Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  "My mother had no gift but to make bottles of mead disappear," Yarwyn reminded him crossly.

  "Oh?" He ran his fingers over the curve of one long pointed ear, feeling her purr despite herself. "Are these not a gift from your mother, then?"

  "I got nothing from my mother. She was Human, a tavern whore, little more than a slave. I remember nothing of her except that she told me my talents were too precious to waste, and the priestesses would pay well for me."

  "Your father was Elvin, then."

  "I know not. I suppose he must have been, since I bear someone's likeness, and I was born in Talismar."

  "The priestesses who taught you how to harness your power, did they not teach you the gifts of your race?"

  "They did not consider me one of their race. Half-Elves are the bastards of the world, homeless wanderers, destined to roam the earth looking for Barbarians to tote them about."

  "Well, this Barbarian may be the bastard son of a bastard house, but he would prefer to travel on four feet rather than two across this expanse of wasteland. Especially since winter has decided to renew her grip on the tundra. Would that you had learned this art from your priestess benefactresses. 'Twould seem a useful skill for a Ranger to possess."

  "Put me down. Now."

  The change in her tone brought him instantly to a halt, her edgy wariness putting him on guard. He set her upright, his fingers spanning her small waist. "What is it, my heart?"

  "Seanen, explain this slowly for me, that I might understand. You can shape shift into a wolf, as your shamans do?"

  He blinked in confusion. "All my people are capable of this. We live as men, but we hunt as wolves. Wolf Clan fights as a pack."

  "How? How do you do this?"

  He fastened his gaze on the depths of her violet eyes, concentrating, letting go, letting himself flow until he was one with the Earth Mother and her sons.

  Yarwyn watched, absorbing all she could as the eyes that held her gaze turned black as the night. One moment he was a man, standing before her, seven foot tall and broader of shoulder than the average doorway. The next he was a wolf, ragged and rangy and ready to run for miles across the tundra, his black coat tipped with silver like a mask around his muzzle.

  "Too quick," she gasped, barely managing to contain her awe. "Does it take too much out of you? Can you do it again for me?"

  Black eyes blinked up at her, and he was a man. She stood next to him in the snow, open to him, all her barriers down. "Don't think. Feel. I need to know what it feels like–the joy, the pain, the wonder of it."

  She felt first his love for her, which still overwhelmed her, and then something stranger–his understanding of the gods and his place in the divine universe–and then the slight pain as bone melded to another shape, and the swift changes in his senses as he tasted the wind.

  The gods. Of course. His people were so close to their god. This thing that he felt inside, it went beyond love. It touched on unity of the spirit. She had never learned such a thing from the Sisterhood. She had known, of course, known that the Sisters shared a faith that led them to train the Rangers to protect their lands. But she had never been schooled herself. Had never believed in anything beyond the grasp of her own two hands. Was she capable of such understanding? Such an elemental response to the gods, so personal, so intimate?

  "Again," Yarwyn whispered.

  The man leaned in to claim her mouth, his breath hot against her lips, his tongue gentle as he tasted her, his teeth sharp as they nipped at her .

  She felt what he felt, let it flow through her veins, let it touch her heart and her soul, until she looked into the depths of his midnight eyes, her muzzle a few scant inches from his.

  She hissed, a screech of protest falling from her mouth. "A cat! By the gods I did not wish to be a cat!"

  His wolf eyes laughed at her as his tongue lolled out of his mouth. "You cannot be ought but what you are, my mate. And you are a cat. Such is the lot of the folk of Talismar."

  "Well I do not like it." She sprang forward, clearing a damp patch in the snow by several feet. "I hate wet. I hate snow. I hate cold."

  "Yes, my love."

  "Don't seek to placate me, you–you–mangy–dog."

  Dark eyes laughed at her as he loped at her side. "Never, my love. I must say, you make a gorgeous leopard. Very sleek and sexy."

  Yarwyn shook her head in disgust. "You would mate with anything, you lech."

