"Here." Wolstan stepped out of the shadows so close that I jumped. We both jumped.
"Half-wit," Feordin snarled. "There's a wolf loose."
Wolstan cast him a disdainful look. "He's gone."
"What were you doing?" I asked. "Tracking him?"
"Yes," Wolstan said, his usual slow, measured speech. It seemed to infuriate Feordin, who repeated, "Half-wit."
Wolstan looked at him levelly, then asked me, "Who is this?"
Oh no.
"I," said Feordin, "I am Feordin Macewielder. Son of Feordan Sturdyaxe, grandson of Feordane Boldheart, brother to Feordone the Fearless, great-grandson of Feordine Stoutarm who served under Graggaman Maximus."
Never glancing at Feordin, Wolstan asked me, "How come he's Feordin Macewielder if he doesn't have a mace?"
Feordin turned purple—I could see it, even in the moonlight—but he never made a sound. He turned on his heel and headed back toward camp.
"Good question," I told Wolstan as we followed after. "Better not ask it again."
Back at the clearing, I saw Feordin hadn't been exaggerating about the treasure he and his group had won. There were huge bulging sacks: gems, loose or set in jewelry; coins from most of the realms of man, elf, and dwarf; intricately worked golden combs, buttons, statuettes. The pixies, evidently, had been
very
grateful, the sprites
very
repentant, and the dragon ... The group, Feordin explained, had gotten into a riddling contest with a dragon. A real dragon. Riddles have always been my specialty, something I took pride in doing well.
But apparently they hadn't needed me.
The dragon had been forced to give each of them one demand. Marian had asked for a cure for Mom's headache. The dragon said it didn't know anything about it, so Marian settled for gauntlets of power, which would increase the wearer's strength threefold. She had already made Mom try them on while Feordin and I were out looking for Wolstan, but they'd had no effect on her condition.
Feordin had asked for and received a magic rope—fifty feet of uncutable twine that could climb up any surface on its own and tie itself into knots.
Nocona had been less specific. "Whatever we'll need to complete our quest," he'd said. The dragon had smiled and then handed over a tiny gold key. It had come with its own tiny golden box, exquisite work despite the fact that it was the size of a contact lens case. The key itself was no thicker than tinfoil.
"I think he got taken," Feordin informed us. "Seems totally useless to me."
"Fancy box," Nocona observed, "for a totally useless key." He tucked it back into his belt, not trusting any of us to touch it.
"What about you?" Marian asked us. "Did you bury your treasure or hide it or what?"
Thea, Cornelius, and I looked at each other. "What?"
"You said you had treasure, too. What did you do with it?"
"Oh." Thea, Cornelius, and I indicated the pathetic little bundles hanging from our belts.
"I see," Marian said, positively dripping with politeness. If she had
really
been polite, she would have offered to share some of their treasure with us. Of course, for us to be equally polite, we'd have had to refuse, since we'd had nothing to do with the earning of it, but apparently she wasn't willing to risk that much on our manners.
Our group ate our dinner of fish, grateful for the extra portion that had been meant for Robin. Since Marian, Feordin, and Nocona had already had three feasts that day—one with the pixies, one with the sprites, and one with the dragon—they couldn't possibly eat another bite. Thank goodness. They hadn't thought to save any for us, but at least they had waterskins, which they were willing to share. The way things had been going, I'd half expected them to charge us.
Feordin and Nocona offered to take the first watch since, as Feordin pointed out—three times he pointed it out—we'd walked all day while they'd ridden. Wolstan and I pulled second watch, Thea and Cornelius third. Marian, who was still sulking about Robin, refused to be assigned.
Gratefully I fell asleep right away.
What felt like two minutes later, Feordin nudged me with his foot and told me it was my turn.
"All quiet?" I asked.
"Wolves," Feordin said, snuggling into his blanket—he still had a blanket, of course—and was half asleep already. "To the west. Not very near."
I poked at the fire, just something to do to keep awake. Sparks flared hotly, fragrant smoke billowed. Sitting with his arms wrapped around himself, Wolstan scowled into the flames. Lack of sleep, I thought. Or maybe disenchantment with our company, now that he'd met all the members of it.
