“What were you thinking!”
Grinda was pacing the floor of Nim’s
tiny room, his fists balling and loosening, his expression alternating rapidly
between anger and helplessness and back again.
Nim was still standing by the door that Elu had just left from, bound and
led by the city guard. Her countenance
too was veering between two emotions – one of perplexity and the other of open
candour.
“Come, Grinda. It could not have been more obvious she was
a spy. I don’t know for what reason or
for whom, but I’ve heard all these rumours abroad of Aksees and tûrkals and
wars. They’re talking about nothing
else up in Grimhabim.” She paused as she saw Grinda was still pacing the floor
like a trammelled beast. He was
certainly behaving very un-Grinda-like. “Grinda, you’re beginning to unnerve
me. What on earth is the matter with
you?”
“Nim,” he began again and stopped
his pacing to face her. “Listen to me.
Elu was no spy.”
“What? How do you know? And why
would it matter to you anyhow?”
Grinda sighed. “This was exactly the
kind of thing I didn’t want to happen,” he muttered under his breath. Nim eyed him suspiciously.
“Grinda, is there something you’re
not telling me?”
He said nothing, instead pressing a
hand to his right temple. Nim pounced
at the familiar action.
“You know her, don’t you! And you brought her here for a reason!” She
stood up straight and crossed the room to face him. “Grinda, tell me, what is
all this? Just who is that girl?”
“I can’t tell you,” Grinda spoke,
lowering his hand and almost hissing at her. “Not yet anyhow. You’ve just gone and done something very
foolish, Nim. What if I can’t procure a
release for her? I’m known here, but
Morçant is far from friendly with me.
And we’re already late as it is.”
“Late?” Nim repeated, looking more
than just puzzled now and more and more incensed. “For what? Listen, Grinda, perhaps I have made a
mistake, and I’m sorry for it. But if
she’s truly not a spy then the city guard will find out, and they’ll let her
go. There’s nothing to be anxious
about.”
“Yes, there is!” Grinda broke out fiercely,
and Nim backed away in surprise. This
was definitely not the Grinda she
knew. “There is more to worry about than you could ever had imagined! Nim, those rumours you heard in Grimhabim
were only the tip of the iceberg! And
Elu, she is the key!”
“Key?”
Nim echoed incredulously, not understanding a word that her friend had
said. If he really was her friend. It was
almost as if Grinda had disappeared and someone else had replaced him. He was calming somewhat now, but not without
a great effort of will.
“Nim,” he spoke. “I see now your
part to play in this was greater than I first thought. Something important is going to happen in
this place, something I dread to find out.
All this happened for a reason,
just like everything else…” He halted and looked up at Nim again, who was
staring at him with an incredulous look in her eyes. “Nim. There is much that I must tell you, but now
is not the time. First we must free Elu,
then I shall explain all to you. Come
now. Let us go.”
There was nothing for it but for Nim
to agree.
Things had not gone upon a smooth
course since Elu had been captured.
First she had been taken to the city guard’s quarters, were they had
locked her in a temporary cell for about an hour. Though the soldiers had been surly and cool to her, they had not
treated her cruelly. While they were
ignoring her it had given her the chance to mull over Nim’s betrayal. Of course she had known the woman was
suspicious of her, but she had never expected this. But of course, Nim had never
seemed the trustworthy type to her.
After the hour had passed, a second group of
soldiers had come to her cell, dressed in finer and shinier armour, obviously
of a higher rank. They conversed
quietly with the leader of the city guards for several minutes, then bade Elu
be released. After that Elu was taken
on horseback out of the poorer parts of the city and into what she could only
deduce was that part of the metropolis known as Inner Mosdren. It was from the fine architecture of the
buildings, the cleanliness of the streets, the fountains, gardens and parks,
and the richly dressed citizens that she could tell that she had left Outer
Mosdren behind.
