Jaston frowned. “What do you mean?”
Cassa’s voice grew exasperated. “From what I’ve read of the Fangs, both sides of this connection must have a mutual need. You had no way of knowing Fardale was in danger. But you had your own deep need. Perhaps both your desires are somehow mutual. For what you seek, Fardale may hold a clue to that path. You must follow it—not only to save the shape-shifter, but to save me.”
Jaston stood stunned.
“Now go, while the connection remains! Find the wolf!”
“I’ll try.” Jaston turned and listened to the echoing cry. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
Straining, he studied the dense jungle, the midday heat pressing on him like a wet woolen blanket. The sunlight pierced through the canopy of the cloud forest, glowing the woods an emerald green.
Find the wolf! But where to begin looking?
The boy still held his hand. “I want to pet the doggie.” He yanked on Jaston’s arm.
Jaston followed the driven boy. The creations of the swamp wit’ch had a rudimentary will of their own, but their desires were still Cassa Dar’s. The boy’s mind translated her whim into his own understanding.
“I like doggies. Doggie scared. I must pet him.” The boy set off in a direct path through a curtain of vines.
Jaston allowed himself to trust the youngster’s ears. Constructed of magick, perhaps the boy could find the source of the howl.
They tromped up a steep slope, grabbing vines and branches to haul themselves along. The boy scrambled through the underbrush. “Here, doggie, doggie . . . ,” he chanted, gasping with the exertion.
They reached a new ridgeline. In the hollow below, a stagnant pond glistened in the bright sunlight. A few frogs leaped from mud banks to plop into the water, sending out ripples.
The boy pointed. “The doggie’s thirsty!”
Jaston strained his ears. The howl had turned into growls and warning barks, but the boy had led him true. The calls echoed from this hollow.
“Show me!” Jaston urged.
The boy nodded with youthful exuberance. “I’m gonna pet that doggie.” Then he was off, hopping and sliding down into the tiny vale, pulling Jaston in his wake.
In no time, they reached the algae-rimmed pond. Under its placid surface a few fish lazed about. Frogs complained in croaking bellows at their intrusion. The sun shone overhead, bright upon the water.
Jaston’s reflection stared back at him, a frown on his face. What now? Fardale’s voice rose like mist from the pond’s surface, then died away.
“Cassa?” Jaston cried out, panicked.
The boy was nearby, searching under bushes for the lost dog. He suddenly straightened as if he were a string puppet. “Jaston,” he said, taking on the tones of Cassa Dar. “Blood,” she said, sounding exhausted.
“Blood?”
The boy nodded his head. “According to an old text”—Here her words sounded rote, as if she were reading.—” ‘thee who are twined might open a path between Fangs by strong need and desire and a measure of blood.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“You and Fardale share a bond. You saved the shape-shifter’s life, forming spiritual connections between you. That is why his cries reached you. But to open a path to cross bodily will require living substance given to the spell. That substance is your blood.”
Jaston stared at the still pond. “But the howling has stopped.”
“Try anyway . . . the spell may persist for a short time!”
Frowning, Jaston yanked a dagger from his belt. “How much blood?”
The boy remained silent, but his face screwed tight.
“How much?” he repeated, poising the knife’s tip to his forearm.
Cassa shook the child’s head. “I don’t know. A measure . . . That’s what the book says.”
Jaston sighed. It might be a drop; it might be a bucketful. He dug the knife in firmly. Pain lanced up his arm, but blood streamed down and dribbled across the surface of the pool, spreading a sheen over the crystal waters.
Fish swirled to investigate.
“Nothing’s happening,” he whispered.
The swamp child knelt at the pond’s edge. “This must be the portal. Reflective surfaces have power.” The boy turned to Jaston. “But with the howl gone, the spellcast channel must have dissolved. We’re too late.”
Jaston shoved his arm out farther, refusing to give up. “Maybe it takes more blood.” He squeezed a fist, freshening the flow from his wound.
“Jaston, don’t waste—”
Somewhere beyond the hollow’s ridge, a new yowling suddenly arose. But it was no wolf. Other voices answered this first piercing cry. Screams arose from all around the hollow.
