“Wait for me here, then,” he told them, and left his horse with them, and strode, businesslike, up the hill. But halfway to the barrow the fear of the unresting shades struck him in his turn, brought him up short with astonishment that almost topped the terror: he had not felt such fear of the wakeful dead since the day, years ago, that Hal had taken his hand and led him gently through their cordon. Hal’s warm touch.… The memory, though mixed with pain, softened the fear somewhat, and he was able to push his way through it. Bent and panting, he reached the barrow. The fear left him at the circle of standing stones, but no warm welcome awaited him. He sensed the spirits’ dismay tingling through their bodiless presence all around him.
“Elwyndas,” spoke a deep voice, echoing through a void of time and Otherness. The single word, Alan’s elfin name, seemed to be neither greeting nor question, but rather a reminder—of what? Prophecies and destinies? Mireldeyn had left; those days were over now.
“Culean,” Alan responded coolly. The last of the High Kings had been cut off in his youth, in the ruin of his realm, and by his own hand.
“You come here with anger and hatred in your heart,” the low voice of the dead King stated. “Why? You have always been full of loyalty and love.”
“I have enemies now,” Alan grimly replied, “and my loyalties have betrayed me. Aene, brother, wife, and son—they have all betrayed me.” He stooped and started tugging at the barrow stones, clawing himself an entrance.
“You come for the sword? But it was not offered to you, Elwyndas, worthy as you are of all our aid. We were told that an elf-man shall take it back to the sea. Your son, perhaps.”
“You will wait long for him!” Alan shouted, stung by sudden pain. He grappled furiously with the stones, then crawled into the barrow. The dim interior was much as he remembered: bones, dust, weapons, shreds of ancient finery. Centered under the dome lay a slab supporting the remains of High King Culean, his blackened crown, and his mighty sword. Stepping over skulls, Alan made his way to the skeleton’s side and reached for the sword, then hesitated with his hand poised to take it, feeling an eerie reluctance seize him.
“That sword could kill one whom you love,” breathed the deep, unearthly voice of the departed monarch. “It killed me.” But Alan felt stubborn resentment stir in him at the dead man’s interference.
“What, am I to surrender Isle to the wolves, then?” he mumbled, and grasped the golden sword by its jewel-studded hilt, wrestled it from its place. The weapon hung heavily in his hand, its massive point dragging on the ground. With an effort, Alan swung it clear and carried it outside. Strange—it had not seemed so unwieldy when Hal had lifted it, and he remembered its fair golden sheen. But now the precious metal glared coppery red in the cold daylight and the jewels crouched sullenly, unblinking, on the hilt. Alan matched their stare for a moment, frowning, then suddenly pulled off his cloak and wrapped the sword in it, scorning the winter wind. Heaving Hau Ferddas up, he hoisted it with both hands, lancelike, and trudged back to the others. The reproachful presence of the spirits followed him far down the hill.
Chapter Four
“There was no scabbard,” he told Rafe crossly, a week later. He had carried Hau Ferddas to Lee wrapped in his blanket, finding himself obliged to sleep with it, when he chose to sleep. He had set course straight through the Forest and kept good guard, with fully half his men standing awake at night. Alan took turns at guard himself, swinging his heavy weapon. But no wolves were to be seen, though the Forest often rang with their mocking wails, full of darkest meaning to Alan’s ears. His whole being felt dragged down into that darkness when he reached Lee. And Rafe met him with a haggard face.
“I have not succeeded in doing even what you said. The patrols cannot contain them. They stalk the land now by bright light of day, and folk huddle within doors for fear of them. Only yesterday, my men found a graybeard and his goodwife dead in their home. They froze for want of fuel.”
“The wolves are to blame, even so,” declared Ket. He had come from Laueroc to join Alan, bringing him Rhyssiart, Trevyn’s golden charger, and a missive from Lysse. He would have need of a war horse, she said. She had put out a call for volunteers, and when companies were formed she would send them eastward. She longed to see him, even if only for a day, to talk with him. But there was no gainsaying the dread that lay over the land, a vague and shadowy fear that touched even the folk of Laueroc, who lived far from any forest. She would see him when the peril was past. Alan felt shamefully glad that he would not have to face her. For some reason he would not explain even to himself, he could not have showed her the sword.
