Heart of the Wolf

by Saranne Dawson

  Some of them were busy tying the bodies of her Guards onto their horses, while others were taking down the tents or gathering up weapons. Off to one side stood a group of shaggy, thick-chested horses with surprisingly long and powerful-looking legs.

  She remembered their guide’s comment about their “ugly horses."

  But she took in all of this with no more than a quick glance. What drew her attention were the men themselves. They were so big—bigger than all but the largest of Ertrians and far larger than the Baleks. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but all were dressed similarly, in loose dark trousers of a rich-looking wool and high, fur-lined boots. Instead of cloaks, they wore strange sweaters in a mottled black and brown and gray that glistened in the sun and had a supple look she’d never before seen in a knitted garment.

  These, then, were the Kassid, warriors, sorcerers—and murderers. Killers not only of her Guards, but also undoubtedly of her brother and his friends as well.

  She continued to watch them, feeling strangely unafraid—almost as though she were invisible. She half-expected some sign of their sorcery or to see one of them suddenly transform himself into a wolf before her eyes.

  The wolf image came to mind easily as she watched them move about with a grace that belied their size. And she thought about that wolf she’d seen. She was sure now that it had been one of them—a scout for this group, perhaps even one of the men down there now.

  She wondered if their leader, Daken, could be among them. There was none who was dressed differently, none who appeared to be giving orders. For one brief moment, she allowed herself the hope that this could be a renegade group.

  Then one of the men broke away from the rest and started off toward the spot where the little stream began to curve around the hill. Her gaze automatically followed him and came to rest on a man she hadn’t noticed before.

  She barely managed to suppress a gasp when she saw what he held in his hands. It was the long, brightly patterned scarf her mother had knitted her years ago—the scarf she’d been wearing wrapped about her head and neck.

  She moved carefully through the trees to another vantage point where she could see the man clearly. The other man spoke with him briefly, then returned to the rest of the group.

  She couldn't see his face at all, since his head was lowered as he stared at the scarf. But he seemed even bigger than the others, with impossibly wide shoulders and a broad chest beneath that strange sweater. His hair was gray and long by Ertrian standards, falling thickly to below his ears.

  Totally oblivious to her presence, he continued to stare at the scarf, his big hands running along its length in what seemed—absurdly—to be almost a caress.

  Then one of the horses in the camp whinnied— and Jocelyn froze as she heard a faint, answering whinny she knew must be coming from her own horse.

  She ran headlong across the hilltop and scrambled down the other side to her horse, not even

  pausing to pick up her discarded cloak.

  * * *

  Daken stood there, absently running his hands over the scarf as he thought about the woman to whom it belonged. She must be Maikel’s daughter. But where was she?

  One of his men came up to tell him that all the bodies had been loaded onto the horses and their equipment and supplies loaded onto the pack animals. There were no extra horses. He issued final instructions, then turned his attention back to the missing woman. He was still debating what to do when one of the horses whinnied and he thought he heard a faint, answering whinny from somewhere downstream, around the bend.

  He hesitated as he listened, but he heard nothing more. Sounds could be very deceiving, particularly in a narrow ravine like this, and he hadn't been paying close attention.

  Then he decided to check it out anyway and went for his horse, calling out to two of his men to join him.

  “Daken—look!”

  He’d been peering up the stream, where low- hanging branches limited visibility, but at his companion’s cry, Daken turned quickly in the direction the man had indicated. A moment later, the man brought back to him a deep red, fur- trimmed cloak.

  Daken examined it. A woman’s cloak—no doubt about it. Small, like the other items they’d found.

  He stared up at the hillside where it had lain. "She must have managed to escape last night, then

  came back this morning and went up there to check out the camp. She can’t have gotten far."

  He urged his horse forward, and within moments they found several hoofprints in the mud beside the stream. After that, they rode quickly.

  No more than five minutes had passed when they spotted her, still following the stream bed. He could see that she appeared to be wearing nothing more than a light shift of the type women usually wore to bed. She was bent low over the horse’s neck. At first, he assumed it was because of the low branches, but she remained in that position even when the bank widened into a clearing.

  He knew she should have heard them by now, but he was within twenty feet of her before she raised her head very slowly and turned around, lifting an arm at the same time to sweep away her long red hair. Jocelyn. For some reason, her name came to him then.

  When she saw him, she began to kick the horse with her bare feet, but it was too late. He closed the distance quickly.

  Jocelyn knew there was no way she could hope to outrun them. They knew this land, and she didn’t. But she could not just stop and let them take her. She kicked her horse, then cried out as fresh pains shot through her cut and bruised feet.

  When she turned again, they were nearly upon her. The man in the lead was the gray-haired giant, and he was saying something. But she didn’t hear it, because at that moment she lost her grip on the horse and slid to the ground.

  She tried to get to her feet, but her legs wouldn't hold her and the world was tilting crazily around her. She heard her pursuers’ horses snort in protest as they were reined in sharply. She struggled again to gain her feet, then sank back dizzily. The strange calmness of utter despair overtook her as large, booted feet suddenly appeared in her limited range of vision.

