Prince Wolf

by A. Katie Rose

  “Then go,” I commanded softly. “May Nephrotiti guide your steps.”

  Kissing Arianne’s hand, Rygel rose smoothly to his feet. Clearly, he wanted more from her: an embrace, a kiss, a heartfelt sigh. Arianne merely watched, impassive, as he vaulted onto Shardon’s bare back. He sighed, nudging Shardon about with his knee. Little Bull rose and stretched languidly, clearly intent upon accompanying him.

  I pondered the idea of sleep, tormented dreams, dark dreams of a huge black wolf. Not again, Lady, bring me some peace, please, I thought. The flickering flames transfixed me, hypnotizing, calling me toward drowsiness when my attention caught, like everyone else, at the sound of Arianne imperiously snapping her fingers. I started, half-thinking she called me. Shardon paused mid-step, just outside the firelight. Both he and Rygel turned their heads, inquiring.

  Darkhan wilted under her stern gaze.

  “You go with him,” she said sharply, pointing toward Rygel with one doll-like finger. “You’ll help Little Bull to guard his back. See to it he returns safely.”

  Ears flat, tail low, Darkhan didn’t even whine as he disappeared into the darkness behind Shardon’s silver shadow. Though I listened hard, I failed to hear hooves on the rocky soil, or claws scraping over rocks. ‘Twas as though the darkness had eaten them up in one smooth gulp and swallowed.

  Chapter Four

  The Black Wolf Tavern

  “Ahh, civilization, at last.”

  “Surely you jest. That’s not civilization.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “An eyesore.”

  “Here I think of it as a sight for sore eyes.”

  “You are not seriously thinking of going down there?”

  “I am seriously hungry.”

  I, or perhaps we, gazed down from atop a hill into a shallow valley. Nestled in the foothills of the Great Ranges, lay a small-sized town. I’d no idea what its name might be, yet it held enough activity and bustling humanity that weary travelers might find rest. That meant inns.

  And anonymity.

  People entered and exited through the main gates, bored soldiers manning the walls. A well-travelled road, well-packed and lined with river stones, ran east to west, along the low-lying hills. No doubt it meant access to not just Soudan and the seaports, but a route across the desert and perhaps into Arcadia.

  “It’s probably the fiefdom of a local lord.”

  “I agree,” I answered, peering down from behind a thick screen of heavy scrub oak and thorny bushes. “But one hopefully ignorant of Brutal’s quest.”

  “What you’re thinking is a great risk.”

  I paid close attention to those going and coming from the gates. I observed few soldiers, one or two nobles in carriages, yet many farmers and peasants and serfs. Those folk paid little heed to the wars of their betters, unless they themselves were directly involved. If they knew their High King sought me, I doubted they’d even recognize me. How often might a serf or farmer see me fight in the Grand Arena?

  “But those aren’t the only humans in that place.”

  “I’ll keep my head down.”

  I changed clothes, turning back into my human form.

  “Son –“

  “I haven’t eaten in four days,” I snapped. “Right now, just let me try to get some damn food? Can you do that?”

  “You’ll need human coin.”

  Finally he stopped me cold. “Dammit,” I muttered, under my breath. Of course, I had no money. I might eat at an inn, but I’d have to fight my way out of it if I failed to pay. Talk about drawing attention to myself.

  “Use your magic.”

  “Uh, well –“

  Holding out my right palm, I concentrated on it, picturing four silver half-crowns resting there. Then I sent out my will.

  The heavy silver felt cold. My jaw dropped in surprise as I closed my fingers on four silver-half crowns. Enough for at least a week’s worth of lodging, three meals a day and stabling for the horse I didn’t have.

  “It worked.”

  “Now what?”

  Pocketing my money, I pondered the implications. If I could conjure gold or silver by simply willing it to happen, I’d have wealth beyond reason. “Imagine the possibilities,” I murmured.

  “Now with coin and a human appearance you can just walk in, eat and leave, correct?”

