Christopher was just ducking from the Merron tent, his katar in his hand, his face set. Sólmundr ducked out after him, his sword also in hand. As he emerged from the tent, Sól shouted to Hallvor and flung her a sword. It sailed across the air between them, its long blade shivering slightly in the sun, and Hallvor rose smoothly to her feet, catching the weapon by its handle.
Sólmundr gestured that she follow.
Úlfnaor yelled something and Sól paused, shocked. ‘Cad é?’ he said.
Christopher kept striding purposefully towards the road.
Razi yelled, ‘Stop him!’ and Thoar and Surtr stepped into the young man’s path. Christopher simply swerved and dodged gracefully past. The warriors glanced uncertainly at Úlfnaor. ‘Stop him,’ repeated Razi, and Úlfnaor nodded.
Surtr sidestepped and put his hand on Christopher’s chest. ‘Cosc ort nóiméad, a luch,’ he said.
Christopher came to a surprised halt. He blinked up at the red-headed warrior for a moment, then looked around the ring of uncertain faces.
‘Come on,’ he said, as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to be doing.
No one moved. Their eyes hopped from Christopher to Razi.
‘Come on!’ urged Christopher, gesturing impatiently that they should follow. Then he caught sight of Razi’s hard face, and Wynter saw his certainty fall away into dismay. ‘Oh no, Razi,’ he whispered.
Razi would not look at him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I need to know why they are here.’
‘No!’ Christopher launched himself forward, and the redheaded brothers lurched in surprise then leapt and caught him under his arms, stopping him in his tracks. ‘No, Razi!’ he cried. ‘Not again! Not again.’
Razi, his eyes down, pointed to the Merron tent, and the two huge men began to manhandle Christopher back towards the door. Christopher howled with despair and disbelief. ‘No!’ he wailed again. ‘Noooooooo!’
Razi would not meet his eye and that seemed to enrage Christopher. More than anything, that seemed to tip him over the edge. He went mad then. Snarling and screaming in rage, he struggled against the two brothers so that they almost lost their footing and stumbled under his thrashing weight. He raised his katar, meaning to smash it down onto Surtr’s head. Hallvor leapt forward and grabbed his upraised arms, twisting them so that he was forced to release the weapon. Christopher howled again and kicked out at her, his face vicious.
Wynter lurched to help him, but Razi jerked her violently back.
‘Let him go!’ she cried.
Christopher snarled at her, his face unrecognisable. The brothers dragged him to the tent, and as he was borne backwards into the dimness he released an animal howl. The door fell closed and, out of sight now, Christopher’s inarticulate rage stormed on. Surtr and Thoar roared at him, trying to calm him down.
Furious, Wynter struggled free of Razi’s grip and shoved him away. She ran for the door, determined that Christopher should be released.
‘No, Wyn!’ yelled Razi. ‘Wait! Wait!’
Suddenly the dogs stopped barking, and their abrupt stillness froze the humans in their tracks.
All sounds of the struggle within the tent had ceased.
Wynter clearly heard Thoar say, ‘Coinín?’
The hounds backed to the ends of their chains, whimpering, their tails between their legs. Boro whined in fear, his sharp ears swivelling to catch the sounds from within.
Sól took an uncertain step forward, then he and Razi simultaneously dashed for the door. Wynter went to follow, but Razi pushed ahead of her, literally shoving her aside and dodging under the flap before she could get past. Within the tent, Surtr screamed. There was a rending, splitting sound, and just as Wynter went to duck inside, the red-headed warrior flew past her, propelled backwards from the tent as if flung from a catapult.
The huge man flew ten or more feet before landing with a whoomph in the dust. His tunic was torn open, his belly scored with claw-marks and scarlet with blood. He immediately tried to roll to his feet, his face creased with concern for his brother.
‘THOAR!’ he yelled, falling back in pain. ‘Thoar!’
Wynter ducked into the tent and was confronted with a frenzy of noise and movement. Sólmundr and Thoar had thrown themselves onto Christopher, trying to pin him down. Razi, in turn, had flung himself onto the warriors, trying to pull them away.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘He does not mean it! Give him a moment.’
Razi kicked Thoar away, at the same time heaving backwards on Sól. The three men tumbled back, propelled by a violent shove from Christopher.
