To Wield the Wind (Enclave World Book 1)

by Remi Black

  The big chestnut stopped. Grim tugged the reins, but the horse refused to advance. As soon as the Rho released the tension on the reins, Ruddy backed several steps, snorted, and tried to back further.

  Orielle ventured ahead. She scanned the looming mountain, wondering if Grim knew of a trail to take them above the river and up the mountain. She saw no switchback trail in the dense forest.

  She glanced back. Ruddy still refused to advance. Grim gripped the reins beneath the bridle bit and held the horse’s head down. Waiting for the debate’s winner, she looked at the island with its spruces and other evergreens crowded on the leeward end, growing more sparsely where the water constantly gnawed at the shore.

  The headmost tree had recently lost its battle against the encroaching water. It had fallen athwart the river, the treetop swept clean of needles, the bare branches weathered grey by the bleaching sun. The trunk lay across old wrack piled against slabs of rocks. The root ball stretched pitiful fingers that had lost their grip when enough soil swept away. Moss and grass had seeded in the earth clinging to the roots.

  Something moved on the other side of the root tangle.

  After another glance at Grim and his horse, she continued, keeping her eyes on the island.

  The something was a creature, crouching peasant-style. Its back was rounded as it hunched over something on the ground.

  Another creature crouched alongside, its back also to her. And another. The fourth knelt opposite. It crammed something in its mouth. Gobber, feeding. They wore tattered clothing, something she didn’t remember from the night battle.

  She froze. A fifth one was on hands and knees, its face buried in peeled open flesh.

  As she watched, a sixth gobber crept from the trees and knelt beside the fourth. It stretched out a claw-tipped hand. The third reached across and knocked that hand away.

  The gobber’s shift let her see what fed them. Dappled grey flesh.

  She backed a step.

  And the fourth one looked up from the hunk of meat. Red round eyes narrowed. It jabbered.

  The other gobbers turned.

  As soon as they saw her, they jumped to their feet and ran to the island’s shore.

  And the gobbers waiting in the trees crept forward to take their turn, feeding on Ghost.

  Backing toward Grim, Orielle watched the gobbers dip feet into the running river only to back away. One of them jabbered and pointed downstream. They ran back into the trees. She didn’t see them cross from island to the opposing shore, but they quickly appeared. They flew along the narrow shore, hopping from boulder to boulder, scrabbling over fallen trees, ducking through the laurel, with a speed unexpected from such stunted creatures.

  She reached Grim. He was scanning the densely forested slope. Ruddy had splayed his feet. His eyes showed white. He shivered. Did the horse sense what had happened to Ghost?

  “Come on.” Grim headed for the steepest slope.

  The horse followed before she did. She watched the single stream of gobbers running for the ford. The water had swirled above Ruddy’s knees. The creatures shouldn’t be able to cross—unless they could swim.

  Then she saw a taller figure drop down to the shoreline. Two gobbers tumbled to a stop as he straightened. He wore hide trousers but no shirt. Golden hair straggled over his bare shoulders. A golden pelt covered his broad chest. Long claws revealed his partial shift.

  The wyre looked across the river. Blue, blue eyes snared hers.

  She’d thought Grim killed him. Now she knew the blonde wyre that they’d buried under the rocks had lacked the kiss of the sun that graced this one.

  A second wyre landed beside him. She recognized this one, too. She’d fought him before Grim killed the other. He’d retreated then.

  A third jumped to the shore. The gobbers squealed and fled.

  And the sun-kissed wyre smiled.

  She ran.

  ~ 14 ~

  Arms crossed to shield her face, Orielle plowed through the spruces into which Grim and his horse had disappeared. In that labyrinth of evergreens, he had found a single entrance to another thready deer trail that wound up the slope.

  She thought of the wyre heading for the ford, and she plunged into the trees.

  At a switchback he waited. He silently pointed her along the slope, abandoning the beaten path for the maze of low-limbed spruces. “Hide,” he whispered. “Remember your scent.”

  She swept heavy spruce over her cloak and headed into the trees. She glanced back when he slapped the horse’s rump. Tail flicking, Ruddy lunged along the deer trail.

