Embla’s hounds ran up to her, whining. They butted the lady’s hands and licked her fingers in an attempt to rouse her from her sudden despondence. She pushed them sharply away and they milled about for a moment before trotting over to join the other dogs who were ranged in a tense line, staring into the trees. Hallvor murmured something soothing, but Embla turned, pulling her cloak tightly around her, and regarded Razi with troubled eyes. He was taking the matchlock from Úlfnaor. Still chatting quietly away, he slid it into the holster on his saddle and tied the keep.
Wynter took Christopher’s hand, and they stood watching as Embla decided what to do.
“Well,” said Úlfnaor. “Time for goodbyes.” Razi nodded, smiling. “The People never able thank you enough, Tabiyb,” said Úlfnaor. “For what it is you do for Sól.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Razi. “I only hope that I have left enough instructions for Hallvor to see Sólmundr through to full health.” His eyes flicked back to Embla as he spoke. She lifted her chin and smiled at him, slow and warm, and Wynter’s heart sank as Razi’s face was suffused with happiness. He grinned, his eyes shining, then he turned his full attention back to Úlfnaor who was offering him his hand. Razi accepted the big man’s handshake with warmth. “We will meet again, Úlfnaor, I am certain of it.”
Úlfnaor faltered, frowning. He went to speak, then seemed to think better of it and smiled instead, nodding. “Perhaps we will, Tabiyb. Who can know the will of An Domhan?”
Razi turned away and led his horse to the healer. “Goodbye, Hallvor,” he said taking her hand. “It was a pleasure to work with you.”
Hallvor smiled warmly at him, understanding the tone, if not the words, and pumped his hand in a two-fisted grip that could have crushed stones. She said something wry. Embla murmured a translation and Razi laughed.
“Coinín?” said Úlfnaor quietly, walking to Christopher’s side. “You really go with the coimhthíoch? You not stay with the People?”
Wynter glowered, and pointedly took Christopher’s hand.
“They are my family, Aoire,” said Christopher.
Úlfnaor sucked his teeth, as if Christopher had made a bad joke.
“Sometimes desperation makes poor choices, a chroí,” he said. Christopher huffed and looked away, and Úlfnaor leant in, speaking kindly. “Listen to what I tell you now, Coinín mac Aidan. You are Merron. Merron! It not right you out alone. I tell you now, the Bear tribe be happy to take you in. We adopt you, Coinín. We see you safe.”
“Thank you, Aoire,” said Christopher, his grip on Wynter’s hand tightening. “But the Bear’s breast is too savage for my comfort. I cannot accept.”
Úlfnaor nodded regretfully and shrugged. “Goodbye then, Coinín, may An Domhan know you always.” Christopher bowed slightly and the Aoire put his hand on the top of his head, murmuring something. “And you, lucha rua.” He turned to Wynter who regarded him with narrow-eyed suspicion. Úlfnaor laughed. “I think,” he said, chucking her fondly under her chin, “our Coinín beag trades one fierce breast for another, nach ea? You should be Merron, lucha, it good to see such spirit in such small things.”
“Goodbye, Úlfnaor,” she said coldly, “I wish you and your people joy.”
Úlfnaor smiled tolerantly at her but she turned away and gathered Ozkar’s reins. “Let’s go,” she said to Christopher. “It is …” The rest of her comment died on her lips and the three of them watched as Razi gathered Embla into his arms and kissed her with lingering tenderness. Úlfnaor sighed unhappily and Wynter bit her lip, but Christopher lowered his head and growled. The couple ended their kiss with a sigh, and stood in each other’s arms, their foreheads touching.
Úlfnaor stared at them, some glimmer of understanding dawning in his face. “You take him away now, Coinín,” he said firmly. “Take him away and never let him look back.”
The two men exchanged a tight glance. Christopher snatched his reins from Wynter and leapt into the saddle. “Come on, Tabiyb!” he snapped, urging his horse forwards. “ ’Tis almost daybreak!”
Razi and Embla skipped apart as Christopher danced his mare too close.
“Chris!” exclaimed Razi.
Christopher glared down at him. “We have work to do,” he said in Southlandast. “Or have you forgotten? Put it back in your trousers, man, and let us get to our business.”
