In a Wolf's Eyes

by A. Katie Rose

  Many fingered weapons as we rode by, as though looking for an excuse to attack. None found an excuse, fortunately, perhaps intimidated by the Synn’jhani reputation as much as by my size and our weapons. As we rode deeper into the city, fights broke out on street corners, thugs battled with the City Watch and anyone else in the area. Troops in the more ordinary regiment uniforms of purple and gold fought to keep order, shouting commands to disperse the crowds, killing any that failed to obey or those stupid enough to raise a weapon against them. Troopers eyed us with trepidation, yet allowed us to pass unhindered. Perhaps our uniforms might help after all. I breathed again.

  We rode on, past the fledgling riots into those portions of the city where the full-scale riots raged with a fury not seen for several generations. Not a few handfuls of thugs pillaged and burned, many hundreds swarmed in and out of buildings and alleys, torches in hand, setting fires to buildings, carts and people. Many ran, arms loaded with stolen goods, but the majority seemed interested only in killing and burning. Too many of the common people had suffered under the regimes of Lionel’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and the backlash had come home to roost.

  Fires burned in several shops, the frantic merchants screaming for help that never came. Smoke filled the streets, shouts, screams and curses battled the dull-throated roar of the flames. Men ran from burning shops, their arms filled with looted bounty. No one stopped them. Full-blown riots were vicious animals not dismissed very lightly, I thought uneasily. Rygel’s suggestion of donning Synn’jhani uniforms seemed, at the time, a good idea. Now I was not so sure.

  A small group of eight or ten purple and golds fought to quell the rising tide of violence. I knew they stood no chance. They had too few advantages on their side and the rioters had the weapons, the numbers and the lust for blood. Within minutes, all, to the last man, were clubbed to the ground and hacked to pieces by the frenzied mob.

  Several streets away, a band of royal troopers rode into sight, swords in hand. They reined in, several pointing at the bloody corpses of their brothers. Words were exchanged. What they decided became obvious. As one man, they wheeled their mounts and galloped away.

  Rygel and I exchanged an incredulous look. Anyone in a Federal uniform might as well have a target drawn onto his back. My unease increased tenfold. Our white and silver Sin colors made us a much-hated mark.

  “Uh-oh,” Rygel muttered. “We have a problem.”

  I followed his narrow-eyed gaze toward a large mass of yelling, striking, looting people down the road a few blocks. Purple and gold corpses, mostly red now, lay in the bloody street, their weapons taken, filling the hands of a tight mob of men in stained jerkins and ragged breeches. I reined Rufus in sharply.

  “Unless I’m a blind fool, they’re looking at us,” Rygel commented grimly.

  “A fool you are, but your eyes are just fine.”

  More than a hundred men and boys, with a smattering of screaming women, filled the street, milling about, setting fires, overturning carts, others kicking down doors and dragging the terrified occupants from the buildings. About half had their arms occupied with their loot. Another thirty grew silent, watching us, their silence spreading to still more. Many of them halted and dropped their stolen bounty. Bread, bolts of cloth, leather, wooden or steel utensils, tools, kegs of ale all fell to the dusty street cobbles, forgotten. Among all the royal troops, the Synn’jhani brutalized the common people the most. Thus the people created their derisive nickname: the Sins.

  Lionel’s need to fill the Arena found a steady supply among the lower classes, and Brutal’s viciousness fueled their lust for vengeance. Fingering their weapons, the quiet, deadly crowd moved, sliding through the street like a huge, uncoiling serpent.

  Toward us.

  Still more filed out of alleys to either side of us, pulling out clubs, daggers, some even picking up rocks as they advanced. Perhaps they hoped to add a pair of Sins to their trophy list.

  “Listen to your uncle Rygel,” Rygel said. “Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said dryly.

  “I hope you don’t mind a bit of cowardice,” Rygel said, wheeling his black. “But we’re going to turn tail and run.”

  “On the contrary,” I murmured. “I don’t mind at all.”

  I reined Rufus about, kicking him into a fast gallop.

  Behind us, unseen until now, crept another handful of men and boys who thought to sneak up and brain us with their cudgels. Despite my sympathies toward their cause, I did not hesitate to run them down. With Rufus bearing down on them at a run, his ears flat and his teeth bared to kill, most decided it prudent to dodge aside and let us go. Those who thought a charging horse could not possibly withstand the swing of a club if wielded by an honest and brave citizen standing up against the evils of the Federation found Rufus’s hooves very hard indeed. Rufus didn’t even stumble over the corpses.

  “This is going to give the Sins a bad name,” I said over my shoulder as we cleared the angry mass and found an empty street through which to flee.

  “I’m fresh out of pity,” Rygel called. “Try me again later.”

  I heard Rygel’s gelding hard on our heels as we raced down side streets or main thoroughfares, whatever had an opening. Milling mobs stupid enough to think they might stop us created havoc in navigating galloping horses. If people did not heed the warning sound of galloping hooves, I merely ran them down. I had no desire to kill them, but Rygel’s skin and my own took precedence over theirs. Many of the more agile dived to one side or the other to escape trampling legs and hooves. Those few who did not…well, they should have known better.

  Trying to avoid more rioting mobs, I saw an opening into a quieter, less violent section of Soudan. With reins and knees, I slewed Rufus into a sharp right turn. With fewer rioters and fewer innocent citizens around, we galloped on without much danger to either. I slowed our headlong pace, Rygel bringing his sweating black up beside me. I relaxed, at last taking my hand away from my sword hilt. Rygel offered me a grin, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, miming great relief.

