by S. A. Swann
But now Oles was dead. She had heard the rycerz’s man reporting that the boy had been torn apart in the stables by some sort of beast.
Maria knew exactly what sort of beast that would be, and the thought of it almost paralyzed her. Why would he hurt Oles? The boy was nothing to Darien. Even had he carried a silver sword, he was less a threat than the elk they had slaughtered in the woods.
She remembered Josef’s words: “Forty men, women, and children left to rot on the steps of their own church.”
Was that truly what Darien was?
And if so, then what of her?
She had seen the look on Josef’s face as he had stared at hers. Rycerz Telek—Wojewoda Telek—and Brother Heinrich had been too preoccupied with the news of Oles to notice her wound healing, but Josef had seen it. He had seen evidence that her ties to the wolf were deeper than any old pagan worship, and infinitely harder to erase.
She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she needed to find Darien before anyone else was hurt. Once they were outside, Maria took a step in the direction of the stables. The guard with her grabbed her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Does he know as well? “I have duties to tend to.” She blushed at the insincerity in her voice.
“Perhaps, but did you not hear? We have a beast running loose within the walls. You should not roam around unescorted.”
She looked at him: a young squire of the szlachta, earnest and brave, without a clue about what he faced. You are in more danger than I, she thought. “I suppose so.”
“Besides, the way to the kitchens is shorter in this direction.”
“Yes,” she said, “it is.”
Rain fell against the fur on Darien’s back as he crawled slowly against the thatch roof of one of the buildings next to the stables. He crouched above his prey, watching the men scurry below him, the smell of their fear growing.
He waited until he saw the old man wearing the black cross of the order enter the aisleway. Then Darien withdrew, crawling silently just below the ridgeline of the roof. His handiwork would be seen by the eyes that needed to see it. Now he had to find his mate.
The rain was cold and misting, and a low fog had begun crawling in from the lowlands around the fortress. He dropped into the gray mist as it gathered between two buildings. He crouched in the narrow space between two windowless walls set barely as far apart as his shoulders.
He saw men run past the mouth of the alley, their smell much stronger than their fuzzy outlines. They yelled at people in the buildings to bar their doors and close up their shutters.
That’s right, he thought. Fear me.
Humans might hunt him down, might slaughter his kind in the name of their God. But in the end, it was they who feared him.
He crept to the end of the alley, sniffing the air for his mate’s scent, and he caught it, stronger in the direction of the main stronghold. He licked his lips and stepped out of the alley.
In moments, a trio of guardsmen turned the corner in front of him. Even smelling of fear as they did, they hadn’t expected to meet the object of their fear quite so soon. When Darien came out of the mist, practically upon them, all three wore an expression of disbelief. The one closest to him never had an opportunity to do anything else. Darien’s clawed hand tore across his throat. The momentum from Darien’s blow sent his bleeding corpse spinning to fall on its back in the road.
Pain flared as one of the men struck at him, cutting a deep wound in his side. But these men weren’t of the Order, and didn’t carry silver weapons. Darien blocked the next blow by grabbing the man’s wrist hard enough that he heard bones break. His prey screamed, but Darien silenced him by biting through his throat.
When the second man dropped at Darien’s feet, the third man had disappeared. However, the smell of his terror lingered, and Darien heard his panicked footsteps running for the main stronghold.
Darien licked fresh blood off his muzzle and followed. The man did not get very far.
Josef followed the paths he thought led to the main stronghold. He suspected that this was where the guardsman would have taken her. His belly ached, and his feet were unsteady from the doctor’s medicine, but he forced himself on. He needed to catch up with Maria. He needed to talk to her. He needed to hear her explanation before Komtur Heinrich—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dozen marching feet. As if summoned by his fears, he saw Brother Heinrich, Telek, and six other men striding across his path, headed toward the stronghold themselves. No one spared him a glance.
