In a Wolf's Eyes

by A. Katie Rose

  I jumped when a hand slid over my shoulder and down my arm. Kel’Ratan, sidling up behind me, must have known what I did not: how close I truly was to scratching that itch. Had I scratched, the apartments would have run with blood, and with not just Theodoric’s blood. Shooting a lightning glance at my warriors, I allowed my cousin to lower my arm.

  I held Theodoric’s eyes, pale blue eyes with the same unholy light that a cat with a live mouse in its jaws might have, and spoke in measured tones. “What message?”

  “His Highness instructed me to inform you the betrothal and wedding shall continue. In fact, it will take place two days hence. The marriage will also be consummated immediately.”

  “Never,” I hissed.

  “To enforce your compliance, these soldiers will guard you day and night.” He gestured to the men behind him, to the windows behind me. I looked over my shoulder. More liveried soldiers, these in the more ordinary uniforms of royal purple and gold, marched in disciplined order to stand several rods beyond the building’s embrasures. I looked slowly back to Theodoric.

  “You are hopelessly outnumbered, Highness,” he said gravely. “A full cohort surrounds this area and the buildings.”

  I studied him for a moment without speaking. He mastered his previous glee behind a mildly reproving frown and returned my stare, covering the ruthlessness I knew he hid behind a polite facade. The public saw his devout and forgiving priestly persona, a jolly pudgy face under sandy brown hair shot with gray, his mustache and beard trimmed neatly. The public seldom saw his evil twin brother, the man who reveled in Brutal’s lust for blood and encouraged it. The High Priest of Usa’a’mah, the dark god of war and death, bathed in the blood of the just and unjust alike. His reputation for cruelty far exceeded his equanimous manner.

  I slammed my sword back into its sheath and smiled thinly. “Perhaps Prince Brutal might find me as dangerous as he thinks he is.”

  “And the vixen may find herself collared, leashed and muzzled,” Theodoric answered, grinning openly. “I was also instructed to tell you that should Your Highness choose to fight, you will find yourself in the arena dancing with The Wolf.”

  A vision of that gladiator’s panther-like speed and reflexes flitted through my mind. Could I take him? Immediately I knew I could not. “It will be a good day to die,” I snapped. “Far better that than to marry your vile excuse for a prince.”

  “That’s not all,” he continued, still grinning. “Yon kinsman would meet the fate of the beast that dared annoy the Crown Prince this morning.”

  I could not help it. I glanced at Kel’Ratan in dismay. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his own grip on his sword lightening as he prepared to sheath it in Theodoric’s throat. Perhaps he regretted stopping me from spilling Theodoric’s blood. Yet, he had been right to stop me, as I knew I must stop him now. I caught his fierce blue eye, and grimaced.

  For a moment, his face tightened in rage and rebellion, and I thought for an instant I failed. Yet, he caught my message. I felt him relax, although to anyone watching he never moved so much as a muscle in his little finger.

  As much as I wanted the honor for myself, I knew killing the High Priest now would bring disaster down on us all. I had only the thirty warriors I brought with me from Kel’Halla, some here in the apartments, others scattered guarding the horses or obtaining supplies in Soudan.

  Theodoric was correct: we were hopelessly outnumbered. The royal Synn’jhani excelled at close hand-to-hand combat, their weapons and discipline making them one of the finest fighting forces on earth. On horseback, we could have decimated the Federal troops and Synn’jhani both, and gone home at a leisurely walk. Cornered in those tight quarters, taking them with us would be all we could accomplish. None would live to tell my father of our demise.

  If he sensed how close he was to death, Theodoric covered it well. “You are wise as well as beautiful, Your Highness. I shall revere you as my Queen. I am, as always, your servant.”

  He snapped his fingers. Backing away slowly, the Synn’jhani retreated, their swords still at battle-readiness. When they had all dispersed like smoke behind him, Theodoric took hold of the doors. With an oily bow, he slid out of my apartments, closing the doors quietly behind him.

