The Book of Kane (5 page)

Meanwhile the second wolf had recovered its balance after landing harmlessly in the snow. Kane flashed around to meet this last adversary. The two last combatants in the death-filled ravine faced each other in deadly concentration. For an instant their two minds met in understanding, in mutual admiration of the other’s sheer ferocity and awful capability. The wolf made a movement as if to turn and flee, then whirled and sprang for the man in one mighty leap of ripping fury. Kane’s stroke almost missed the twisting gray blur. But not quite. And then only one living thing moved amidst the carnage.

Kane looked about him carefully, but no more wolves came into the ravine. He gulped air in great gasps and tried to remember how long the battle had lasted. Something like five minutes, he guessed—blood was streaming from the wounds of the elk yet.

He glanced at himself. By a miracle he was almost unscathed. Only a rip in his right arm where the last wolf’s fangs had raked him in passing. His clothes and face were smeared with wolf blood, making him look like a crimson goblin. Quickly he retrieved and cleaned his weapons. He had to reach the others before any more wolves found him on foot. Assuming the rest of the party hadn’t met a similar fate, he mused.

The entire attack seemed fantastic anyway. That the wolves had been drawn by the noise of the hunt and maddened by the kill would be a natural explanation. But unlikely. In the face of the other attacks especially. The incidents almost seemed like carefully planned campaigns. He pondered uneasily over what could inspire wolves to engage in systematic massacre of humans. The possibilities were not encouraging.

A horse’s whinny cut short his musing for the moment. In the trail ahead of him stood one of the horses which had bolted at the start of the attack. The animal was still quite frightened and eyed the man nervously. It wanted human companionship in this danger ridden frozen forest, but was still extremely spooky. Kane called the horse softly, soothingly—coaxing it close enough to reach. At least the wind was toward him—if the horse caught the scent of wolf blood, he’d turn and run for sure.

But the animal with agonizing slowness came close enough to let Kane catch its rein, after several heart-stopping attempts. He swung into the saddle and gave the skittish mount its head, galloping back along the trail over which many had passed a short time ago.

After a few miles Kane heard a distant scream—a terrified plea for help. He considered a moment and decided to check it out. The cry seemed human enough, and it was definitely feminine. Kane cautiously, nonetheless hastily, guided his mount toward the cry’s source, curious to learn what number of throat produced it.

The horse caught a scent it remembered and whinnied in alarm. Kane tried to catch the scent too, but the reek of wolf on his body masked whatever it was. But from the horse’s reluctance to proceed, Kane guessed it must be wolves the beast smelled. If there were wolves about, they were probably the cause of the girl’s shouts. However, it seemed unlikely that the girl would still be alive to scream—which argued for an inhuman source of the disturbance. Kane was familiar with instances of would-be rescuers having been lured to their doom by following unseen cries for aid, and in view of his recent fight he felt inclined to caution.

Yet the screams sounded familiar, and acting on a hunch Kane spurred his reluctant mount forward.

Two wolves were snarling around the trunk of a large, low-hanging fir. Perched on a branch was the center of their attention—Breenanin.

Kane drew his blade, shouted and charged the lurking wolves. They gave a last glare at the treed human and broke for cover from the newcomer.

He halted under the tree and helped her from the branches; she landed in a sobbing heap in his arms. Kane tried to get a few questions in, but Breenanin only clung to him and whimpered. So he made what he hoped might sound like soothing, sympathetic sounds, and let her run down.

He had almost reached the clearing where the second elk had been come upon, when his charge stopped long enough to sniffle. “Ugh! You’re a mess! Did you take a bath in elk’s blood or something?”

“Or something. What in the name of the Seven Nameless were you doing out here? I seem to recall leaving you at the castle this morning.”

“I wanted to go on the hunt, and Father wouldn’t let me because of the stuff about the wolves. Only I had to get out and see what the woods looked like after the storm, so I saddled my own horse and rode after you. The porter let me out because I’ve got the goods on him and anyway I said I was just going to ride around the walls. Except I rode on after you and I thought I could catch up and Father would be too interested in the hunt to send me back since I was along anyway.

