The Wolf King (42 page)

Armine looked away and wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was pinch faced and haggard.

“Listen to me, Chiara,” the bear said. “We’re in a tight spot, but no matter what happens, I’m going to be with you. Remember, I can’t die, and when you need me, I’ll be there. So, no matter what happens, keep on going. Don’t stop struggling. I will always come and I will help you.”

He reached over and patted her small hand clutching the horse’s reins. “Now, you must promise me something.”

“What?” she asked.

“No matter what happens, you keep on riding. Don’t look back. Just keep on going.”

Chiara nodded.

“No matter what happens. No matter what you see or hear.”

“Yes,” she said.

They had almost reached the wetlands surrounding the river. The bear drew Hugo’s sword.

“I’ll stand with you,” Armine said. “I can use a sword. I’ve fought brigands a time or two.”

“Don’t be put off then by anything you see,” the bear said.

Ahead a small ruined fortification on the riverbank loomed up in a jumble of stone through the white mist hanging over the water. The bear and Armine turned their horses into the ruins, picking their way among the stone blocks.

Chiara and the two men who were her escorts continued along the road toward the bridge.

Regeane caught up to the six men and the dogs following Chiara and her father. The wolf laid her ears back and tried to get the woman to flee. She wanted no part of six armed men, but the three dogs were what really frightened her. To the wolf they were simply insane. Their socialization process had been so distorted by human cruelty that in hatred of all things, human and animal, they would kill at once anything within reach of their tethers.

The wolf was forced on by her human companion, but she was sick with fear. The mercenaries in the king’s employ were no better than the dogs. They poisoned the air around them with an aura of horror. The stink of cold iron, dirty hot skin, and maleness permeated their clothing.

The male musk was not something she disliked. She had known within a few weeks of their marriage what her husband’s mood was whenever he approached her. Warm desire caressed her senses before he touched her, but this was the male heat raised to warning reek. These men meant murder, and the fact that one of the victims was a young girl only added spice to their savagery. They were in essence being paid for doing what they loved.

Iron, wood, smoke, desire, rage, and a distant hint of old despair all combined to make the wolf want to flee. But the woman shook off her midnight companion’s misgivings. She left the road and entered the brush. It was muddy but as long as she stayed on grass, the footing was not too bad. During the chase in the town, she had discovered just how fast a young virgin wolf was. She extended herself and paced the hunters. It was easy. But now what? Six men, all well armed, the dog handler, and three wolfhounds. No—these were not wolfhounds but the more ancient breed—the dogs of war.

Born and bred to kill. It was said that Caesar himself once was struck with admiration for a mastiff belonging to the Gauls that, clad in chain mail, guarded his master’s wagon for two days after his master fell in battle. Caesar tried to capture it alive, but it ran onto the spears of Caesar’s legionnaires, preferring to perish rather than surrender. As the dogs, so the people. Many perished rather than surrender.

These dogs were descendants of this dangerous breed. The female wolf is sacred among wolves, but these dogs would give no quarter, even to a she-wolf.

The land had begun to drop. At the top of the hill, Regeane heard the shouts of the mercenaries as they sighted their quarry: Armine, his daughter, the two soldiers of his escort… and Hugo.

Hugo?
Regeane thought.
I’m not going to risk my neck to rescue Hugo
. Still, she continued to pace the party of soldiers, watching as their prey vanished into the mist lingering near the river.

“Beware ambush,” the dog handler said to the rest. “I think they may take their chance now. If they don’t, they may not get another.”

“Loose the dogs,” the captain of the soldiers cried.

The dog handler paused; he cracked his whip.

The three mastiffs strained against their collars. Two barked and snarled, jaws foam-flecked with rage; the third was more quiet and looked as if the long distance it had come running alongside the horses might be taking its toll.

The whip cracked again. Then the dog handler dropped the leashes.

Regeane lunged forward along with the dogs. She realized to her shock she could outrun them, and possibly run them down. She crossed the road in front of the mercenaries, a swift-moving, gauzy shadow. One of them flung a spear at her but it flew far wide of its mark. Then she was in the thick weeds and brush, running just behind the last dog. He outweighed her, so she was tentative.

