The Wolves Of War

by Greg Curtis

  He’d also learned indirectly that there were plenty of other morphs living in other fae towns. The closest one he knew of was the family living in Perna Sil. Further away still there were many more morphs to be found. Apparently it was quite a common curse – gift! In fact, morphs were so numerous that they had formed a settlement in a place called Ahston. He had no idea where Ahston was, but he was thinking that he should find out. And that when he did and assuming it wasn't too far and too deep in the heart of Wynde Par, he should travel there.

  But he wasn't ready to do that quite yet. He still wasn't ready to completely trust in the lack of malice in the fae – especially those deeper in the heart of Wynde Par where they had less human contact. And though there was no deception in the person who he had overheard talking about the morph settlement, it still seemed to him something seemed like a tale the bards would make up.

  Still, it was a thought that kept him up at night when he should be sleeping. A decision that weighed heavily on him. To flee this realm where everyone knew what he was and no one seemed to care? Or to head deeper in and wait for the jaws of the trap he still couldn't see to close on him?

  He also wondered whether this Ahston could be the land from his dreams? If he travelled there would he find a rock terrace over a small cliff where he would meet the female presence he had seen? The idea was mad, surely. And yet the thought kept returning.

  Maybe this thinking was just tiredness talking. Between the fighting turkeys invading his camp as they scavenged for food and his paranoia, sleep had been in short supply these past few weeks. But at least it was finally starting to come more easily. In fact, sometimes, in the quiet moments, he had ideas of staying here. Of finding a cabin or a house, buying it and moving in. Of course, those thoughts didn't stay with him for long. He wasn't that foolish! But they didn't go away completely either. Because as the days went by and none of his nightmares were realised, they almost seemed reasonable.

  But then in an instant all the progress he'd made over the last few weeks came undone when he heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. A lot of hoof beats. That meant a lot of horses. And they were coming closer. They had to be coming for him! In the beat of a heart he was once more the frightened child he had once been, standing in front of the mutilated bodies of his parents and waiting for the mob to come after him. At that moment every fibre of his being was telling him to shift and run.

  With an effort he controlled the panic. He wasn't completely sure why – maybe because he simply didn't want to believe he was in danger again. Getting to his feet he turned to face his visitors.

  When eventually the riders burst through the trees, he had to wonder if he'd been so clever in standing his ground. These riders were rangers. The white leather over the phosphor bronze chain was distinctive, as were the blue stripes running down one side of the armour and the hawk painted over the heart. But from the instant the came through the trees and entered the clearing he knew it was too late to run. They were fast and armed with long bows. They also had a reputation of being very capable soldiers. He would not be able to outrun them.

  Briagh stood there and waited nervously.

  “You! Human!” The leader addressed Briagh even as he pulled his verdant steed up a few yards in front of him. “You are Briagh from Abysynth?”

  “Yes Sir.” Briagh answered immediately. It was expected. Rangers didn't often come to Perna Sil. In fact, he'd only seen them once in the entire time he'd been here, and that had been as they'd ridden through the town. But the one thing he had learned was that people jumped to obey them.

  But then rangers weren't town guards. They were soldiers. Their authority came from the Lords of the Realm. And wherever they went they expected to be obeyed and treated with respect. Besides, there were a lot of them and they were all armed. Many of them probably had magical gifts as well.

  “You were there when Abysynth fell?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “So what happened?”

  That wasn't quite what Briagh had expected to be asked, and for a moment he was lost for words. Why did they want to know what had happened in Abysynth? What did it matter to them? And why would they ask him? Surely they had their own sources. Still, he realised they expected an answer.

  “The wolf mother attacked. Her wolves came out of nowhere and started attacking the guards. The guards fought back. There was a battle that seemed to grow and grow. And then the cannons were fired and half the city caught fire. But like most of the people where I lived, I hid in my home and did not see a lot.”

  “Wolves?”

  “She led a pack of wolves. But that pack turned into an army, and it wasn't just wolves. There were dire wolves as well. The battle raged through the night while we hid inside. And in the morning the bodies were everywhere. They were in the streets, the burnt out buildings and on the beaches. Thousands were dead and half the city had burned to the ground.”

  “And this wolf mother? What became of her?”

  “I don't know Captain. Her army was defeated, but as to what happened to her there were only stories. Some said she was killed. Others that she escaped. There was no official announcement of anything. Not even a week later when I left. The Imperial Quarter was locked up tight and no one came or left. No criers were about. Nor any imperial guards. Or nobles.”

  “But when I was on the road north we ran into another wolf attack. I was with a group of refuges. We were attacked by dire wolves. Snow white dire wolves. I had never heard of such creatures before.” Whether that had anything to do with the wolf mother though, he had no idea.

  “And the Princess?”

  “Princess?” Briagh didn't understand.

  “Princess Elan. What is your connection to her?”