  I glanced down at myself, fingering my stained tunic and breeches. My copper armband still covered my slave brand, and my sword looked like one any mercenary might carry. “Do I look like an out-of-work merc?”

  “Uh –“

  “Don’t answer. Let’s just hope there’s no dress code.”

  Rather than emerge from behind my bushes and walk downhill, I chose to return the way I came. Meandering a short way through the hills, I crouched once more behind tough thorny bushes, yet watched the road right in front of me. With a wolf’s patience, I waited between travelers, searching for an opening. I wanted no one to see me step onto the road from the hills. No few horses and mules snorted in fear as they passed me by, but I grinned to myself, hunkered down and bided my time.

  Within an hour, no humans rounded the corner to the east at the same time the last trekker vanished around the bend to the west. Broaching the bushes, I stepped onto the royal roadway and walked. I strode, whistling aimlessly, as though I’d every right to be there.

  I heard the muted conversations of those merchants in front, calm, speaking of markets, trade and the lack of available wool. It appeared the local sheep population had suddenly taken ill and dropped to precarious levels. Behind me, burdened and laden peasants spoke of one’s approaching marriage and heard the complaints of the other’s lazy wife. I hoped if either party saw and took heed of me, they believed me a mercenary on my way in search of employment. Nothing I heard from them or from others as I crossed under the city gates belied my image.

  The gate guards eyed me sidelong and yawned.

  “These mercs,” I heard one say. “Every year they get bigger and dumber.”

  Ta ever so, I thought.

  Embraced by the loose influx of humans and beasts to and from the town, I listened closely to my neighbors’ comments. Under the thick fall of my hair, I watched the reactions of those about me as I walked among them.

  “I’m telling you, he’s a liar. He said –“

  “I paid thirty shillings for the entire warehouse and you know what I got?”

  “Well, that hussy finally got married and you know what she had the gall to do?”

  “Come on over. The wife’s visiting her sister –“

  Tuning out the majority of the chat, I stepped forward with confidence, as though I knew where I was going, yet kept my head down. A few eyed me with curiosity, but they found nothing about me worth mentioning and passed me by. Within the scope of my acute hearing, I heard no talk about me, or comments regarding a lone mercenary walking through the town.

  “Just eat and leave. As soon as possible.”

  As I didn’t want to be overheard talking to myself, I kept my conversations with Darius inward.

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m invisible.”

  “You wish.”

  Near the town square, in the midst of the bustling populace, I discovered an inn with an open door, music emerging on the late afternoon air. I couldn’t help but be drawn to it, scenting the odors of fresh hot roast, newly baked bread, frying peppers and onions. Its name?

  The Black Wolf Tavern and Inn.

  “Oh, please. Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “My kind of place,” I replied happily.

  I walked under the painted sign of a black wolf standing on all fours, howling to the full moon on a field of green. I glanced up at it, grinning. “It doesn’t even look like me,” I said.

  “I don’t like you very much right now.”

  The music came from a troubadour playing a lyre, singing a ballad of two star-crossed lovers who died apart and broken-hearted, never seeing one another again. Sever
al inhabitants of the inn sang along with him, beating their cups against the table tops.

  “Crikey,” I thought, “I could do without that particular melody.”

  “Funny. I rather like it.”

  Like many inns, it owned three stories, six chimneys and a large barn with a stable yard. Lads walked or unsaddled horses as their owners ate their meals or slept in their rooms. Painted a pleasant white with blue trim, large windows to the front let in both the late summer sun and fresh air.

  I guessed the majority of the occupants were farmers and merchants, judging by their clothing. Not quite half-full, I noticed a smattering of mercenaries girt with heavy broadswords drinking ale and exchanging war stories. To my relief, no royal soldiers or local nobles dined inside. A few men-at-arms belonging to the lord or knight who owned the lands and the town tapped their fingers to the song. The troubadour himself strummed his instrument and sang from a chair the far corner, a half-eaten meal and a mug of ale at his side.

