The Wolves Of War Read online

  Still, the fae did worship many of the gods and goddesses he was familiar with as well as their own goddess – Liasa, the Goddess of Life. So, that was something. Though of course being strictly law abiding, they didn't permit the worship of Elm Tibesh – the six fingered Lord of thieves. On the other hand, he wasn't sure that there were any lands that did actually permit his worship. It was as unacceptable as the worship of the Bloody God. Vengeance and theft were against the law everywhere. Except maybe Grole of course. Barbarians didn't care.

  After that his choice of places to run to only became worse. There was the dwarven province of Copperhearth, maybe two hundred leagues north of them. Actually, it was more correctly known as the Dwae Morag Ti Leith or the Copperhearth Range, an expanse of mountains that ran east west at the top of the world. Where the mountains began was where Wynde Par, Abylon and Vellary Fell ended and few dared venture into them. Only dwarves who had made their cities in the mountains themselves.

  But he could not go there. Something about the thought of living in a mountain range – actually being buried beneath countless tons of stone – simply horrified him. He needed to be free. And the dwarves themselves were fae of a sort. They might reject magic, but they were as much of the faerun as any others. And to get to Copperheath he'd have to pass very close to the barbarian realm of Grole, somewhere no one wanted to end up. Besides, the dwarves were a difficult people. Garrulous and smelly and always bristling for a fight. And there was no path that he knew of that led north through Copperhearth to whatever lands lay beyond it.

  Then there were the southern islands. But they were wild. The people who lived there were mostly pirates and brigands. The realm was said to be a haven for storms, and the sea was filled with monsters. At least that was what the sailors claimed. But even if they were simply muckspouts spinning yarns, he couldn't swim. There was no way he was ever boarding a ship.

  Further south again was a land known only as the Great Southern. Some of the sailors claimed to have travelled all the way to it, but he doubted their truthfulness. Beyond the southern islands the seas were said to become monstrous. The one thing they all agreed on however, was that it was mountainous and freezing cold.

  That only left the realms further to the east and west. But he didn't know anything about them. Not the people who lived there nor what they were like. Not even of what races lived there. And it was a very long journey to reach them.

  The mystic realms as he had decided a long time ago were the only place he could consider moving to. And even then it would only be as a final resort if he had to run. And if they proved unsuitable he could continue on through them, heading further east or west on his journey around the coast until he found something better. Until then Abylon and the other human realms would be his home. Besides, for the moment the guards weren't hunting him. They were hunting the wolf mother. But it was still not safe for him. Something that he was suddenly reminded of when the door was flung open and a quartet of guards marched in with an inquisitor in their midst.

  Everyone knew the man for what he was instantly. The long black coat which fell down to his knees and with brass buttons running all the way to his neck, was distinctive. So was the strange three pointed black hat and the massive handgun strapped to his waist. Similarly the emblem of the cockatrice emblazoned on his white leather chest plate was far larger than that found on the armour of the guards. Even the imperial guards. But it was the pink eye glasses with their copper frames on his face that truly marked him for who he was.

  An inquisitor. An agent for the king himself. One who made inquiries only in the most serious matters. He wasn't here looking for a cut purse, petty snatch or a burglar. He didn't care about muckspouts telling lies or rakefires who refused to leave their boardings when their time was up and their coin gone. He was hunting those whom the King had deemed as being of especial interest. Traitors. Those who stole from the royal warehouses. Spies. And as Briagh quickly realized, this time surely the murderess who had terrorized the city for years.

  Everything abruptly stopped. People stopped talking. The bard playing the pipes in the corner of the room stopped. Diners stopped eating, some of them still with spoonfuls of hot stew left hanging in mid-air. But the arrival of an inquisitor was always bad news. Especially when probably half of the patrons in the alehouse were guilty of something. Smuggling things that came off the ships that docked in the district was big business on the docks. And the sudden appearance of the man in his elegant uniform and wearing the bright pink glasses was a frightening sight for those with guilty secrets. This after all was the man who would have them all hauled off to the justices and then the dungeons if he suspected they were guilty of a crime. Who could have a man tortured and executed with just a word.

  Briagh of course was guilty of a lot of crimes. The one they would hang him for though was his birth. But he was also fortunate. He was largely immune to the magic of the aura glasses. Through them he looked much as he did in normal life, except of course that he would appear pink he assumed. But his emotions, his fear and guilt would not be seen through them. It was something to do with being a morph. Everything about him was fluid including his emotions. So as the inquisitor searched the room with his glasses on, while everyone else showed all their fear and guilt for him to see, he did not. He looked innocent – he hoped.

  “People, I am seeking information about the location and identity of the individual known as the wolf mother.” The inquisitor raised his voice a little as he stated his business in being there. But the sudden silence in the room made it unnecessary.