The boy stood. “Sniffers . . . They must have been drawn by the wolf’s cries.”
Jaston swallowed hard. And now they’ve caught the scent of blood. All hunters were familiar with the giant, purple-skinned predators of the deep forests: all muscle and teeth and hunger, bull sharks of the woods. He listened to the cries: a pack . . . at least eight or nine.
He lowered his arm, forsaking his attempt to aid Fardale. He had his own battle on hand. He drew out his sword with his uninjured arm. The boy moved nearer his side.
The hunting cries of the pack grew to a cacophony. Sniffers used their screams to terrify their prey—and in this case, it was working.
“Jaston, use my poison to whet your blade.” The boy took a step back and pulled apart his rough-spun jerkin. “Stab here.”
Jaston’s brows shot high. “I can’t.”
“The boy won’t feel pain. Remember he’s just moss and swampweed.”
Jaston still balked.
“He is of my essence,” she pleaded. “Poison and venom. Use it to taint your sword’s touch.”
The cries drew closer around him. Somewhere behind him, rustling and the creak of vines warned of hidden encroachment. Jaston moved the tip of the blade to the boy’s chest.
The child fingered the sharp edge with unconcerned interest. “Pointy . . . ,” the boy mumbled in his own voice.
As Jaston hesitated, staring into those blue and trusting eyes, a growl arose at his shoulder, escalating into a raging howl. Both boy and man glanced down to the pond at their feet. The new call arose from there. It was not a sniffer, but the wolf again.
The pond’s glassy surface shimmered; then the curious fish vanished, replaced with an impossible sight: a treewolf crouched, haunches high, snarling.
Fardale!
Beyond the wolf, the threat was clear: a pack of og’res, armed with clubs and lengths of crooked bone. Blood lust gleamed in the monsters’ eyes, shining out from the pond.
“Jaston!” the boy suddenly cried in Cassa’s voice.
He swung from the pond as a giant creature stalked onto a trail only a leap away. Its skin was the color of a deep bruise. It nose flaps spread wide, inflamed, sucking in the scent of his blood and fear. Black eyes, cold and emotionless, studied him. Fleshy lips rolled slowly back to reveal row after row of ripping teeth.
Rustling arose around him from all sides, followed by cries from other sniffers, whining with hunger. But here stood their leader, full of silent menace—the one granted the kill.
Without a twitch or a cry, the pack leader leaped, springing with a speed that belied its bulk.
Jaston jerked up the tip of his sword. He had no time to poison its edge. Flinching backward with the frightened child clinging to his leg, his foot slipped in the slick pond mud. His sword arm shifted, letting his guard down.
The bulk of the sniffer struck his chest. Razored claws dug into his shoulder. As Jaston tumbled backward into the pond, the pack leader screamed, a wail of triumph and death.
Tol’chuk reached the top of the ridge first, racing ahead of the others. If there was any chance of saving Fardale, he’d have to be quick.
Reaching the top, he searched the highlands beyond for any sign of Fardale. The wolf had gone omin
ously silent. Had he shifted his shape? Taken flight? Tol’chuk doubted this. Fardale always persisted in his wolfish shape, trusting its form the best.
Tol’chuk held his breath, straining to hear. Though he trusted the shape-shifter’s skill and speed, he had also seen og’res hunt. Once on a scent, they were hard to escape and experienced at herding prey into a trap.
And now this silence . . .
“Do you see him?” Magnam bellowed from below.
The d’warf climbed with Mama Freda and Jerrick, working as quickly as possible up the slick trail.
Despairing, Tol’chuk opened his mouth to answer when a savage howl split the highlands. Fardale! The cry came from beyond a neighboring hillock. Tol’chuk dared not wait for his friends. He raced along the ridgeline and over the treeless hump of granite, following the call.
The stone was slick from the drizzling rain. On its far side, Tol’chuk lost his footing and slid down the smooth, treacherous rock. A cry of anger and surprise burst from him as he tumbled over a cliff’s edge. He flew through the air and splashed into the middle of a creek, swollen from the rains. He sputtered up and saw he had also landed in the midst of a standoff.
