The Baying of Wolves

by J. Thorn

  “I don’t like the barrier. We can’t easily get the carts from one side to the other. If we get ambushed, we could be trapped.”

  “Not what I meant, Chief. I meant the grumbles. You think it did that to the eastbound side?”

  “No doubt. But we’re not heading east.”

  “Right. We’re heading west.”

  Jonah tilted his head sideways and opened his mouth to rebuke Solomon when a flash caught his eye, like the glint of sunshine off…a blade.

  “Two hundred yards. Right side of the highway divide.”

  Solomon turned and stared.

  “I don’t see—”

  “There.” Jonah lifted his right arm and pointed.

  Almost a half mile in the distance stood a shack. It looked like one of the many traveler waystations people had used in ancient times, when their carts had been motorized. Jonah could tell the roof had slid forward but the structure remained upright. It was from there he saw the sun’s reflection off an object.

  “Could be a trinket hanging on a window. We seen that kinda thing before.”

  Solomon was right but Jonah’s stomach churned. A sour taste tainted his mouth and his palms began to sweat.

  “Bring a dozen Bluestone warriors up here.”

  Solomon ran back to the caravan without questioning Jonah’s command or intent. He returned with the men, each carrying a blade or weapon of war.

  “Follow me.”

  Jonah, Solomon and the Bluestone warriors moved down the right side of Ninety-Five, heading right for the waystation without concealment or subterfuge. They jogged but did not run. As they approached, Jonah saw a thin tendril of smoke crawling into the sky from the rear of the building. He glanced to the left, where an object rested against the rusted fuel dispenser.

  A shield.

  “Cygoa. Attack!”

  The men raised their weapons, broke into a full run and screamed. Two Cygoa warriors emerged from the building. One stood bare-chested, smoking a pipe, while the other ran to the fuel dispenser to grab his shield.

  Jonah and Solomon arrived first. Jonah buried his axe in the shoulder of the shirtless warrior while Solomon drove his war hammer into the other Cygoa’s skull. The Bluestone warriors fanned out around the building. Jonah heard a clash of metal, a few screams and then silence. He stood next to Solomon between the two dead Cygoa, waiting for the Bluestone to circle back around to the front.

  “Two inside,” a Bluestone warrior said. “We killed them.”

  “Not good news, my brother. Not good at all.”

  Jonah took a deep breath and grimaced.

  “Looks like a Cygoa forward base. Scouts or sentries. Whatever they were, the Cygoa either know we’re heading west or they’re doing so themselves.”

  Jonah glared at Solomon. He held both hands up and took a step back. “Sorry, Chief.”

  “Don’t be. You’re right. I don’t like seeing those fuckers this far west.”

  “Do you think the Valk…”

  “Damn it, Solomon. I don’t know. I don’t know much, anymore. It feels like the Earth Mother is giving us one last shake, doing her best to finally exterminate what’s left of us. But we can’t stop. We can’t lay down and die.”

  One of the Bluestone warriors yelled and pointed to the horizon where a single figure appeared. Jonah stepped in front of Solomon and stared. As the man approached, Jonah recognized his shield. He could see that the man jogged—he was not injured or being chased. A good sign.

  “Cygoa?”

  “No.” Jonah shook his head and gave Solomon a slight grin. “I think it’s one of the scouts I sent out with Declan.”

  The Bluestone warriors lost interest and began to go through the waystation, claiming whatever trinkets or pieces of food they could find. Solomon stood next to Jonah but he had hung his war hammer back on his belt.

  The runner approached, now only fifty yards away. Jonah knew it wasn’t Declan but, from what he could remember, this scout had left with the kid. The man stopped before Jonah, putting his hands on his hips and gulping air.

  “Chief. I have news.”

  “You’d better. You’re late. And where is Declan? Where’re the rest of the scouts?”

  “I don’t know, but he sent me with news you’re gonna want to hear.”

  Chapter 56

  Declan cursed the dawn of the new day. The Cygoa had chased him for most of the night. He’d stop and rest, attempting to hide, and they would pursue. He didn’t think there were many but they refused to stop. They would not give up.