  “As many of you will know she broke into the Arcanium last night and attacked an arcanist before stealing some items. Items which are considered extremely dangerous. By order of the King a reward is offered for her capture.”

  The last was a lie Briagh knew. The King hadn't ordered anything. He probably didn't even know about the theft. It would be the Court that had made the decision. The king didn't concern himself with such petty matters. Though some said he was too crazed to concern himself with much at all. He barely hung on to sanity and without the advisers that constantly surrounded him he might not continue to do so. But mentioning that would not go down well in front of the inquisitor, and so Briagh kept his silence.

  “But there is also punishment on offer. The wolf mother is a known criminal. A murderess. A thief and blackmailer. A predator. And she is also a traitor to the Realm of Abylon. Anyone found to have had dealings with her will be treated harshly. Anyone found to be in league with her will share her fate.”

  The inquisitor spoke calmly and clearly as if it was simply normal business, but everyone knew what he meant. They would be executed. Treason and murder were the two crimes for which a man could be legally hung – and of course committing any crime at all if he was a morph. A lot of people looked suddenly frightened. The inquisitor let them stew on his words for a while.

  But that was the point. He had mentioned the reward and the punishment both for the very simple reason that he was looking for responses. Those who would show either greed and hope because they might have the knowledge he sought. And those who would start to panic for the same reason. And though most would try to hide their emotions, they couldn't. That was the value of the glasses. Briagh didn't know the secret behind the arcane technology that went into crafting them – that was a closely guarded secret held by the dwarves of the Copperhearth Range – but he knew the power they gave the wearer. It made him the technological equivalent of a soothsayer. The inquisitor already held the power of life and death over everyone there. One word from him and any poor unfortunate soul would be carted off to the dungeons before a quick session in front of a justice followed by an even quicker hanging. Justice was swift in Abylon. Whether it was just, was another matter.

  “Unless of course someone were to speak now and lessen their complicity.” Once more the silence held as the inquisitor did nothing but stand there and survey the room. He wasn't looking for someone to come
forward. He was looking for anyone who was seriously thinking about it.

  “Now does anyone have anything to tell me?” The inquisitor's question was greeted with silence, as he'd surely known it would be. The silence continued to drag as those in the alehouse eyed each other up, all of them no doubt wondering if someone would speak up.

  No one would of course, thought Briagh. The wolf mother was a figure of fear as much as anything else, and what little he'd seen of her the previous night spoke of madness and death. Some claimed that she couldn't even speak. That she just howled and growled like her pack. She was not the sort that anyone would have dealings with. She was the sort people ran from. And yet he also wouldn't have thought of her as the type to rob the Arcanium. Usually her crimes were about finding food for her pack, and killing anyone too slow to get out of her way. Some said that those she killed were her food. Theft was a new one. And theft of something other than food?

  Then he remembered that the inquisitor had mentioned blackmail. Now that was something he'd never heard of before either. According to most she was as much a wolf as a woman. Wolves didn't do things like that. And what he had seen of her the previous night accorded with that. There had been insanity in those dark eyes. In those cries she'd made. In fact, if she'd stolen something and it wasn't food, he had no idea why she would have done that either.

  “Very well then,” the inquisitor finally broke the silence he had created. “Return to your business. But remember my offer. Mercy will be shown to those who come forward early.”

  With that the man turned around and left, accompanied by his soldiers, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. A few even started laughing quietly. But even as they did Briagh knew it wasn't over. The man hadn't really left. For the next little while he would be standing outside, watching as people left. Looking for anyone who seemed to be leaving in a hurry. It was a favourite trick of inquisitors. And even after that he would likely be in the district, making enquiries. If the inquisitor had come to the docks, then it was likely they thought the wolf mother was somewhere in the district.

  Or that Briagh was. Because despite the crier not having mentioned him, Briagh was suddenly sure that they were looking for a morph. After all, it didn’t seem like coincidence that the inquisitor had come to this alehouse the day after a morph had been seen in the city. The wolf mother had been seen many times. Maybe it was paranoia, but that paranoia had kept him alive for many years.

  This might be the time he thought, to lie low at home Maybe for a week.

  It was also nearly time to leave the city. Time to go before whatever was happening in the wider world swept him up along with it. Time to go before someone finally guessed what he was.

  Chapter Five

  Needlepoint was never one of Elan's fondest pass times and she wouldn't have done it at all save that it was considered a requirement for a proper wife. But she was twenty, six months away from her coming of age, and the Court wanted her hand-fasted almost as soon as that day arrived. They couldn't keep the secret of her family's curse hidden forever.

