Only Ly’Tana and Arianne remained.
“That wasn’t funny,” Arianne snapped, pulling the tangled rags from her lustrous hair and throwing them into a pile.
I lifted a brow. “I thought it was.”
“You’re something else,” Ly’Tana said, her grin widening until she laughed.
“That’s why you love me.”
“I don’t. You’re a boor.”
“Wench.”
“Bastard.”
“That’s Rygel.”
“Leave me out of this!” Rygel yelled from the safe side of the camp.
I bowed low. “Your Highhandedness.”
“Scumbag.”
Seizing her chin, I kissed her full on the mouth before she broke away, still laughing. She walked away to organize the day’s travel arrangements. Dislodged from my boot top, the whelp whimpered until I scooped him back up.
Taking up my blanket, I shook out dirt, dead grass and leaves. Instantly, I discovered I was ravenous.
“Anyone leave anything to eat?” I asked.
“We didn’t want to, but Arianne insisted,” answered Kel’Ratan sourly. “I think she saved you something.”
That something turned out to be a large chunk of still-warm roast, a round of bread, and a handful of dried fruit. I gobbled it all down as the pup whined for his own breakfast. Yet, it appeared Arianne thought of him as well. While I finished my hasty meal, saddled Rufus and tied my bedroll and saddlebags, she fed him his morning bag of mushed meat.
“Can I keep him for a while?” she begged, holding the grunting and burping pup close to her nonexistent bosom. He filled her arms to dangerously overflowing.
“As long as Corwyn doesn’t mind leading your horse,” I said. “But you must learn to ride.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Corwyn said.
I eyed him with some humor. “It’s quite all right to say no once in a while, Corwyn.”
“If it keeps Her Highness happy,” he murmured.
He obligingly set her in her saddle, Arianne so caught up in the squirming wolf she scarcely noticed. Before Tor could escape, Corwyn grabbed him about the waist and set him behind her.
“I want to ride with Yuri,” he protested.
“He’s riding in the van,” Ly’Tana said, grabbing a fistful of her stallion’s mane and vaulting with careless ease into her saddle.
“Why can’t I have my own horse?” Tor whined. “I want to ride with them.”
“Your skills with the sword leave much to be desired,” she answered.
“But I’m good with the bow,” he said, his voice plaintive and eager.
She scowled. “Not nearly good enough.”
Deflated, he sank back, pouting, as Ly’Tana set the pace and trotted out.
I vaulted into my saddle, feeling Rufus fresh, rested and ready to go. I held him back, reining him behind Left and Right, who wheeled their horses in behind Ly’Tana. It appeared Witraz and Alun were chosen for rear guard, for they vanished toward the south as we rode northwest. Rygel rode daringly close beside me, his face alive and laughing.
Yet, he bowed low in the saddle, no doubt hoping his act of obeisance would deflect any anger I might still have. Absently I wondered at how fast his body healed itself of injuries. He could not heal himself with magic, he’d said, yet he seemed to not even notice he’d also been injured the day before in the fight with Ja’Teel.
Bar trotted beside Ly’Tana’s big buckskin, Kel’Ratan to her other side. I think she wanted me beside her, for she cast occasional mournful glances at me over her shoulder, past the ever watchful Left and Right.
“Still want to kill me?”
I aimed a light punch at Rygel’s head, one he could deftly avoid, still laughing.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Gods above and below, save us,” I muttered.
“If there is something or someone who wants Her Highness dead,” he began, “I think I know who we can ask.”
Ly’Tana swiveled in her saddle. “Who?”
“A priest, just as he said.” Rygel jerked his chin toward me.
Kel’Ratan snorted over his shoulder. “Just any priest in the street?”
“Not quite,” Rygel said. “There’s a religious order who study all the gods there are, not just the gods appointed to their respective lands and worshippers.”
“Monks?” Ly’Tana asked doubtfully.
“Priests, monks, it doesn’t matter, Princess,” Rygel replied, impatient. “They’re the Huhtamaki Brotherhood. These boys spend their lives studying and learning, passing their knowledge to their successors. Not only are they learned in the worship and practices of all the gods, it’s said that all the gods speak to them.”