  “None!” Briagh was surprised he even asked the question. Surely the ranger captain didn't imagine he was the sort of man who mixed with royalty? “I've never met her. I’ve never even been to the palace.”

  “Well she seems to know you. In fact, she's waiting to see you. She's currently waiting by the road with some more of my men.”

  With that and a wave of his head the Captain wheeled his horse around and started heading at a slow trot back toward the road before Briagh could ask him if he was speaking in jest. His men followed him and Briagh guessed he was meant to follow. He did of course. He could not risk offending one of the fae while he was a guest in their land, least of all an important man like the Captain. But as he walked behind them he did find himself with a lot of questions.

  Who was this Princess? Why did she want to see him? In fact, how did she even know his name or anything about him? And yet, he realised in time that he recognised her name. Elan. It was familiar. But the woman who had used it had been no princess. She was some sort of warrior with a deep hatred of him and a longbow.

  Then again, Elan was a common enough name he supposed. There could be a hundred of them in Abysynth. The most important thing was that he was safe here. If this Princess was from Abylon she had no say in Wynde Par. He hoped.

  He was still hoping that when they finally emerged through the trees to find the road and the rest of the Captain's rangers waiting for them. Seeing them he realised that the Captain had come with a full patrol. Thirty or more riders were presently waiting for them. That made fifty or sixty rangers in total. And all of them were dressed in their best light armour.

  Then Briagh saw the poet warrior and immediately froze. It was her! He couldn't believe it! And then when his instant of shock and panic subsided, the questions came flooding in. How was she there? Why was she there? He knew that whatever the reason, it couldn't be good. And why was she calling herself a princess? Then she smiled and pulled out an odd looking bone whistle from under her cloak. For a second he wondered what she was doing. His instincts though told him it was bad.

  “Captain she's not –.” He tried to give them some warning, though he didn't even know what the danger was. But he was sure she intended him harm.

  Then
she blew the whistle.

  Fear suddenly hit him like a wall. It was overwhelming – a soul crushing terror that filled him beyond anything he could ever imagine. Dread curdled his blood and froze his heart. Instantly his knees began trembling, his whole body started shaking, and the only thing he wanted to do was run away in terror. But he couldn't. His legs had become so weak that they wouldn't support him. He couldn't even stand.

  Briagh fell to the ground, unable to help himself. Around him he could see the others doing the same even as they tried to cover their ears to protect themselves from the sound. But there was no protection. The sound was locked inside their heads. It was the pure essence of terror and it would not be stopped by mere flesh and bone. Not when it cut straight to the soul with its wail of terror. Nothing could stop it. Even the horses were transfixed by its sound.

  Briagh tried to crawl away, though he could barely manage even that. He simply didn't have any strength, let alone the coordination. He could barely breathe for terror. His arms shook with fear; his knees trembled. Briagh continued to watch the woman, expecting to see her draw a weapon. Probably it would be the sword. Moments later he was proven right as he saw her grab one from her saddlebags. And the moment he saw it he knew what she intended to do with it. Already he imagined it tearing through his flesh.

  But she didn't draw it. Instead, she strapped her sword onto her belt and placed the other weapons she had retrieved from the bags about her person. That done she pulled some gloves out of the saddle bags and started pulling them on. Why? He didn't know, but every fibre of his being was telling him it had to be bad. Worse than he could imagine. Especially when they had been wrapped up so carefully in a cloth. And when she was taking so much care in putting them on. But the delay didn't matter as every few seconds she blew that accursed whistle again.

  Cold sweat peppered his brow. His hands felt clammy. His vision was twisting as even the light tried to run away from that sound. He felt the need to throw up, but couldn't even manage that.

  It was a siren whistle! In time he recognised the sound. He had heard them before. But never from this close. Always before they had been from some distance away. And even then when he'd heard them they had left a chill running down his spine. This was so far beyond that, that it didn't compare. But even knowing what it was and the fact that it couldn't actually harm him didn’t help him resist its mesmeric power. Nothing could.

  Fifty or sixty riders were down. The horses were down too. Some of the horses were on the ground, while others stood rigidly, locked into place. All of them were snorting and panicking, too frightened to do anything.

  Finally the woman finished putting her gloves on. He wondered briefly why she'd taken so long and spent so much care in donning them, but it didn't really matter. He knew it was bad. Then she smiled at him and his feeling of terror multiplied. It was a cruel, triumphant smile, worn as if she'd won some sort of victory over him. But he'd never done anything to her. He didn't even know her save that she'd tried to kill him once. But he hated her in that moment. Hated her as he had never hated anyone in his life. And yet he still couldn't overcome the fear holding him prisoner. Nothing could break those shackles.

  “So you thought you were safe from me?” She laughed at him, enjoying his pain, even as she bent down and touched the hand of the nearest ranger. The man immediately stiffened up, gasped and then stopped struggling against the fear. Instead he just lay there on the ground, completely motionless.

  Was he dead? Briagh didn't know, but he looked dead. But why would she kill him? The man had done nothing to her.