Suddenly a long, agonised shriek split the morning air. Everyone ducked, reaching for their weapons, staring all around. The forest exploded in a frenzy of snarls and angry barking, and deep in the trees a horse screamed. The sound made Ozkar leap and side step, his eyes rolling, and Razi’s horse danced in fear.
The warhounds, somewhere out of sight in the forest, began to howl.
Christopher’s mare threw her head and he growled at her, tugging her into a tight, dancing circle to stop her bolting. He drew his katar and edged his mare sideways, putting himself between Wynter and the thrashing shadows. Wynter drew her short sword, peering into the dark. A man was screaming out there, high and rhythmic, the sound of someone caught in a snare, and that poor horse still shrieked its agony out into the dark. Growls and snarls underscored the shrill sounds of pain.
Behind Wynter, the camp erupted with panicked activity. People were ducking from tents, half dressed and dishevelled, swords in hand. The horses were milling about on the grass, crying out and fighting their hobbles, infected with fear. Úlfnaor bolted past, dashing into the shadows without a word. Hallvor darted after him. One after another Merron warriors ran past, and the three friends hesitated as the fierce tide of men and women rushed into the trees. Then Razi secured his reins to the pommel of his saddle, slapped his horse away and ran into the forest. Christopher and Wynter followed suit, heading towards the baying hounds and the terrible screaming.
Protection
They ran deep into the trees, following the noise. Wynter could hear Úlfnaor yelling at his hounds. Then Embla and, unmistakably, Ashkr, snapping orders and whistling.
Razi, dashing furiously ahead, came to a sudden halt. The awful, pained shrieking of the horse was right in front of them now, and Razi took an involuntary step back from the sound. Wynter ran up to him, pushing through the bushes to get past, and he flung his arm out to keep her back. “No,” he said.
Christopher came to a sliding stop, staring past Razi, his face appalled.
Impatiently, Wynter batted Razi’s arm from her path and stepped forward. Three Merron warriors were standing in a frozen semicircle around the horse, and Wynter stepped between them, her sword dangling uselessly by her side.
It was a fine chestnut cob, at least fifteen hands and deep-chested, a handsome, sturdy mount. The hounds had gutted it and torn at its throat, then left it while they pursued its rider. Its entrails were tangled in its feet and it was on its knees, moaning now, in a high, inhuman kind of way. As Wynter watched, the horse lowered its forehead to the ground as if in prayer. There was blood on its lips and in its nostrils, and its breath came in snorting, agonised gusts. Its ornate tack jingled lightly with each shuddering breath.
Razi knocked against Wynter’s shoulder as he pushed by, heading for the sounds of human suffering further on. Christopher came to her side, his face blank, his eyes on the snarling wolfskin that decorated the horse’s rump.
“Jesu,” breathed Wynter, staring as the poor horse tried to rise to its feet. Its hoof slipped, pulling its own guts further from its torn belly, the long intestinal loops steaming in the morning air. The horse exhaled a weak, agonised whinny. “Jesu Christi,” Wynter whispered again, her gorge rising. “Salva nos.” The horse blew another gusty breath and shuddered. Slowly it toppled to its side, its legs spasming helplessly.
At that, everyone seemed to step forward at once. Wynter stooped with the Merron as they huddled round the poor creature. She helped two of the men take the bridle and heaved on the horse’s head so that its neck was stretched taut. Then a woman stepped over it and slit its throat in one quick, deep slice.
The hors
e’s blood sluiced out onto the forest floor, spreading quickly across the matted leaves. Almost immediately the painful tension left the horse’s body and it relaxed, its strong legs curling inwards, its final breaths bubbling from its gaping throat like swamp gas. Wynter stepped back, but the Merron did not release their grip on the bridle. The men kept the wound stretched taut, allowing the blood to flow freely, and the woman stroked the creature’s quivering neck as its life ebbed from it.
Wynter looked at Christopher across the growing scarlet tide. He had stepped forward, gore splattering his boots, and was staring at the wolf head. It glared at him, its silver teeth glistening in the new light.
