The Wolves Of War Page 11

  Evening brought a choice to Briagh. To stay or to go. He could leave Endria behind. She would be safe with the others around the camp fire he assumed. Especially now that their group had become six instead of just the two of them. But he would not be safe if he stayed. Already the number of people who knew of his curse had grown from just him to these six people. Soon it would be forty or fifty people sitting around the camp fire ahead who knew he was a morph. He didn't like that. And he didn't have to stay. He could walk through the night, perhaps leave the road altogether. It wouldn’t take him long to get well away from the travellers.

  But leaving came with its own issues. Wolves were the most worrying, and now it had become clear that there were more out there. As they'd continued north they'd come across more bodies. People and wolves both. That was how they'd met the others. They'd come across the party standing by the bodies of a fallen dire wolf and two people who had clearly fallen in battle to it. The party apparently hadn’t been close to those who had died. But still, the loss had been felt and they had been speaking their last words to them as he and Endria had arrived.

  Briagh had been both shocked and alarmed when Endria had immediately introduced him to the others as a morph with almost the first words out of her mouth. Why? Did she fear him? Did she think it was nothing important? Or did she actually believe that the others might welcome a morph among their number as they found themselves in dangerous lands? Briagh suspected it was all of those things. She was a barmaid, poorly educated, frightened and young.

  The others had taken it in different ways. Gian had immediately let his hand go to the hilt of his fire blade. He was a man at arms by his dress, and a lover of technology. He wore a sword that burnt with a phosphorescent flame when he drew it and pushed the trigger. He also had a shield that Briagh suspected had a shock charge on it. And as if that wasn't enough he had a brace of heavy pistols on his belt as well. The man had obviously done well in his battles. Well enough that he could afford expensive armour. But at least he hadn't drawn his blade.

  Father Argen, a priest of The Great Sage, had simply leaned on his staff, staring at him, but said nothing at all. He'd shown no sign of alarm or anything else. But then who really knew what went on behind the eyes of priests?

  Verity, a housewife and baker whose husband had perished in the battle for the city, had shrieked and jumped back a little. She still wasn't talking to him all that much, and stayed as far away as possible.

  And then there was Elan the poet warrior. Poet warrior! More often her kind were called bardic warriors. He'd never understood what the term even meant. All he really knew was that they were people who liked to go out, have adventures and then tell great stories about them in the alehouses he frequented. Were they bards? Or explorers? Adventurers? Mercenaries? Or were they simply men and women at arms with grandiose titles? Bards with pretensions? In her case he suspected it was all of those things. She spoke with a cultured tongue, but there was speed and grace in her movements, and he suspected she would be very good with the blade on her hip and the bow slung over her back. She was quiet mostly, but always watchful of him. Suspicious.

  She was also beautiful – in a cold sort of way. Something he was reminded of as she walked away from him towards the camp. Her long hair was held back in loose braids that swung gently as she moved and her hips swayed as those of a woman should. Even her sword swayed gracefully with every step. He would have been smitten by her, if something in her steel blue eyes didn't scare him so. He had the thought that she harboured ill thoughts towards him no matter how carefully she hid it.

  “You're not coming?” Argen asked.

  He alone of all of them seemed happy to speak with Briagh. But really that ease was some sort of pretence. Briagh was sure of that. He felt it. The priest was hiding something. Then again, never having been a follower of the Great Sage, what did he know?

  “Morph,” Briagh told him by way of an explanation. Did he really have to say any more than that?

  “There are wolves out there. Big ones.”

  “But the true danger to me lies with the people around the fire. Fifty souls and most of them wanting to put a bullet through my heart at the first opportunity. The wolves aren't that dangerous.”

  “You overstate things.”

  “Really Father? The women head to the camp, openly frightened of me. Elan goes with them to keep them safe but listens carefully just in case my footsteps fall behind her. Gian stands guard over you as you speak to me, his hand poised over the grip of his pistol. And soon forty more will know my nature. You think those of my blood hide our nature because it allows us to act in secret? To commit dark crimes in the night? That is the bards' tales. We hide because we fear for our lives.”

  “I have not drawn my weapon,” Gian defended himself.

  “No. But you stand ready to. And yet I have offered no harm to any of you. In fact, I have defended one of your number. All you have is knowledge of my nature. Yet you stand ready to draw on me.” Briagh turned back to Argen. “And you wonder why I choose not to stay Father?”

  “We are safer together, child.” The priest replied.

  “No Father. You are safer together. I am safer alone.” And that was his truth. It always had been. He ran and he hid.

  With that his decision was made. Briagh set off, marching past the priest, ignoring his protestations, and past his self-appointed body guard. He had a long way to go, and he would be long gone by the time they hit the road north in the morning. Further than they could have guessed. Though it took a lot of strength he didn't even look back to check whether the man at arms was following him sword in hand. He trusted that the man had enough honour not to and that even if he didn't the priest would have interceded. But he still felt as if a target was painted firmly on his back and that at any moment a sword might find him.