  And Grim dropped down, returning to the shore.

  She bit her lip, wanting to help fight the wyre. He had experience, though; he had deliberately brought her into the trees and told her to hide.

  Maybe she could ambush the wyre who tracked her. For some would come after her. Grim had warned her of that, the wyre habit of attacking on two fronts.

  She threaded carefully through the trees, easing her way past branches that didn’t want to give. The slope dictated when she had to climb up or down. She crossed downed trees. Several ells beyond she came upon a recent slide, tumbled earth with sun-baked clods creating a shallow bowl.

  Crossing the slide would expose her to eager eyes. Kiting her skirts higher, she climbed to cross above the disrupted earth, going hands and toes when the slope angled sharply upward. She remembered Grim’s trick of using wind to carry scent ahead. The breeze cooled her. She climbed and climbed then began angling to the mud slip.

  Poking her head past a jutting tree branch, she eyed her ascent. The top of the slip was still feet above her. She needed to climb higher, for she wanted undisturbed trees as a shield. She withdrew—then saw movement downslope. She froze, eyes above the branch.

  A man jumped onto the slide. Dried dirt slipped and skittered under him. He stepped more cautiously until he reached a slender tree torn out by the slide, its root ball thin and scraggly, its pyramid top pointing downslope. He climbed atop the trunk. Bare toes gripped the bark. Hands on hips, he surveyed the slide’s descent. Then he turned and looked upslope. His chin lifted. His nostrils flared.

  Orielle hastily mixed wet soil with the cloaking spruce.

  The wyre continued to scan the upward slope.

  She didn’t recognize him. His dark hair caught no gleam from the dreary light. His brow was thick, nearly meeting above a flat nose. His shirt was loose, flapping in a breeze contrary to hers. His fingers sprouted no claws, but she was certain he was a wyre.

  He turned and spoke. She was too far away to hear, then his gaze returned to sweep the upward slope. He pointed. The angle was near to her.

  Cautiously, she turned her head but saw nothing that should have caught his attention. The earth was a mix of dry and moist. A mundane creature had bounded across the dirt during the night. At the top of the slide, the forest litter dripped over the edge, tugged out of place but still clinging. Leafy trees above the released ground leaned precariously, downward roots exposed, yellow leaves shivering in the vagrant breeze.

  Her vagrant breeze.

  She sent the Wind drifting across the undamaged slope, let it play among the leaves, then released it.

  And looked back at the wyre.

  A wolf had joined him.

  The creature came to the man’s waist. It stood on the dirt, larger than any wolf she’d seen on trips to the deep north of Mont Nouris. A greyed pelt covered the barrel chest. Silvered eyes shined with greeny power.

  A shifted wyre.

  The wolf put his paws on the fallen tree, lifted its snout to the air. Ragged ears flicked forward.

  Orielle added more dirt to her scent.

  The wolf dropped back to the ground and started a cautious venture upslope.

  A shout drifted up; a howl followed it.

  Behind her, above her, came an answering howl and another shout.

  She froze, scarcely daring to breathe.

  The grey wolf leaped to return to the trees. The s
oil it abandoned slid a little, tumbling down, exposing richly dark earth. The fallen tree rolled a little. The unshifted wyre rocked and flung out his arms to maintain his balance.

  The wolf didn’t look back. With a flick of its hoary tail, it disappeared into the trees.

  She listened, heard nothing, tried to snare Wind from behind her to catch whatever happened—and heard another shout. Two more followed it. Something crashed through the branches, snapping the ones that didn’t give. A high-pitched yelp broke. Then a howl lifted. The sound shivered down her spine. It sounded nothing like the wolves on that long-ago trip.

  Snuffling behind her warned of an approach.

  The wolf, on her trail.

  She jerked magic—then remembered Grim’s brief account of Saithe’s death.

  She stared at the orb of power, shaped for a spell and useless against a wyre.

  But not against land.

  The man still balanced on the fallen tree.

  She flung the orb at the dislodged soil beneath the trunk. The power blasted over the ground.