“Where are we going?” she asked
once, but received no answer. These
higher-ranking soldiers obviously considered her beneath their attention; their
eyes were fixed steadily on the road in front of them, and their lips were set
straight.
After several minutes a large building unfurled from
over the horizon, one of unfathomable size and grandeur. First the jutting angularity of several
towers, then rounded, lower-sitting domes unrolled before her eyes. The main road gave way to a tree-lined
avenue and sumptuous gardens at this point, and then the castle came into full
view. It was of a massive scale, with
bricks hewn of sand-coloured stone and windows plated with gilt. The domes seemed to be made of golden leaf,
and the spires of silver. At the
tallest steeple a crimson coloured flag flapped wildly in the stormy breeze,
bearing the crest of the Rofaçilin royal family – an orange sun rising over
what seemed to be glowing, flaming sceptre.
Elu was struck with awe. She
could never have guessed that palaces could really look this opulent, and for a moment she was so taken-aback and almost
forgot the seriousness of her predicament.
She could well imagine the splendour of this castle to outsiders in the
summer, when the silver would shine and the gold would glow in the
sunlight. It seemed somehow to strike a
chord with her, and for a moment an image caught in her mind – a tall towered
palace, hewn from soft, white stone, glinting fair and pale on a summer’s day…
The guards led her straight up the
tree-lined avenue, through a heavily manned gilt gate, and up to the doors of
the castle. The guards on duty only
took a passing look over Elu before allowing her in. While one of the soldiers was given the task of leading the
horses to the stables, the others escorted Elu into the hallway with nothing
more than curt commands interspersed here and there. Through room and corridor they led her, each place more
sumptuously decorated and adorned than the one before. Several times Elu forgot to walk on, such
was her amazement at this overt display of wealth. She had thought Grimhabim Stronghold rich and opulent, though not
exactly the most beautiful of places.
But the Rofaçilin castle demonstrated such a level of affluence and
splendour that Elu didn’t even think anything could outstrip it. And yet, after hearing the various things
Nim and Azuril had had to tell her about the poverty of most of Rofaçilin, she
could not help but wonder how the king had been able to afford all this luxury.
To her surprise, she was not taken
into a cell, vault, dungeon, or any such place. Instead she was led to a sizeable doorway, whose doorframe had
been painted lavishly in gold and silver.
The soldier who was at the head of their group stopped to knock
respectfully at the door. It was a
moment before the faint sound of a voice saying ‘enter’ sounded. At that signal the soldier opened the door
only a slight way, but enough for Elu to discern the sumptuousness of what lay
within.
“The girl you wished to see is here,
your Majesty,” he spoke, in that same emotionless voice.
“Bring her in,” came the voice
again; it was thin and reedy.
The soldiers urged Elu forward with a slight prod to the back. She walked forward obligingly, more out of curiosity than anything else. Why would the great king of Rofaçilin wish to speak to her?
The room she entered was a large one
– at least compared to anything in her experience. It was furnished abundantly, and without concern for
expense. A broad oak table, highly
polished, occupied the center of the room; the chairs, wide and comfortable,
had brightly woven tapestries slung over their backs. A huge fireplace with an ornamental grate stood at the far end, a
fire burning merrily from within.
Paintings of nobles, landscapes and rich still-lives were hung on every
wall. The largest of these bore the
picture of a man in his prime – a man bedecked with crown and jewels, crimson
mantle draped languidly upon his shoulders, a slightly weak, even peevish
expression on his thin face. Below the
painting, standing by the table by the fireplace, was the man whose image the
canvas bore. At first Elu was a little
stunned to see such a miniature version of the grandiose man in the
picture. It seemed somehow farcical, as
though the image of the two together, small and large, had been placed before
her in order to tickle her.