  Ten minutes later he felt he had put enough distance between him and the camp that he no longer had to worry about the group and their intentions. At that point he stopped and turned to see if anyone had followed. It didn’t seem so as all he could see was empty road. The camp was far enough back that he couldn't see it either. It was his sign to start making some real distance. And he couldn't do that as a man.

  After checking once more that the road behind him was clear, he headed to the side of the road, found a convenient fallen tree trunk to sit on and started undressing and then packing away his clothes away in his back pack. Then when he was ready he pulled the pack on once more and shifted into his wolfhound. Cats were fast over short distances. But dogs had stamina. After that he set about putting some leagues between him and the camp.

  But even as he set off he felt a sudden stabbing pain in his leg and heard a woman scream at him. He screamed too, a yell that sounded more like a dog's yelp, even as he leapt into the air. A heartbeat later he looked around to realise that the poet warrior was standing there with a longbow in her hands, screaming incoherently, and there was an arrow sticking out of his thigh. For a second heartbeat he stood there, shocked and wondering what was happening – until he realised that she was grabbing for a second arrow. Then he bolted.

  His wolfhound might not be as fast as his panther form, especially when he was wounded, but it was fast enough when he was scared and he quickly started putting the road behind him, regardless of the pain. Strangely it was his unsteady run that probably saved him from another arrow as his movements were hard to track. Instead, he saw the arrow go flying past him and embed itself in the trees. When the pain grew too bad he shifted again, becoming once more a panther in mid stride. The shift as always helped to heal him, though it could do nothing about the arrow sticking out of his leg. Nor about the next one that came flying past his head as he ran. But it healed enough damage that he could keep running, his legs devouring the ground and putting his enemy behind him.

  A minute of hard running left him breathless and hurting. But it also put enough distance between them that he knew Elan would not catch him soon. Enough time
that he could deal with his injury. Immediately Briagh shifted back into his human form and pulling the arrow free.

  It hurt. It hurt more than he could ever have imagined, and he screamed with pain. But a few more shifts between forms helped immeasurably with the wound and the pain and he soon found himself running at full stride, putting as much distance between him and her as possible.

  But even as he ran he couldn't help but wonder why she had attacked him. He'd never met her before He hadn't offered her any violence nor had he even threatened her. And yet she still wanted him dead. He presumed it was just because he was a morph. You couldn't trust normals.

  Unbidden the thought brought back memories. Memories he had tried to forget. Memories of when he had been a child, and had returned home to find his parents dead. Slaughtered. Though he had never known who'd done it, he'd always understood why. Even at ten he had understood that. He was a morph. There would be no mercy shown him for that crime. He'd shown his nature and someone had seen him. His parents had paid the price for his mistake.

  It was his fault. He had always known that. His parents had warned him over and over again that he could never reveal that he was cursed. But he had been a stupid child. He hadn't listened. Not well enough. And his mistake had gotten his parents killed. No doubt the killers had assumed that they were also morphs. Now once more people had found out what he was and the inevitable had happened. There was no mercy for morphs. No acceptance. No tolerance. There was only death if people found out.

  Soon many more would know. They would have his name and his description. They would know where he had been and could work out where he was heading. Some could track him. Hiding was no longer an option. Fighting was never an option. He was no warrior despite the rush of blood he had let go to his head before. It was time to run. To run a very long way. Run to somewhere where there were no people. Where they would not follow him. People were his enemy.

  He changed course then, turning off the road and heading north east across the fields, knowing that his only safety lay in that direction. Far from the mad woman behind him and all the others. It was finally time to head into the mystical lands. It was time to meet the fae.

  Chapter Twelve

  The morning was unusually cold even for this endless winter, though at least there was no snow for once, and the ground was almost frozen. It crunched under foot, and Argen was glad for his heavy boots.

  The party had made an early start as they began their pursuit of the morph, hoping to catch up with him as quickly as possible and continue their mission. But their pursuit had ended less than a league from the camp when Argen spied the morph's trail and the signs of the attack.

  Argen stared at the wreckage of the arrow, still covered in blood and groaned quietly. Because he knew immediately what it meant. It seemed that his mission had ended almost before it had begun. It had been a stroke of luck catching the morph so quickly, though he had known they were on his trail long before. An enchantress had provided him with a charged compass that provided him with the direction of a morph and it had been effective.

  It also meant that his companion had been lying to him. Again. Why did she not learn?!

  “Elan!”

