The Silver Wolf

by Alice Borchardt

  The little girl muttered, “Hyrrokkin wicca.”

  Hyrrokkin’s witch.

  A picture flashed from the wolf’s mind to the woman’s: a face of unearthly loveliness but so white it seemed fashioned of snow. Eyes of terror flashing with the myriad pale blues, greens, and blacks of glacier ice. She of the snowy wastes where the foot of springtime never falls. The “never born,” older than the gods, witch queen of mountaintops and glaciers locked in eternal winter. She for whom the only proper sacrifice is human, always ready to choose her own victims: unwary wayfarers, travelers among the high passes deceived by fine days, blinded in the whiteout, wandering in circles, mad with terror. At length when they sink exhausted to the snow, her servants, the wolves, claim them. Men say, or perhaps only whisper, “They looked into her eyes.”

  The little girl was a Saxon. Regeane spoke the language. Even after her father had died, she had a Saxon nurse for many years. “No,” Regeane replied in the child’s native tongue. “She never leaves her snows.”

  Regeane pulled off her veil and handed it to the child. “Go wash your face. Come with me. We will be companions.”

  The child rose slowly. She studied Regeane’s face closely. Then ran toward the fountain carrying the veil.

  Lucilla stood next to Regeane. She looked puzzled and a bit disapproving. “I don’t deal in children, and I have no truck with those who do,” she said. One look at Regeane’s horrified expression was enough. “Forget I said anything, please,” she pleaded.

  Regeane and Lucilla followed the child to the fountain. The child had managed to clean off the blood, but the top layer of grime was intact. Regeane washed the child’s face vigorously, grumbling, “You’re filthy. Have you been looked after at all? My God, the hair is a rat’s nest. I can’t do anything with it here.”

  The little girl closed her eyes and accepted the scrubbing with dignity. “I have but one face. Don’t wash it off.”

  “I want to see what you look like under the filth,” Regeane said and smiled. “There, little one. That’s better. Are you hungry?”

  “But of course she’s hungry,” Lucilla said. “Children are always hungry.”

  “It doesn’t trouble me,” the child said stubbornly.

  “She’s Saxon,” Regeane said proudly. “Most of them would die rather than complain.”

  Lucilla lifted the child’s chin, gave her a quick professional appraisal. “Not bad, better than at first sight. A bud, and a green one at that, but she may yet grow into a beauty.”

  The child jerked away from Lucilla. “I don’t want to be beautiful! I want to be a man. Then I could be revenged on that!” The child stared at Hugo. He was on his feet. The very soldier who’d knocked him out was sympathetically helping him stagger toward the fountain.

  “Don’t feel too bad about being a woman,” Lucilla said, patting the child’s head kindly. “Women get their opportunities for revenge, also. Ugh, such hair. She’s probably lousey.”

  “Yes,” the child said. “My head crawls and my clothes, too. At home I kept myself clean. I hate this.” She shifted her gaze from Regeane’s face back to Hugo. “At home,” she whispered, “my father would have taught him what it means to lay hands on the daughter of a thane.”

  Then the child’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m crying. I don’t want to cry. It’s weak to cry, but I want to go home.” The soft wail of grief reached into Regeane’s heart past all the layers of caution and indifference into the deepest part of her being.

  “It’s too far away,” the child sobbed. “The ship must have sailed thousands of miles. I’ll never see home again.”

  Home, Regeane thought. Yes, I, too, would like to go home. At least she knows where hers is. All I have is a name, Wolfstan, and a people who vanished into the forest.

  Disregarding dirt and lice, Regeane held the child against her body and let her cry her grief out. Feeling for the first time since her own mother died, a gentle warmth as the slender arms wound around her and, for a time, clung as if they would never let go.

  Lucilla shook her head. “You’re kindhearted, I see that already. It’s sad, but there are thousands like her. You can’t help them all.”

  “No,” Regeane said, “but I can help this one.” She moved the child protectively away from Hugo. He was dunking his head in the water and muttering imprecations directed at the general state of the universe. Regeane flicked a contemptuous look at him.