“Ah” said the small king in that
reedy voice of his, “here she is. Thank
you, sergeant. You and your men may
leave.” He spoke peremptorily, but
strangely; his voice seemed to have little command to it. If he wasn’t in this magnificent room and
dressed in such fine clothes, Elu wouldn’t have thought him much more than a
peddler, or a farmer. She half expected
the soldier to laugh at him – but the man left without another word, and the
expectation was shattered.
The both of them, king and girl,
were left alone together to peruse one another. Elu noted that he was dressed in elegant and costly fabrics from
head to foot; yet oddly, they seemed to fall from him like sacking, giving
either the effect that he was gaunt or unkempt. His hair too, once seemed to have been a deep chestnut brown, but
it was now a soapy grey and was framed unceremoniously with a lopsided
crown. His face, that seemed so haughty
in the painting, now seemed in real-life to be nothing more than disagreeable
and petty. It was lined all over; not
due to the cares and trials of old age, or the withered look that so often
comes with wisdom, but simply out of a lifelong habit of complaining and
fussing. Such had been Morçant’s life:
he had the temper of a man who feels that life has owed him something, yet it
has not seen fit to give it to him.
Such discontent can never merely be borne within; something of its
nature seems to seep into the very fabric of a person’s skin, turning him
prematurely aged, anaemic, sour, like gone-off milk. Thus was Morçant, king of Rofaçilin.
The king, for his part, did not seem
too taken with Elu himself; at least, he seemed a little taken aback that he
should be met with something so young, so innocent-looking, so pretty – albeit
in an unassuming, uncomplicated sort of way – this was not the kind of spy he
had been expecting.
“Won’t you sit down?” he spoke at
last indicating a chair by the table, breaking the long silence. Elu sat down, feeling a little bewildered,
wondering about this unkingly king. She
had expected someone proud, strong and decisive, not this skinny, unimposing
man. He seemed to catch something of
the confusion in her face, but misread its meaning.
“I know you’re wondering why you’ve
been brought to my private room,” he spoke with a wavering smile, and she first
noticed a sort of nervous tic in his face, in the left corner of his mouth.
“Don’t worry; I don’t usually give prisoners such attention.” He chuckled; a
high, nervous chuckle that seemed to speak of a character given to
indecisiveness. She stared up at him expectantly.
“Well, I suppose we should get down to business, shouldn’t we,” he continued,
his eyes roving the walls as if he were embarrassed to speak to her
directly. When he finally did turn his
gaze on her, she noticed the shiftiness in his pale blue eyes. “Well then – who
sent you here? Was it Hardûl? Or perhaps that poisonous snake, Rayla? Come now, tell me – who sent you?”
Elu felt certain he had never
interrogated anyone in his life. She
wondered why he hadn’t simply left the guards to question her instead. “I can
assure you, your Majesty,” she replied as politely as she could, “I have no
idea of who you’re talking about. I
know that you and your people suspect me of being a spy, but I can honestly
tell you here and now that I am not.”
Morçant had shook his head all the
while she spoke, as though impatient to push her words aside. “No, no,” he said
when she had finished, as though talking to a child. He leant forward at the table, smiled at her with that twitching
grimace of his. “My dear child,” (and he spoke almost as he would to his own
daughter), “there is really nothing to be afraid of. I am your friend. Your friend.” He repeated the word as though
there were a whole wealth of meaning in it.
At first, Elu did not quite understand.
Then she realised that Azuril must have come to him and spoken to him,
and explained everything to him, and that he was only interviewing her to make
sure of everything himself. A tidal
wave of relief swept over Elu. Of
course, she should have known that Azuril would make things right.
“I’m not a spy,” she repeated again,
wondering what she should say to exonerate herself. “And I was sent by no
one. Well, not exactly anyhow. I came here with a friend, whose name is
Grinda.” She wasn’t sure whether she should use the name Azuril or Grinda, but
she decided Grinda would be the safer choice. “I’m sure you know him already,”
she continued. “He mentioned that he had spoken to you before, and that you
would understand what he had to say to you.”