  Chapter 3

  An Accidental Assassination

  I sweated under the sweltering Khalidian sun, practicing against Ulphin, another gladiator I knew only slightly. He had been in the stable only a few short weeks, a big brawny ugly slave with a crooked nose and mouse-brown lanky hair. A scar ran down his cheek into his upper lip, giving him a perpetual sneer. At our first session together, he knew enough about me to be wary, yet was still cocky enough to think he could best me. Many gladiators came into the High King’s stables with that same arrogance, that same determination to skin The Wolf. I saw it now in his light brown eyes. Little did Ulphin know none of those gladiators ever survived to hang my hide on their walls.

  I sidestepped a fast lunge, his wooden sword sliding harmlessly past. My own returning thrust knocked his blade aside and struck him in the gut. He grunted in fury, his wind lost, and lunged again, sword raised high.

  I parried the stroke with my right hand on the wooden blade, my left hand smothering a yawn. My upbringing taught me to always cover my mouth when I yawned, and the instinct hadn’t yet left me. My action infuriated Ulphin. No doubt, he thought I did not take him seriously enough. The fact that he was correct amused me greatly. I let my amusement show in a faint smile, a brief curling of my lip.

  He snarled wordlessly, his face a mask of anger and hate. First mistake, I thought: never fight while angry. He charged, his sword held high. His weight carried him too close, a mistake any first year gladiator would have been shamed to make. My returning stroke punched him behind the ear, dropping him to his knees, dazed.

  I stepped away, yawning again. Damn, I was sleepy. Ever since Rygel healed me, I could not seem to get enough sleep. I shook my head, trying to clear my eyes of the fog.

  “Wolf.”

  I glanced to my right to find Cephas watching me, his hand upraised in a come-hither gesture. I instantly lowered my weapon, for a slave did not raise a blade, even a wooden one, in the presence of a free man. I turned away from my training fight to bow low to the Slave Master.

  Ulphin sought to take advantage of my distraction by slashing at my head. I ducked and parried in the same motion, barely looking at him. His side open wide, I smashed him in the ribs. I distinctly heard several of them snap. He went down, rolling in the hot sand with loud groans.

  Cephas chuckled. “You should know better than that, dolt. And I took the trouble to warn you, too.”

  He bent down, his hands on his knees, to better look Ulphin in his squinty brown eyes. “I should let Wolf finish you off. I want no fools in my stable.”

  Ulphin continued to writhe in the dirt, his groans now muted in fear of offending Cephas. One did not irritate Cephas and live for very long.

  With a jerk of his head, Cephas bid me follow him out of earshot of anyone nearby. Other slaves in battling pairs around the training arena continued their practice, glancing at the Slave Master from time to time, looking for approval or instructions or out of idle curiosity.

  Cephas looked me up and down, brow furrowed. “You sure you’re all right?”

  I wore a light sleeveless tunic belted at my hips, my thin cotton breeches, and calf-high leather boots. Gladiators normally wore little, a loincloth and leather boots amounted to full dress in the summer’s heat, with the sweat and exertion of training. While Rygel’s magic left behind no trace of any wound, no scars, no marring, Cephas had seen blood on me that day. He witnessed the illegal dirk that stabbed me. He asked me repeatedly to tell him what happened. I did not. Perhaps I should have told him of Rygel, for he may have been grateful magic had saved a slave as valuable as me. I followed my gut’s instructions: don’t speak of Rygel or magic.

  To Cephas’s face, I denied Silas’s dirk, denied the wounds. He suspected, des
pite my assurances to the contrary, that I lied. Cephas had an excellent nose for deception. He knew every scar on my body, knew the story behind each and every one, and inspected me from my head to my toes. The fact that I had no new scars to show only confused him further. He wanted to trust me, but knew Silas hurt me that day. Just how badly he failed to realize. I brushed off the tell-tale blood as the result of mere scratches. He knew me well, that one, knew I had little reason to lie to him. He leaned toward taking me at my word.

  “Aye, sir.”