‘Give him a moment!’ screamed Razi as Thoar went to draw his sword. ‘He doesn’t mean it!’
Wynter went to run forward but came to a halt at the sight of Christopher’s terrible face. Utterly transformed, his eyes flashed yellow in the gloom, and he growled and snarled about him like a dog at bay. He was writhing in the shadows at the back of the tent, as if in battle with some unseen demon, his scarred fingers gouging deep claw-marks into the earth.
‘Christopher,’ she whispered.
He made no effort to attack, just remained where he was, struggling on the dirt floor, his body twisting around itself as he tried to overcome his rage. The noises coming from his distorted mouth were not human – they were anything but human – but Wynter understood fear when she heard it. She understood pain.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered again and knelt on the ground just out of his reach, her hand outstretched as if to comfort him. He continued to thrash and struggle, apparently unconscious of her presence. Razi crawled to her side, his face intent, but he, too, came to a halt just out of reach of his friend and knelt there, doing nothing.
In the end, it was Sól who went to him. He crawled straight past Razi and Wynter and, without hesitation, rolled Christopher onto his back.
Christopher’s yellow eyes widened at the contact; his lips pulled back. His distorted hands shot to Sólmundr’s shoulders. The too-long fingers dug into Sól’s flesh, and the warrior gasped in pain. Gritting his teeth, Sól grabbed Christopher’s face in his hands and jerked the young man’s head around, staring into Christopher’s inhuman eyes.
‘Coinín!’ he cried. ‘Is mé atá ann! It’s me! It’s Sól!’
Christopher opened his mouth, those long, sharp teeth only inches from Sólmundr’s throat. His fingers tightened brutally on Sól’s shoulders and, to Wynter’s horror, blood welled up beneath his fingertips.
Sólmundr’s face tightened in agony, but he did not pull away. Instead he shook Christopher’s head between his hands and yelled, ‘You freeman, Coinín! You not hurt me! You know who you are!’
Christopher’s yellow eyes locked with Sólmundr’s. His fingers abruptly relaxed their grip on the warrior’s shoulders. His face softened in recognition. Then he was Christopher again, just Christopher; his scarred hands clutching the fabric of his friend’s tunic, his fine, narrow face appalled and painted with despair.
‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no!’ He lifted his hand from Sólmundr’s shoulder and stared at the blood that reddened his fingers. ‘Oh no!’ he cried. ‘Iseult! Iseult! ’
Wynter shook her head, her hands pressed to her mouth. She couldn’t speak. Christopher struggled to sit, calling for her and groping blindly about him as if unable to focus his eyes or coordinate his body. Sólmundr drew the young man to him, stilling his frantic attempts to rise, holding him close.
‘Iseult!’ croaked Christopher.
‘Iseult is good,’ murmured Sól shakily, patting Christopher’s shoulder. ‘You not hurt her.’ He looked out through the door to where Thoar was helping Surtr to stand. Hallvor had joined them. Surtr gingerly pressed his fingers to the long, deep gashes on his bloodied stomach. ‘You not hurt her,’ whispered Sólmundr.
By Wynter’s side, Razi rose slowly to his feet. Sól looked up at him. Razi met his eye and the warrior’s dazed confusion iced over to cold disapproval. Wynter did not look up into Razi’s face. She could
not take her eyes from Christopher.
Breathless and shaking, obviously in pain, her friend drew in his arms and legs and laid his head against Sólmundr’s chest. He squinted up at Razi through the tangled mess of his hair, and, at the look on Razi’s face, Christopher’s expression filled with bitterness and despair.
‘You will stay here,’ said Razi flatly.
‘You promised me,’ said Christopher, ‘you promised . . .’
‘You will stay here,’ commanded Razi. Úlfnaor’s dark shadow filled the door, and Razi turned to him. ‘You will keep him here,’ he ordered. ‘That is my wish. As your Caora, that is my command.’
Úlfnaor, his expression lost in shadow, bowed his head in obeisance. Christopher groaned.
‘Stay here, Wyn,’ said Razi, ‘I mean it.’
