The Wolves Of War

by Greg Curtis

  “But –.”

  “All wizards must learn. Even little light bringers.” The wildred nodded, its head moving forward a little inside its hood, letting a little of its face show. A face that looked like a leather covered skull. “So that they don't become as us.”

  With that it turned and heading off north east, leaving Abel standing there, wondering what he should do. Should he really start carrying the creature's bag for him? Or should he run? Not that he could run very fast even now that he was free to move. But it occurred to him that the wildred was right. He did need to learn how to use his magic. And it didn't seem to be intent on harming him.

  So he grabbed its sack, swung it over his shoulder and hurried after the wildred. Later he thought, if things went bad, he could creep away in the night.

  Besides, he didn't want to make it angry.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  The wildred was not as Abel had expected. Master Zo'or – as he insisted on being called – was no dark wizard as far as he could see. In fact, he seemed like a good man – in a very bad place.

  Something had happened to him – Master Zo'or had refused to speak of what – and rather than him becoming a monster as he had thought it had injured him in some way. Badly. Abel understood injury. He was therefore very appreciative of Master Zo’or sharing with him his salve that he used on his arthritic joints. But at the same time he knew that the only reason someone would carry such a salve with them was if they had need of it. And Master Zo'or appeared to be even more crippled than he was.

  Abel had to admit that the salve was very effective. The heat and the magic got right into the joint and eased the pain, allowing him to move more easily. Something that was good when it seemed that they both shared the burden of bodies that didn't work as they should.

  But in Master Zo'or's case, it went far further than a crooked leg. Though he was shy about exposing much of himself, Abel had caught glimpses of the man underneath the robes over the previous day and a half, and he had seen many other deformities. Bones that were twisted, joints that were swollen, skin that was twisted and misshapen. He also thought that the problems might have gone deeper. Master Zo'or didn't speak with a voice like that of breath blown over a wooden grate for no reason. He spoke like that because that was as close as he could come to speaking at all. Something was very wrong with his throat. Abel soon realised that when he had asked Abel to carry his pack, it wasn't simply because he wanted a servant. He had difficulty walking. He also had difficulty carrying anything.

  All of which left him wondering as he washed the wooden bowls from their evening meal in the stream, whether the wildred were truly monsters? Were they really dark wizards of unimaginable power and evil as the bards would have it? Or were they victims of some unknown tragedy?

  But when another wildred abruptly appeared in the stream in front of him, he quickly forgot those questions. It was an illusion of some sort. He realised that instantly, not least because the wildred's feet were on top of the water. But that didn't mean there was nothing to be afraid of.

  “Master Zo'or!”

  “I see him Abel.” Master Zo'or appeared just behind him. “But it's just a visage. There is nothing to fear.”

  “Nothing that is save the words of your master!” The visage told him. “Has Zo'or told you yet of his cowardice and stupidity? Of his refusal to once more become the great wizard he once was?”

  Was it his place to answer Abel wondered? He didn't know. But he did know that this was not someone to anger. Especially not if he was the one who had summoned the drake. There couldn't be three of them could there? Abel decided that silence might be the wisest course. Especially given the complexity of the magic the wildred was using. Because this was an illusion that didn't just allow him to be seen and heard at a distance; it also allowed him to see and hear as well.

  “And you Old Man. Taken another student I see. A young light bringer. Leading him on the path to ruin?” The wildred continued, his voice dripping with scorn.

  “Callum, I tried to stop you. I tried to explain what had happened to me. What would happen to you if you followed my notes. But I was broken and you would not listen. Your ambition for power would not let you hear the truth. And so you repeated my mistake of your own free will. You need to accept your own part in your downfall.”

  “I heard the truth old man. I saw it. The failure of a once mighty wizard, and the refusal to admit his failure. You told me lies! Anything to stop me from realising the truth of your failure. Even now you refuse to admit it. That you cast the magic badly and it went wrong. You have no one to blame for it but yourself. And had you just told me that instead of repeating this bizarre tale of yours about how no one could control the power of the gods, I would not have made the same mistake as you. I would have understood that a once great wizard had failed because the magic was too great for him, and I would have prepared better. I failed because of you!”

  Master Zo'or sighed, a sound that was more like a breeze passing through a forest than a sound a man might make. “I have told you Callum. There is no magic, no spell that can work. The magic of the globe is not magic at all. It is not technology either, despite what your new master undoubtedly tells you. It is of the divine. Of the Goddess. And no wizardry or technology can seek to compel the will of the gods.”

  “Give up this madness of yours! It is a poppy dream. It cannot succeed. The best you can hope for is to become only slightly more broken than you already are. And at what price?” He added the last with a despairing note.