Loups-Garous, thought Wynter. She took in the horse’s tack. Travelling light, no saddle bags, no bed rolls, no camping equipment. She looked out into the trees, settling her sword in her hand. That means they can’t be more than a day’s ride from their companions. Scouts then, spiralling out from a central camp. Looking for something. Spies. Wynter glanced back at the brutalised animal. Spies. Just as we had intended to be, she thought with a shudder. This could have been us.
The sounds up ahead were calmer now, men and women calling to each other in unhurried commands. The man had stopped screaming. Christopher met her eyes across the heads of the crouched Merron. Gesturing at him to follow, Wynter stalked after Razi.
They followed a wide trail of broken brush that cut a blood-stained path through the trees. After a few yards they came to another horse, mercifully dead this time, its throat ripped cleanly out, a quick kill. The Merron were stripping it of its fine tack, grimly pulling the saddle from its back, undoing the buckles of its harness. The wolfskin was casually flung onto the growing pile of Loups-Garous’ equipment. Its jewelled eyes seemed to follow Christopher and Wynter as they padded slowly by.
The horse’s rider was sprawled in the trees a yard or so further on. Hallvor was crouched over the body, her back to them. Úlfnaor’s dogs were standing by, panting happily, their tails wagging. As Christopher and Wynter came up the trail, the hounds looked up in unison, grinning, their long tongues lolling. They were painted in gore, their wiry fur matted with blood. There was a sudden, brutal, cracking sound, and Hallvor began sawing at something with her knife. The dogs whined in excitement, bowing and snuffling.
As Wynter and Christopher slid past, Hallvor, her arms elbow-deep in blood, sat back on her haunches, revealing the man’s body. Wynter saw that he had been raggedly decapitated. There was no sign of his head. Hallvor had cracked open his rib cage and was now calling to the eager dogs, offering the man’s heart to the warhounds that had killed him. She had split the organ into two, and Wynter watched in sick fascination as the huge creatures stepped forward and delicately took a half each from Hallvor’s dripping fingers.
“Maith sibh a chúnna,” murmured the healer, wiping her arms on the dead man’s shirt. Two other Merron came down the trail, and Hallvor motioned them to help her strip the Loup-Garou of his finery. Christopher pulled Wynter along by her elbow, and they moved on.
They followed the sounds of people moving through the trees and found themselves back on the edge of the grass plains. Razi stood with his back to them, his falchion sword still in his hand. He was watching as a group of Merron gathered around Úlfnaor and Wari. They seemed to be looking at something that lay on the ground at their feet.
As Wynter and Christopher stepped from the trees, Ashkr pushed his way through the ranks of the Merron, his dogs at his heels. He was carrying something in his hand. It took Wynter’s numbed brain a few seconds to realise that it was a dripping human head. Once the Merron saw who was shoving them aside, they parted ranks and let Ashkr through to the centre of the circle, stepping back to give him room. His dogs immediately tried to get past him, baying and snarling. At the sight of the dogs the shape on the ground cried out in fear.
My God, thought Wynter, its a man.
Ashkr roared at the dogs, an unusually vicious sound from the Merron lord, and the warhounds backed down at once, dropping to their bellies in the dirt. The man on the ground made an awful, spasming, uncoordinated attempt to crawl away, and Wari kicked him. The man howled and then abruptly lurched upwards, shrieking a string of vile curses in Hadrish.
At the sound of the Wolf’s voice, Christopher flinched, and Wynter felt him draw away. She placed a reassuring hand on his back, her eyes on Razi.
Stepping between the Merron warriors, Razi admitted himself to the inner circle, then stalked around the man on the ground. He came to a halt beside Ashkr, and the two men stood side by side, dark and light, both gazing coldly down at the Wolf. Wynter thought that Razi looked oddly detached and speculative, like a trader in a mart, sizing up a sub-standard horse. She slipped, unheeded, through the warriors and into the inner circle. Christopher drifted in her wake, but once he was within the ring of Merron he came to a halt on the edge of things, motionless and silent, his head down.
Embla stood by Úlfnaor, her sword in her hand, her warhounds flanking her. To Wynter’s amazement, Sólmundr was also there. The lady had her free arm around his waist, holding him up. Wynter moved round to stand by their side, and so got her first good look at one of David Le Garou’s Wolves.
