Wolf Age, The

by James Enge

  “Well, I read something about it once, and that's not the same thing at all. Where is that thing? Hey, Rogerius.”

  What appeared to be a brass head lifted itself up from among a tumble of gray stones. It was suspended in midair by nothing more obvious than its own intention.

  “I asked you not to call me that,” the brass head said, looking at Iacomes with discontented crystal eyes.

  “Did you notice when I ignored you? No? Oh, well. Rogerius, I want you to find something for me.”

  “I am busy at my visualization. I remind you that if I do not finish my visualization, you will not finish your project.”

  “I want you to find something for me,” Iacomes repeated patiently. “I read something once—”

  “I sense an indefinite but fairly large number of documents—”

  “—about illness. That should narrow it down.”

  “Still indefinitely large.”

  “Oh, come on. I'm not a hypochondriac.”

  “Do you include emotional disturbances in your definition of illness?”

  “Depends. Doesn't it? Everyone who has emotions has them disturbed sometimes. But some people are more disturbed than others.”

  “The number is still indefinitely large.”

  “All right. The document I am thinking of described an illness that had something to do with ghosts.”

  “If we include emotional disorders, the number of relevant documents is still very large. Would you like an estimate or a count?”

  “Neither,” Iacomes said hastily. “How many if emotional disorders are excluded?”

  “Is that wise? The intruder—whose name you have not asked but whom I have of course identified—is subject to a number of emotional disorders.”

  “Who isn't?”

  “I am not.”

  “Assuming that's true (which it's not), so what? Who wants to be a disembodied brass head?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, I grant your wish: you are a disembodied brass head. Don't say I never did anything for you. Now exclude emotional disorders and give me a count.”

  “Seven thousand and forty-two.”

  “Hm. That's a lot.”

  “Ghosts cause illness. It's a scientific fact.”

  “Aha. Exclude ghost as cause. What then?”

  “There is a much smaller number of relevant documents.”

  “How many?”

  “Five.”

  “How many are in this room? I seem to remember reading it in here. Or in the third-floor tower. Or in the kitchen. How many are in the house, here?”

  “Three.”

  “Bring them to me, eh?”

  The brass head floated about the dim room, gathering dusty pieces of parchment in its teeth. It dropped them on the desk near Iacomes and floated back to its nest among the tumble of stones.

  “Thanks, Rogerius,” said Iacomes absently. “Well, this one is no good. It's Vespasian's dying joke—you know, ‘I think I'm becoming a god.' I can't think why he brought it to me. Though there is some overlap between ‘god' and ‘ghost,' I suppose, especially in Latin. And this is just a recipe for giving the morally ill the ability to see ghosts. I have no idea what use that would be, though I suppose in the right hands some use could be made of it. No, it's this that I was thinking of: see?”

  He offered the parchment fragment to Morlock, who took it with his right hand. It was a set of instructions for making a mirror out of a unicorn's horn. The page was torn, probably from a scroll, but the mirror clearly had something to do with ghost illness (morbus lemuralis)—whether as cure or cause was not clear. There was a fragmentary notation along one torn edge of the page. It seemed to say lumina umbrosa. He pointed it out to Iacomes.

  “Yes, I couldn't make anything of that. ‘Lights full of shadow.' Makes no sense.”

  “But lumina can also mean ‘eyes' and an umbra can also be a ghost.”

  “Hm. ‘Eyes full of ghosts,' then. ‘Ghosts-in-the-eyes.' Ulugarriu!”

  “Yes.” Morlock nodded. “This will be useful to me. What do you want for it?”

  “I don't have time to haggle right now. Why don't you just take it, and if I think of any little thing I can use—”

  “You will not trick me into accepting an open-ended bargain.”

  “Well, it was worth a try. What have you got?”

  They bargained keenly for a time, and in the end Iacomes accepted three gold coins and a glass dagger for the parchment. “Though I don't know what I can do with a glass dagger,” he said in the end.

  “Take it, leave it, or bargain some more.”