He had no choice but to follow, pushing himself as much as he dared. But he still gradually fell behind. He managed to keep up with them only because the first scream gave them pause, and then Telek and Heinrich carried on a heated discussion in German mostly muffled in the mists.
He heard Telek’s words: “… as I say, or we can discuss Brother Semyon …”
The name gave Josef pause. It belonged to no one in his convent, nor anyone in the Order’s hierarchy that he had heard of. The group moved on quickly after that, and he watched as they slowly faded into the mists ahead of him.
He heard more screams and growls, sourceless in the fog, seeming to come from everywhere at once. His breath burned in his throat as he realized that he didn’t have so much as a dagger. Half naked and wounded, he lurched through the fog, which erased his vision of anything more than ten paces from him. Fear took hold of him, its touch in the clammy grip of fog and rain on his skin. He could feel the specter of death following him more closely now than at any time since he had left plague-ravaged Nürnberg.
The fear was for himself only in small part. Josef had lived on borrowed time for years, his own mortality a familiar companion. The terror in his heart burned for Maria, for what might happen to her. For what she might be. For what she might do. He didn’t fully understand what he hoped to accomplish, but he needed to find her.
The misting rain wrapped Gród Narew in a blanket of gray. It muffled sound and kept everything beyond the closest buildings invisible. The man leading her maintained a confident pose, striding with purpose, leading her by the arm, but Maria could sense his panic swelling. She felt it in the clammy hand on her wrist, saw it in the lack of color in his cheeks, and she realized that she smelled it; the man’s odor made her uncomfortably aware of the monster curled barely dormant within her breast.
“Do you know where—where the attacker went?”
“The pawprints stopped at the entry to the stable.”
“Stopped?”
“We had no trail to follow.”
Maria held out a small hope that Darien had left, that he hadn’t trapped himself behind the walls. But they had just reached the gate of the main stronghold when a scream dashed those hopes—a scream that was ripped short with a horrid liquid gasp.
A low growl followed, and she knew it was Darien’s.
Why are you doing this?
The grip on her arm strengthened, and her would-be protector said, “We must get inside.” He pulled her through the inner gate, through the walls around the main stronghold. These walls were newer brick, rather than the old wood and earth of the outer walls. The way inside hung open, and her guard called up at the men standing in the watchtower overlooking the gate.
“What are you waiting for? Close the gates!”
“Sir,” the voice came down, “unless you bear the authority of the Duke Siemowit or Wojewoda Bol—Telek—”
“You fool! Don’t you hear it out there?”
“—the captain of the watch at least?”
“The captain of the watch is by the stables putting pieces of a sixteen-year-old boy into a basket. Close these thrice-damned gates!” Another grotesque scream punctuated the man’s statement, closer now.
Maria backed toward the stronghold, staring out at the main path toward the gate. The air was a gray mist, so much so that she seemed to look out a portal upon Limbo.
Another scream, a deep throaty growl, and
the man above them lost any hesitation. “Close the gates!”
Even as he called out, and men ran to push shut the thick doors, Maria saw a shadow move through the gray mist. The man with her drew his sword and pushed her behind him. “It’s coming.”
“No,” she said. She could hear the sound of many booted feet through the mists. It wasn’t Darien. Not yet.
The man in the tower above called down, “Hold!”
The men on the door stopped moving as the figures of Bolesław’s nephew and Brother Heinrich emerged from the fog, leading a half dozen other men. They filed through the partly open gate, Telek in the lead. Once they were all through, the man above called down, “Do we seal the entrance, Woje—”
“Of course!” Telek bellowed.
The men by the door resumed their work. Maria saw a bit of commotion by the door, but she didn’t see what, because Brother Heinrich had stepped in front of her and her temporary guardian. As Telek shouted something to his men, Heinrich called to Telek in German, gesturing at the man in front of Maria: “You should tell your man to fall back. That steel sword will only annoy our adversaries, unless he has the luck to completely cleave the neck or heart with his first blow.”