  He nodded distractedly, accepting it, and turned to stare across the arena. While not as tall as me, nor quite as broad and heavy, he carried a heavy frame of strong quick muscles. Perhaps two score and ten years old, he looked younger, with his grizzled features now creased with worry. Long reddish hair, frosted with gray, hung to his shoulders. His mustache, also flecked with white, drooped past his mouth. I watched his profile, curiously, for Cephas was never one to mince words. Sharp blue eyes suddenly returned to stare at me. I studied my boots immediately.

  “Word has come down,” he said. “His Majesty wants to see you.”

  A chill trickled down my back, freezing the runnels of sweat. The High King never spoke to his slaves directly. To my knowledge, he never requested specifically to see one.

  Cephas dropped his voice although no one stood close enough to overhear. None would dare venture close enough to eavesdrop on anything he had to say at any time. The wrath of Cephas was deadly to behold. “Have you done anything, Wolf?”

  A brief vision of Rygel healing my injuries flashed through my head. No one save he and I knew of that. Even at Brutal’s birthday celebration, I caught Rygel’s eye for one brief instant. He stood in the shadow of Lionel and Iyumi’s thrones as I walked by, his face expressionless, his disdainful glance chancing upon me and moving on, as though his noble birth prevented him from seeing a lowly slave such as I. Yet, I saw the spark of recognition, the hint of a rage, of the awesome power barely held in check behind the catlike eyes.

  For my part, I saw another high-born aristocrat nursing a chalice of wine and kept my eyes forward, seeing yet not.

  To Cephas, I shook my head and lied yet again. “Nay, sir.”

  “Good.” Cephas clapped me on the shoulder. He seldom touched a slave, and his brief affection was sincere enough. “Perhaps he means to free you. You’ve certainly earned it.”

  My hair hid my eyes as I peered up. The bleak expression in his eyes belied the heartiness in his voice. He knew as well as I the High King would never free me.

  He jerked his head toward the arena entrance. “Those two Sins will escort you.”

  I followed his gaze to the two men in burnished gold hauberks, greaves and silver wrist cuffs. Their Synn’jhani uniforms of white robes tucked into black leather boots, white turbans with purple plumes wound down to a single strip of cloth that they drew across their faces. Only their dark eyes showed as they watched me. Gold cloaks trimmed in silver swung from their shoulders, the snarling White Lion on the clasps. Swords hung from their white sashes, spears gripped in their right fists. Shields with the royal lion emblem hung across their backs.

  “Before you go,” Cephas said, his voice dropping.

  His eyes flicked left, then right, without turning his head. He searched for the eavesdroppers that would never dare to eavesdrop. “I was going to tell you this tonight, but…” Hesitating, his tongue crept out to moisten his lower lip. He glanced around again for listeners not there to listen.

  I waited patiently, watching him fumble, curious. What on earth could make the strong, brawny commander of the High King’s own royal stable of gladiators self-effacing? His blue eyes under grizzled and bristling red hair eventually returned to me, nodding, as if to himself.

  “No matter. I found her.”

  Suddenly excitement and fear dropped its load into my gut. “Sir?”

  “Your sister. She’s alive. A fish oil merchant by the name of Adhas, in the Harbor District, owns her. If he’s not willing to sell her, then perhaps he can be persuaded.” A small evil grin touched his narrow lips as he fondled his sword hilt. Then the smile faded.

  I quickly stifled the strong surge of hope that suddenly burst unbidden into my heart. Arianne, found. Two nights previous, Rygel asking me what I had to live for. Arianne was it. The only reason I still drew breath.

  I had given up on ever finding her. Yet, something of that hope remained, and I permitted Rygel to save my life, for I could not find her were I dead. All life is sacred, he said. Could there be hope for me, and for Arianne?

  “Sir, I don’t know what I should say,” I began, uncertain.

  “You say nothing, laddie.” His eyes smiled more than his mouth as he looked into mine, a hint of a friendship that might have been had our stations been equal. “If not for you, I wouldn’t be here. I owe you, remember?”