  Finding a table in a corner, my back to the wall, I sat down. Not very well lit at that time of day, as most of the light came from the open door, the common room and my table lay mostly in shadow. My appearance inside caused not a single hiccup. The mercs drank and laughed, the merchants and farmers bent low over their tables and scooped up the food while talking business and the weather. Wenches brought food, wine, ale and beer to the customers, scurrying back to the kitchens with payments and orders.

  My belly rumbled under the odors of the delicious food. As my last meal was the chunk of cold roasted stolen from a servant and bolted down in the hills above the Great Caravan Route, it hadn’t lasted long. My hunting skills hadn’t yet caught up to me.

  “That’s because you won’t listen to me.”

  I eyed the approaching wench with favor, trying not to salivate, and ignored Darius. Offering her a silver-half crown, I ordered a platter of roasted beef in gravy, hot bread, smoking sausage, fried chicken and a soup made of vegetables and chicken broth. Along with a tankard of ale.

  “Ale? You’re out of your mind.”

  She bobbed a curtsey, promising me my change with the meal and dashed away. I eyed her vanishing form with a sigh. Hot delicious food and ale. Surely I sat in heaven itself.

  “Well, you can dream anyway.”

  “Bugger me,” came a hoarse voice from my left. “If it ain’t the Bloody Wolf.”

  I froze. Gods above and below.

  “I really hate the smarmy part where I say ‘I told you so’.”

  “It’s him,” the voice said, louder now. “Bless my britches, it’s him, lads. The Bloody Wolf.”

  The troubadour’s song came to a jangling halt as voices rose in confused babble. None nearby but heard the voice rising in excitement and accusation. None stopped the rise of mercs and men-at-arms who seized weapons as they stepped from behind their tables. The wench, bringing my dinner, was stopped by an arm thrust out in front of her.

  Oh, well, I thought, haphazard. These fellows killed my appetite, anyway.

  From the candle of my eyes, I saw several men approach me with swords, dirks, knives drawn. Their ringleader, still exclaiming, told them of seeing me fight in Soudan and knew of my escape.

  “I swear it,” my accuser went on, excitement in his tone. “His Majesty set a very high price on his head. He’s wanted, and the King will pay handsomely for his return.”

  Eyeing him sidelong, I guessed he was a former soldier turned merchant. Not quite portly, dressed in a green tunic and brown breeches, he held his sword with a competence that spoke of military training. Many soldiers shaved their heads and kept their beards closely cropped for efficiency’s sake as he did.

  “How handsomely?” asked a burly, dirty fellow with a notched sword in his hand. I suspected him a poorly paid merc. He observed me with disillusion, yet with greed. No doubt he thought he might skin the Wolf and still claim the reward. I sighed. That old thing again.

  “The wheel comes full circle.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I stood up, my hands out and to either side, palms to the front. “Whoa, boys, chill, time out,” I said, grinning weakly. “I’m not the Wolf, I’m a merc looking for a merchant in need. Gor, how can you think I’m some, er, what was he again?”

  “A gladiator,” answered the burly fellow, his disgust apparent as he eyed the soldier-merchant sidelong.

  “Do I look like a gladiator?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Right, I’m big, but I really haven’t a clue how to fight. These merchants will pay anything for a big man with a sword –“

  “He’s right about that,” muttered another.

  “Too right by half,” snapped my burly friend. “They don’t pay for skill, they pay pennies for a strong back and a mean disposition.”

  “Look at them eyes.”

  My accuser pointed a long finger at me. The others close by, and some not so close, bent forward to see better. The troubadour set aside his lyre and drew a long killing knife from his belt. “I knows them eyes. I saw them kill and kill again. The Wolf won money for me time and more. Them’s the eyes of a killer. Them’s the Wolf eyes.”

  “Oh, please,” I began.

  “Where you from, boy?”

  The question from my burly friend, now not so friendly, raised the suspicions of all the rest. The troubadour joined the crowd around me, his expression eager. My wench with my dinner fled to the kitchens. Oh, well.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Slowly, I drew my sword from its sheath and set its tip into the wooden, straw-covered planks of the floor. I leaned on the hilt. I eyed them all, the entire silent tavern, watching me with bared weapons or none at all, fearful, admiring, greedy. Many saw the Bloody Wolf. Too many more saw a fortune in the making.