  A bird in the tree next to him chirped. He had been able to climb twenty feet into the branches but the trees had only spring buds and therefore he had no leaves to camouflage his location. And now this fucking bird was drawing attention.

  “Shh.”

  He reached into his pocket and felt for something small and hard, anything he could throw at the thing. His fingers wrapped around a copper coin.

  He’d never find it again without sifting through the carpet of leaves on the forest floor unless he did so on his hands and knees. The coin wasn’t worth that much. Declan took aim and threw the penny at the bird. It rattled through the branches and after a squawk and a flap of wings, the bird flew off. He closed his eyes and sighed, relishing the new silence until a bark broke it.

  They came from the east, tracking him. Hunting him. He could see two or three figures moving through the trees, the rays of the rising sun reflecting off their polished shields and sharpened blades. The men stood tall, and they walked with a terrestrial grounding, a confidence as if the natural world belonged to them. He held his breath and looked around. They might see him, sitting up in the tree, and they would definitely see him climbing out of it. Declan was about to drop all the way to the ground and start running again when the Cygoa began shouting. They barked words to each other that he didn’t recognize. Declan looked to the west and saw the source of their excitement.

  Jac.

  The boy’s shaggy hair was plastered to his face, stuck there with a combination of sweat and morning dew. His torn shirt flapped open and he had no weapon except for a thick branch clutched in his right hand. Even from a distance, Declan could see the whites of Jac’s eyes. The boy’s mouth had drawn into a grimace and his head turned left and right as the Cygoa warriors crept closer. The monsters had outflanked Jac and were now funneling him forward to the point of their imaginary triangle—Declan’s tree.

  He counted five Cygoa chasing Jac. He could hear the boy now, gasping and whimpering as he ran. Declan wondered if the boy had followed him or if he had been running wild throughout the night, trying to stay ten feet ahead of the Cygoa. It didn’t matter now. The hunters had run their prey to the place where they would make the kill.

  The boy bounced off one tree, sidestepped another while attempting to change direction. But a Cygoa warrior was there, forcing him back into his lane. Jac tripped and landed in a thicket at the base of Declan’s tree. He looked down as the five Cygoa warriors circled the boy.

  “To whom do you report?”

  Jac shook his head and a Cygoa warrior kicked the boy in the jaw, sending several teeth flying through the air.

  “Answer me.”

  Declan held his breath. His right hand began to twitch, his knuckles white from gripping the branch.

  “Tell us and we’ll spare your life.”

  “The Elk.” Jac never hesitated. He spat the words at them with a mouthful of blood.

  Declan felt his throat tighten, and the muscles in his right hand began to twitch. He tried shifting his weight, and the movement made two branches rub together. The Cygoa stopped but did not look up.

  “Where are they?”

  “They are—”

  Declan stepped down one branch at a time. The Cygoa took a step back from Jac and watched as the boy worked his way closer to the ground.

  “Declan.”

  He didn’t respond to Jac—didn’t even look at him. Declan would be on the ground a
nd amongst the Cygoa in five seconds and yet he hadn’t decided what he would say.

  “He doesn’t know. He’s a kid. Never even scouted before.” Declan dropped the final three feet, landing upright and next to Jac. “Let him go. He won’t be able to give you anything or answer your questions. Take me.”

  The Cygoa warriors didn’t move. The one who had been questioning Jac took a step toward Declan. His breath smelled like garlic and tooth rot. The others smiled beneath mangy beards that mixed with wild brambles of hair. They had painted their faces the previous night but the streaks had smeared during the chase, leaving a mixture of red and black marks across their skin. War hammers hung from their belts and each man carried a shield and blade.

  “We’ve been chasing both of you all fucking night. We’ll take whoever we want to take.”

  “Wait.”

  The word came from the warrior on the opposite side of Jac. He had dyed his hair black and his voice rattled from a throat full of gravel. Declan stood still as did the other Cygoa warriors. This man was obviously the leader.

  “I think I’ll take that deal. We release him and then you tell us about the Elk and why a scouting party was sent to spy on us at Rocky Mount.”