  “Coming with me?” Lucilla asked.

  “Yes,” Regeane replied as she used her wet veil to dry the child’s tears.

  Lucilla sighed and produced a square of clean linen. Regeane dropped the veil on the edge of the fountain. It landed with a wet plop. She took the clean linen and continued wiping the child’s face, whispering, “There, there, little one. It’s not so far. Perhaps if your father is a thane we can find—”

  Suddenly the square filled with the thunder of hooves.

  Lucilla shouted in alarm. Her men-at-arms joined her quickly.

  “The militia!” someone cried.

  The Roman Militia, the papal guard controlled by Pope Hadrian, was the arm of civil order in the city. It was both respected and feared by the citizens.

  “No,” Lucilla said softly. “It can’t be the militia. I would know. Besides, they never bother with this place.” She whispered something to one of her men-at-arms. He promptly vanished into an alleyway. As did several merchants. Others began to gather their stock hurriedly and beat a quick retreat into nearby houses.

  Regeane pressed back against the fountain. She felt naked. Her mantle was lying near the cloth seller’s cart, her veil sopping wet.

  The armed men fanned out and began to search among the carts and tables.

  “A curse of piles on the lot of them,” Lucilla snarled. “May they itch, burn, and bleed. The bastards are blocking the only exit from the square. Hold the child’s hand,” she commanded Regeane. “They will think you her mother and a married woman. They seldom bother—”

  One of the armed men shouted, “Stop running, fools. We don’t want you or your trash.”

  “Christ!” Lucilla’s remaining man whispered. “Basil the Lombard.”

  Lucilla said, “Don’t—”

  This was as far as she got. He clapped his hand over her mouth and carried her bodily into the nearest vacant house.

  Regeane gasped. The child jerked her arm. “Don’t look,” she said. “Eyes front. If they see you looking, they’ll know where she went.” Regeane was terrified and, at the same time, utterly bewildered.

  What could men like these want here? They were mercenaries. Their arms and armor proclaimed them the most competent of the violent breed. They sported heavy dark linen tunics under new leather armor. Each man wore heavy cross-gartered leggings. They were chasing the merchants with drawn swords. Top quality hand-forged, hand-filed steel glimmered in the gray light. Dark, oxhide cross-braced shields hung on each man’s arm.

  The leader—he wore a rich black velvet mantle over his armor and his sword hilt was more ornate than the rest, so Regeane surmised he must be the leader—had reined in at the cloth seller’s wagon. He began browbeating the man who crouched near the feet of his horse.

  The answers he was getting seemed to satisfy him because he backed his horse and allowed the cloth seller to rise. The man stood trembling, visibly relieved that the powerful warrior ceased threatening him.

  He backed his horse again. God, Regeane thought, the creature is beautiful. It was a Barb of the kind parts of Greece and North Africa were still famous for. White, but with gray at the hooves, tail, and muzzle. A magnificent arched neck, deep chested, muscular but high at the shoulder with long, slender, graceful legs. The slightly darker mane and tail curled magnificently. A stallion. The long member hung in its sheath at the loins.

  The horse was restive. Regeane knew why. The wolf was with her as much as she could be by day. The horse knew.

  The square had fallen silent as both the people and the mer
cenaries waited for the leader’s commands. The horse stomped and snorted. The man on his back curbed him firmly, pulling his head down. At the same time, his gaze made a circuit of the square.

  Regeane caught a good look at his face: superficially handsome. Large, dark eyes, Roman eagle profile, broad strong nose, mouth, and chin. Oh, no! she thought. She’d never seen this particular man before, but she’d met the type often enough. They were without mercy or love, existing in absolute selfishness—the very sort she was afraid her future husband might be. The endless wars threw them up the same way a breaking wave foams as it falls.

  She had learned in her travels to be utterly wary of them. They didn’t reject kindness, caring for another, the sweet gestures of human intimacy; most of them simply didn’t know these good things existed. To them, the world was one big, gray passage of human images like the faceless figures on a worn frieze circling some forgotten monument—except that, at times, those faceless figures bled.