“I get you,” I said.
“If I remember the geography of these lands, we’ll soon be entering more populated territory,” Rygel continued. “The Plains of Navak end several leagues west of here. Towns, small cities crop up. Maybe one of these might have a Huhtamaki temple. There are many, throughout the Federation and other lands. Even Khassart. I spent some time learning from them as a youth.”
“So,” Ly’Tana said. “We find one of these, er, temples and get the name of whatever wants to kill me?”
“Yes, that’s the idea. However—”
Her face fell. “However? Why’s there always a ‘however’?”
“Unfortunately, religious tolerance isn’t practiced much in Khalid or her territories,” Rygel said, his face solemn. “These temples are small, with maybe a dozen Huhtamaki monks in each, if they’re lucky. They are often persecuted, driven out, or converted at sword point to the worship of local deities.”
“Like Usa’a’mah,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Then how will we find one?”
Rygel offered a yea-nay gesture. “They often hide in plain sight. Under the guise of temple monks of a local god, or just a cluster of ordinary farmers who band together to work the land.”
“Could there be one of those temples near here?” Kel’Ratan asked.
Rygel vaguely waved his hand. “If I remember correctly, there is a fair-sized town about twelve leagues from here. It’s called Wil Dar and it’s to the northeast.”
“And there is a temple there?”
“I’m afraid I was wont to linger in taverns rather than temples,” Rygel admitted. “I’m not sure. If there is, it’d probably be disguised. The locals here are fiercely loyal to the High King and worship Usa’a’mah as their chief deity.”
Kel’Ratan’s mustache bristled. “How do you know so much about these monks?” he demanded.
“I studied under them for a time, back home,” he answered simply. “That’s where I learned much of what I know about white magic. Khassart is very tolerant and very open to free thinking and religious practices. There are several Huhtamaki temples there.”
“Do these monks practice this ‘white magic’?”
“They do. But as they are under very strict, self-imposed guidelines, their practice of it is restricted to the advancement of knowledge, growing of their crops and the like. No changing themselves into various creatures is allowed.”
Of course, his amber eye cocked in my direction. How did I know that was coming? “Unfortunately, they can’t instruct our liege in how to change himself into a wolf and accept himself. I reckon that’s my job.”
I sighed. I flipped Rygel an invitation to perform the anatomically impossible.
Predictably, he laughed.
“But all of us riding into the town will attract attention,” I said slowly. “Attention that we neither want nor need.”
Rygel coughed delicately. “I’d suggest only one or two of us go there to scout. A pair could pass virtually unnoticed.”
I shrugged under the eyes of everyone who stared at me for a decision. “Two travelling mercenaries won’t attract much attention.”
“But,” Ly’Tana said, her emerald eyes pleading. “A priestess of Osimi w
on’t attract much attention, either.”
“Absolutely not,” Kel’Ratan roared. “Under no circumstances will you set foot in any town or village, or put yourself in any kind of danger. Think of it, and I’ll strap you to that horse and tie you hand and foot.”
Open-mouthed, Ly’Tana looked at me. With a half-shrug and a jerk of my chin in Kel’Ratan’s direction, I replied to her questioning gaze. “What he said.”
“I don’t believe this.” Ly’Tana glared around at us all. “I am one of the finest warriors in all Kel’Halla. I’m the heir to the throne. And I’ll certainly do as I please.”
“Not while I’m in charge,” I answered easily.
“You don’t command me,” she replied stiffly.
“Care to bet on that?” I asked with a small grin.
I glanced significantly at Kel’Ratan’s outraged face, and then toward a diffident, apologetic Rygel, to the identical bland implacable expressions of Left and Right. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
She eyed each of them in turn, challenging quiet Rannon, who stared stonily back. Witraz, the coward, ducked away from her eyes as though from a conniving witch. Alun smiled as though sharing a secret. Tor answered her glare with a shrug and no smile. Even Bar calmly refused to champion her but walked alongside her horse, indifferent to her fury.