  “I intend to eat my dinner,” I replied casually.

  I spun my blade, making it scream, making it hiss. With my left hand extended, palm out, I stepped around the shelter of my table. With my slow advance, I backed my audience several rods in retreat. The burly fellow and my soldier-merchant accuser were among the first to give me room, their eyes and expressions wide with alarm.

  “You gentlemen aren’t very hospitable,” I said. “All I wanted was a meal and a beer. What happens next is your own damn fault.”

  “He’s an escaped slave!” screamed the soldier-merchant. “There’s a reward on his head.”

  “Who among you dare take it?” I asked, my voice low. “You really don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  The burly man warned me, but not in time. In his wide eyes, I saw the shadow move at my vulnerable rear. I tried to turn, but too late. I caught a flashing glimpse of a man wielding the business end of a shovel just before he clouted me across the head.

  I woke, muzzy, my head aching fit to split, bound with my hands behind my back by heavy ropes.

  The horse they tried to put me on screamed, rearing, in panic. I blinked, seeing four men, no wait, two men, clinging to its head. More men, the burly man among them, tried to heave me into the bucking horse’s saddle. A chestnut horse, I observed, by its red coat and tossing red mane, fought and kicked, fear-sweat dotting its neck.

  “Keep ‘im still, damn it all,” shouted the soldier-merchant. “Beat ‘im if you have to but make ‘im mind.”

  I have to say they gave it their best shot.

  With my right leg half-way across the seat, my weight entirely in the grip of my captors, the horse kicked a not-so lucky handler with both hind feet. At his cry and collapse, my weight proved too much. The three dropped me to the dirt, coughing, cursing, at the same time the red horse reared, striking out with both front hooves. One hoof struck a man on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The other received his hoof in his throat. He, too went down, choking and gagging, holding his neck with both hands. Freed of all constraints, the horse, bucking and careening, bolted.

  Inhaling dust, I sat up, spitting out grit and dirt from my mouth. I’d fallen across two men and a third tried to ri
se, my legs over his shoulders. Irritated, I kicked him in the jaw, sending him into swift unconsciousness.

  Staggering off my captors, my hands bound behind me, I rose from first my knees then to my feet. I spat once more, clearing my mouth finally, and a cough settled my lungs. My other two would-be abductors rose with me, their hands reaching. I didn’t recognize these fellows from the common room, though I’d no doubt they’d been there. Perhaps one was the shovel owner. No more than lackeys, I thought.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said, kicking one in his midsection.

  He doubled over, his wind gone, his arms buried across his gut. He stumbled away, his chest heaving, his lungs unable to work properly.

  The other, a mercenary-ish looking fellow, tried to grab me, his hands aiming for my shoulders.

  “Don’t you have something better to do?”

  My knee struck his groin. As though I’d pole-axed him, he dropped instantly to my boots. Writhing in the dust, curled into a fetal position with his hands between his thighs, his voice made a guttural urk-urk-urk sound.

  Irritated, I stepped over him.

  The flock of people standing about me in a loose circle backed away, like a flock of pigeons. Hushed murmurs broke over the crowd, high whispers and mutters of admiration, curiosity and a little fear.

  My head aching fit to split asunder, I knew my brow just above my right eye sprouted a huge goose egg. I felt a trickle of blood rolling down my right cheek, my right eye swollen shut. I peered about with my sight limited to my left eye.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” I said, cranky.

  “Er, done what?” asked the soldier-merchant, standing beside the burly fellow and his cronies. The troubadour, damn him, had sheathed his knife and pointed my own sword at me. All the rest had armed themselves with blades, cudgels and a number of bows sprouting here and there.

  “All I wanted was dinner and a beer,” I complained. “I’d have left you alone and gone my way, no trouble. Now I’m pissed, and someone will have to pay for it.”