  “No, I have this big job due and I've wasted too much time here already. We're even. Have a good day, and please don't call again.”

  “You're the worst salesman in the world, Iacomes,” Morlock said, with a grudging admiration.

  “Thank you, thank you. Praise from a master is indeed gratifying. Please pull the door completely shut as you go. Thanks. Thanks. Good luck, Morlock.”

  Morlock was back on the dim street, wending back toward the Shadow Market, before he realized something. He had never given his name to Iacomes.

  He turned back and tried to find Iacomes' shop, but he lost his way in the twisting streets and finally had to give up. Hrutnefdhu met him as he was coming back to the border of the Shadow Market.

  “What in ghost's name were you doing in there?” the pale werewolf gasped, who seemed especially pale for some reason.

  “That's my business,” Morlock replied curtly. He liked Hrutnefdhu, but he didn't like it when anyone tried to limit his movements.

  “It's dangerous, that's all,” Hrutnefdhu said apologetically. “The streets shift. They say nothing is ever in the same place twice. All sorts of weird entities come and go.”

  “Hm.” There was something in this, but Morlock didn't want to talk about it. He was feeling a little odd, as if he was on the verge of the trembling madness that comes with a long bout of drinking.

  “My friend Liuunurriu doesn't know anything about ghost sickness,” Hrutnefdhu continued, “but he does know someone who might. He'll be back at twilight.”

  By now they were in the Shadow Market. The sun was high enough that misty golden light was falling on some of the black-and-white paving blocks. The place was almost empty of vendors: bright light and their shady callings did not mix, it seemed.

  “I can come back, then,” Hrutnefdhu said, when Morlock didn't answer.

  “Thank you,” said Morlock, whose body and soul were aching for a drink. “I may not be able to join you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WAR IN THE AIR

  It was another dark night. The sky above was stormy, split sometimes by lightning, but even above the clouds there was no moon tonight. Horseman had set just after sunset, and it would be seven days before Trumpeter rose.

  Rokhlenu had grown up hating moonless nights, but now he loved them. It was pleasantly perverse to be entangled with his beloved, both of them wearing the day shape, deep in the darkness of night. Wuinlendhono, too, relished it. The air was warm as summer, despite the storm, and they lay on the day couch without a blanket.

  The windows stood open to admit the cool rainy air. Had they turned their heads to look, they would have seen the approach of the airships standing in toward the outlier settlement, the eyes of the gondolas already angry-red with fire. But they were absorbed in a marital conversation and did not notice.

  It was the warning calls that roused their attention at last: shouting, howling, horns; all rising from the watchtowers on the settlement's verge. They had been watching the plank roads and the waters for the approach of the enemy. They had been vigilant. But they had not been watching the sky, and so they noticed the airships almost too late.

  Wuinlendhono and her mate rolled from the wedding couch and looked out the northern windows. One glance told them both all they needed to know. The Sardhluun had surrendered their long-boasted solitary stance and had allied with th
e Neyuwuleiuun Pack—the Neyuwuleiuun, who controlled the airships. Now airships were being sent against the outliers as if they were stray never-wolves fleeing bands of raiders.

  “I’ll go to the watchtowers,” Rokhlenu said as they frantically pulled on clothing. “The airships may come within the range of our crossbows and catapults—”

  “I’ll go to the watchtowers,” Wuinlendhono said. “I’m the First Wolf of this settlement, and it's for me to take charge of the defenses. You have to go to that crazy never-wolf friend of yours and see if he's got something to help us. Otherwise, we're done.”

  Rokhlenu stuttered a moment or two, but then bit down his protestations unspoken. She was right. And what bothered him was the thought of her going into danger, but no place was safe while the airships were attacking.

  He seized her, kissed her, ran from her down the winding stairs to ground level.

  He ran all the way to Hrutnefdhu and Liudhleeo's den in the rickety slum-tower on the east side of town. There was a new lock on the door of the den; it had a coppery face and glass eyes. It grinned in recognition and let him in as soon as he knocked.