  A change of expression too brief for reading flickered across his features when he saw Regeane. He turned toward the cloth seller.

  Regeane snatched the child’s head around and buried it in her skirt so she wouldn’t see.

  The man spoke negligently, quickly to the soldier at his side. A spear went through the cloth seller’s chest. He died, folding into a heap like one of his worn garments. His face showing no fear or pain, only mild surprise.

  On the other cart, the furniture seller began screaming and pointing directly at Regeane.

  Regeane shoved the child away. “Run!” she shouted. Groping hands pulled the child into the crowd.

  The leader of the mercenaries drew his sword, wheeled his horse, and charged straight for Regeane.

  The wolf was with Regeane, pouring into her blood, muscles, bones, lending her the beast’s strength, the cunning, the absolute concentration of the self-disregarding killer. Pandemonium exploded in the square. Some tried to flee, others to attack with improvised weapons: firewood clubs, axes, hammers, and paving stones.

  Regeane stood her ground. Instinctively knowing that if she ran, she would be cut down in a few steps.

  Horse and man swept past her in a cloud of leather and sweat smell. His knee slammed into the side of her head, even as he realized he’d thwarted himself. She was on his left, protected by the fountain. He couldn’t get a clear swing at her with his sword.

  God, what a blow. Regeane staggered, her vision cleared.

  The stallion turned with an almost catlike grace and reared, his fore hooves striking down, driving her into the open, away from the fountain.

  Regeane leaped to one side into the center of the square. The mercenary laughed, lighter teeth flashing in his weatherbeaten face. Giving him a look of almost childlike delight. He had her now. He was sure.

  There was one chance. As the stallion’s fore hooves descended, she and the wolf both saw an opening. She darted in toward the horse’s head and snatched the bridle at the bit. She pulled her right arm, turning the horse’s head too quickly for him to follow. The beast’s legs skidded out from under him.

  She saw the sword rising from the corner of her eye—then disappear as man and horse fell, landing with a crash beside her. She leaped clear of the thrashing hooves and caught one last look at the expression of stunned disbelief on the man’s face.

  Mouth like velvet, she thought as she bolted into one of the narrow alleys surrounding the square. It sloped upward like a ramp. From the square came the furious shout, “After her. By Christ’s bones, I’ll have the bitch’s blood.”

  Hoofbeats clattered echoing on the stone. Regeane went like the wind. The ramp ended in a blank wall.

  The entrances of the few houses leading into the alley were barred by heavy wooden doors, as were the shuttered windows looking down into the gloom.

  To her right, the street continued as a flight of stone steps. They were slimed with the eternal Tiber damp and raw sewage from the overlooking houses. The stench choked the wolf, but the woman plunged headlong up and up. Scrambling, her feet slipping on the filth, Regeane made the top of the steps on all fours.

  A shout rang out. Regeane turned. The little Saxon girl was taking the steps two at a time. “Keep running,” she cried. “One of them is right behind me.”

  Regeane did. The child paced her. “Why didn’t you run to Lucilla?” Regeane gasped reproachfully.

  “Argumentative now?” the child asked. “Punish me later.” She passed Regeane and drew ahead.

  Shouts and curses rang out as the horseman encountered the steps. Hoofbeats become booted footsteps.

  Regeane’s heart hammered with terror. The alley was narrowing, no longer wide enough for two to walk abreast. The walls pressed in closer and closer. The street turned—a hairpin turn and ended in—a blank wall.

  She spun around, her back against the wall, and looked around desperately. The insulas surrounding the alley were three stories tall … Three stories straight up. Smooth surfaces of narrow terracotta brick up to the cold, gray sky.

  The wolf tried to come, tried to draw Regeane into the change and—couldn’t. She was too weak. She subsided when she seemed to realize in her dark heart that she was only draining the woman’s strength.

  The footsteps sounded closer now. Hurrying

  “Hisst!” The voice called from close to her feet. The opening was so clogged with debris, she’d missed seeing it.

  “Hurry!” the child’s voice called. “If you keep dithering, he’ll have you.”