  "No, my love. I would only mate with you. As that is not possible just now, I shall race you from here to House Yarishet. We shall be safe from the storm there. Even Evalayna herself cannot move about much in this weather. Once we reach the splendor of Mâkakao's great house, I shall tumble with you amidst piles of brocade pillows and satin damask before we take up our journey again."

  Yarwyn smiled a feral cat smile. "I like the way you think, my love."

  "You like the idea of being warm by the fire nestled in silks."

  "I like the idea of your naked man-skin beneath my hands, and your body mine to command."

  "You make a fine cat," Seanen laughed again. He nipped lightly at her muzzle as they streaked through the night, unlikely companions at best, too attuned to each other to take notice of the far off roar of the ancient grizzly.

  * * * * *

  The storm was getting worse. Even with her excellent night vision it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Cassadara stopped just below the crest of the hill, her sharp lupine senses alerting her to the small party that lay in wait over the ridge. Four, by the smell of things. Four nasty, filthy Orcs who would have done much better at trapping her had they taken a few minutes to scrub themselves with the snow before they headed out to hunt.

  Cassadara surveyed the terrain before deciding on a strategy. The edge of this hill sloped down to the right, funneling into a natural valley that would leave her at the low point, where she would be vulnerable to attack from above and behind as she moved in on her prey.

  To the left the way was steep and rocky, but she'd wager it was passable. For a wolf. She could skirt the end of the hill and come in behind the Orcs, finishing them off before they even realized she had discovered their ruse. She licked her lips in eager anticipation. She had been born to fight. Adrenaline sharpened her senses and lent new strength to her tired legs. She scrambled up the side of the hill, moving in for the kill.

  * * * * *

  Tyrell pitched his voice deeper, his words carrying clearly through the steadily falling snow. "Who are ye, and what are ye doing out here alone?"

  "He would be thy brother-in-law," Ayailla commented dryly. "And ye need no' think to intimidate Lord Mâkakao by bellowing at him in our tongue. He speaks more languages than ye are aware of."

  Mâkakao bowed deeply as he moved in to shake himself off by the fire. "Lady Ayailla. Sir Tyrell. Well met."

  "Yarishet? Ye are here alone? Where is thy Lady Wife?" Tyrell's voice turned harsh as he attempted to scan the blanket of drifting snow that surrounded the small camp.

  "Your sister travels as the wolf, and has outdistanced me in this storm," Mâkakao explained reluctantly.

  Ayailla offered a most unladylike snort. "She ran off and left ye."

  A flush lit Mâkakao's face. "Aye, M'Lady. I fear my young wife thinks to protect me from time to time, whether I have need of her protection or not."

  "How much of a start has she on thee?"

  "Not more than an hour, at best, M'Lady, though her speed surely outdistances mine. The storm would not have impeded her progress as badly as it did mine."

  Tyrell shook his head. "No wife of mine would be running off alone across the tundra to leave me to follow at her heels."

  Ayailla raised an eyebrow, waiting to see how Mâkakao would react to Tyrell's challenge. Men were unpredictable things, needed much guidance, but she sometimes found it amusing to watch them vie for a superiority they would never rightfully claim.

  Mâkakao simply threw back his head and laughed.
"The voice of a single man knows no humility, Brother. Cling to your illusions whilst you can."

  It was Ayailla's turn to laugh now. "Spoken as a true husband. Come. Join us at the fire, Lord Mâkakao. Once the storm passes we will travel together, as a pack. For tonight we shall feast. Tyrell's fine skill as a Shaman has caught us a rabbit."

  Mâkakao dropped his pack near the fire, ignoring the irony of Ayailla's words. "Rabbit makes a great stew, with a bit of greens to flavor it."

  Tyrell's eyes lit up with reluctant interest. "Ye can cook?"

  "Aye."

  "Perhaps ye could teach me a thing or two, Brother. The Lady Ayailla has no such skills to pass on to me."

  "Is it my fault this century cannot conjure a microwave?" Ayailla demanded, taking personal affront to Tyrell's comment.

  Mâkakao's hands stilled in his pack. "Mike-row-way?"