There was suddenly a different look
on Morçant’s face. The childish
petulance had disappeared and was replaced with an expression of complete and
sudden concentration, as though she had said something of great importance.
“Grinda, you say?” he murmured,
rubbing his chin absently, his body as sudden excess of movement as he began to
pace a circle nervously. “And why would he need to speak to me, child?”
“He has news of great
importance. I’m not sure that I should
speak on the matter without him being present,” Elu added quickly, aware of the
caution needed.
“Oh no!” She half thought the king
would laugh, but he did not. He seemed
more focused on his pacing. “It is true that I know Grinda very well. He has confided in me often in the
past. I’m sure that if he has faith in
you then he would not mind if you told me what he has to say.”
There was almost a wheedling look on
his face as he spoke the words; but Elu did not note it.
“I suppose it would be as you say,”
she conceded a little hesitantly. “Perhaps he would not mind if I told you
since I am here. He did say that the
matter was of great importance.
Apparently he has had news that the tûrkals are planning to make war
against the races of the Light. Even as
we speak they are preparing a great army.”
“A war you say?” Morçant
interrupted, his blue eyes glinting. He
did not seem unduly surprised at the words, though his movement still was
flustered.
“Yes. There were tûrkal spies in Grimhabim, seeking knowledge of the
current state of the kingdoms of the Light.
It is possible that they have even come as far as Rofaçilin – although
it seems that you have known of this already.” She paused a moment, seeing the
avaricious look on Morçant’s face as he absorbed every word she said. “Then
Lord Brinda of Grimhabim discovered that the tûrkals were gathering slaves to
work in the forges and mines of Dûrval.
He said it implied that they were making armouries, in preparation for
war.”
“I see,” Morçant interjected,
turning away to look thoughtfully at the wall. “And how do you fit into all of
this, my dear?” he asked softly. “How come a young, pretty thing like you
should be sucked into all this conspiracy and intrigue?”
Elu hesitated, wondering whether she
should make the extent of her involvement known. Azuril certainly seemed to think that she was some sort of
important pawn in the whole game; he believed she was of an ancient race of
shapeshifters, something that Elu herself believed preposterous. She was sure Morçant would feel the same.
“My village was destroyed by Aksees,
and many of the folk were taken as slaves to work in the Dûrval mines. I believe this has been happening to many of
the towns and cities of Éadan. But
Grinda saved me from being taken as a slave, and took me with him. He wanted me to join him in his mission.”
“Mission?” Morçant repeated, and now
there was more than just curiousity in his voice; oddly, there was almost fear.
“Yes,”
she began again, slowly, a slight misgiving at the back of her mind that
nevertheless she could not pinpoint. “He wanted me to come with him and aid him
against the tûrkals. We were to travel
throughout the kingdoms, warning their rulers of the impending war. That was why I came here with him, so that
we may warn you.”
Morçant turned again, and there was
a faint smile on his face. “Very dangerous work for a young, defenseless girl
such as yourself,” he noted almost gently. “Why would Grinda put you through
such danger? Or is there something else
you are not telling me?”
“I swear to you on Badan’s will that
I have told you the truth,” Elu said stoutly. “I am not a spy – why should I
lie to you? Grinda has only come here
to aid you, and warn you of the dangers we face against the evil will of the
tûrkals. If you do not believe me, than
perhaps you should ask him yourself.”
“I believe you,” the king spoke; and
once again his face had changed, and his eyes were narrowed, insidious. “But I
need not question Grinda anymore than I have to. I know that man comes here under a false name; and I know also
that the tûrkals are planning war – yes, I know, because they themselves have already warned me.” His tone was excited,
triumphant. “But,” he persisted, his voice now low and level, “it is not he
that interests me. It is you.”