I moved off to one side because from where I was sitting the fire seemed to reflect redly in his eyes, an unsettling effect.
The moon had set, but at least the clouds were gone. Maybe tomorrow would be dry. I tried counting stars, but there were too many, too close together.
Farther away than before, but still closer than what I would have called "not very near," a wolf howled.
I saw Wolstan turn in my direction, as though to see if I had heard, to gauge my reaction.
Another wolf, somewhere to the north of the first, answered and was in turn answered by yet another, definitely to the east. And a fourth, from the south.
Wolstan stood, looming big and dark. He was kind of stooped over, as though maybe he'd gotten stiff from sitting. The fire was little more than glowing embers and I couldn't make out his features, even when he took a step closer to me. I figured he was probably going to ask whether we should wake the others, and as he took another step I decided I would tell him I felt maybe we should. It was a risk: the others would probably scoff and say we were jumping at shadows. Wolstan looked like a shadow himself, now that he had moved closer still and the fire was behind him.
And since when had I been afraid of the dark and of shadows?
I scrambled to my feet, intending, I told myself, to meet him halfway. I took a step back.
Wolstan growled at me, a loud, deep-throated growl like nothing that had ever come from a human throat. I saw a glint of teeth, then he lunged for me and his fingers brushed my arm. There was a hot, thick smell about him, which he certainly hadn't had before and which put me in mind of the cages at the zoo back home.
That was my first sensation.
Half a heartbeat later, a sound sank in—or rather, the meaning of the sound I'd heard as Wolstan's fingers had grazed me. It was the fabric of my shirt sleeve tearing.
Then, only then, did I feel the pain.
Jagged flames seared my arm, from the inside of my elbow, through my wrist, into my palm.
The left arm,
reminded a detached part of my brain, which would be the computer's version of a warrior elf's subconscious.
Luckily not the sword arm.
And Wolstan didn't have hold of me: it'd been only a glancing slash. I threw myself back and tugged on my sword, all the while screaming, "Cornelius! Feordin!"
How come I was always bawling for help?
"Thea! Nocona!"
Behind me I was aware of the others, scrambling for their own weapons even before they were fully awake. Marian too, and Mom, who I hadn't had a chance to name.
Wolstan threw his head back and howled, a long drawn-out howl, like any one of several we had heard already that night. Then, from all around us, came answering cries. And after that the sound of dozens of bodies crashing through the woods, coming toward us.
Though I generally used my sword one-handed, I felt awkward now that I knew I
couldn't
use my left. I tried to bury that feeling by charging at Wolstan.
He sprang away, raising his hands menacingly but never going for his own sword. Even without light to see more than the outline of his form, I could make out that the shape of his head was all wrong.
And then we did have light. I heard the
crackle-zap
which was Cornelius's Wizards' Lightning, and our campfire surged with temporary extra energy. Wolstan stood there in light as bright as day, looking like a creature from darkest nightmare. Instead of a separate mouth and nose, he had a muzzle, from which the lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl that revealed pointed teeth. He had hardly any forehead, and massive brows over yellow eyes that showed no white. His hands were a combination of human and wolf, with patches of fur on the backs and long, curving claws extending beyond flexible, individual fingers. His body and part of his face were covered with a thick gray pelt, like his wolfskin vest.
Metal scraped on metal as swords were drawn, and suddenly the wolf pack was on us, fifty or sixty of them with snapping jaws and slashing claws and bodies that hurtled at you when your back was turned and you were busy fending off the five or six you could see.
Wolstan seemed fixed on me.
He still stood on two feet, and that made him less agile, less maneuverable than his four-legged friends. But he had two things going for him: he was more intelligent than the full-fledged wolves, and he seemed willing to let any number of them get skewered in order to reach us—me. For some reason he wouldn't back off from me.
In no time I was covered with sweat and blood from battling the wolves, and my injured arm throbbed. Each time I lunged, each time I was jostled, arrows of pain shot up toward my shoulder.