“Adversaries?” Telek responded, “There’s more than one now?”
Someone shouted something by the gate, but Maria was focused on the object that dangled from Heinrich’s bloodstained hand.
How could this man have her cross?
The central stronghold of Gród Narew emerged from the fog in front of Josef like a massive pagan cenotaph to hungry gods long dead. The gate hung before him, a half-closed maw. He reached it just as the last of Telek’s men slipped through.
He tried to follow, and one of the men at the gate shouted a challenge at him.
“Let me in,” he shouted back in German, doing his best to repeat it in his limited Polish vocabulary. The men blocked his way as his fellows kept closing the gate.
Of course; these men didn’t know him. Josef had spent nearly his entire stay here bedridden, and his surcote, which identified him as part of the Order, was in shreds.
There wasn’t time to make the point. He dove through the closing gap, only to be grabbed by the man blocking his way. The man shouted something in Polish and Josef heard the slide of steel. Josef struggled until he heard the door shut behind him; then he allowed the men to push him up against the door, a sword at his throat.
Telek saw the struggle from the other side of the crowding Polish armsmen and shouted something that made the sword lower and their grip loosen. Telek turned around as Brother Heinrich called out something. Now that the men had stepped back from him, Josef could see where Heinrich was, and who was with him.
“Maria!” Josef called out.
She wasn’t paying attention to him, or to anyone by the gate. She was staring at Heinrich, eyes wide and mouth half-open.
“Maria,” he said again, his voice now more a plea to God than to anyone here. He’d seen what held Maria’s attention: her silver cross dangled from Heinrich’s hand.
XXVIII
How could this man have her cross?
Maria stared at it, and her first impulse was to grab it from Brother Heinrich’s bloody hand.
But the disrespectful impulse was unlike her.
Or unlike the Maria she had been.
“You recognize this?” Heinrich said. “Perhaps it is yours?”
Maria backed away from him until she felt the bricks of the inner wall press into her shoulders. The man who had escorted her still had his sword drawn, but the point was lowered and he was looking from her to Heinrich to Telek.
Telek stepped up next to Heinrich. “Brother Heinrich, can you explain your sudden interest in our servants?”
She heard someone calling her name and turned to look back toward the gate. Josef. No! Why is he here?
“Just this one. See her face?”
She took a step toward the gate.
“What about her—”
She didn’t hear the rest of Telek’s words, because Brother Heinrich’s fist slammed across the front of her face. She felt the bones of her nose give way as she inhaled choking mouthfuls of her own blood.
“Maria!” Josef yelled, pushing through the knot of confused men by the gate.
“Whore!” Heinrich yelled at her as she fell to her knees, spitting up blood. “Harlot! Succubus!”
“Brother Heinrich!” Telek grabbed Heinrich’s shoulder and pulled him back. “What in the name of Heaven do you think you are doing?”
Maria heard the sound of metal being drawn, and she looked up at Heinrich and Telek. Heinrich was pulling his sword from the scabbard at his hip; he stopped only when Telek grabbed his wrist. “Look,” he told Telek. “She cannot conceal what she is.”
Heinrich stared down at her with a gaze as cold and impassive as death, while Telek’s eyes slowly widened. Josef yelled, “Don’t touch her,” but his voice seemed very far away.
In her face, Maria felt her bones twist and her flesh flow in a tiny painful echo of her changes. She didn’t need to touch it to know that her nose was healing. She felt it immediately when the blood stopped flowing and her sinuses cleared, and she could breathe in the scents of fury from Heinrich, and fear from Telek.
“Christ preserve us,” Telek said.
“She is a demon.” Heinrich freed his wrist from Telek’s grip to continue drawing his silvered sword.
Her heart pounded, and she felt her bones creak and her flesh begin to burn with the imminent change. Her mind might be frozen, but her body was not, and it cared to live.
She crouched, and the way sensations spun in her head, Heinrich seemed to move very slowly, lifting the sword.