  Hrutnefdhu was alone in the den; he was sitting up in the sleeping couch, blinking.

  “Where's Morlock?” asked Rokhlenu, and then nearly struck himself. Morlock was absent; Liudhleeo was gone. Wasn't it possible they were coupling at this moment, Hrutnefdhu's mate and his old friend?

  If the pale werewolf was thinking anything along those lines, he gave no sign of it. “Morlock's drunk, I expect,” Hrutnefdhu said sleepily. “He usually is, by this time of night. What time is it?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Cave. Wait a moment.”

  “I don't have a moment. The airships of the Neyuwuleiuun are attacking us.”

  Hrutnefdhu jumped naked from the couch, grabbed the coverlet, and wrapped it around himself as he ran after Rokhlenu.

  The wickerwork boat with the glass eye was waiting on their side of the water—otherwise Rokhlenu would have leapt into the water and floundered across. Both werewolves took oars and drove the boat across the rain-lashed water. Shoulder to shoulder they ran up the long slope to Morlock's cave.

  Morlock was sprawled in a pile of blankets by the cave's entrance. A half-empty jar of wine was still in his right hand. Deeper in the cave, Hlupnafenglu was sitting by the nexus of living flames, playing solitaire with Morlock's cards. He looked up in surprise at the entrance of the other two werewolves.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The Neyuwuleiuun are attacking.”

  “Who are the Neyuwuleiuun?” asked the red werewolf with an oddly unconcerned smile.

  Rokhlenu goggled at him for a moment, but then remembered that Hlupnafenglu had lost his memories. “They have airships. We need Morlock. Wasn't he working on wings, or something?”

  “Morlock is drunk.”

  “I see that. Wasn't he working on wings or something?”

  “We were all working on them,” Hrutnefdhu said. “But I don't know where they are, or if they're done.”

  Hlupnafenglu's smile became even broader. He pointed at the roof of the cave.

  Five sets of wings in various stages of completion were hanging there. Or, more precisely, they were lying against the roof of the cave as if it were the floor.

  Three were obviously unready, but the mechanisms of two seemed complete, and the skinlike surfaces of both were covered with the weight-defying metallic rings.

  “How do they work?” Rokhlenu asked.

  “Not sure,” Hlupnafenglu said with his customary, somewhat eerie cheer.

  “Morlock was going to show us,” Hrutnefdhu added. “But he—well, he never got around to it.”

  Because he was drunk? Rokhlenu wondered. Looking back, he seemed to remember Morlock had said that wine was not good for him—he forgot exactly what his old friend had said. But why would someone go on drinking if it harmed him? It was beyond Rokhlenu's understanding, and not immediately relevant, so he put it aside.

  Rokhlenu said, “Let's pull one down, and you two put it on me. I’ll see if I can fly in it. If I don't kill myself, one of you follow me. We have got to do something about those airships or they'll burn our town down to water level.”

  They dragged one of the wingsets down from the roof and strapped it on the gnyrrand's back. Wearing it, he felt as light as air: his feet barely touched the ground. There were grips inside the wings, and when he used them to flex the wings, he felt his feet leave the ground for a moment.

  “Chief, wait,” said Hrutnefdhu.

  “No waiting. One of you follow me. I’ll be headed straight for the airships.” He ran out of the cave and took straight to the air.

  The southern wind threw him backward, pinning him against the hill above the cave, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  “You don't have a weapon!” shouted Hrutnefdhu at the top of his penetrating voice.

  “Oh,” said Rokhlenu, dashed in multiple senses. “Help me down, citizens.”

  They hauled him down. There were still many glass weapons about the cave, and a sheath for a short sword was built into the frame of the wings, running across the shoulders. Rokhlenu took a sword, practiced sheathing and unsheathing a couple times, and then said, less dramatically, “Like I said before. I’m going to walk up to the top of the hill and take off from there. One of you do the same. The other try to wake Morlock up. Maybe he can think of something. If you can get him to think.”

  “Will do, Chief,” said Hlupnafenglu.