  Declan nodded, transfixed by the man’s voice. His tongue felt like dry sand and he made eye contact with Jac. The boy’s face twitched.

  “Yes. Okay,” said Declan. “Release him and then we’ll talk.”

  “You heard the boy. Release that little shit.”

  The Cygoa warrior who had spoken first reached down and grabbed Jac by his shirt. He yanked the kid to his feet and pushed him back into a tree. Jac shivered, looking again to Declan.

  “Dec. What is happ—”

  The Cygoa warrior plunged his knife into Jac’s chest. He leaned over, his face an inch from Jac’s. The warrior held Jac up with his left hand while his right hand twisted the blade in the boy’s chest. Declan closed his eyes but he could hear a sound like tearing gristle followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. How had he considered that they might be reasonable? Why even attempt to stop the inevitable? But he couldn’t have just watched and lived knowing that he tried nothing. The boy was already dead when they trapped him.

  “Consider him released from this Earth. Done deal.”

  The Cygoa warriors began to laugh, deep bellowing chuckles that made the hair on Declan’s neck stand up.

  “Now you keep your end of the bargain, son.”

  Declan turned and ran before his mind could second guess the decision. He gulped air, each foot slapping the leaf-covered ground. He dodged around trees, not daring to look over his shoulder.

  “Whoever sticks their blade in the kid gets the kill. Go on. Let’er rip.”

  Declan ducked as a knife whizzed past his left ear and embedded into a nearby tree. Another clanged as it landed on a pile of rocks. A third stuck in the dirt to his right.

  Another knife ripped through his shirt and nicked the skin on his forearm. Declan kept running, waiting for that fifth knife.

  “You had your chance,” said the deep-throated leader of the Cygoa party.

  Declan felt a burn in his right calf muscle and his entire leg went numb, dropping him to the ground. He rolled on to his back and looked down to see the tip of a knife protruding through his shin, the blade buried to the hilt in his calf muscle. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain, as he heard the chuckling of the Cygoa as they approached.

  Chapter 57

  Gaston passed through the open double doors and rushed into the chamber beyond, but he had gone no more than a dozen steps into the Coven’s hall when he slowed and stopped before taking a step back.

  He cringed as he lifted his foot from the sticky pool of blood.

  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the large room, he began to piece the scene together. It came one image at a time, quicker than his mind could process, each detail adding another element to the story of what had taken place.

  The body lay on the dais in front of him, on the same spot where he himself had stood to be interrogated only hours before. He considered this as the images washed over him. It had been a short interview, ending early when Morlan stormed in and stopped the talk with the Coven. Had Morlan not arrived, he wondered if it would be his body lying there now. It lay sideways, sprawled across the two short steps leading up to the flat surface.

  A head, separated from its body, lay several feet away…another body to his left, maybe ten feet away, throat cut, slumped against one of the six thick, metal columns that held up the arched ceiling.

  Another body lay next to that, the face staring back at him in shocked submission...and another lying face down just feet away…and more.

  They were dotted all around the room, each of them similarly dispatched, though most of them still clasped ceremonial daggers in their unmoving hands. This had happened quickly, Gaston thought, and by the urgency that he had been pulled from his locked room—his cell—it had happened only minutes before. Gaston had been dozing, still weary from the long journey and only just beginning to recover from the lack of sleep, when the door had jolted open and the Cygoa warrior had demanded he come immediately. Morlan had demanded his presence, and Morlan was not a man to tolerate waiting.

  Behind him he heard shuffling and the clank of metal, and he saw that near the entrance to the room, a dozen Cygoa warriors, heavily armored, now stood waiting, but none dared to enter the room. It was forbidden to do so without invitation from the Coven, and they would obey that even though it was obvious that the Coven no longer lived. The feared warriors of the Cygoa have fears of their own, he thought. But they were justified fears.

  At the far end of the massive room, Morlan stood with his back to Gaston, facing the back wall. Even in the dim light, he could see a gash across the man’s shoulder, slashed across a spot where he wore no armor. There was another similar cut on his left arm.