  I half-shrugged, half-nodded, thinking back to the escaped, fear-maddened lion that had jumped Cephas two years ago. I had seen, too late to shout a warning, the crouched beast hidden at the back of a short wall. Too late, Cephas walked directly into its path. The full-grown lion took him down in a tawny flash and a snarl of fear and rage.

  Before the beast could rip open the Slave Master’s throat, I was on it, one arm around its neck, my other arm around its shoulder. Lifting it bodily, I tore the lion from Cephas, its jaws snapping inches from my throat. Then I throttled it, my hands digging into its heavy mane, reaching for the beast’s sensitive airway. I killed it with my strength, with my bare hands, saving Cephas from an awful death. Cephas swore an oath to me, an oath none but he and I knew of. An oath to give me anything I desired. I asked his help in my quest to find Arianne.

  “I have no bloody idea what I’ll do with her once I buy her,” Cephas went on. “Set her to cleaning my chambers, maybe. We’ll think of something.”

  I opened my mouth, unable to find words enough for what he had done, and would do, for me. In Cephas’s capable and honorable hands, Arianne would be safe. He winked at me, shaking his head slightly to forestall anything I tried to say.

  “On your way, laddie.” Cephas struck me once more in sincere affection. “May Usa’a’mah guide your steps.”

  I bowed my respect to him and walked away, hearing him curse under his breath. Why did I have the sudden sinking feeling that I would never see him again?

  In my head, the wolves began to sing.

  * * *

  I followed the two Synn’jhani through the teeming city streets, often separated from them by the mobs of people on foot, or riding or driving horses, mules or donkeys. Oxen-drawn wagons rolled by with ponderous dignity, loaded with merchandise from the farthest reaches of the Federation. I paused while caravans guarded by steely-eyed mercenaries passed me by. Carriages carrying merchants and the lesser nobility trotted smoothly past. The manure-laden dust of their passage tickled my nostrils, bringing a sneeze of protest. Guided by the bobbing purple plumes in their turbans, I remained several paces behind the Federal guard. They never looked around to make sure I was still there.

  Pity I dared not take the opportunity to duck into the crush of people and disappear. The sudden, and insistent, urge almost made me risk it. Only two facts stopped me: the first was the knowledge I was too well known, and my face and eyes easily recognized by anyone who cared to look. Even as I walked now, people ceased their activities to gawp as I passed. Many excited sports fans pointed me out, nudging fellows to take heed of me, their comments drowned out by the city noise.

  And the second reason to resist the temptation to escape, to vanish forever into the depths of the moving crowds? Had I tried to escape now meant leaving Arianne behind forever. I might be free, but she would forever be a slave. I would die before I allowed that. I quashed the urge to run with an effort.

  After the relative quiet of the arena and barracks, I found the noise of the city deafening, the rancid stink of thousands of unwashed bodies nearly overwhelming. People and animals crowded the wide di
rt thoroughfare, masses of bodies hurrying past, or milling about as they bought, sold, traded goods, services or even their own bodies. Horses, mules and oxen pulled carts, wagons and more through the teeming throngs of shoppers and vendors hawking their wares. More minor nobles in fine carriages with family sigils painted on the doors rolled past, kicking up more dust into my face. A palanquin carrying a wealthy merchant’s wife pushed past me, the bearers sweating in the intense heat. Dust and dried dung hung in the hot still air. I breathed deep of the city scents, the odors of hot peppers roasting from a nearby street vendor, making my stomach rumble, reminding me I had not eaten since daybreak. A tiny man trundling a small handcart before him screamed at the top of his lungs of his freshly caught rabbits, the small furry carcasses swinging head-down on strings, blood beading their whiskers.

  Collared slaves and liveried servants ducked and dodged the crowds, hurrying about their tasks. Burdened with a double handful of squawking chickens carried by their feet, a skinny slave bobbed a half-bow to my jeweled collar. A small pack of three gaunt feral dogs ducked into a stinking alley, pursued by a slightly larger pack of emaciated naked children armed with rocks.

  Beggars and ragged children ran underfoot, causing curses and crashes both. One filthy urchin wearing naught but a stained loincloth ran next to me, shouting words of admiration, firing questions faster than arrows.