He showed it to Ket and Rafe in private. Ket was dubious, Rafe awed and cheered by the sight of Hau Ferddas. “So that is the weapon of which Gwem sang!” he exclaimed, and Alan lifted his bent head to eye him fishily.
“Gwern sang? That must have been a treat! And how would he know of this sword?”
“What matter?” Rafe cried recklessly. “You have got yourself a magical sword to use against the wolves! Now, if only you could find a magical steed to put under it!”
Alan had ordered Rafe special troops from Laueroc, picked men mounted on horses of the elfin blood. But the news of their performance was disappointing.
“Ordinary horses flee from the wolves,” Rafe reported bleakly. “The elwedeyn steeds flee sooner and more swiftly. They bolt at even the sound of a wolf.”
“Marvelously sensible creatures,” Alan grumbled. “If only we could all follow their example! But Isle is not big enough for that. Has Rhyssiart had a chance to prove himself, Ket?”
The lanky seneschal looked uncomfortable. “Ye know I’m no horseman, Alan. But the first time we spied a shadow in the Forest, he carried me clear back to the river before I could stop him.”
“We must hunt the wolves afoot, then.”
“That suits me,” Ket drawled.
“My men have no stomach to face them afoot, not in the Forest,” Rafe stated. “And I will not order them to do what I would not do myself.” His fear showed frankly in his dark, ardent eyes.
“Rafe and the Forest,” Alan sighed. “Will you never come to terms? Well, Ket and I are woodsmen, and we’ll find some volunteers. What power will we need, do you think? How many wolves are seen these days?”
“As many as a dozen at a time!” Rafe burst out. “I’ve seen that many myself—and none have been slain! They will not come near a sword, though they mock a swordsman from a distance. Instead, they plague the poor folk who are helpless against them. They are clever, insolent cowards!”
“We must bait them, then, to entrap them.” Alan’s eyes glowed with a grim light that made Rafe stare.
“How?”
“Don’t you think,” Alan rejoined, “that they would like to catch themselves a King?”
Alan proposed to lure the wolves into battle, using himself as an enticement. But Ket and Rafe both opposed the plan, magical sword or no. With the Prince absent, Alan’s peril also put the throne at stake. The three of them argued for hours. Rafe was so dismayed that he offered to go himself in Alan’s stead. Rafe, who regarded the Forest with nightmare dread! Even in his despair, Alan was touched by such loyalty. But talk of Prince and kingdom meant nothing to him. For some reason beyond reason, he believed they were as good as lost. And he felt angrily compelled to thrust himself against his enemy. He silenced the protests at last by power of his royal command, and he and Ket laid their plans.
Alan was to venture into the Forest on horseback with a few retainers, few enough to tempt the wolves but still sufficient to provide some security. He would appear to hunt at random, but actually he would ride toward a fortified place known to him and to Ket, who had roamed these parts for years of outlawry. Ket would follow him after an hour or so with more men and with blankets and food, backpacked, in case the horses fled. Ket and Alan knew the Forest. It would take them no more than a day or two to return to Lee afoot—if they lived.
The following morning dawned gra
y, but clear of sky. Alan started out early with a company of half a dozen men, carrying his monstrous sword. The evening before, wolves had set upon a young tenant as he hauled water to his cottage. Alan and his men rode to the spot, then cantered into the Forest, following the tracks of their quarry. After a while they seemed to lose the trail and went on deeper into the vast woods, appearing to search aimlessly. The men glanced about them nervously, but followed their King without a murmur. Before midday the wail of the wolves arose from all sides. The men stiffened in their saddles and the horses shied, but Alan smiled grimly.
“Good,” he said. “They are keeping their distance, and we will meet them as planned. Hold your pace.”
They continued at the walk and heard the wolves draw gradually closer. But before long they came to the remains of what must once have been a circular tower. Twice man high at spots, it was at least waist high all around, except for the gaping doorway.