She turned her head, glaring up at him from the corner of her eye. He was nothing but a black shape against the light. He ducked out the door, and she saw him briefly in the sunlight, striding away between the tents. Then he was gone.
‘He promised,’ rasped Christopher. ‘He said never again. He promised.’
‘Why the Wolves here, a luch?’ asked Sól, searching Wynter’s face. ‘What they have to offer the Prince?’
She shook her head. She glanced sideways at Christopher and the corners of his mouth turned down as he read her expression.
‘Oh, no, lass,’ he whispered, ‘not you too.’
‘There must be a reason,’ she said.
‘I’M SICK OF HIS REASONS,’ screamed Christopher suddenly, making Wynter jump. ‘I’m sick of them.’ He lurched in Sól’s arms so that the warrior almost lost his grip. ‘I want them dead!’ howled Christopher. ‘I want them dead! Like he promised! Like he said! I don’t want this anymore! I want them deaaaddd!’
His howling became less than human again, and Sól was no longer cradling him but holding him down. The warrior looked sadly to Úlfnaor, and the Aoire came forward to help restrain the young man as he battled the hatred within him.
Without rising, Wynter backed slowly to the door, her eyes fixed on her thrashing friend. Sólmundr said something to Úlfnaor, and the big man put his hands on Christopher’s shoulders, murmuring. Wynter thought he might be praying.
Wynter knew that Christopher was no longer a danger to these men. ‘There ain’t no pain,’ he had told Razi. ‘Not when you do it on purpose. It feels good.’ And Wynter could see the pain in him. She could see him fighting to quell what he called his dark power. She had no doubt that this was a battle Christopher would win.
She knew she should stay with him. She knew she should be there for him when he emerged from this fight, weary and sore and needing comfort. Still, she backed for the door.
Sólmundr met her eye as she rose to her feet, and his own eyes widened at the realisation that she was leaving.
‘I need to know,’ she said.
Condemnation flared in the warrior’s face, but Wynter held his gaze. After a moment, Sól deflated and looked away. Having spent his life protecting the man he loved, only to then allow his people to sacrifice him to their god, Sólmundr was in no position to point accusing fingers at those who put duty before love.
‘I shall bring him his answers, Sól,’ she promised.
Sólmundr just shook his head and turned his attention back to Christopher, who thrashed and snarled and struggled beneath his restraining hands. The dogs had resumed their baying, and Wynter strode from the tent, pushed past Hallvor, and kept walking until the sounds of their howls were indistinguishable from those of the man she loved.
Once free from the accusing eyes of the Merron, Wynter paused. Standing in the dusty sunshine, she breathed deep and clenched her teeth and her hands as she tried to get herself under some control.
Razi was striding towards the foot of the slope, his eyes on Alberon’s tent. He passed the knot of older Haun, who were staring up the hill, murmuring anxiously among themselves. He passed the Wolves’ beautiful horses and the slaves who tended them. He didn’t so much as falter at the base of the hill, just strode purposefully upwards as if he had always expected this meeting; as if he had planned for it all his life.
Wynter lowered her chin and dashed after him, dodging the Haun and the horses and the patient slaves. Running to Razi’s side, she fell into step with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand on her sword. He came to a halt and she strode on, not looking back.
‘Wyn,’ he said flatly, ‘go back to him. I do not want you here.’
‘Don’t bother, Razi,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not about to waste my time arguing with you.’ She kept walking, but Razi did not follow, and she was forced to stop and look back at him.
His face was utterly hard. ‘You will not meet these men.’
‘Yes, I shall,’ she said. ‘I shall most certainly meet these men. I want very much to meet the men who stole his hands and enslaved his family. I want very much to look into the faces of the ones who hurt those poor girls at the inn. I want to know why it is they still wander about Algiers day after day without you baying for their blood, Razi. I want to know why it is that our brother has called them to his table. I will not sit on my arse like a good woman and let this go on without me. If Christopher is to be once again denied his vengeance, I shall be there to find out why.’
‘This is not the time for childish displays of defiance,’ he cried. ‘I have had the weight of these creatures hung around my neck since I was fourteen years old, Wynter. Christopher’s life has been blighted by them for as long as he can recall. Do not step in now and act as though you understand a whit of what we feel.’