  “There is nowhere you will ever be safe from me, morph.” She laughed, blew her accursed whistle some more and moved on to the next ranger, touching him before moving on to the next one. They too gasped and collapsed.

  She was murdering them! Briagh wanted to say something. To tell her to stop. But his mouth wouldn't work. His lungs were doing all they could do just in continuing to draw air in and out. And he was barely able to think, let alone speak. So he lay there, helpless and hating himself, as she continued her work.

  “Praise Morphia.” He couldn't actually speak the words. But he still prayed to the Mother of the morphs, the Goddess of his people, knowing that only she could save him. If she even existed. He'd never had a lot of faith in any of the gods – not even her. But if she did exist, then now was the time when he needed her to show herself.

  Of course she didn't and the poet warrior continued her work. Blowing her whistle to keep everyone helpless and then killing them with her touch. Soon all the men were down, flat on the ground, and Briagh knew it was his turn. She had saved him till last, savouring his terror.

  At least it was quick. She walked over to him, stared at him as if he was some sort of vermin, and touched him on the back of the hand, while he was so scared he couldn't even scream.

  Briagh collapsed, his every muscle suddenly refusing to obey his will, completely helpless before her. Something she seemed to take great pleasure in from the smile that graced her face. All he could think was that he was about to die. But at least if he was dead he wouldn't be afraid anymore. He desperately wanted that.

  Pain suddenly lanced through his shoulder as something – a knife maybe – was slowly pushed through it. From the corner of his eye he saw the tip of the blade emerge from the front of it and knew he was in trouble. The wound wasn't lethal. He would survive and heal from it. Quickly if he could shift forms. But it wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to hurt and cripple him. And he couldn't shift. Not with the fear overpowering him. He could barely think. The only thing he understood as she laughed at him and his suffering was that she was going to kill him. Slowly and with infinite cruelty. This woman truly hated him.

  Strangely she didn't simply finish him off. Instead, having paralysed and then crippled him, she wandered back to her horse, and began slowly and very carefully pulling off her gloves. Did she want to strangle him with her bare hands? Or did she want something else?

  Information. He understood that that was what she was after once she began telling him of all the horrible things she was going to do to him if he didn't tell her what she wanted to know. It was something about another morph.

  He ignored what she said, unable to concentrate really anyway. It didn't matter. Besides, how did she even expect him to answer her when he couldn't speak? What did matter was that for the moment she'd stopped blowing that infernal whistle, no doubt confident in the thought that having crippled him, she no longer needed to maintain the paralysis. But the longer she left off blowing the whistle, the more chance he had to take back control of his thoughts. To find some courage. And once free of the overwhelming terror, Briagh had one advantage she had ignored.

  So while she had her back to him as she carefully wrapped the gloves up in a fold of cloth, he shifted. Shifting was always a morph's greatest protection. It healed their wounds. It removed the effects of spells. He prayed it would cure the paralysis.

  It did. In a single shift his body returned to his control. His injury closed over though it was a long way from healed. And the fear eased as the silence continued. He was still trembling and weak, and the pain in his shoulder was terrible, but the residue of that unnatural fear was fading. On the other hand, he was now trapped in his clothes. They didn't shift form with him and they had never been designed to be worn by a panther. So he shifted back to his human form and tried quietly to rearrange himself in his clothes once more. He had had to shift back, and his human form was nowhere near as strong and as fast as his panther, but it still helped. It let him grow stronger. Each shift helped heal him a little more.

  Unexpectedly he found himself aided in his work by the horses, as they took the opportunity to bolt. Even the poet warrior's horse, whose saddle bags she was trying to stuff the gloves in. With enough of the fear from the whistle having worn off they'd obviously decided that they didn't want to remain anywhere nearby. So the first one run, and then the rest followed, their hooves thundering o
n the ground as they galloped away. The woman cursed at them, and Briagh celebrated as he got to his trembling feet.

  Then he ran for her.

  He was weak and slow, but the terror lent him a little strength, and he knew he had to stop her from ever blowing that accursed whistle again. And thankfully she was cursing her horse and not looking behind her. She never saw him coming.

  Briagh leapt on her from behind and brought her crashing down on the ground, sending the cloth wrapped bundle that she'd been trying to stow in her horse's saddle bags flying. Then he punched her in the back of the head with his fist. It was crude and clumsy, a blow such as a drunkard might deliver. But it was all he could manage and it seemed to be enough.

  She screamed – a sound born of rage and pain and shock – but was too stunned to do anything, and his body weight forced her into the ground. He hit her again, harder, and she screamed once more. But it was a half-hearted scream and she soon stopped struggling. It gave him all the time he needed to stand up, roll her on her side and kick her in the midriff, driving the air from her lungs. It would have been more effective if he'd been wearing shoes, but they'd fallen off when he'd shifted forms. Still, her leather armour buckled under his attack and it seemed to work as she folded in the middle.