He was young, mid-twenties at most, and clean shaven, with shoulder-length brown hair. Wynter’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the chewed mess of his legs and the way he was holding his exposed guts into his belly with both hands. She fought down a hot surge of vomit and pulled her attention back to the angry contortion of his expression He was staring at Wari, his eyes a vivid blue in the chalky white of his face.
“You God-cursed savages,” he spat in choked Hadrish. “You whoreson vagabonds. David will eat your pox-riddled hearts, you hear me? He’ll burn your eyes! You—”
Ashkr crouched abruptly by his side and leant forward to make eye contact. The Wolf flinched away in momentary fear, but quickly gathered himself and snarled defiantly once more. “Stand back, you cur. I have no wish to share your fleas.”
Ashkr nodded. “See your friend?” he said. He placed the severed head on the ground. It had been chewed and savaged by the hounds as they tore it from its owner’s body, but the features were still recognisable. Ashkr turned the head to face the now silent Wolf. Gently, he pulled the clinging hair from its lifeless forehead, tucking it neatly behind the bloodied ears. He lifted his eyes to those of the Wolf. “See your friend?” he repeated. He tapped the dead cheek. “He the lucky one,” he whispered.
The Wolf stared at the slack-lipped, waxy face of his dead companion, then drew back and gobbed a long, bloody spit at Ashkr. Wynter jumped, her sword jerking upwards, but Ashkr just sighed and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt.
“That very silly,” he said, his voice just as soft as before. “I the only person here who might have kill you before you too broken up to care.” He sucked his teeth and spread his hands. “Ah well,” he said and stood up, smiling down at the man. “Ah well.”
The Wolf fell back, his knees drawing up to his torn belly. His eyes scanned the ring of faces that glowered down at him, and Wynter saw Christopher shrink back against the surrounding Merron, his eyelids fluttering, his face turned away in fear. But pain overtook the Wolf before he could find Christopher, and he gasped, rolling to his side, and locked eyes with Razi instead.
They knew each other well; Wynter saw it in the shock that froze the Wolf’s face, and in the slow, cold satisfaction that spread itself into Razi’s smile.
“Sabah alkhair, Reinier,” said Razi quietly, wishing the man “good morning” in Arabic
The man lurched slightly, as if he would have been jumping to his feet if not so hideously wounded. He stared at Razi, then his lip curved into a knowing sneer and his eyes hardened. Razi grinned at him. The Merron frowned. There was a suddenly wary reappraisal of Razi, and their eyes dropped to the wicked blade that gleamed in his fist. Wynter tensed and tightened her grip on her own weapon as a subtle shift of focus rippled around the surrounding warriors.
/> The Wolf muttered something in Arabic, then gurgled a clogged laugh, his lips splattered red. “It is you,” he choked in Hadrish. Razi bowed, spreading his arms sarcastically. “David knew it!” hissed the Wolf. “He knew it! Gérard said you were dead, but David knew, as soon as the boys brought those bracelets back to camp …” He shifted painfully, his eyes roaming the crowd, searching. “He knew ’twas your little mongrel. And where the mongrel is, the master ain’t never… hah!” He had found Christopher at last. Razi stepped forward, his sword jerking convulsively upwards.
The Wolf laughed again, contorting his body around to see the pale young man. Christopher flicked him the briefest of glances, slid a look at Wynter, then dropped his gaze. His face was perfectly blank, his body utterly still.
The Wolf twisted his head in the dust and grinned up at Razi once more. “David is looking for you, al-Sayyid.” He drawled Razi’s title, giving the words a contemptuous emphasis. “He will find you soon. You haven’t a hope.”
Smiling, Razi sheathed his falchion and dropped to a crouch. He rested his elbows on his knees. “These people are going to blood-eagle you, Reinier,” he murmured. The Wolf’s eyes grew wide and Razi drew the word out for him. “Blood-eagle,” he said. “You will die screaming. I shall enjoy the sound.”
There was a long moment of silence, Razi and the Wolf looking into each other’s eyes, the severed head on the ground between them. Then the Wolf purposely rolled to his side, all the better to face Razi. He released only the smallest whimper of pain, though the movement must have been excruciating, and laid his head in the dust for only a moment before raising it once again. He flicked a glance to Ashkr, to Úlfnaor, to Embla and Sólmundr.
The Crowded Shadows Page 29