The dog ahead of her leaped a log.

Fear held her back from the pursuit. In the wolf she felt the sense of a precipice. The fear that she was somehow running along the edge of a steep cliff and if she fell, the consequences might be… what?

The dog was just ahead. She had only to increase her pace slightly. She’d learned from watching Maeniel. He was born knowing how to use his fangs.

The thug dog had the spiked collar that was supposed to defend him from wolves, but mangling a leg might do as well. She closed with the dog, her fangs sinking into the haunch. The femur that propels the hind legs of every creature from dinosaur to man was her target.

The dog screamed. It shook her. She had not known an animal could sound so like a human. The dog was down, thrashing in circles, snapping at its nearly severed hind limb, spraying blood in circles around its frenzied body.

Suddenly Remingus was with her again. He carried the terrible slashing sword of the first legionnaires. Single-edged, its weight propelled it through skin tissue and even bone. In the hand of a strong man it could quite literally chop a human body in half at one blow. The ghastliness of the wounds it made were legend. It beheaded the dog so quickly even the wolf had not time to blink.

“Go,” he said to Regeane. “The battle awaits you.”

Above his voice she heard the sounds of hooves on the road; the mercenaries were coming up fast behind the dogs. The bear hadn’t picked the best place to make his stand. The ruins were overgrown, thickly overgrown, with briars, ivy, and other creepers. The proximity of the river offering a steady water supply guaranteed lush growth.

The ground was honeycombed with pitfalls for horses and men alike. The two leading dogs and four of the mercenaries came out of the mist to face Armine and the bear at the same time. The horse the bear was riding shied violently as the two killer dogs attacked.

The bear swung Hugo’s sword, an arc of silver light, and killed the first, but his mount went down and the second dog lunged across the horse’s fallen body for his throat and succeeded in sinking a mouthful of sharp teeth into his arm. Anything Hugo’s body could feel, so could the bear, and he let out an inhuman howl of pain.

But Regeane was coming across the dog’s back.
I am saving Hugo
? was her astonished thought, but the momentum of her charge carried her forward. She tried for the top of the spine at the nape of the neck, but the spiked collar turned her assault and her wolf canines slipped on the dog’s skull. She went tumbling over the horse. The dog, distracted by her assault, let go of Hugo and lunged for the fallen wolf.

The woman never remembered getting her feet under her or knew why her nightmare sister undertook the maneuver that saved her life, but she came up under the dog’s chin. It died of suffocation before blood loss took its toll.

Armine nailed the first soldier out of the mist with a stop thrust under his diaphragm. But even before he could get his sword clear, two more were upon him. Instead of backing his horse, he turned it broadside to the pair and they crashed into him. All three went down, a screaming mass of flying hooves and struggling men. Armine, despite his age, was up first and took the opportunity to kill another of his assailants with a thrust, this time through the throat. He closed with the third and knew his own doom. The man had a sword, a shield, and was armored.

Armine had only his sword. His further thrusts were easily turned, then the shield slammed into his body. The wind went out of him in a
whoosh
. He staggered back, knowing he was going to die. He couldn’t even run. He was struggling knee-deep in the twisting creepers covering the tumbled ruins.

The mercenary lunged forward to spit him on his sword. Armine saw the eyes glow behind the man’s legs, and so frightening were they that he almost shouted a warning. Then the wolf’s jaws closed over the mercenary’s leg. He wore greaves; this blunted her fangs, but the soldier’s tibia snapped with a crack like a dry stick. He half turned to swipe at the wolf with his sword, and Armine, his battle rage at flood tide, beheaded him.

But a second later, the captain of the mercenary band loomed over him. He bestrode the most terrible weapon of all, a battle-trained charger. One forehoof caught Armine’s sword arm, and both bones snapped. Oddly, he felt no pain, but the sword fell to the ground from his limp fingers. The second hoof slammed into his shoulder, snapping his collarbone and humerus at the shoulder, and Armine went down. The wolf tried for a hamstring. That’s what it was—a try. The charger’s heels lashed out.