“What people could have built this, to abide here in this wilderness?” a man wondered aloud.
“A very ancient people,” Alan answered him equably, “for I dare say the Forest has grown around it since.… Tether your horses off to one side there, and range yourselves within.”
They dismounted and took positions with drawn swords. Alan himself took the door, with Hau Ferddas in hand. His eyes glinted and his nostrils pulsed at the thought of combat, a chance to vent his hatred and despair. He felt Hau Ferddas lighten in his hand, come alive. Roused, it sliced upward and poised itself, like a stooping hawk, at the level of Alan’s face.
“Here they come,” he told his men.
A rippling, flowing mass of gray, the wolves loped from among the trees. The horses shrieked, snapped their tethers, and bolted away. Within the moment, wolves as large as half-grown calves surrounded the ruined tower three deep, standing with trembling eagerness, jeering. Alan felt his hair prickle, for he understood their song, though he could not tell why they lusted for his blood. He recognized their leader at once: the wolf even bigger than the rest, seated apart. It was the same insolent brute he had encountered near Whitewater; he felt sure of it. This time Alan would not speak to it, but he studied it intently. Bristly gray snout and eyes of yellowish hue—where had he seen those bilious eyes before?
The jaundiced gaze met his, and for a moment Alan’s body went as watery as tears. Hau Ferddas faltered in his hand, and he didn’t notice; all he could see was Trevyn’s fair form, torn and defiled by leering beasts. Then something rock-hard within him pushed the vision aside. Anger surged through him, the sword leaped in his hand, and his head snapped up, shaking off the haze of nightmare. In an instant the wolf leader yapped, and battle was joined.
Like so many arrows loosed from the same string, the wolves sprang. The sword in Alan’s grasp whistled down at them of its own accord, rendered mighty by its own weight, breaking a lupine neck with its first blow. Chanting harshly, filled with a fierce, bitter joy, Alan raised a pile of dead wolves before him. But the living ones sprang again and again, gleefully, mindlessly, leaping over the bodies of their slain comrades as if they were so much grass.
Lost in the satisfaction of his own power and revenge, Alan did not notice at first that his men were tiring, flinching wide-eyed from the frenzy of the wolves. Then the man beside him gurgled and fell, borne down by the wolf that had leaped past his wearied stroke. Alan turned and smote, but the blow came too late; the beast had opened the man’s throat.
“Courage!” Alan shouted to the others. “Ket should come soon.” From his easy seat off to one side, the big wolf panted his pleasure. But in a moment his sneer faded, as Ket and his company burst into view.
Their horses plunged about and would not charge. So they dismounted and let the steeds bolt, forming a long line of attack on foot. Ket fought with the bow, his favorite weapon. His men used swords or cudgels. Even with swords to front and swords to back, the wolves lost none of their feverish zeal. But their numbers were lessened, and they were forced back. Hemmed in by the press, the leader rose from his place and circled, growling. “Get that one!” Alan shouted, pointing, and Ket aimed his shaft. Then he froze, stunned.
Wolves poured out of the Forest; wolves, so it seemed, by the hundred. Before Alan could stir his tongue to cry out, they engulfed Ket and his men, as sudden and deadly as a flood. Soldiers fell, screaming, and the few with Alan in the tower stood dumbfounded with shock. His own shield arm hung slack, his magical sword plummeted earthward, and before his very face loomed the grinning countenance of the yellow-eyed leader. Obstinate instinct still stirred in Alan, though hope was gone. Rallying, he cut at his bestial adversary and called on those from whom he had often received succor in the past: “O lian elys liedendes, holme a on, il prier!” [“Oh spirits of those who once lived, come to me, I pray!”] Then he shouted to his men, “Stand! Stand where you are, for your lives’ sake!”
The presence of the spirits enveloped them instantly, and his command was lost in the uproar that resulted. Wolves and men shrieked, their screams mingling and their paths crossing as they fled into the Forest like demented things. Though the spirits came to Alan as friends in his time of need, the others felt them only as a mind-blackening terror of the unknown. The wolfish leader scuttled away from them like a kicked cur. Ket’s face went as white as death, and he swayed as if he had been struck a mighty blow. “Ket! Stand!” Alan cried, dropped his sword and ran to him, leaping corpses. The spirits had already passed and gone their way. Alan held Ket until his trembling stopped and he raised his head, gasping for air like a drowning man.