  “I’m not dithering,” Regeane snapped in a hissing whisper. “Is it big enough?”

  “Yes … maybe … well, I don’t know.” This a wail. “I went down so fast, I don’t know. But, please—”

  The mercenary appeared at the entrance of the cul de sac. Her panicked brain estimated he was approximately three times her size. Another part of her brain presented her with a really gruesome picture of her upper body stuck in the drain while the soldier hacked at her lower body and legs with his sword.

  Regeane’s hands cleared dead leaves and twigs aside. The wolf, a burrower, made a lightning calculation. Regeane dove for the hole.

  With a shout of fury, the warrior leaped after her.

  The tunnel was downhill, the walls slippery with slime.

  The man’s hand closed on her ankle. Regeane screeched and clawed desperately at the inside of the clay drain. It was too slick for a handhold.

  Something gripped her hair and yanked. She shot out of the other end of the tunnel like a greased pig, landing right at the feet of the child, leaving one shoe in the soldier’s hand.

  Shouts, evidence of the man’s frustrated rage, echoed in the pipe.

  “Let go of my hair!” Regeane ordered as she got shakily to her feet.

  The child looked offended. “You are lucky I got as good a grip on it as I did. You’re too fussy. You should have jumped in when I told you to.” The child tried to look up the drain, still reverberating with the soldier’s fury. “Don’t worry,” she said. “He can’t get through until he gets more of his armor off.”

  “And it won’t take him long to do that,” Regeane said emphatically as she pulled the child away.

  The courtyard was surrounded with two-story insula. Every door and window was closed and barred. Regeane could see no escape.

  “Up,” the child said pointing to a row of stone balconies that ringed the second story of the houses. The balconies were tiny and shallow, but even in this poor quarter, each sported at least one pot of herbs and flowers. The nearest one held quite a few more. It offered at least a possibility of concealment.

  Regeane snatched up the child and boosted her over the rail, then pulled herself up behind her. She tried the shutters with her fingers. Solid planks. She saw bolts at the bottom, middle, and top. No escape there.

  The warrior slid out of the drain.

  Regeane and the child crouched down behind the flowerpots and tried to make themselves as small as possible. The warrior down below turne
d in circles, scanning the empty courtyard. He may have discarded his armor, but he carried a large, lethal-looking sword. She remembered the cloth seller and shivered.

  “It’s no good,” she said softly. “He will find us.”

  She felt the little girl’s clutch tighten on her arm. She shook herself free and stood up. He was standing almost under the balcony.

  She seized a pot of gray sage sporting long spikes of blue flowers and dropped it on his head. She scored a direct hit, but it didn’t do much good. He was wearing his helmet.

  He gave a roar of fury and turned, leaping for the balcony rail. He pulled himself up with one hand, sweeping the sword ahead of him to keep her off.

  Regeane’s fingers closed on the lug handles of a big rosemary jar. She parried the sword’s backswing with it. The man’s wrist and sword hilt crashed into the jar. The warrior yelled again, this time in pain, and started to drop down.

  Regeane was too quick for him. With all her strength, she smashed the bottom edge of the pot into his forehead.

  Both man and pot went down, landing with a ringing crash on the flagstones. He rolled over amidst the dirt and broken crockery, getting to his hands and knees.

  “Oh, God,” Regeane whispered. “No.”

  “Yes,” the little girl said, her mouth set in a tight line. “He’s very obstinate.” She selected a clay pan of chamomile. This time when the soldier went down, he lay still.

  Regeane stood leaning against the rail, gasping for breath and trembling.

  “Why do they want to kill you?” the child asked. “What have you done?”

  Regeane shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered, completely bewildered.

  The little girl looked up at her, disbelief written in every line of her features. “You won’t tell me then,” she said, sounding deeply offended.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Regeane said. “Truly I don’t.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” the child said pensively. “The way I cried in the square, that was shameful and you think me weak.” She looked up at Regeane with an expression of almost adult belligerence marred only by a slight protrusion of the lower lip. “But I’m not weak.” She climbed over the rail, dropped to the ground, and drew the fallen man’s knife.