears.
"And I will be an equal member of your pack, or no member at all. If you cannot trust me to fight at your back, I will not share your bed. I am not just a toy for your amusement."
"No," she agreed as he tugged on the small blackened rings that adorned her nipples. "Ye are no toy to me. Ye are my husband, my pack mate, my soul mate."
He buried his face in her hair, so she could not see the pain she felt in his voice. "When I heard you call out tonight, the fear that raced through my heart was nearly my undoing."
"When I rounded the ridge, when I faced the trap I had allowed my pride to lead me into, I felt nothing but remorse, for I feared I would lose my life without ever having the chance to apologize for having wronged ye so."
Mâkakao scooped her up into his arms, surprising her once again with his show of strength, and carried her to the bed Grandmother had so thoughtfully provided. She watched in fascination as his own armor followed hers to the floor. The soft undertunic followed, exposing hard, vein-roped muscles that rippled with every movement. He pinned her arms, holding her helpless beneath him. "I do not want your apologies, at least not for nearly getting yourself killed. I want only your promise. I want your trust, as an equal."
"I trust ye, Mâk, as I have trusted no other."
She made no move to break his grip on her hands as he slid slowly into her, their gazes locked as she tightened around him, pulling him in, asking for all he had to give, and more. He held her captive, as much with his eyes as with his strength, punishing her slowly for the torture he had been through. She let him set the pace for once, quivering in anticipation of each stroke as he pumped his thick shaft into her, submitting as long as she could before the agony of his pace drove her over the edge.
"Mâk!" she called, demanding, begging, writhing against him in wanton need. "Claim me," she pleaded. "I am thine. Take me. Now."
A smile settled on his lips as he thrust into her, harder now, and faster, their flesh making a sucking sound with each stroke, her breathing harsh in the night air. She heard her own voice crying out in little moans of pleasure. Mâkakao twisted the small rings in her nipples with his tongue, claiming her fully, pushing past some barrier she had not known she harbored in her mind. She felt herself surrender, giving control over to him completely.
"Sing for me, Wolf-Woman."
And she did, as she broke again, the ground giving way as she plummeted over the cliff, falling helplessly into the dark void, but he was there, his voice rising with hers to guide her through the night.
Chapter Five
Evalayna stood face to face with the ancient grizzly who blocked the path before her with his enormous bulk. A sea of conflicting emotions battled within her. Anger that he had let her think him dead these many years. Pain for all she had lost in those years away from him. Fear for all she stood to lose did she bring him back. Doubt that said he was too long gone from her to still hold her in his heart. Concern that the man she had known no longer existed. Need–the need to touch, to heal, to claim what was hers. But above all, there was hope. She laid her muzzle against his, allowing her eyes to close in pleas
ure as he hesitantly returned her caress.
The first stroke of his cheek against hers was soft, tentative, fur on fur so close she could peer straight into the depths of his wet brown eye and see into the vast reaches of his soul. Later, later she would speak to him with words, tell him of the long nights by the fire at their camp, ask the inevitable questions. For now she wanted nothing more than to touch, to hold, to nurture, until she found the man hidden within those endless depths.
If the man was no more, what then? If he rambled off into the night, his shaggy fur shrouding him like a barrier she could not penetrate, if she lost him again, would there be anything left of her that was Human? Or would she be nothing more than the thing her mother had wished her to become? Would she be the great matriarch once again, her soul forever lost in the vast white snow of the tundra?
Evalayna closed her eyes and followed her heart, as she had once before, so long ago. She nuzzled her cheek along the length of his still powerful neck, until her chin rested across the hump of his broad shoulders. He laid his head over her neck, his broken, snuffling cry both a demand and a surrender.
He turned suddenly, lumbering away down the path he'd been on when she found him, but he looked back over his shoulder to make sure she followed. She did, nearly running to keep him in sight as the storm sought to blind her.
The den was fresh and clean and at the same time well lived in, the dirt floor comfortably compacted and free of annoying litter and rocks, as if he'd raked the dirt with his claws, cleaning it for her. An absurd notion. He could not have known she would follow him here. How could he. She hadn't known herself.
Perhaps he cleaned the den for himself. As a man, he had never been one who was wont to wallow in his own filth. She wondered briefly if he used the same den year after year, something true bears rarely ever did, and then she forgot to wonder as he pulled her down into his arms with a short, piercing cry, his broad chest and thick fur cradling her head as she snuggled back against him.
Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I Page 28