  "Microwa–never mind," Ayailla conceded with a sigh. There was no way to translate words whose concepts simply did not exist. "An ancient device used to cook foods quickly with beams of energy."

  Tyrell raised one eyebrow and shrugged slightly. Mâkakao found something interesting in his pack that required his attention.

  "'Tis no secret I never learned to cook," Ayailla added defensively. "'Twas a different world, a different time. The skills a woman needed were based on technology, no' sheer survival."

  Mâkakao raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Technology? I have heard stories from the past, but in my culture these stories are from the ancient past...I would have thought such artifice much older than the span of your years, M'Lady."

  Ayailla nodded in agreement. "Aye, 'tis true. I am from an older time. I was Summoned, as ye were, but with a much more powerful spell. 'Tis a long story, for another night. Suffice it to say that I owe all that I am, my life, my loves, my daughters, to the Fey creature Shammall. It is for him, as well as my daughter, that I trek across this tundra. And, perhaps, for myself. I am old. I thought to make no more great journeys again in this lifetime. It comforts me to know I am no' too old yet to repay this debt."

  Ayailla seemed to snap back from her musings, her fierce matron's scowl pulling the wrinkles back into her face. "Enough talk of the past. Two men, and I still can no' get a decent meal. Are ye going to cook that rabbit, or worry it to death with thy voices?"

  "Tis already dead." Tyrell stood up to drop the skinned rabbit parts in Mâkakao's small pot of boiling herbs. After brushing his hands clean with snow, he turned to plant a kiss of affection on his grandmother's forehead. "I love ye, old woman, no matter how odd ye are."

  Ayailla laughed at that, returning his hug as they settled in to watch the pot bubble over the fire.

  * * * * *

  Evalayna raised her head to sniff the night air, though she needed no such aide to follow him. Roahr had made no attempt to conceal his tracks. 'Twas not arrogance. He would not have thought of it. He had no natural enemies, other than his own kind.

  She sniffed to catch the flavor of the night, the feel of the air rushing in, overwhelming her super-sensitive olfactory nerves. She sniffed to remember.

  It had been long since she'd tasted the night.

  Too long.

  It had been longer still since she'd caught the scent of him on her tongue and savored it as a relished spice...

  Grief for the long years lost threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced it aside. No time for that. No time for anything but the mission at hand.

  The mission. She should be focused on the mission. On her daughter. What the name of the seven hells was she doing out here in this blizzard chasing a dream? What was she thinking, running off into the night after...

  After him.

  After the man she'd loved more years than she could count.

  After Roahr VinDall.

  "Too late! Too late..."

  He stopped at the top of the snow-covered slope to roar out his grief.

  Lost.

  He'd lost her again.

  Away. Must get away. Too old.

  He was too old. Defeated, he ran, now, forsaking his territory. Another, younger, stronger, would take his place. He was done with the battle. He could not be what he had been in his youth.

  She'd touched him. She'd touched him with her hands, and her heart.

  "Stay with me."

  She'd touched him with her words.

  Did she not understand? Did she not know of the months, the years of the vast alone?

  Grief gave way to anger. Rend. Destroy. Eliminate the betrayer. Kill the lying tongued one. Reclaim what is mine...

  But he could not make that claim. She was lost to him as never before. For she had chosen her path.

  She had chosen the man who stood at her back. He looked different, but the smell was the same. There could be no doubt.

  How could she ask him to stay, when the betrayer stood at her side?

  He ran, lumbering out of sight in the snow shrouded night, his voice growing dimmer as his long stride outdistanced her shorter legs. She was old, and unaccustomed to such strenuous exertion. She would never catch up with him this way. She stopped at the top of the slope to pull his scent back to her on the night air. She could not catch up with him in this storm running across unfamiliar territory. She had to use her wits. The gods had armed her well enough.

  She dropped her shaggy butt down into the snow and lifted her head back in song, rending the night with her melody. "Thine. Thine, forever and always. Come to me my heart."