  The wyre leaped—but the ground had started a gradual slide, taking the breadth of the exposed dirt with it. He landed on slowly shifting earth. Then the slide gained speed. The tree slid past him. The dirt under him tumbled then collapsed, and no outspread arms saved his balance. He flailed then scrabbled at the dirt pouring around him.

  And the slope above joined the slide, more dirt and rocks and the yellow-leaved trees crashing down with a glassy roar. He lost his balance and fell. The earth submerged him.

  The slide poured downslope, reaching the old end and tumbling past, pushing trees ahead of it, heading for the shore.

  Then the earth slowed. Rocks rolled across the top, but the soil piled and packed on itself. And she could see the river, stained with dirt.

  The distant shouts came again, one then the next, a single howl, all farther away.

  Turning to face the oncoming wolf, Orielle snared Wind for her hands. It rushed through the trees, bending the branches around her, snatching her hair into a whirlwind.

  The wolf came, nose to ground. He heard the Wind. His head lifted; those greeny silver eyes narrowed. His mouth opened, almost like a grin.

  The Wind thrust him backwards. He reared up, pawing at the palpable force. She twisted her hands, and the Wind spiraled, twisting the wolf in a vortex. The grey-fuzzed muzzle lifted. He tried to howl, but the Wind whipped his head around.

  Over the Wind’s rush came the sharp crack of breaking bones.

  The wolf stopped flailing. His head lolled.

  She pulled the Wind back, half afraid the wolf would spring, half afraid she had killed him.

  The shifted wyre fell to the ground. He lay limp, a child’s discarded toy on the forest litter. As she watched, his form blurred, fuzzed. She blinked. He changed, returning to his man-shape.

  Orielle climbed from the protecting spruce branches. When she straightened, the wyre was wholly man—and wholly dead, his head canted severely over.

  The Wind teased her as she ventured closer. When she stood over the wyre, she saw his eyes rolled back. He lay naked on the needles and leaves discarded by the trees for years. He was old, a grey-haired man still in his prime.

  She bent and pushed his shoulders, not quite believing he was dead. He lolled to his back, but his head didn’t move.

  Bile rose in her throat.

  She turned and vomited. When her stomach emptied and her gut stopped heaving, she felt shaky and sweaty.

  And he was just as dead.

  As Grim would be.

  The shouts, the howl no longer came. The wyre had tracked their prey and found him. Two and two. Four against Grim, two of those shifted.

  And the gobbers, if they had dared to follow.

  Her stomach heaved again as she recalled what the stunted creatures had done to Ghost and would do to the next prey they brought down.

  That would not happen to Grim.

  Orielle sped downslope, using the Wind to push branches out of her way. When the slant became too steep for a safe descent, she angled for the trail. And then she ran.

  Four against him. She had the Wind, just as Grim did. While it teased around her, it lacked the force of what she’d whorled around the dead wyre. She would have to be clever with her spells, the way she’d been with the unshifted Wyre. Grim had his sword. He always threw a readied spell before using steel. Did he not wield the Wind with ease?

  Four against two. They needed better odds.

  Sangrior—but Volk claimed the sword knight would not come if she called.

  She slid the last feet of the trail and burst upon the shore. And saw nothing.

  But heard steel.

  And growls.

  She ran upshore and found the slide.

  The dirt had tumbled into the river, partially damming the water even as the water eroded the fresh soil blocking its progress.

  She glanced upslope.

  The bulk of the slide had crushed the laurel then stopped. Large rocks peppered the richly brown soil, the color of Grim’s clothes.

  Orielle scrambled over the piled-up mud nearest the water. Clods slipped under her, but momentum carried her up.

  And she saw the battle beyond. A knot of fighting, with a center that flashed metal. Two men leaped back from the sweep of steel while a wolf lunged in to attack Grim’s back. The wolf went tumbling as the two other wyre sprang in, attacking with claws.

  A white-shirted man crawled over the pebbly sand, trying to reach the water.

  From the top of the mud slide, she pushed Air at the wolf. The Wind gusted over him. The wolf flattened against the ground. When it swept past, blue eyes rimmed with gold turned her way. He sprang up. And barked.