“But all of a sudden this pack of wolves came after me. I knew I couldn’t outrun them in the forest, so when my horse ran under that low tree back there, I slowed him enough to grab a branch and scramble off.” She sniffled. “I thought my arms would pull out, but I knew I had to hang on. One of them nearly grabbed my leg before I could climb clear of them. But most of them kept chasing the horse—I guess they got him, but I didn’t see—and just the two stayed to wait for me to come down. So I shouted and yelled hoping someone would come by from the hunt and hear me. And that’s what you did,” she concluded.

Kane was amazed at the girl’s coolness. Most women would have been too panic stricken, too stupid, too weak. Yet Breenanin had survived and seemingly was relatively calm once again. It was unbelievable.

He rode into the clearing and saw with relief that Troylin and his party were waiting there. Intact and complete with elk. They shouted an exuberant greeting, then fell into mystified silence at the bloody rider along with his prize.

“Kane! What the hell!” gasped Troylin in amazement.

“Here’s your daughter—safe enough,” Kane said. “The rest are back with the elk. They won’t be following us.”

The hunting banquet was a rather dismal affair. These chases often had their fill of danger, and casualties of the hunt were frequently toasted to
in memoriam
. But five corpses were too many. Men drank their ale too seriously for fun, and in place of the usual raucous horseplay small groups spoke of the weird attack in quiet, anxious tones. The behavior of the wolves was decidedly unnatural, and not a few old legends were retold in the gloomy shadows of the dining hall.

At the high table the diners were in a no more festive mood. Breenanin was still shaken from her experience and did not pursue her accustomed banter with her father. The baron had been so thankful for her safety, that he had forgotten to punish her. Henderin’s place was empty, and his two wardens were absent as well. The crazed youth had slipped away from his keepers that day and eluded them for several hours of frantic searching, before he was recaptured scrambling over the outer wall. He had been violent, and Lystric had been forced to place him under restraint until the spell passed. Lystric himself was no different from usual. The long-bearded astrologer sullenly gobbled his meal, while favoring the others with a baleful look.

Baron Troylin had just listened to Kane’s retelling of the massacre in the ravine. He had asked him to repeat it three times now, and each time he had shaken his head at the conclusion and made the same comments about the uncanny behavior of the wolves. He was trying to fix the details in his thick head, in the vague hope that somewhere in Kane’s narrative would lie the explanation for it all.

He caught sight of Evingolis, who was sitting in the shadows as usual, watching the diners while he gnawed a rib of venison. “Minstrel!” he rumbled. “This place has less life than a wake. Let’s have some music to liven things a little.” A raucous cheer went up from the diners in anticipation.

The albino strolled from his perch and collected his lute. Playing over the strings a moment, he raised mocking eyes to Kane and announced, “Here’s a tune perhaps our guest will recognize.”

His clear voice began the song, and Kane barely repressed a start. The minstrel’s song was in archaic Ashertiri—a tongue Kane doubted if another man within days of travel could understand! The song was the work of the long dead and ill famed poet Clem Ginech of ancient Ashertiri, whose efforts had left those of his age uncertain whether he was a poet turned sorcerer or the reverse.

Within an endless mirror of my spirit’s infinite soul,

I reach back into timeless ages beginning or unbegan ;

And see a crystal pattern, fluctuating panorama,

Forgotten by the gods, but unveiled to inward sight.

“Let’s have something in Carrasahli!” roared a drunken soldier.

An insane elder god, in his madness sought to build,

A race of mortal creatures in the image of divine.

In foolish egomania, fatal folly, the artist had conspired

Within this mortal image godlike perfection to contain;

Blindly had forgotten that an image so conceived,

Must embody the very madness of its deluded parent.

Great cataclysmic toil, cyclopean effort, did he make;

To the taunting laughter of his fellows, amused to see a fool,

He cluttered all the earth with his blighted handiwork,

And rested in smug content with his idiot labor.

Several louts began to beat on the table in protest to the eerie, unintelligible song. In time this fool’s creation multiplied all through the land,

And disgusted those before them with their drivel,

Content to live a wormlike existence for the pleasure of their god,

Who in his mindless conceit only giggled with his dolls.