At the words Elu suddenly knew. It seemed ironic – a double treachery. She knew that Morçant had already known of
everything she had just told him, not because of spies or intelligence of his
own, but because he was in league
with the tûrkals, and because they had already told him, probably many months
ago, to prepare his own soldiers and his own armouries and forges and mines for
war. She knew also that somehow he knew
of Azuril’s true identity, that he was not actually Grinda Bard; and she knew
that for some reason he had heard about her, that he was curious about her,
that he would do anything in his power to discover who and what she was. In the cold moment of that realisation she
cursed herself for her trust, for her foolishness, for her honesty. What she had endangered with her words was
insurmountable – the cause of a whole peoples, of several kingdoms, of several
races; he would know now, he would know how to stop Azuril, he would warn the
tûrkals of everything they knew, he would ambush the good people of Grimhabim
and the Asalki even before they knew it…
Elu almost stood up, her mind in a whirl. What had she done?
“How?” was all she could stammer.
“Is it not obvious?” Morçant seethed, skirting the
table to face her. All of a sudden his
expression had changed, exploded – the white, pinched face had become clammy
and wild, the shifty eyes bulged from his face like a madman’s. “Because the
tûrkals are strong, and we, we are weak!
The power of the tûrkals, it has grown, we never knew it, all those centuries
and it was growing, and we kept on saying to ourselves – ‘well, we won the last
war, it doesn’t matter, we slaughtered them, and we can slaughter them
again.’ But we were wrong; we are wrong! Nothing can defeat their powers, their skill in wizardry and
necromancy. They’ll kill us all, don’t
you see? They’ll overrun Fithandani,
and they won’t stop until they kill us all!”
“But how can you be sure of all this?” Elu stuttered
fearfully. The king was raving now; his
lips were flecked with spittle and foam.
“Because they aren’t alone!” he squawked, flapping
his arms in agitation, as though she would have known the truth all along only
she was blind. “Because they have conjured up spirits, ghosts, spectres – oh,
by Aan, I know not what they are! That
is the power of their necromancy, a life for a life, a death brings
resurrection…Can’t you see, I have to comply with them, that way, I’m exempt, I
need fear nothing.” For a minute it seemed as if he would lose his mind, and
Elu could understand nothing of what he said.
Then he appeared to calm and in a flash his expression was thoughtful.
“In the past, during the War of the Sundering,
Rofaçilin aided those of the Dark. We
had all the riches we could have asked for; we never starved, we never wanted
for anything. Yet after the War, when
we turned to the Light religion, our kingdom became poor again, our people died
of starvation, no one desired to live in Rofaçilin anymore. This is the way my people have had to suffer
all these long centuries – the contempt of the other kingdoms, the disdain that
the other races have for us and our squalour!
To them we are like beggars, the lowly and the scum of Fithandani. We are the lepers of this world!” He paused,
his eyes fixing upon hers once more. “But perhaps now, with the tûrkals once
more by our sides, we shall live again as the proud people we once were –
perhaps we shall simply just live, without fear of poverty, without fear of
what death may do to us.”
“But to sell your souls to cruelty…” Elu began,
thinking of Mirulas, dear Mirulas, in the snow, dead…
“Our world is bitten all over with cruelty,” he spat
at her, “Surely you know that! My
people have known that since the most ancient of times! Speak not to me of cruelty!”
He slumped into a nearby chair, drained, consumed of
all emotion, his face lined, dark, almost haunted. What wickedness he had seen or dealt in Elu could not
imagine. The only thing she could think
of now was escaping, was running away from this, running as far as she could,
away from Mosdren, away from Nim, away from Azuril and her dreams and her past
and her fate. To where? To Éadan?
To Welle, to the Eldeens, to Mirulas?
No, she told herself angrily. Because they’ve all gone, they’re all dead,
there’s nowhere to run to; there’s nowhere to hide. How could she go to where she could just be the simple Elu she
longed to be, where people would love her for what she was, where she was
nameless and faceless, where she was not even the helpless pawn in a game being
moved this way and that, this way and that?