  As he stepped out of the cave into the warm rainy night, he heard the werewolves behind him arguing about who would follow. He struggled up to the top of the hill, the wind threatening to blow him off his feet at any moment. When he reached the crest, he spread his wings and leapt into the air. The wind carried him away, up into the dark fire-torn sky.

  The worst thing, as soon as he left the ground, was the sense of placelessness. He was tumbling in the dark; there was no clear sign for him to follow, nothing to give him a sense of where to fly to.

  There was, at least, up and down. He drove the wings to carry him higher and higher. Suddenly it occurred to him that the wind was blowing from the south, almost due north, and he must already be past the borders of the outlier settlement.

  Steering took a few tries before he began to understand it, but he found he could angle the wings and his body to bank against the wind.

  Then he saw them! The airships! They were no blacker than the clouds, but the eyes of the gondolas were still red with fire. Every now and then the sky would flash with lightning, and in the bitter blue light he could see the long clawlike shapes of the airships clearly. Down below was the outlier settlement, also outlined with fire. It was already burning. It might already be too late. Wuinlendhono might already be dead.

  He drove his wings toward them. What he could do against them he did not know. But they weren't expecting him, and that was to his advantage.

  He closed on the airships faster than he expected. The storm winds added speed to his wings.

  And they did, in fact, see him. They were looking out from the windows of the gondola, scanning the dark night. He saw them long before they saw him…but he was armed with a short sword and they had bows. A bolt of lightning thundered shockingly nearby; though he was dazed by it he was close enough to hear a shout from the gondola of the nearer airship: someone had seen him.

  With terrible clarity, he saw several archers take their bead on him and ready burning arrows to shoot.

  Then a shadow passed between him and their fiery light.

  Morlock was having the worst dream ever. Not a nightmare, in the usual sense. A frustration dream, a shame dream. Someone had come to him for help, someone he wanted to help, but he could not help them because he was drunk. Even in his dream Morlock knew it must be a dream, because he had given up drinking ages ago, precisely so that this exact thing would never happen again.

  It was very real, though. It was as if he could se
e Rokhlenu strapping on the wingset he had built. He could hear the words the werewolves spoke. But he knew it was a dream, because he had long ago given up drinking.

  He started a little when Hrutnefdhu screamed, You don't have a weapon! That was almost like it was really happening.

  He felt something on his hand. He stared at it for a while. It was red, but not like blood. Plus, it did not burn, as his blood did. It was cold, unlike blood. And it didn't smell like blood. It smelled like wine.

  He had a bowl of wine in his hand. He had spilled some of it when the pale werewolf shouted.

  If he actually had a bowl of wine in his hand, that strongly suggested he had been drinking it.

  If he had been drinking it, he was not having a nightmare about being drunk, as he often did. He was simply drunk.

  That meant that Rokhlenu did actually need his help.

  He'd said something about the Neyuwuleiuun…and their airships.

  Morlock set the wine bowl down with elaborate care on the cave floor. He rose to his feet.

  Rokhlenu was gone. The pale werewolf and the red one were standing between the other completed wingset and arguing about something.

  “Where's Rokhlenu?” Morlock said. “He was just here.”

  The two werewolves turned to him with blank looks. A pale werewolf with a blank look. Morlock felt there might be a joke in there somewhere if he could think a little more clearly, and if he were the joking type, and if this were a joking situation—none of which was the case, so the hell with it, Morlock decided.

  “He's gone, Khretvarrgliu,” Hlupnafenglu said eventually. His right hand was gripping the wingset by the torso straps, so that Hrutnefdhu wouldn't escape with it, but his left hand mimicked a bird in flight.

  “Buckle that thing on me,” Morlock directed.

  “Morlock. Old friend,” said Hrutnefdhu gently. “You're too drunk to walk.”

  “I won't be walking. Hlupnafenglu: oblige me.”

  Hlupnafenglu walked over to Morlock with the wingset and Hrutnefdhu in tow. In the end, the pale werewolf assisted the red one in buckling the second wingset onto its maker.