  There was a long silence–so long that she began to think he would not answer. When his voice reached her again, it was a wordless call of grief and pain.

  "Forever and always," she repeated.

  "Too late. Too many years. Too much pain."

  He hadn't moved again. There'd been enough time in between to tell her that both answers had come from the same place. "Forever and always."

  "You ask too much."

  "What is a year in the drop of forever?"

  "A year? A decade times three."

  "Thine. Forever and always."

  His wordless, haunting cry split the night again, but still he had not moved. She was catching up to him she could tell. His scent was growing stronger. His huge paw prints in the snow might have been a map to follow him by. She rounded the end of a small ridge, and there he was.

  She moved forward cautiously, extending her nose to him, letting him get his fill of her scent. "Mine," she whispered against his muzzle. "Forever and always."

  "Yours," he acknowledged, laying his muzzle against hers with a snuffled sob. "Yours, forever and always."

  Chapter Four

  "Halt!"

  Seanen snapped to attention, pulling his military dignity around him like a cloak. "What is the purpose of this outrage? Is the hospitality of House Yarishet so short lived, then? Wouldst thou deny the Talismarian Ambassador entrance? The double moons have no' lit the night twice since thy house did offer me the keys to thy gates, and already House Lindall is defamed by thy discourtesy?"

  Yarwyn thought to tell Seanen she would tolerate the breach of protocol, considering the hour, but his uncharacteristic use of the formal language of his rank dissuaded her.

  The guard, though tall for his race, still had to tilt his head to look up at Seanen, and might, therefore, be excused his fear. "Forgive me, M'Lord Lindall, Ambassador Yarwyn, but the House is under full security, and I did not recognize you upon your approach. Please, allow the Lieutenant to escort you to Captain Balthain.

  "Captain Balthain? Are we to be interrogated, then, rather than given audience before Lord and Lady Yarishet as honored–and trusted–guests?"

  The Sentry shook his head, emanating undue worry, though Yarwyn began to suspect it was not the sheer size of the Warrior at his gate that had intimidated the man. She felt more. A stronger, deeper fear than that of the moment. "Be not offended, My Lord. I can only grant you audience to one who is here, and the senior officer within these walls is Captain Balthain. Lord Yarishet and his lady hav
e disappeared and I am posted to guard the gate. I know not else."

  Yarwyn laid her hand over Seanen's arm, squeezing gently with the tips of her fingers. She pitched her voice low, trusting the guard did not speak Thieves' Cant. "He speaks the truth, my love. There is no deception in him, nor animosity. Allow the man his duty. He cannot tell you what he does not know."

  Seanen did not openly acknowledge her information, but the tension in him relaxed perceptibly, though a new wariness took its place. "Fear not, young Sentry. I shall report to Captain Balthain that ye have managed thy task admirably."

  Yarwyn hid her desire to giggle behind a cough, holding her hand over her mouth a moment longer than was necessary. Admirably indeed. Seanen could cut to the quick with his sarcasm. "He is but a boy," she cautioned. "Try not to frighten him too badly."

  Seanen merely nodded his head as he turned to follow the Lieutenant down the long stone corridor. "I was fighting for my life in the streets of Lochinvar before I was half his age. These Humans grow up too slowly, if at all."

  "Had either of us grown up within the walls of a house of privilege, we too might have known such innocence."

  "Innocence? The pair of you? I have my doubts." The voice was soft, and deep in timber, laced with the subtle cynicism inherent to the spirit of the Thieves' Cant.

  One moment Seanen was beside her, as relaxed as he ever was outside the bedroom, and the next he simply vanished. Yarwyn stepped back into the shadows, instantly on the defensive. She had seen no one. She had felt no one. The Lieutenant moved on down the hallway, unconcerned, as if he'd seen and heard nothing. Which was as it should be.

  "Identify yourself," Seanen's voice hissed.

  "You know me well, Lord Lindall. You taught me to dance."

  Yarwyn blinked slowly, trying to picture Seanen as a dance instructor. Trying harder to read and feel real the meaning behind the spoken words.

  "Rat?"