  Argen called to her, annoyed that he even had to. He also wondered how many more evasions and lies he would have to listen to before he finally got the truth out of her. She wasn't the young girl he had tutored in her languages and faith so long ago. That girl had had a kind heart. The woman she had become had a cold one. How could she be a princess, he kept wondering, and still have so little respect for the truth? For honour and nobility? But then he supposed, she didn't want to be a princess, hence this fascination with being a bardic warrior.

  There were of course no such people. What there were, were rogues who had a gift of the tongue. Who liked to make up grand stories about what they'd done. Or pretended to have done. And though they might carry a sword and a pistol – might perhaps even wear armour – in truth they were not the warriors they pretended to be. And she was not the innocent she pretended to be.

  “Father?”

  “You lied to me Elan. You broke your word. Again.” He was angry and unfortunately it showed. “Last night when Master Briagh left you went after him with a bow despite your claims that you were just getting firewood. The bow wasn't for protection as you said. Instead, you attacked him. You were told not to and instead you broke your vow.”

  “Is there anything you wish to say to me child?” He didn't look at her. He couldn't stand to look at her just then.

  “I did not!” She denied it instantly – but too quickly.

  “Do you think I'm a dotard child?!” Argen sighed heavily. “I saw you return with the bow and too few arrows. You also were not carrying any firewood. I listened to your story and knew it for the lie it was then. Now the truth is in front of us. When will you learn that you are a terrible liar. Look, Here are your footprints on this part of the road and here,” he pointed a few paces away, “I see his, as a panther, a dog and as a man. I have the remains of the arrow covered with his blood. The truth is set out plainly for all to see. And yet I have to listen to still more of your lies?!”

  “You were told he was to be left alone. You were told why. Was it not completely clear?!”

  “He was getting away!” Finally she stopped lying.

  “He was leaving. He was allowed to leave. He has committed no great crime that I know of. And we would have caught up with him in time. We would have talked to him then. Gained his trust. Perhaps even become friends and persuaded him to our cause.”

  Though that might have been more difficult than he would have liked. The man was touched by the hand of death. He had suffered loss and it showed. It was one reason why Argen had told the others to let him go. It would take time to gain his trust. And they would not gain it by trying to hold him against his will. And forcing him would not help either. Not if they needed his cooperation when the time came to undo the curse.

  “He's a morph!”

  “That's not a crime girl! And he is not responsible for your family's plight. You were told that. You would know it if you chose to think for even a split second with anything other than your anger.”

  And therein lay the truth. Oh, she hid it well. She had been trained by a lifetime of palace living to hide her emotions and pretend civility. But in the end her heart burned with anger. Deep inside she was still the little girl who had been hurt by what had happened to her parents. He feared she always would be. It was why he had not wanted her to accompany him on this journey. But she had insisted and he could not refuse a royal command.

  “You don't –!”

  “Of course I know that girl!” Argen stood up and turned to face her. “You know it too. Endria herself told you. He has only been in the city for three years.”

  “She could have been lying! Or he could have lied to her!” Suddenly there was doubt creeping in to Elan's face. Bluster in her voice as she defended herself against what she knew was the truth.

  “She had no reason to lie to us and he had no reason to lie to her. He's also young. Too young yet to have a third shape. Ten years ago he would have been but a boy. He would only have had one shape. Now he has two shapes and we know them both. Panther and wolfhound. He will have no third shape for another fifteen or twenty years. There is no wolf. He could not possibly be the morph you so desperately want to kill.” Argen spelled it out for her, as he needed to. But really, she already knew it.

  “How do you –?”

  “Because I think girl! Because I observe! And because I do not let emotion blind me! I heard the barmaid's story. She said panther. And I see the tracks and the red fur on the arrow. That tells me wolfhound. So he is the one from the Arcanium. The one who savd the archivist. Who battled your mother. But I was already sure of that the moment that Endria told us her story. When I heard the story of the archivist and he told us that the naked man who had been a panther pulled off a collar for a royal wolfhound – the same
story you were told – and Endria told me that Briagh had the shape of a panther.”

  “Then he –.”

  “He is the morph who saved the archivist from the wolf mother. From your mother. And he saved Endria from a dire wolf too. Does any of that sound like the morph who destroyed your parents?”

  Elan said nothing. She just stood there, looking defiant. Or as Argen thought, like a schoolgirl caught in a lie and unable to either admit it or defend herself. But that was the truth of it. Her anger overwhelmed her no matter how she hid it. She should never have come with him on this mission. And now the mission was ended. Over before it had even begun.

  “He was someone who in time could have become an ally. And when we face your mother, having a morph on our side would have been a boon. He might even have known something about the globe too, having spent so much time in the Arcanium. He could have been persuaded to help in time. That was all he ever needed. Time for him to learn to trust us. But thanks to you girl that will never be.”

  “I don't –.”

  “Yes you do girl!” Argen sighed heavily. How many more times was he going to have to explain this to her? Did she truly not understand? Or did she simply not want to?