“I don’t believe this,” she repeated, but her tone held no conviction.
I took her hand to kiss, lingering. “Surrender, my beautiful warrior, with the heart of steel. You are outnumbered and outflanked.”
She snatched her hand from mine. “Just because you are bigger and stronger and male doesn’t make you all better warriors,” she hissed.
“Of course not,” I said, straightening. “It simply means there are more of us than there are of you.”
“I don’t believe it,” she repeated.
“Your choice,” I said.
“I hate you.”
I sighed. “Again, your choice. You’re still not entering any enemy town while I draw breath.”
“I don’t need the protection of you or anyone else.”
“That’s not the point. You have it whether you want or need it.”
“Very well done.”
“Shut up.”
* * *
Ly’Tana’s fury lasted up and into the midday break to rest, feed and water the horses. She spoke to no one, not even to command her people. I gave the orders to stop and to call in the van guard, Witraz and Alun. Yuri and Yuras rejoined us, and after their duties were completed, set to giving Tor another lesson with the bow and the wooden sword. As I watched, Tor hit the bull’s eye with his bow far more than he struck the blazon with his blade.
Hungry again, I munched on the cold fare Arianne and Tor created out of the packs. While most of the warriors lay on the grass to catch quick naps in the sun, I sat and pondered. Ly’Tana ate some food, drank some water, and avoided me and everyone else to lean against her stallion’s shoulder and stare out over the open, tree-pocked, grasslands. She even rebuffed Bar’s advances with a sharp tongue.
“She’ll get over it, the voice said.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She fears she’ll be seen as a coward.”
I snorted inwardly. “She has the courage of a dozen men. More.”
“Perhaps. Still she thinks she has to prove her courage.”
“How do you know this?”
Again I sensed humor in the voice.
“I know lots of things.”
I stroked the sleeping wolf pup in my lap, wondering if I should ask the questions I dared not even think about.
“Ask them.”
“Why do the wolves follow us? Me?”
“They are drawn to you. They would fight and die, if necessary, for you.”
“Did any die in the fight the other day?”
“A few wounded, but no deaths.”
“What am I to them?”
“You are nothing less than their savior.”
That jolted me. Me? A savior? Of wolves? I was a gladiator, a slave. Slaves are hardly saviors of anyone. They, for the most part, couldn’t save even themselves.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Just to the trees. Bring your son. It’s time.”
Taking up my adopted child, I rose from my spot and walked away, toward a grove of trees that sprouted near the creek from where we watered our beasts and ourselves. I felt curious eyes on my back as I went, but no one called to ask where I was going. I walked as though I merely answered the call of nature. I held the sleepy whelp against my shoulder, his hindquarters tucked into my hand. I heard his breathy yawns in my ear, scented his meaty breath.
Out of sight of the Kel’Hallans, I stopped and gently placed the pup on the ground. He sat for a moment, his butt in the dead leaves and twigs, examining his surroundings with blue eyes and a moist nose. Then, like an old man, his got ponderously to his feet. Big belly almost brushing the ground, he waddled about. Purest blue sapphires gleamed against his dark face. They’re wider than when his dam dropped him in my lap, I thought.
“He will be a fine wolf. He comes from good stock.”
“Now what?”
“Surrender to the wolf inside you.”
“Just how do I do that?”
“Close your eyes and seek the wolf.”
While those instructions sounded rather vague, I obeyed. I shut out the sunlight and the dappled shade, the brown tree trunks and green leaves, the glimmer of the sun on the creek water. I ignored the murmur of human conversation and the occasional laugh. Taking deep, even breaths, I sought to calm my mind, to seek…something. What? I didn’t know. Just opened my mind to whatever might enter.
“That’s the idea. Now find your wolf. Find yourself.”
Within my mind’s eye, an image rose. The form of an enormous wolf, his fur jet black, his eyes a weird pale grey ringed in black. A wolf so huge he dwarfed even the largest wolf ever born. He was, perhaps, the biggest wolf ever bred to walk the lands of the earth.