  “Any price!” The wildred almost screamed it at Master Zo'or and his visage started rippling in the stream as he lost control. “I cannot live like this! No one can! And yet you would have me simply give up. Allow this suffering to continue. No! It is not right! And it cannot be permitted! I will not permit it!”

  “It is what it is.” Master Zo'or managed an awkward shrug. “You must learn to accept what cannot be changed. Or do you plan on killing yet more people? Are you following in your new Master’s footsteps?

  “I am not a murderer!”

  “And yet yesterday you murdered hundreds.” Master Zo'or put it plainly, with no hint of acceptance.

  “They were barbarians!”

  “They were men, however flawed. Just listen to yourself Callum. Once you would never have dreamed of speaking such rot. Let alone of carrying out such action. Today you echo the thoughts of your muckspouting master. You were a student I had such high hopes for. One who would in time have become a truly great wizard. Now look at you. A cold blooded murderer! Working for a decrepit technologist who whispers sweet lies in your ears.”

  “They attacked me!”

  “Only because you showed them a target. You could have remained hidden. You could have walked away. Cast a spell to take yourself some place else. Or you could have simply confused them. You could have done any number of things to avoid a battle. But you didn't. You chose to remain in their path. You chose to let them see you, knowing they would attack. And then you chose to kill them. Do not hide the truth of your actions behind these false excuses!”

  “Very well then old man.” Callum abruptly grabbed at his hood with a withered arm and pulled it down to reveal his face. Abel could see that one side of his head looked like a tree that had been grown into the shape of a man's head. A tree that was slowly dying of some blight.

  “Know this. I will do what I must to be whole again. And nothing and no one will stop me. Least of all you and your new student. Master Barachalla offers me hope. He is the first to do so in a very long time. He understands the workings of the globe as no wizard can. And he has already demonstrated that he can wield its power as we cannot. That he can use it without being burned by it.”

  “Against that you offer only a future of this!” The wildred pointed to the wooden half of his head. “I will never learn to simply accept this!”

  “The barbarians were a problem that Master Barachalla needed taken care of. They would have got in
the way and prevented his army from reaching full strength. Many wolves had already died when the barbarian Prince destroyed Abysynth. They had to go. Master Barachalla asked me to do it and so I did. Just as I will do the same to anyone else who tries to stop him in his work.”

  “You follow me, if somewhat slowly. And you think to lecture me as you once did old man. To make me see the error of my ways. I care not about such things. But if you should try to stop Master Barachalla in his work, I will not allow that. And remember that I am far stronger than you these days.”

  “Follow, watch and lecture. I do not care. But do not interfere. Or you will discover who the master is now truly and who is the student!”

  Callum then turned to address Abel. “And you, young student. Watch carefully everything he says. Believe nothing. Because once the man before you was among the greatest of wizards. Now he wallows in oceans of misery and asks others to join him there.” With that the wildred flicked his hand and was gone, leaving the stream flowing as it had before. But then the stream had never stopped flowing normally before. There had only been an illusion in it.

  “That was Callum, Master Zo'or?” Abel didn't really need to ask, but he still felt the need. And strangely, the need to bathe.

  “Not the Callum he once was – before he found my old notes and started dreaming. These days I hardly recognise him. Pain and time have made him bitter. It has stolen all the goodness from him. But once he was the noblest of students. He should have become the finest of men. The greatest of wizards. It is my fault that he is not.”

  “I think perhaps the flaws were always there. Adversity just made them more apparent.” It was something Abel’s father had told him long ago. A lesson learned in the cotton mills. Bad thread often didn't look it – until you put it under pressure. Abel hoped his family were well, wherever they were.

  “And I think you, young light bringer, have a good heart. Let us hope your skill with a spell of glory is its equal.” Master Zo'or managed a sound that just might have been an attempt at a chuckle, before turning around and heading back to the fire.

  Abel grabbed the bowls and spoons from the stream, and then followed him, wondering what exactly a spell of glory was. He guessed he was about to find out.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Returning to Perna Sil seemed like something of a blessing to Briagh. It meant that his ordeal was nearly at an end. Lord Daelyn had said that once he had completed this task, they would speak no more about the matter of his transgressions. That meant he would be free to go. At least he hoped that was what it meant. But at the same time he was nervous. Maybe it didn't actually mean that? The fae, as he was beginning to realise, were tricky. Another unpleasant fact he was learning about them.

  As they'd travelled back to their realm, he'd been spending some time with the rangers, playing senat and hounds, and geese in the evenings. Learning the rules of their games which weren't the same as those he was used to. In doing so he was starting to learn a few words of their tongue. Enough at least to say please and thank you in Erthane – the Language of the Trees. He still didn't know why the language was claimed to be that. Not that it mattered. If nothing else, he didn't want to give offence to Lord Daelyn again. He might never escape his time of suffering if he did. And he certainly didn't want to go back to gaol. Learning some polite words and social niceties, speaking only when spoken to and remembering to bow when required, seemed like a good idea.