“What wonder is this?” he demanded shakily. “The haunt is miles hence. Has it come to us?”
“I called the spirits, ay. Are you all right, Ket?”
“I’ll live,” he sighed.
“Come, help me, then.” They turned their attention to the bodies that choked the place, checking them one by one. There were no survivors; the wolves had struck straight to the life’s blood of each man. Alan and Ket would not meet each other’s sickened eyes.
“What about the others?” Ket asked gruffly.
“We must try to round them up, I dare say.… But look, it is starting to snow.”
Tiny, hard-edged flakes whizzed past thickly, harried by a biting wind. Already, as Alan spoke, the ground was sprinkled and the trees shrouded with white.
“The sky was clear this morning,” Ket complained wearily. “Whence came this snow? And whence came those wolves, I wonder? There were none about as we rode; I would swear to that. It’s as if someone conjured them up.”
Alan shot him a startled glance, then shook off the thought; he did not like the notion of such a conjuror. And the present pressed harder. He and Ket loaded themselves with blankets and food from the dead men’s packs. Alan fetched his sword. He regarded the massive, bloody brand in sudden distaste, cleaned it on the snowy ground, and swaddled it.
“I need a horse just to carry this thing,” he grumbled, cradling it in both arms.
He and Ket plodded off into the Forest, toward Lee, for some of the men had run that way. They called for them as they walked, and got no answers. Trees looked like ghosts of trees in the snow, and an eerie silence brooded all around. After a while Ket and Alan let their shouts trail away. Ket peered into the wilderness, stopped, and for no reason set arrow to his bow.
“Do we need to fear those wolves, think ye?”
“I can’t say.” Alan frowned, bemused. “Animals should not fear the shades of dead men.… I can’t even say why I summoned the spirits, except for sheer, desperate whim. Yet the wolves ran away with plentiful speed, Ket. I fear this snow more right now.”
In fact, the two of them were already having trouble keeping their course toward Lee. The Forest had turned into a directionless fog of white. Occasional sounds echoed weirdly in the muffled silence. Ket and Alan blundered along blindly, watching for shelter, searching for their comrades, finding neither. The day drew on. They could not tell the hour by the pallid light, but th
ey felt the pressure of time. They had to find a refuge before nightfall.
“It’ll be a marvel if any of us make it back to Lee,” said Alan starkly.
Ket gasped by way of answer and raised his bow. Something gray had moved in the dizzying whiteness not far before them. But Alan struck Ket’s arrow into the air with his hand.
“There’s no malice in that wolf,” he exclaimed. “Look again.”
She stood facing them not ten feet away, great-bellied with young, her gray fur fluffed softly by the wind, levelly meeting Alan’s gaze. In a moment she came up to him and tugged at the hem of his tunic with her teeth, whining.
“Galte faer; el rafte,” Alan told her. [“Lead on; I’ll follow.”]
“What?” Ket demanded. He could not understand the Old Language.
“She wants us to follow her.” Alan strode after the wolf that bounded away through the drifting snow, swift and supple in spite of her maternal girth.
“And what if she leads us into a trap?” Ket cried, hurrying after. “If she takes us to the pack?”
“Would you rather freeze to death in the snow?” Alan shot back over his shoulder. Ket silently panted along behind him, teeth clenched against a sharp reply. “She is a brave and generous creature,” Alan added more gently after a bit. “She will lead us to no harm.”
They stumbled along through the darkening day, numb from cold and fatigue, straining their dazed eyes for the quick, shadowy form of the female wolf beneath the creaking trees. Sometimes she would dash back and whimper at them, impatient at their slowness. As the light grew worse, she stayed closer to them, whining anxiously. They followed her more by sound than by sight. Night had almost fallen when Ket jerked to a standstill.
“The haunt,” he whispered. “We’re turned clear around, and gone beyond where we started. I feel the haunt ahead.”
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