Where could she find someone to seek refuge with, someone to hold her
and take away her fears, someone to tell her she need not run anymore, because
they were there, because they would always protect her? She could find them nowhere. Because such a place and such a person no
longer existed.
Despair caught her and she stood,
but Morçant was out of the chair and upon her, and his hands, thin and bony
were clutching her shoulders like talons.
“No! You do not leave! Tell me
who you are!” he hissed, paranoia lighting every line and crease on his face.
“Why has Grinda brought you here! Who
are you!”
There it was – the question that had
loomed before her in the darkness of her sleeping hours, that lurked at the
corner of every path she walked, that had tracked her every movement since the
hour she first remembered. There it
faced her in all its ugliness, defiant, derisive. How should she answer?
“I don’t know,” she cried, tears
suddenly stinging her eyes. “I don’t know who I am…”
He shook her still, his eyes aflame,
his face aghast.
“You are the one, aren’t you! You are the one they have sent, those
usurpers, those mongrels! You shall not
have us! You shall not have us!”
The utterance, the terrible oath seemed to cast out
every last ounce of strength from his frail body; but even as Elu felt the pain
of his claw-like grasp, even as she met the wildness of his stare, even as his
insistence that she should know what he meant communicated itself to her,
still, she did not understand. Even as
he let go of her, and fell away like a withered leaf clinging to its branch
against the wind, she knew she could not give him what he wanted, because she
did not know, she simply did not know her own self. She watched him as he backed away against the edge of the table,
and as the fear and terror trickled from his gaze. Something seemed to resolve itself within him and he caught his
breath, looking upon her now with calm.
“No – it cannot be.
Such innocence, such naivete.
You are like us – snared in this world, caught up in this Fate, poor
simple girl. It is better that you die
here, with me, than become that. Yes, stay here a while, girl. And then you will die with me. With all of us.”
Years later, Elu wondered what had driven Morçant
mad. Had it been the prophecies he had
read in his youth, predicting his doom and downfall during a war already
planned since the beginning of days?
Had it been fear of the tûrkals and their shades, their magic tricks,
their conjuring, their lies? Or had it
simply been a terror that every man holds in his heart, a terror of living out
one’s life in the eternal disdain of others, in the infamy of never having made
a difference, in the shame of namelessness, of being a worthless pawn that
shall be moved by others, that shall bring disgrace upon not only oneself but
ones kingdom? What is better, to sell
ones soul to depravity in order that face be saved? Or to brave the inevitable tide and drown in the process?
Such questions did not touch Elu’s mind as the
king’s guard led her back towards the city prison. All she thought of were words – the king’s words, Azuril’s words,
Zvazdra’s words, all playing upon her like pieces of scattered rhyme, meaning
something and yet meaning nothing by themselves. And she thought of endings too – of how she would do as the king
had said, and stay here in his prisons; and of how she would die when the tide
overtook her. She could not be what
Azuril had said she was.
For awhile she considered it. Could it possibly be that she was a shapeshifter? If so, it was her only chance of escaping
her present predicament. She could
become some fierce animal, maul the guards, frighten anyone who got in her way,
flee the city. And then what? Go to Nithall and continue the quest? Look for Azuril? Go to Dûrval and seek revenge for Mirulas’ death? She shook her head. Why did she even ask these questions? She always asked too much. Try
it, a voice seemed to say to her. Try it and see. So she would. She would try to shapeshift, she would settle the question once
and for all.
She tried to conjure up an image in her mind, an
image she wanted. A bear she thought,
that would do it. The bear that had
attacked her in the Rillon Forest. She
captured it just there, in the front of her mind where she could see it. Hulking form, shaggy brown fur, beady eyes,
fierce muzzle, clawed paws ready to strike, sturdy flanks bearing the weight of
inhuman, brutal power. She thought on
the image for a long time, so long it seemed to jump out at her, drag her into
itself. She imagined the bear and its
life, its long months of hibernation, the warmth and the security coursing
through it like blood through veins.