  They tried to fight him, Gaston thought. The amusing idea that a bunch of old men had tried to stand up to the warchief, even in large numbers, brought a slight smile to his face. A ridiculous thought. But they had thought that they stood a chance, he mused. These dead Coven members, the witch doctors, feared by all the Cygoa lest they curse you with some disease or use you as a sacrifice. These cantankerous old men had tried to defend themselves, or maybe they had even tried to assassinate Morlan. But the evidence around him made it obvious they had failed, badly.

  Gaston’s gaze jumped from one figure to the next, tracing the faces until finally he found the one he was looking for. There, lying at the top of the steps on the other side of the chamber, was Genris. The man was beaten bloody but still barely breathing, his expression one of desperate shock and disbelief. The man thought he was untouchable, Gaston thought. The mere idea of someone striking him, let alone killing him, was preposterous to Genris.

  One of Genris’ legs lay at a strange angle. Broken, Gaston thought, and yet the leader of the Coven still lives. He watched for a moment as the man’s chest heaved with exertion. Morlan had let him live for a reason, Gaston guessed, and he suspected that he may have something to do with that. Maybe Morlan still needed some reassurance before dispatching the only remaining member of the Coven; maybe the warrior had superstitious fears of his own?

  “Good of you to join us,” Morlan said, and as he turned, Gaston could see that he still held a sword in his hand, the blood still dripping from its blade to gather in small pools on the stone floor beneath.

  There was another thing that Gaston noticed. A gash upon Morlan’s face. It was a deep cut, thin and straight, no more than a few inches long, under his left cheekbone. It looks deep, he thought. But it would heal. The leader of the Cygoa would bear a scar for the rest of his life. One of the Coven had been lucky with that strike, almost lucky enough to win the fight. But the cut had missed Morlan’s eye. Not quite enough luck.

  “As you can see,” Morlan continued, “the Coven and I have had a…disagreement.” Morlan strode forwar
d, stopping at Genris’ struggling form and nudging the man with a heavy boot. Genris groaned and rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting blood onto the floor. “A parlay that unfortunately turned sour.”

  Gaston began to walk through the chamber, edging around the bodies of the dead Coven members until he stopped at the foot of the stairs that led up to the platform where the altar stood. That was close enough, he decided, in case Morlan still had a rage burning inside and lashed out. He did not wish to be one of the targets if that happened; best leave being the only one to Genris.

  Morlan turned back to the center of the platform and touched the altar. “We did, in the end, come to an understanding,” he said. “They came to know that they will no longer feature in the ruling of the Cygoa. Their… influence was no longer healthy, their insistence on heading south to some promised land a foolish idea that I was never convinced of. That we came south was a good choice, I believe, but we have come as far as we need to.”

  Gaston stood silent, waiting for Morlan to continue. He had not seen the more dangerous side of the Cygoa leader, and he was wary that the man’s bloodlust may continue.

  But Morlan seemed to have no intention of harming him. “This leads me to a slight dilemma,” the man said.

  Gaston nodded. “I understand, my lord.”

  “Do you?” Morlan asked. “Hmm, yes, maybe you do. More than most, I would say. The Cygoa have always depended upon the spiritual leadership of the Coven, and they will miss that spiritual guidance.” Morlan waved his hand, indicating the bodies. “Now that they have disbanded and left their duties. How do you think this problem must be solved?”

  Gaston took a deep breath. Now was not the time to show weakness. “They will need a new spiritual guide. One that is also beneficial to whomever leads the Cygoa. It is, as I have always believed, not appropriate that the Coven oppose the wishes of leadership.”

  “Yes,” said Morlan. “Believe me, it has taken me some time to understand this. I have been foolish to allow them to continue. I have many people who depend upon me, and any decision I make affects them. Their lives are the outcome, and all the Coven has ever done is cause me trouble. You understand, they were there before I was born, before I took leadership, and they were a tradition, so to speak. But I never considered them to be a healthy tradition. Still, a dilemma nonetheless. I lead, and I make decisions with all the Cygoa in mind, and this turn of events will leave the people with something missing. Do you think that is possible there is another that could replace the Coven? One more…suitable?”