  Jocelyn lifted her head defiantly, fully expecting to see a sword in his hand. She might not be empress yet—and now would never be—but she was determined to die like one. The pride of centuries of her family's history flowed through her in that moment.

  But there was no sword in his hand; instead, there was her cloak. He knelt down beside her and wrapped her in it carefully. Then he lifted her into his arms as easily as she might have lifted a baby. Through a fog that was robbing her of her reason, she heard a deep voice speak in strangely accented Ertrian.

  "You’re safe, Jocelyn. No one will harm you.”

  Then, as he carried her to his horse, he asked, "That is your name, isn't it? You’re Maikel’s daughter?”

  She said nothing. She wondered if she could deny it—and what the consequences of that would be.

  He set her on the horse, then swung up behind her. "You’re safe now," he repeated as he wrapped one long, heavy arm around her waist and urged the horse back toward the camp. Then he exchanged some words in his own language with the other men, and they rode on ahead.

  Jocelyn was just barely clinging to consciousness. Her throat and chest ached, her feet throbbed, and she was burning with fever and shivering at the same time beneath the heavy cloak.

  She knew she must have slipped into unconsciousness for a time because suddenly they were back in the camp and he was lifting her down from the horse, then once again cradling her in his arms. Even in her present state, she was still aware of his great gentleness, so very strange for such a big, hard man.

  He carried her over to the campfire that was being hastily rebuilt by one of the men. After setting her down, he lowered himself down behind her, then surrounded and supported her with himself as he reached for a mug one of the men handed him.

  "Drink this,’’ he ordered. "It will help the fever.”

  He held the mug to her lips, and she o
pened her mouth, startled by the sound of her teeth chattering against the rim of the mug. It smelled wonderful, but when she managed to take a few sips, she found that it tasted bitter and immediately thought of poison. But there was something familiar about it, something that touched an old memory. A childhood fever perhaps?

  She managed to swallow it in small sips. Her throat was badly swollen, but almost immediately began to feel better. The warmth of the liquid flowed through her with a soothing, tingling sensation.

  Then a tall young man approached her with a smile, carrying the boots she'd left behind in the camp. The giant who held her reached around and drew up the hem of her cloak to reveal her feet, then said something to the other man, who left quickly and returned a moment later with a small pot of salve and a wet cloth.

  When she had finished drinking the contents of the mug, he set it aside and shifted her in his arms, then picked up one of her feet. His touch was gentle, but she still cried out in pain.

  “I know it hurts,” he said in that soft, deep voice, “But they must be cleaned or there will be infection."

  "Can you sit alone?” he asked, and when she nodded, he moved around to kneel before her and wipe her feet with the wet, heated cloth.

  She stared at him, now truly seeing him for the first time as the potion he’d given her began to clear her mind. He was not a handsome man—at least not by Ertrian standards. His features were too strong—prominent cheekbones, firm jaw with a deep cleft in the chin, and a rather aquiline nose above a wide mouth, all of it framed by that thick, gray hair. It was a harsh face, she thought, despite his present gentleness with her.

  Then he looked up at her and smiled—and she found herself staring into pale blue eyes that immediately brought back the memory of that wolf. She shuddered, but he apparently thought it was from the pain he was inflicting on her as he cleaned her feet and then applied the salve.

  "They will heal now,” he said as he picked up her boots and slid them onto her feet. “It would be better to leave them bare, but that could be dangerous in this cold, since you are unaccustomed to it."

  He sat back on his heels and regarded her solemnly. “I am Daken—as you may have guessed. I met your father some years ago, after your brother’s death.

  "Your men are all dead, Jocelyn. They killed them all. I am sorry."

  "Sorry?" she echoed in disbelief, meeting those strange eyes for only a moment, then looking around the camp to realize that the horses and bodies were gone. She turned back to him, anger flashing in her green eyes.

  "You’re sorry?"

  He searched her face, then nodded sadly. “So I am right. You believe we killed them. They were dead when we arrived this morning, and there were three dead Menoans as well. They didn't even bother to take away their own dead,” he said disgustedly.

  "They must have followed you here, hoping to make it appear as though we killed you.”

  “Then why would they have left their own dead?” she demanded.

  He smiled briefly, with, she thought, a hint of admiration.

  "My guess is that they thought about where they were and decided to leave quickly. Or perhaps they heard wolves that were drawn by the sounds of battle."

  They stared at each other for a long moment, during which she saw not him, but that wolf on the ledge. She looked away quickly, before he could see the fear in her eyes.

  "Where are the bodies now?”

  "We buried the Menoans, and several of my men are on the way back to the garrison with the bodies of your Guards. They should be buried in their own land. I dislike the thought of the Menoans lying in our lands, but there was no help for it."

  Was he telling the truth? She wanted desperately to believe him—too desperately, she thought. Despite the lessening of her fever and her other pains, Jocelyn knew she was scarcely able to think about this rationally now.