A group of six og’res crowded on one side of the creek; Fardale crouched on the other. He was pinned against the hillock’s cliffs with no means of escape.
As the og’res gaped, stunned at the sudden intrusion, Tol’chuk clambered out of the stream, backing to Fardale’s side. He spoke in the og’re tongue. “Leave this wolf to me!” he growled.
One of the og’res lumbered forward. A giant, he knuckled on an arm as thick around as a tree trunk, and he bore a length of log in his free claw. He bared his fangs, yellow and pitted. “Go find your own meat!”
He slammed the log down for emphasis as his hunting companions grunted their agreement.
Tol’chuk didn’t know this giant og’re, but he recognized the pattern of the scarring on his bulging forearm. Ku’ukla clan—one of the most savage and bestial tribes. It had been a battle between this clan and Tol’chuk’s own that had gotten his father killed.
The brute’s companions circled tighter, all war-scarred and hardened. Their eyes glowed with blood lust.
“Be gone or die!” their leader warned.
Tol’chuk backed to Fardale and rose to his full height. The group cringed away from the sight of his straightening spine. Tol’chuk had forgotten that particular look of loathing and disgust.
Only the giant kept his position, undaunted, but recognition dawned in his piggish eyes. “He-who-walks-like-a-man,” he finally grunted. “Tol’chuk the Banished, son of Len’chuk of the Toktala clan.” The og’re spat into the creek as if the mention of his name had soured his mouth.
Tol’chuk flinched. He had not thought to be recognized so soon.
The leader’s muscles tensed. His shoulders rolled in a clear posture of hatred and challenge, and his voice boomed. “You damn yourself by showing your face again. Your head will adorn our caves!”
With a roar, he advanced into the creek, waving the others to secure the flanks. They closed in from all sides.
Weaponless, Tol’chuk reached for the only means of protection at hand. He clawed open his thigh pouch and pulled out the heartstone. He lifted the stone high.
Six pairs of eyes flicked upward.
“Heartstone!” one of the pack exclaimed.
“The Heart of our people!” Tol’chuk boomed. Once before it had protected him from members of this same clan. He prayed to the Mother above that it would again. “I return it to the Triad. Do not block my path!”
The other og’res hesitated, but the leader advanced. “A trick . . . or stolen,” he rumbled. But as the giant lunged out of the creek, a new cry shattered the highlands—the piercing wail of another predator. For a breath, everyone froze in confusion and wariness. The giant stood, water sluicing over his scarred form.
Then a tumble of bodies burst forth from the creek.
Tol’chuk leaped back, stunned as a monstrous beast rolled across the far mudbank, landing amid the other og’res. It leaped to its clawed feet, snarling and spitting in blind fury. A sniffer! It ripped into the nearest og’re, going for the throat.
But two other figures rolled onto the near side of the creek—a boy and a man. They landed almost at the feet of the giant leader.
The man, bleeding, scrambled backward, yanking the boy clear as a club came smashing down at them, missing by a hair. Splinters flew as the log shattered in half from the force.
The og’re roared. “Demons!”
Fardale dashed to defend the newcomers. The man acknowledged the wolf without fear. “Well met, Fardale.” They retreated together.
Tol’chuk could not fathom their sudden appearance . . . or this recognition. What magick was this?
The child bared his chest to the man. “Quickly . . . while the path remains open. I sense it closing already.”
To Tol’chuk’s horror, the man plunged his sword into the child. With its touch, the boy dissolved into a tangle of wet weed. As the debris fell from the blade, a whisper of a voice followed. “Come back to me . . .”
“I will, my love.”
Tol’chuk now recognized the swarm of scars twisting one side of the man’s face. Jaston . . . the swamper. How could this be?
The giant again descended on man and wolf. Tol’chuk shook off his own shock and went to their aid. But Jaston danced lightly under the other’s guard and speared the giant’s elbow.
The og’re bellowed, sweeping backhanded at his attacker with the shattered end of his club. The swamp man went sailing into the air and crashed against the cliff face.