She sensed the ritual of the hunt, of sniffing and tracking, ears
pricking at every sound, walk measured, cautious. Then there was ripping apart a carcass, eating up the warm
entrails with relish; later, hunting salmon in streams, batting them with
strong paws, feeling the pleasure of the water rushing past ones feet, the
spray of cold foam on ones cheeks. The
vividness was like a dream, so certain, so true during its lifespan that it
needed no confirmation. For a moment,
she almost believed she had changed form, and she held the creature there,
inside her where it seemed to belong.
Nothing happened.
Nothing could
happen. What she was doing? What she was trying for was so wide of the
mark it could not happen. There was
something there, she felt it – but it was some inner truth of all mortals, some inner link all men
shared. This was not
shapeshifting. This was symbiosis. She could not shapeshift. She could not do it.
The trail of thought and the inkling of
disappointment died on a sudden shout and a scream from not far away. Elu fell out of her reverie and looked about
with alarm. They had stopped in an
alleyway that seemed to connect with a marketplace or square, and it was from
there that the cries had sounded. The
group of soldiers that were escorting her to the prison stood stock still,
measuring the direction of the trouble, ready to move. Another scream broke out, then another. In another moment two of the soldiers had
run out into the square, while the rest kept a tight circle around Elu, moving
her forward with cautious jabbing motions with their spears.
“Don’t you get any ideas now,” one of them hissed at
her, “Make to escape and we’ll run you through.”
Elu had no intention of running. Even as they rounded into the square, the
sounds of the great ruckus were beginning to frighten her. Something was not right. Here were women and children, even grown
men, running this way and that, searching for cover. Amidst the shouts and shrieks, Elu could make out the sound of
what she thought was growling. Not from
some human, but some beast. For a
moment she experienced an odd sense of displacement. Had she really conjured up a bear? Had her spirit simply shifted itself from her body, and had
become a bear in order to free her? Had
she really shapeshifted after all?
Defying the thought, she turned her head and saw, in
the centre of the square, the two soldiers attempting to hold back the
creature, spears held aloft, pointing inward for the kill, stances on the
defensive, fear nevertheless showing in the involuntary trembling of their
hands.
“Aan save us,” muttered the soldier who was leading
Elu under his breath.
It was a wolf, a large one, larger than any Elu had
seen. It’s coat looked as though it
would have been beautiful, if it weren’t so matted and dirty; for its fur was
the colour of rich grey-blue. Now it
was standing before the group of soldiers as if to attack, its hackles raised,
its teeth bared, spittle dripping from its mouth as it growled menacingly. There was something that radiated from the
animal which seemed to halt the enemy from throwing their spears at it. Elu could not tell what it was. She was just as fearful of it as the
soldiers were, and whatever spell it had woven about them had captured her as
well. There was something imperious,
almost majestic about the gaze of the golden-eyed wolf, despite the coarseness
of its appearance.
Suddenly, it pounced, bounding upward lightly on its
rear legs, arching gracefully in the air as it grasped one man’s wrist between
its teeth. Before any one soldier could
react it had clamped its jaw shut, holding on with the tremendous ferocity of a
vice. Blood gushed out and the man
groaned, releasing his spear. The wolf
let go, and Elu saw the hand, almost severed, hanging there like the broken
stem of a flower. She shut her eyes,
wanting to gag, making to run, but a guard caught hold of her as the wolf
lunged at another man.
“Help ‘em out, boys!” he ordered the remaining two guards, then turned to Elu, saying, “Don’t think this damned thing is going to save you!” He drew out his dagger, held it to her throat. “One peep out of you, girl, and you’re dead!”
Screams of agony punctuated the malevolent touch of
the cold steel at her neck. She
blanched as yet another man fell, his leg bleeding, his face torn with claw
marks. The last two soldiers hung back,
their weapons ready to strike yet hesitating.