The wolf found herself airborne. She landed hard, slipping down between two large stone blocks among the twisting tangle of vines. She tasted blood and knew one of her ribs had broken and pierced a lung. But the wolf washed away the frightened woman in a flood of red rage, and she scrambled to her feet.

The other mercenary had joined his captain, but the bear had abandoned Hugo’s broken body. As bear he reared up in front of the charger and then made a cruel mistake. He took a swipe at the man, but the mercenary had his shield up. The bear’s paw ruined it, crumpling the steel sheath, the leather and wood under it. The charger was trained to attack. As the man on his back threw away the ruined shield and seized his sword two-handed, the big horse reared in front of the upright bear. Another swipe of the bear’s claw caught him in the chest, but the horse was armored as well as the man; a corset of scale mail covered the animal’s sides and chest. The bear’s mighty claws slipped harmlessly across it.

Then one of the animal’s steel-shod forehooves slammed down hard into the bear’s skull. The other shattered his shoulder. A second later the mercenary’s spear drove through the bear’s body.

The bear sensed that unless he forsook his corporeal form he was doomed, but he disdained to yield. Better, far better, to go out fighting.

The bear felt a violent shock as the mercenary’s sword carved away his whole left paw.

Doom. The bear roared an unearthly cry that echoed through realms untouched by humankind and slammed his right paw into the horse’s face, blinding the animal and destroying part of its skull.

The horse floundered in the mass of creepers and broken stone beneath him, still game but dying.

It could yet bite and it did, immobilizing the bear’s right shoulder as the mercenary, seeing the opening, drove his sword through the creature’s heart.

Chiara and the remaining two men had reached the bridge. The sounds of battle erupted behind her. She pulled her horse, worried for her father and the bear. She had promised, but didn’t feel it incumbent on her to keep any promise made under what she considered duress.

One of the two men, her father’s retainers, reached out and slapped her horse’s rump to speed her up. The memory of the dead girl on the church porch flashed across her mind, a reminder of the fate of any woman who lost her friends and kin.

“No,” Chiara whispered. She reined in her horse and turned him back.

Her father’s man reached for her, but his hand slipped on her sleeve, and a second later she was thundering back across the bridge toward the battle taking place in the ruins.

The bear reared again as the sword passed through his heart but the silver wolf was on the horse’s back behind the captain. She had only a second to choose her point of attack. The man was armored.

The bear was going down. To take out an arm would do no good. She went for the throat at the top of the shoulder near the neck. Her left canine slipped on his scale mail and broke, sending a jolt of raw pain through the wolf’s skull, but the right entered his throat and pierced his carotid artery, tearing it open. Then he swung hard, slamming his fist into her skull below the ear.

The wolf fell away.

But she had distracted the man long enough. The bear could still bite. His jaws closed on the mercenary captain’s sword arm. He pulled the man from the dying horse and threw him down among the rubble and vines, finishing him by biting the man’s arm off.

Just then Chiara appeared out of the mist. There was still one soldier left.

Chiara dismounted in one bound, picked up a stone, and hurled it at his head. It connected with a
whack
.

Regeane saw Remingus, a ghost and thing of horror, the dead thing from a Carthaginian cross, stride out of the mist behind her.

The soldier saw him, too. It was enough. He was unwounded and alive but the only one who was. He dropped spear, sword, and shield and rode hell-for-leather out of the cursed mist and back toward Pavia.

Armine lay quiet.

The mercenary captain was dead. Massive blood loss. The horse still thrashed and kicked.

The wolf struggled among the ivy draping a ruined window or portico. She summoned the change.

Chiara gasped. A beautiful woman stood silhouetted against the ruined casement. Chiara never forgot her, because she could see the forest behind her, through the woman’s body.

Regeane reached up, trying to catch the ivy stems, and found her fingers passed through them.

The bear roared again, the form he had assumed dissolving into a dark stain among the green creepers and weathered stone.

He is gone,
Regeane thought, wondering as she did what was happening to her. Then she staggered. A ray of sunlight pierced the thick, pale mist and she was woman. Solid and real as she had ever been, she sank to her knees gratefully. The ivy creepers falling from the overgrown doorway almost smothered her under their weight. The wolf returned and shook off the thick meshwork of vines.