Fardale leaped between them, trying to protect the dazed swamper. Tol’chuk rushed forward, too.
But their help was not needed.
The giant teetered in place for a heartbeat, then toppled back into the creek with a loud splash. From his wounded elbow, his skin darkened and smoked. He did not move again.
“Poison,” Jaston explained from where he lay crumpled at the base of the cliff.
Across the creek, the sniffer had finally been dispatched, but two og’res lay dead. The remaining hunters retreated toward the woods. “Drag’nock!” one of them moaned as he fled.
Tol’chuk stared at the dead giant and cringed. Drag’nock—he knew that name and despaired. This giant had been the head of the entire Ku’ukla clan. Such a death would not go unchallenged. Those who fled would spread the tale; soon the drums of war would echo over the highlands.
Nearby, Fardale crossed to Jaston, nuzzling at the man in warm greeting. The swamper scratched the wolf behind an ear. “Good to see you again, too, Fardale.”
Tol’chuk turned to the highlands, clutching the chunk of crystal in his claws. He had come home to return the healed Heart to his people, to offer them hope and peace. Instead he opened the way for war and bloodshed.
Like the Oathbreaker, it seemed his name was to be forever cursed.
6
Mogweed screamed as he was ripped back to awareness. Sharp smells of pine and rain hit his sensitive nose, voices rang sharp and loud; lights stung his eyes like fiery needles; the taste of blood on his tongue gagged him. Mogweed raised his face—muzzle—from the belly of a half-chewed rabbit.
He leaped back from the bloody carcass in disgust. The sun’s last glimmer shone dully through a gray sky; he shook off the cobwebs of his disorientation. As he stared down at Fardale’s dinner, one lip raised in a silent snarl. His brother had known he would be returning to awareness as the sun set. Fardale had purposefully left this little trick, a message and reminder to his twin.
Well, curse you, Brother! This fate is not all my doing!
He opened himself to his shape-shifting gifts, touching that ember in his heart to flame. Bone, muscle, and skin bent to his will. He climbed out of the wolf shape, letting his form slide into its most familiar pattern. The smells grew less acute, the lights dimmer. Voices dipped to reasonable levels.
“It appears Mogweed’s returned,” Magnam said as he knelt over a tumble of sticks, preparing a fire. “How was your nap?”
It took Mogweed a moment to re-form his voice box, growling wolfishly before finding his proper tongue. “It . . . it’s no natural sleep,” he finally spat out. He sensed Fardale somewhere deep inside him, taking his place, returning to that dark prison. With nightfall, it was his brother’s turn to be locked in a cell without bars, able only to watch what transpired. In that other world, sleep was dreamless. Awakening from that slumber into full awareness was as painful as it was jolting, leaving no true rest.
He searched around him, reorienting himself. The group was setting up a camp in a shallow cave. He frowned. It was scant shelter against the wind and rain.
Mama Freda passed him a set of clothes. “Fardale left these this morning.”
Mogweed glanced down at his nakedness, half turning away in embarrassment.
“Nothing I ain’t seen,” the blind healer said, swinging back to her chores.
As Mogweed climbed shivering into his clothes, Magnam finally got the fire going. Once dressed, Mogweed stepped over and warmed his bare hands before the flames. Though summer was fully upon them, the highland nights were still icy with the touch of winter. The winds never seemed to stop blowing, and brief spats of rain struck like angry slaps. From the rumbles of thunder in the distance, he judged this night would be no different.
His eyes fell upon the newcomer to the group. Jaston stared back at Mogweed from across the fire, his mouth hanging open. His scars glowed bright red in the firelight, and not just from the flame’s heat. The swamp man glanced down with a shake of his head. “I . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’ve never seen a shape-shifter change like that. Mycelle, when we were together, she never . . .” He waved his hand before his face.
Mogweed scowled. He had been traveling for so long with folk familiar with shape-shifting that the man’s response grated, but he kept his mouth shut. He owed his life to this swamper’s sudden appearance.
“Mycelle . . . ,” Jaston continued to blather, “I never saw her change.”
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