Wolstan was always at the fringe of my sight, directing the attack. He had some sort of mind-link with the wolves. We had seen it, though we hadn't recognized it, in the clearing by the lake. Two wolf-mangled corpses in the road, a third man running, twenty or more wolves at his heels: we had interpreted everything from the wrong perspective. He hadn't been running
from
them. He had been running
with
them.
Exultant. Full of their own life. Celebrating a kill.
That was why Wolstan hadn't run to us right away. Not panic or confusion because of the wolves, but fear of us, because we were the enemy. We had beckoned to him, shouted encouragement while picking off his companions, until finally he had realized our mistake. Realized, if he bided his time, he could have us where he wanted.
We had put words into his mouth for him: that the wolves were pursuing him, that the dead men had been his companions, that the blood on him was from wounds, wounds we never actually saw, wounds he insisted on treating himself. He had spat out blood, and we had never guessed. We had said we were going to Sannatia, and so he had said that was where he was going, too. He had tried to persuade us to spend the night in the forest rather than entering the Shadow Caves. Not bad advice in itself, but now I knew the wolves would have set on us then and there. Instead they had circled around, gathering in number until he had called them during the evening when he was supposedly hunting. He had rescued us from the orcs, from the rats; he had carried my mother—all for us to end here.
I'd been backing away, trying to avoid him, hoping somebody else would get him with long-range weapons: Cornelius with his magical bolts or Nocona with arrows. But he was just going to wait until I was distracted. He had enough wolves to spare. Then he was going to reach in with those incredibly long claws and disembowel me or rip my head off as a souvenir.
I reminded myself that with my sword I had a longer reach than he did with his claws. I swept the head off a wolf who ran between us, and moved in.
Wolstan's lips curled back in imitation of a smile.
I jabbed my sword at him and he danced out of the way, moving to my left, where I hugged my injured arm close to my side. Wolstan's claws raked across the back of it. I heard the tear of fabric and skin. In the fraction of a second that his momentum was slowed by his claws catching in my flesh, I swung my sword.
It was pure instinct; I never expected to make contact. The sword shuddered to a stop with a disgusting noise. No, take that back—"noise" is too strong a word. It was more like a
sensation,
sort of between a thud and a squish, so that even then, thinking I was about to die, it set my teeth on edge.
Wolstan's eyes widened in shock, but he had enough strength to throw me down to the ground and land on top of me. I thought,
OK, here's the part where he eats my throat out while I'm still mostly alive,
because he had his face buried in my neck, and I closed my eyes real tight.
Nothing happened.
I managed to drag in a shaky breath, when suddenly Wolstan rolled off me. I scrunched my eyes even tighter.
Still nothing.
I gave a quick peek, ready to close my eyes again if I saw something I shouldn't. I saw buckskinned legs, and moccasins.
"Nocona," I whispered, my windpipe too battered to do any better.
Beyond him, Wolstan was flat on his back, his arms spread out, totally still. Nocona had rolled him off me, I realized, then stepped in to make sure I was all right. Around us, the sounds of battle were not nearly as fierce as before. I could hear sounds that I was willing to guess were the wolves hightailing it away.
"Whew!" someone—Cornelius? Feordin?—breathed.
Nocona stooped down beside me. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flutter of motion, Wolstan's hand. "Look out!" I wheezed.
Nocona pitched forward onto me, knocking back out the air I'd just managed to drag in. I heard him cry out, or maybe it was me. There was a sharp
crack!
then the smell of sulfur and charred flesh that indicated Cornelius had scored a hit.
I started, "I can't..." but couldn't get any more out.
Luckily—considering the word I was trying for was
breathe
—Nocona rolled off me.
I started to sit up, but somebody tackled me: a flurry of arms and hair and sweaty body. Everything was kind of swimming around, but I didn't need to see. "I'm OK, Mom," I said. "I'm OK."
Somebody pulled Mom off me—Marian, I think. Everybody was shouting and crowding and demanding to know if I was all right, and I couldn't breathe and my vision wouldn't focus and there was an awful pain in the calf of my leg where I couldn't even remember being injured.