Yet in one there rose rebellion with this crawling in cosmic dung—

No maggot hot a serpent was this son of divinity’s folly.

And in his hellish fury at the crooning lies of that creator,

He chose to be his own master and defied this nameless god,

And with his hands he slew his brother—choicest plaything.

Now despair racked the broken mind of this insane elder god,

For he saw the flaws within his cherished children

And recognized himself as the author of that image.

This rebel he cursed in rage to bleak, eternal wandering,

And gave him eyes of a killer, so all know the Mark of Kane.

“Damn your pale hide, minstrel!” bellowed the drunken soldier. “I said give us something we all know!” He lurched to his feet and stumbled over to Evingolis, interrupting the ancient song. “Now let’s hear something else!” He tossed his mug of ale in the minstrel’s face and roared with laughter. His fellows joined in.

In Evingolis’s face there flashed a look of white, hot anger. He laid the lute aside and wiped his burning eyes. Then with a movement too swift to follow, his hand lashed out and struck the soldier’s laughing face. As if kicked by a horse the drunkard shot backwards onto the stone floor. He did not get up. Shocked silence caught the audience; they had considered the lean albino a weakling.

“ Sonofabitch!” gasped Troylin in awe. “Shows you not to pick a fight if you can’t hold your brew! Must have hit the floor on his head or something. Somebody get him out of here.”

Sneering at the startled crowd, Evingolis picked up his lute and stalked out of the hall.

“Just as well!” the baron observed. “He’s going to goad those guys a little too far with his superior airs one of these days—they won’t stand for it in a minstrel. May not get off a lucky punch next time.” He chuckled. “Quite a character, isn’t he though? Sure can sing the strangest stuff I’ve ever heard. Make any sense of that one, Kane?”
Kane looked after the departing minstrel in calculation. “Some little,” he murmured, and fell to brooding. His eyes looked into the dancing flames, and none could say what he saw there.

It crouched in the shadow of the wall, watching the sleeping manor in silent hatred. The cold wind ruffled its white coat, and its panting breath raised small puffs of steam. Yet the creature felt not the cold, only conscious of a burning hunger that shrieked to be satiated. With its inhuman sight it regarded the quiet out-building which housed the baron’s off duty men-at-arms; in the darkness all objects stood clearly in varying shades of light tan and brown. Within that lodge there would be soft human bodies—hairless weakling ape creatures now sleeping without care. Their tender flesh would be warm with seething blood. The creature trembled in unspeakable anticipation, lips drawn back over champing fangs.

From the nighted forest, dark shapes were loping across the snow and silently gathering outside the gate of the enclosure. The creature felt their presence with its mind and welcomed them. Many of its brothers had answered its voiceless call. They too sensed the many hated man creatures inside the castle walls, and their feral minds rejoiced in the scenes of slaughter drawn for them by their leader.

More than thirty lean, gray forms now were waiting beyond the gate. It was enough, decided the creature. Once more its mind reached out to its brothers, impressing upon them the plan they must follow. No opposition was encountered. This was the wolf leader; they must obey his summons, must carry through his commands. It had been this way since before man first dropped from the trees and challenged the Brotherhood with his puny clubs and stores.

The creature unlocked the gate and effortlessly swung it half open. Into the courtyard the hungry wolves filed, slipping along the shadows until they reached the lodge. Behind this door slept the detested humans, wrapped in their stolen furs and besotted with burned flesh and rotted plant juices. The leader silently stole to the door, knowing it was kept unbolted so that late revelers might stagger in. Another wave of awful burger shook through it. Now!

Its fearfully taloned hand gripped the latch. Its red eyes shone with blood lost, and an inhuman grin of triumph exposed the gleaming rows of fangs arming its sloping muzzle. The creature threw open the door and sprang within! On its heels poured the snarling pack!

The soldiers awoke from their dreams to find a nightmare of ripping fangs and flailing bodies. The creature howled its victory—over a dozen men for the slaughter! Out of the blackness the pack sprang upon the helpless sleepers. Gray forms struggled over the writhing victims, snarling and tearing into the warm flesh. Screams of death agony—of utmost horror—filled the lodge and overflowed into the night, mingling with the hideous triumph of the feasting wolves.