  Unfortunately the more time he'd spent with the rangers learning their tongue, the more he'd learned about their history and values. And the less he liked it. Mostly he disliked their ancient stories. Because every one they regaled him with seemed to involve some clever trick. They didn't celebrate ancient victories after glorious battles. They celebrated the battles they'd avoided by tricking their opponents. Duels won by deception. Foes defeated by deceit.

  How could you trust a people who considered trickery and guile a worthy strategy? Especially when they used those tactics against him? Just how wrong had he been about the fae? Not for the first time Briagh wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake in coming to Wynde Par. One he might not be able to escape.

  And yet the reason he had first come here still held true. They didn't care that he was a morph. That was true of nowhere else he knew of. He was safe only among them. Safe but not trusted. Nor particularly liked. He was even being watched! Clearly he had no place nor any future here. But he could survive with his secret out in the open.

  That truth had been brought home to him by the fact that even after weeks in their company, many of those he had helped rescue still feared him. They whispered about him behind his back, and stole furtive glances when they thought he didn't see. And but for the evening card games he played with a few of them, they stayed well away. They hid it to the best of their ability, but he knew in their hearts that they feared him, simply for knowing what he was. Fear could easily become hate, and hate quickly escalated into violence.

  And then of course there were the wolves to consider. If what they had learned was true, half of Abylon might now be infested with them. And every time he'd thought about simply taking off in the middle of the night as they'd travelled back, it seemed another one would suddenly attack. They were everywhere, and the dire wolves had no fear. Not even of an armed patrol. Certainly not of a man alone. It was why he hadn't run. Because the only place he could think of to run to was to Abylon and there was no safety there anymore.

  All the way back he'd been torn between those two conflicting emotions. The desire to go back to Abylon where at least he knew the people and he wouldn't be spied on or distrusted as long as he hid his nature and the desire to stay in a realm where at least he was safe. He didn’t want to return. But neither did he want to stay. And now that he was back and the possibility of his freedom lay ahead, he would need to make that choice. Go back to Abylon or one of the other human realms where he would forever have to hide his nature, knowing that if the people ever found out they would hunt him down. They, and the ever increasing numbers of dire wolves. And of course he couldn't forget the Princess – if she even was a princess any more – who had promised to have him killed!

  Or he could stay in a land filled with people he didn't know and couldn't trust.

  There was of course a third option, but one so uncertain he barely acknowledged it. He could choose to strike out further to the east in the hope of finding another land where he could be happy. But Briagh didn't know what lay to the east and north of Wynde Par. He didn't even know how far the realm extended. In fact, he gloomily realised, he didn't know much about anywhere beyond the borders of Abylon. And he was more well-travelled than most.

  Whichever option he took, the time when he would have to choose was fast coming upon him. Already he could see the gaol ahead and the Magistrate waiting for them. He couldn't see Lord Daelyn, but the chances were that he was inside the compound. Lords did not wait out on the streets like commoners.

  A few minutes later he was proven correct as he rode into the compound with the others to see Lord Daelyn waiting for them along with Commander Fillen and the Lord's personal guards. But they weren't alone. Princess Elan was standing there too, a little way apart from the Lord and surrounded by more guards. Briagh had to wonder if they were there to keep her safe or to stop her from attacking people? He suspected the latter. She looked angry. But then she always looked like that.

  Endorian was there as well, standing to the other side of the Lord. He also seemed to have attracted his own group of guards. But he at least he was only being protected by them as far as Briagh knew. He had attacked no one. Something that the Princess seemed unable to accept. No doubt the guards were mainly there to protect him from her.

  Endorian looked more tired than anything else, but oddly more at ease than Briagh remembered. Someone had found him a pair of heavy canvas trousers similar to what the sailors would wear, and that seemed like a good thing. Even though they fitted him poorly at best, they transformed him in
the peoples' eyes from a beast into a man and that was important. Perhaps it had also reminded the morph once more that he was human. Maybe, Briagh dared to hope, this experience had been good for him? He wanted that. Because he didn't want to live with the shame of having harmed a fellow morph who had already suffered too greatly.

  Briagh let go of the reins as he pulled up with the others, and put his hands on the pommel as he prepared to dismount. Which was when everything went wrong as it so often did. At the same time Princess let out a scream, broke free from her escort and started running with all the speed she had toward them. Briagh’s horse promptly spooked and rearing up on its hind legs, all of which led to Briagh finding himself yet again thrown to the ground.

  “Ow! You beastly nag!” Briagh cursed as the hard ground smashed into his soft flesh once again, and then lay there watching as his horse bolted, taking off for the far side of the compound in terror, but not before giving him another kick in the side as it took off. That hurt!