I reached for him. I longed for him. In him, I longed for the freedom to run on four legs, to howl, to hunt. I craved the wolf born to lead the packs. Me, the Chosen One.
My face elongated. Huge teeth filled my suddenly too small mouth. I staggered as my legs changed, my hands molding into paws. I fell back on a human butt that now felt like hindquarters. A tail sprouted where once there was none. Black fur grew and covered my entire body. The black wolf now had control. I surrendered to him.
Lightning flashed inside my eyes. I saw Ly’Tana, dead on the cavern floor. Panic squirted into my mouth.
Another flash. My fangs snapped closed on a thick furred neck.
I blinked, seeing in front of me trees and forest and grass. The sight vanished as darkness fell.
Another quick flash, there and gone, crossed the black before my open eyes. I couldn’t breathe. Panic grew and spread, my heart thundering in my chest. Noxious blood filled my mouth, my throat. I couldn’t breathe.
My claws caught and slid, caught and slid, over the rough cavern floor. The hands around my thick ruff, my vulnerable neck, tightened. I struggled, fighting with all the strength of my huge wolf body. My neck gave way under the pressure, would soon snap like a twig under the merciless grip.
I was dying.
Dying horribly, dying a dog’s death.
A slave’s death.
Terror swamped me. The vision grew and spread, its waves of icy panic flooded my veins, poured across my mind.
The wolf will kill me.
“Do not be afraid.”
I will die horribly.
“You are a wolf. Fear nothing.”
I am a man. I am a man. I do not, I will not run on four legs.
“You are a wolf.”
I must not do this. I cannot do this!
“Fear nothing.”
I am afraid.
“Feel no fear.”
Blinded by horror, I pushed
the black wolf from me. His lips curled in a silent snarl, his enormous fangs gleamed, his devil eyes glowed from the shadows. I cast him from me, closed off my mind, my soul, shunted him to that far-away place.
I am a man. I am not a wolf.
“Stay with it!”
I curled into a fetal position in the dead grass, last year’s leaves and the dirt. I groveled. I thrashed. I wept.
“You are a wolf.”
“I am a man. I am a man. I am a man.”
I repeated the chant, like a mantra, a charm to hold against the coming of evil. I needed the protection, a cry to end all cries. I chanted the prayer that wards off all evil, to ward off my own death.
“I am a man.”
The black wolf faded, his snarl losing potency, his menace collared. The doors locked him away, a prisoner with his brothers.
“Don’t do this!”
Tears wetted the dead leaves, the dirt, sticking to my face like leeches. I rocked back and forth, my eyes shut against the horrible vision, my arms clenched around my chest, my legs tucked in a fetal position. I am afraid. Hot sweat coursed down from my head, down my cheeks, dampening my tunic, sticking it tight to my chest, shoulders and back.
I am a man.
“Don’t be a fool. They need you. I need you.”
“Shut up. Shut up shut up shutupshutupshup!”
“Son—“
“SHUT UP!”
All at once the voice cut off. A barrier, a shield, a wall sprung up out of nowhere. My fear, my panic, my terror added the bricks that built it. I crammed it higher and yet higher, an invisible defense against any foe. Armed to the teeth, battalions of trolls walked the ramparts. I am not a wolf. A protective blockade grew around my soul. I am a man. I am not a wolf. Take your fantasy and go.
I rocked and chanted, rocked and chanted, wriggling helplessly, wormlike, in the dirt and twigs and leaves. Not a wolf. Hardly even a man.
Go away and leave me alone.
I sobbed. Blindly reaching, I seized the wolf pup by his scruff. Pulling him close, his yelps protesting against this treatment sharp in my ears, I folded my arms around him. His small, soft body spelled out the reality of the world. This was real: The pup in my arms, the sun, the grass, the sharp rock digging into my ribs. Those were real. Voices in my head weren’t real. Neither was the idea, the strange and fantastic idea of me, Raine, Prince of Connacht, slave and gladiator, could indeed be the Chosen One.
Catch a Wolf Page 35