The wolf eyed them with contempt in its yellow eyes, legs spread
wide. There was something fey about its
gaze, as though something had filled it with hate and had unleashed it unto
unwitting foes. Even before the
soldiers had time to attack it had leapt up again and rent one man’s throat,
and in another flash had pounced another man to the floor and was attempting to
maul him. Elu felt the stiffening of
the hands of the man that held her. Very
slowly he began to move towards the alleyway, dragging her after him, trying not
to distract the wolf’s attention to himself.
He almost made it. But the wolf
seemed to sense something, and it raised its head, blood dripping from its maw. Now it noticed the soldier pulling Elu away,
and its eyes kindled with the keenness of hate. Snarling, it left the body of the stricken soldier, advanced
towards Elu with the intent of hot battle radiating from every part of its
body. Feral energies mingled with a loathing
that was almost human. Elu felt the
quavering of the man beside her match and mingle with her own.
The approach of the wolf was slow, muted,
understated yet bloodthirsty. Before
long it stood right before them, its body taut, ready for the kill. A moment passed where they stood stationary,
Elu breathless, half with wonder, half with fear; the soldier petrified; the
wolf poised for a strike. Then it
happened, and the wolf lunged, and Elu felt the dagger edge pressed tight
against her throat, almost cutting, almost rending free her life…Then there was
the wolf, its teeth sinking into the man’s hand, the knife falling, her death
receding like a tide, back into the place from whence it had sprung…
The man dropped, howling so that she almost thought
he might be the wolf and the wolf might be him. Freed from his grasp she would have run, but for that huge
creature standing before her, looking at her, the wildness still in its eyes,
but the gaze communicating something different. Why, she thought, what is it?
Something…I met you before! I
met you in Zikthra Z’asalki!
The realisation struck through her like
lightning. The wolf she had seen in the
caves of the Asalki, the creature that had touched her as the Oak Tree
had. What was it doing here, why was it
in this place here, now? Unless…
She felt it then, that odd snaking of presence
inside her, reaching for her, speaking to her in an ancient and primitive
way. Run, it said. What are waiting for? Make your escape now!
She needed no other bidding. Swivelling round quickly she ran, ran
through ways she did not know, to a destination she did not know. Blindness took her, forcing out the
questions that flooded her brain, leading her through one street, then another
as she pushed stunned and frightened people out of the way, only to come to a
dead end. Where to, she thought wildly. Where to now?
Not that
way. Follow me.
The wolf had followed her. She stopped, turning to face it. It stood on its hind legs, gazing at her through deep golden eyes. Between its jaws it held two blades – her sword, and her dagger. It dropped the two before her, pushed them towards her with its snout. When she hesitated it sat back on its haunches once more, its tongue lolling out, almost in a friendly gesture. Encouraged, but still wary, Elu reached out slowly and took the two blades, turning them over in her hands. These were indeed hers. She recognised immediately the carved images of the hunt that Ifith had worked into the hilt of the dagger.
“You took these from the soldier?” she asked half of herself, half of the wolf. “But how did you know they were mine?”
Looked, the creature
answered simply, watched.
Then, turning, it ducked into a space inside a rotting fence, disappearing out of view. Elu bent and looked through the hole, seeing only the dark line of a dingy back street. For a moment she hesitated, then saw the face of the wolf as it peered back at her. Somehow that look reassured her. Getting down onto all fours, she struggled through the gap, earning herself several splinters on the way. Once safely on the other side, she stopped to regain her breath. The wolf was several paces away, sitting on its haunches, looking at her, its countenance inquisitive.
“What are you?” Elu breathed. “What do you want from
me?”
Nothing, came the answer as sure as
if the wolf had spoken to her out loud.
Just watching, just
wondering. A pause. The wolf seemed to hear something; its ears
pricked up, its eyes became alert. Must go.
You stay here. Friends come
soon. Safe once more.
And with that the wolf had turned, and was gone.