  Most of the city knew that the king was mad – it was hard to deny when every so often he wandered around stark naked and howled at the moon. But a mad king they could deal with. There had been mad kings before. He had a Court to keep him in line and limit the damage he could do and there was an heir in waiting – the people could accept it. As long as things ran smoothly and there was the likelihood of saner minds taking the throne in time.

  Unfortunately, her brothers were both locked away, never to be seen by anyone save their personal attendants. That was something almost no one knew. Because if word got out that the realm had a mad king, a dead queen and no heirs, there would be panic. The Court would be left powerless, unable to make a decision and have it accepted. Neighbouring kingdoms might start eyeing up Abylon for conquest. The barbarians of Grole especially. Both the exiled Prince Vel Moran and his brother King Durock had in the past looked upon Abylon with envious eyes. So the court had been hiding that secret for a decade.

  But people were beginning to talk. To wonder why Myrim hadn't finally stepped up and taken the throne from his father as he should have. If they had guessed that he too bayed at the moon and spent his days thinking he was a dog, they would have panicked. That panic would have grown if they guessed that Sal had completely forgotten how to speak. And above all else they could never find out that the dead queen was in fact the wolf mother.

  So the Court's plan was simple. Arrange for Elan to be hand-fasted to a suitable man as soon as she was of age, and then announce that the rest of her family were incapable of ruling the kingdom at much the same moment that they installed the new king on the throne.

  Her role in their plan was simple. It consisted of making herself into the perfect wife and choosing a husband. Or rather choosing from the limited selection the nobles of the Court had given her. Needlepoint though was the one wifely duty that was beyond her, a fact she discovered once again as she pricked her finger for the thousandth time and drew a little more blood.

  Elan would much rather have been practising with her sword, or learning her epic poetry. Becoming the poet warrior she truly was at heart. But that, as the Court kept telling her, was an indulgence. And with the time fast approaching when she should be preparing to be hand-fasted, she needed to give up her indulgences. She needed to become Abylon’s Queen. So Elan duly practised her needlepoint, wore her prettiest dresses and studied the information they gave her about the four potential husbands she could choose from.

  None of the choices thrilled her. They were all older than her – two of them much older. The likenesses she had been provided with did not set her heart racing. The best she could say of any of them were that they seemed dependable. These were not men of excitement or passion. They did not do great things. They were not dashing or romantic. Not men of great knowledge or wisdom. Nor of gallantry. They weren't even the heirs to other kingdoms.

  If people knew that by being hand-fasted to her they would inherit the kingdom, those men would no doubt have come calling. But equally, if they had known that then they would have soon realised that there was no king nor male heir. Armed with that knowledge the kingdom might not have lasted until the hand-fasting ceremony. Millions of lives hung in the balance. So Elan’s choices were second and third sons. Lessor nobles. But they were at least reliable. Men who could be trusted not to send the realm to war or empty the treasury. Not to upset the way things were run. And perhaps most important of all, they weren't mad.

  How had her life come to this? That was the question she kept asking herself as she stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth. But really she knew the answer. She was a noble woman. One way or another this had always been going to be her life. Bing hand-fasted to another noble, regardless of her feelings. The only difference for her was that normally it would be her parents who decided who she would be hand-fasted to. In a way, she was actually quite lucky to have been given a choice of four candidates. She could have simply been told who she was going to be hand-fasted to and been left with no choice at all.

  And she would do it. It was after all her responsibility. Even if in her heart she wanted to go out and hunt wildred and slay demons. Or in particular one damned morph. The line of the Feldmights would continue.

  But by the gods she wanted to kill that morph! Elan stabbed the fabric with the needle as if it was the morph's bloody heart. She had no idea who he was or where he could be found. No thought even as to why he had done what he had done. And she also had no hope that what he had done could be undone. Not when she looked into the eyes of her father and her brothers and saw the complete lack of comprehension or even recognition in them. The damage was too great. They would never recover. But if she could at least kill the morph she would have her vengeance.

  Of course letting her thoughts wander while she was working with needle and thread was always a mistake, as she discovered once more. And this time the blood got on her embroidery.

 
“Princess!” Her lady's maid came rushing in to the drawing room while Elan was sucking her finger after stabbing herself yet again. She had a worried look on her face.

  “Ayvelen?”

  “There is a commotion in the courtyard and the captain of the guards asks that you return to your private chambers with all haste and lock the door!”

  Run to her chambers and lock the door? That didn't sound like a commotion to Elan. That sounded like something far more serious. In fact, it sounded like an attack. But she instantly knew that the advice was good – though not because she wanted to retreat. Rather it was because Elan kept her weapons in her chambers. And whatever this was she intended to face it with sword and pistol in hand.

  “Lead the way.” Elan didn't waste any time in following Ayvelen out of the drawing room. There probably wasn't a lot of time to waste.