Like a rearing elk, she thought.
Suddenly Josef was there, between her and Heinrich, holding Heinrich’s sword arm. She felt the beast within her about to burst forth, and she couldn’t stop it.
Heinrich yelled, “Josef! She is a deception sent to tempt you away from your vocation!”
Maria sprang from her crouch, at a gap that Josef’s struggle had made between Heinrich and Telek. She felt hands reaching for her still-human shoulders, but they only grabbed her clothes. The grip couldn’t stop her movement once her feet touched ground. She ran off toward the stronghold, pulling her assailant after her until she heard the sound of tearing fabric. Then her attacker fell to the ground, holding the greater part of her surcote.
Heinrich yelled as Josef pulled at his sword arm, but Josef still had enough strength to hang on. He struggled to restrain Komtur Heinrich as Maria leapt past them.
“Let go, you fool!”
Telek grabbed at her as she passed, but she moved almost too quickly to follow with eyes, much less hands. Still, the large Pole managed to grab the back of her surcote. But the force of Maria’s movement was such that it pulled the heavy man off balance. Telek took a single stumbling step before falling down, his hands filled with torn fabric.
The scene distracted Josef enough that he didn’t see the man who landed the blow on his back.
Pain shot through his midsection, flaring brightest in his newly stitched wounds. He lost his grip on Heinrich’s sword arm, and his master spun around, facing into the stronghold.
“After her!” he commanded.
Something slammed into the gate.
Everyone turned to face the barred entrance. Outside, a man yelled, screaming in Polish. Someone moved to unbar the gate, and three of his fellows grabbed him and pulled him, protesting, away from the door.
On the other side, the man screamed again. Something slammed the door once more, and the screaming stopped. A low growl replaced it—a growl that made Josef’s stomach shrivel into a hard little ball.
Heinrich turned to face the door. “Have your men retreat into the stronghold.”
“What?” Telek had just pushed himself upright. “One creature—”
“These walls are no barrier to it!”
“Brother Heinrich, I d
on’t think—”
Another scream came out of the mists, this time above them and to the right.
“Men,” Telek ordered, “to the stronghold! Seal the doors!”
Josef was caught up in the retreat through the massive door into the stronghold. While men maneuvered to shut the doorway, Josef kept pushing through the crowd, into the Polish fortress proper, following the path Maria had taken. His Komtur and Telek showed no more interest in him.
Heinrich yelled, “Where are the rest of my men and their weapons?”
“I sent orders to them to assemble and arm themselves in the great hall.”
Then Josef passed beyond hearing.
Where had she gone?
He slowed as he passed a corridor that crossed the main entry hall. His fist pressed against the tightness in his stomach as he tried to guess which way Maria had gone. She had been moving so fast, she could be anywhere.
Down one corridor, he heard a woman screaming. He grabbed a sword from an armorial display and ran off in that direction.
A few steps into the stronghold’s halls, her broadening shoulders finished the job that Telek had begun on her clothes. She tossed aside the rags her clothes had become, whipping her head around and looking for some escape.
She ran through halls she had known all her life but that now seemed unfamiliar. Everything seemed small and twisted—the colors wrong, surreal, unnatural through her wolf eyes. The place was rank with human stench: cookfires and sweat, sex and piss, ale and unwashed linens. The walls closed in on her, amplifying her fear, driving her forward.
A woman stepped into her path, and Maria recognized her: Lucja worked in the kitchens with her. Lucja looked in her direction and screamed in terror. Maria instinctively reached out to reassure her, but Lucja saw only a black-furred forelimb reaching for her and fell to the ground in a faint.
Maria watched her fall, and looked down at herself. Here, in Gród Narew, her new half-lupine, half-human body was much more monstrous. The lean, muscular body, the shaggy black pelt, the massive paws and clawed hands all belonged in the depths of some primeval forest. Such a thing as her did not belong here.