  One of Grim’s attackers fell back. He turned toward her.

  She glanced at the shifted Prime, for those blue and golden eyes could only belong to him. Then she jumped from the muddy heap to the shore, pebbles grinding under her boots.

  When she straightened, the half-shifted wyre was nearly on her. His eyes were greeny silver, like the wyre she had killed. That eldritch green tipped his claws, giving them a poisonous tint. He snarled. His face blurred, his snout lengthened, then the shift vanished, but she’d glimpsed the wolf he would become.

  Thrusting both hands, she threw Wind. He staggered then grinned. “Lost hold of Air, little wizard?”

  “I killed two of your friends,” she retorted. “I’ll kill you.”

  The fighting around Grim became fiercer, the men grunting, the wolf snarling. He half-turned—and she saw the Prime leap for Grim’s back.

  He missed the leap for the Rho’s neck. His teeth snagged his shoulder and clung, worrying at the leather jack and the chain mail that protected flesh and tendons and bone. The other wyre drove past Grim’s distracted guard. They fell to the shore, Grim underneath, a tangle of leather, flesh, and fur.

  The wyre turned back to her. “Ready to die, little wizard?”

  She flung her one Fire spell, designed to light fuel in a hearth. The flames exploded on his nose. He had to know that wizardry couldn’t harm him, but he still recoiled from the searing heat. It blasted over him and winked out.

  Orielle dove in a bare second behind the spell. She jabbed her belt knife into the side of his neck. The sharp blade of good Fae steel slipped past the ringed esophagus. Blood spurted then gushed as she twisted the blade.

  He swiped, claws tangling in her spelled cloak.

  She sprang back, her knife embedded in his neck. And the wyre dropped to his knees, the eldritch sorcery in his eyes fading, his claws receding.

  She darted in to jerk her blade free. It stuck. She worked it loose while his clawless hands fumbled at her. Once her knife was free, she headed for Grim.

  He was on his knees. The Prime wolf circled him, kept at bay by a dagger of gleaming Fae steel. The other wyre lay motionless.

  The wounded one had reached the river, but he lay face-down in the swift water.

  The
wolf darted in. Grim jabbed with the dagger. Then he twisted, screamed, and the dagger dropped from his hand.

  But the wyre didn’t leap upon him. He turned to Orielle.

  And his shape blurred.

  ~ 15 ~

  Grim writhed and fell, thrashing with a pain she didn’t understand. His convulsing body ground over the pebbles.

  Watching the shifting wyre, Orielle edged around him then halted as the transformation ended. He rose from a crouch. Naked, he blocked her advance to Grim.

  “Well, pretty wizard, we meet again.” He stretched out a hand. Long as a weapon, yellow claws extended from his man-shaped fingers. His voice held no threat, but those claws did. “You invited me to play. Here I am.”

  Grim’s scream cut her answer. When she jerked her gaze back to the Prime, he had closed the distance between them. “Stay back,” she warned and flung up a hand. Power ringed it, spinning faster and faster.

  He laughed. “Wizardry can’t hurt the wyre.”

  Grim squirmed. Those storm-grey eyes fastened on her, then his face contorted, matching the twisting of his body. Pain ripped from his throat.

  “What’s wrong with him? You bit him. Is he transforming?”

  The amusement vanished. “He’s dying. Rho don’t transform. A wyre bite poisons them. But you, pretty wizard, you’ll transform.” When he smiled this time, she saw his elongated canines. His tongue flicked one. “I’ll enjoy your taste.”

  Sangrior was lost to her. She didn’t hesitate. “Volk. Volk! Volk, come to me.”

  By her third calling of the Crygy knight’s name, the wyre scowled. When thunder clapped, he flinched. When the light flashed and the knight appeared, he sprang.

  Volk thrust him backwards. His sword flashed. Violet ice rimed the blade.

  The Prime snarled. “Lady Bone allies to this wizard?”

  “The Lady needs no ally. Your sorceress crosses the lines. She tampers with the gobber, who belong to my Lady. She allows your hunts, and you kill for the pleasure of it. She takes one of my Lady’s riders without recompense.”