Wynter didn’t bother to reply. She simply stood with her hand on her sword, waiting for Razi to start up the slope again. Razi snarled and looked away. His eyes slipped to the tents behind which the hounds still voiced their frustration and rage.
‘Do not expect me to go in there with my sword drawn,’ he warned quietly. ‘I doubt Alberon’s plans will afford me the luxury. This world is not simple, Wynter. One cannot always have the blood one wants.’
The dogs howled again, and Razi’s furious mask slipped a little. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
‘Oh, do not fret, brother,’ said Wynter coldly. ‘It is only the warhounds. Christopher is a good man, and strong. I have no doubt that he has already regained his self-control. I wager he has grown uncommonly good at suppressing his feelings. He has, after all, been associating with the likes of us for long enough.’
Razi snapped his eyes to her, and Wynter stared flatly back at him.
‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘Fine! If you’re coming, let us go.’ And he strode towards the waiting tent, Wynter by his side.
LE GAROU
THE GUARDS around Alberon’s tent eyed Razi and Wynter as they approached. Oliver was standing in the shadow of the awning, and he came quickly forward, striding down the slope to head Razi off before he got anywhere near the wary soldiers.
Wynter expected Razi to shove his way past, but instead he halted, regarding the knight from under his brows.
‘Do not do this, my Lord,’ warned Oliver quietly, ‘please.’
Razi spoke just as quietly, his voice inaudible to the watching men. ‘Either let me past, or kill me, Oliver. Which will it be?’
Oliver regarded him closely, and Razi held his gaze. ‘I shall get access, or die trying, Sir Knight. I ask you again, which will it be?’
Oliver’s eyes fell to Wynter.
‘I shall accompany the Lord Razi.’
Oliver briefly squeezed his eyes shut; then he gestured the soldiers to give the lord and lady access. Wynter and Razi strode into the shade of the awning and straight through the door. Oliver stood for a moment in the sunshine, as if too weary to move, then he followed them in.
The map-table and its four chairs had been brought inside. Alberon sat on one side of it, David Le Garou on the other. David’s Seconds lined the wall behind him, loose-limbed and ready, watching their leader’s back. At Razi’s entrance,
they straightened as one, their slanting eyes filled with amused delight.
David Le Garou rose smoothly to his feet, all his teeth showing in a grin. His eyes dropped to Wynter, then back to Razi. ‘Al-Sayyid,’ he murmured. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I had heard that you were dead.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Razi.
David lifted his eyebrows and he turned to Alberon in feigned shock, as if expecting the Prince to reprimand his brother for his rudeness. There was a moment of heavy silence. Alberon drummed his fingers on the table. Once. A gesture of contained anger.
‘I take it that you know each other,’ he said tightly.
Le Garou shrugged and spread his hands. ‘We have met, in passing. Now and again.’
‘You have done your best these past five years to destabilise my relations within the Moroccan court,’ said Razi. ‘You have done everything you can to use me to drive a wedge between the Sultan and my father. I ask again, why are you here?’
‘The dealings at court were not my idea,’ tutted David. ‘That was my father, the great André Le Garou. It is he who tries to distance the Sultan from his old allies. I have no personal opinion on who rules the Moroccos. But we all must support our fathers, must we not? In word and in deed. One must do one’s father’s bidding . . . Still,’ the Wolf smiled slyly, ‘if my father has been a trouble to you you have never seemed too discomfited, al-Sayyid. If he has offended you in speech or act, you have yet to let it show.’
‘Your father thought I would cry havoc, did he not?’ said Razi. ‘He thought that my pride would drive me to act rashly. He hoped I would run riot with some bloody-handed vendetta and so damage my standing as a diplomat. No doubt he thought a half-breed boy-prince would never have had the self-control to let such an act go.’
Le Garou shrugged. ‘If so, you proved him wrong. How proud that must make you feel.’
Alberon looked warily from Le Garou to Razi, not understanding. ‘What did you do?’ he asked the Wolf.
Le Garou smiled again. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘al-Sayyid thinks we damaged his property . . . some trifling act of vandalism for which he blames us. It is not unusual. The Loups-Garous tend to get blamed for such things. It’s just the way the world is.’
The Rebel Prince Page 16