  No, she decided, I will not believe him—at least not yet. When this is over, when she was well again. ...

  "Will you take me back to the garrison?” she asked. She could recuperate there and then return to meet with him—or perhaps persuade him to come there. She hoped for the latter; she never wanted to set foot in this dark place of death again.

  Daken shook his head. "You are not well, and our home is much closer.” He looked up at the sky.

  "We must leave now. It will begin to snow before we reach home."

  Her hopes plummeted into an abyss of fear. So he was going to hold her captive. That meant that, despite his gentleness and kindness, this man was a cold-blooded murderer who had ordered an attack on a peaceful, sleeping camp.

  “Snow?" she asked contemptuously, wanting to force him to admit the truth. "How could it snow?" She gestured to the blue sky above them.

  A trace of a smile crossed his rugged face, and he pointed behind her, where tall, snow-capped peaks thrust toward the heavens.

  “There,” he said. "The weather changes swiftly up here.”

  She looked where he pointed and saw nothing more than a few puffy clouds with dark undersides. But she could hardly dispute his statement. The weather did change rapidly here; she’d seen that even in her short time in these accursed mountains. In fact, she and the captain had joked about it.

  The captain. She felt a resurgence of pain—pain for his loss and the loss of all the others as well. Her expression must have mirrored her thoughts, because Daken gave her a questioning look.

  "They were good men." she stated stiffly. "They did not deserve to die in such a manner.”

  "No one deserves to die in such a manner,” he replied, ignoring her tone. "But there are always those willing to kill in such a manner. Cowardice is a far more common trait among men than is valor."

  He started toward the horses and the other men, who were already mounted, and she stared after him.

  Make all the pretty speeches you wish, Daken. It does not change who and what you are.

  Then she saw that her mount was being led by one of the Kassid. They had bundled up her belongings and tied them to its back. Daken led his horse over to her. “You will ride with me. Your horse will not be able to travel as fast as ours.”

  Before she could protest, he had lifted her once again into the saddle, then mounted behind her.

  His long arm was once more wrapped securely about her waist.

  She sat rigidly, keeping herself as far as possible from him. But she was tired after her sleepless night, and before long, she relaxed against his broad chest without even realizing that she was doing so.

  Just as he’d predicted, it soon began to snow. As the trail became narrow and wound ever higher, she saw how easily the ungainly looking Kassid horses moved, picking their way with an amazing agility. Even Daken’s horse, with its extra burden, had no difficulty with the increasingly treacherous footing. At one point, she turned to see how her horse was faring, but it was no longer in sight.

  Daken apparently guessed her concern. "Our horses are not as beautiful as yours, but they’ve been specially bred for these mountains. Don’t worry. We will get it to safety.”

  Then, after a brief silence, he asked her what she remembered of the attack. She was sure that he was going to use what she told him to proclaim his innocence, so she struggled to recall everything she could, while at the same time protesting that she could remember very little.

  "But think about the men you saw, Jocelyn,” he urged her. "Or did you see nothing at all of the battle?”

  "I saw a little," she admitted, still struggling for those memories and trying to ignore the pain and horror they brought.

  “How many of them were there? How were they dressed?”

  She remained silent as she considered his questions. Most of her Guards had been only half- dressed, making them more easily identifiable. But the others?

  "The Menoans we found were dressed like Balek hunters—and they are much smaller than we are," he prompted when she continued her silence.

  "We had a Balek guide with us,” she said, ig
noring his implied question. "Did you find ... his body?"

  “Yes. We know him. He has hunted here for many years. His body is being returned to his people.”

  She felt a twinge of pain for the talkative guide, but her mind was focused on his questions. She was nearly certain that none of the men she’d seen were any bigger than her Guards, most of whom were very tall by Ertrian standards—though not so tall as the Kassid. And she was quite sure they hadn’t been dressed like Daken and his men. But what did that prove? It could have been a separate group of Kassid, dressed differently to disguise their identity. And just because the men with her now were big didn’t mean that all Kassid were so large.

  "Perhaps you’ll remember more when you are well again," he said. "But think about this, Jocelyn. The Kassid have lived in peace with your people for centuries. Your father and Hammad have no reason to distrust us. If they did, they would certainly keep a larger force at the garrison.”

  She knew he was right. There was no reason for the Kassid to attack—and all the reason in the

  world for the Menoans, who could have found out about her mission and tried to stop it. Unless, of course, the Kassid had made a secret alliance with the Menoans and Turveans.

  "What could your enemies possibly offer us that would make us change?" he asked, as though he had read her mind. "There is nothing of theirs—or yours—that we want.”

  Jocelyn sat stiffly as all those old stories came pouring back. If they were true, this man was a sorcerer—perhaps the most powerful of them all, since he was their leader. Could he read her mind? The rational side of her denied all of it, dismissed it as children’s tales. But far beneath that, a primitive fear was lurking.