  “This is going to be a Festival of Summer talked about for generations,” he commented.

  He mimed too soon. The quiet street ended at a city square, horribly populated by the largest riot we had yet encountered. Rygel reined his horse in so hard it slid several feet on its haunches before coming to a stop. I halted Rufus next to him, staring, appalled.

  Flames roared out of buildings opposite us, several others on the same side of the street as we also burned. Looters and rioters ran and fought up and down the avenue; smaller masses fought hand-to-hand with clubs, knives and short swords. A few uniforms of the City Watch and the royal troops defended themselves, but I saw they would quickly go down. As before, the troopers stood no chance against the hundreds of violent and angry men that mobbed the square.

  A woman’s shrill scream of terror and panic rose above the noise of the riot. I whipped my eyes to the left, finding a gang of men surrounding a lone woman a few rods from where I sat my horse. Whether she was a former rioter or a foolish citizen going about her business, I could not tell. They had backed her against the wall of an apothecary’s shop, at least seven on them, all setting weapons aside. One, the leader, brazenly grabbed her, tearing her cotton tunic down the front. His thick face effused with lust, he threw her down, his mates standing about, cheering him on with coarse oaths. The brave leader hit her across the mouth to silence her screams as he hurled himself down on her.

  Rage boiled hot in me. Without thinking, I drew my sword and kicked Rufus toward them. None of them looked up from the rape until I beheaded one with a single swing from my blade. Suddenly panicked, the pack swarmed to escape, bolting in all directions like rabbits from a fox. Rygel and his rangy horse cut off the escape route of two, allowing me the pleasure of killing them. I did, indeed, enjoy killing them. Their heads rolled quite far before arriving at a gentle stop. I qu
elled the urge to bathe in their blood, however, tempting though it was.

  The brave leader jumped up from the thighs of his victim, trying to fasten his breeches and bring his weapon to bear on me at the same time. His head bounced off the apothecary’s shop window, leaving a red smear and a nasty present on the shopkeeper’s mat.

  I cut and slashed my way around and through those that failed to run in time, reining Rufus in tight circles. He kicked out, taking another brave soul in the chest and stomach with both hind hooves. Rubbing his sweating neck in approval, I didn’t look back to see how well that bugger fared.

  The woman jumped up, holding the remains of her tattered garments to her bosom. She took one panicked look at my bloody sword, my still bloodier horse, and me.

  She fled screaming.

  While I had not deluded myself into thinking she’d thank me, her panic at my appearance still rankled.

  Watching two survivors flee, bleeding profusely, and disappear around a bend, I heard a strange distant growling. To my ears, it sounded like a low rumbling noise, perhaps a cross between a wolf and a wild cat caught in a snare. With a start, I realized it came from my own throat. Gods above and below, I cursed inwardly, appalled. I stopped the noise, taking a firm grip on my runaway rage. My irritation at the victim’s terror of me ceased. No wonder she ran. Had I been in her place, I might have run faster. Sane men did not growl like that. Did they?

  “That’s some temper you’ve got,” Rygel commented.

  I glanced over at him. “I hate rapists.”

  He lifted a hand. “I don’t much care for them myself. I just don’t take it personally.”

  “I do,” I replied shortly.

  He eyed me sidelong. “I reckon you do at that.”

  Had he heard my insane growling? If he had, naught of it showed on his face as he glanced around, watching for any further threat to show itself. I climbed out of the saddle to clean my sword on the cloak of the dead rapist. I detected no sarcasm in his tone, yet sarcasm was to Rygel an art form. I eyed him sidelong, watching him watch me. Deciding not to reply, I sheathed my blade and vaulted back onto Rufus.

  “There’s a tavern on the east end of Soudan,” he said as I reined Rufus toward him. “We can get new clothes there and hide for a while.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “I stayed there for a time before moving to the palace. They know me there.” He grinned. “They even like me.”

  Once more, I found silence the better part of valor, and allowed him to lead the way. We again pushed our mounts into a gallop, finding side streets and alleys away from the mobs looting and pillaging the city. With either luck or divine intervention, we encountered no more rioters or pillagers hoping to flay our hides. Thirty minutes of a steady lope found us riding through deserted and dusty cobbled streets, empty neighborhoods, and shut businesses. Peaceful citizens hid behind stoutly barred doors and prayed to their gods for protection, and the riots found easier pickings elsewhere. Resting the horses, we slowed to a walk.

  Still, I eyed the alleys as we passed, restlessly watching for danger in case it should rear its ugly head once more. Rygel rode relaxed, his hand on his reins negligent.

  “I do have a few friends,” he said, continuing our previous conversation. “Here and there.”

  “Friends loyal enough to aid the High King’s murderer?”

  Rygel grimaced. “Must you use the word ‘murder’? I killed him to save your life. That’s called ‘self-defense.’”

  I shrugged. “To them it’s murder. A slave’s life means naught against that of the High King.”

  “Perhaps my friends don’t need to know that part.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  Biting his lip, he shook his head. “I’ll think of something.”

  “If they recognize me, the game is up,” I said softly. “You know bloody well how well known I am. You, the prince’s pet wizard, discovered fleeing with a runaway gladiator. You’ll be able to see the connection click in their heads.”

  Rygel eyed me sidelong. “I know.”

  “Is saving my life worth you losing yours?”

  “Shut up,” he snarled. “Do you want me to say I wish I hadn’t?”

  “Certainly. If it’s the truth.”

  Fuming, irritated, Rygel turned away. “I’ll think of something,” he repeated.

  “What about magic?” I asked. “Change me. Make me different.”

  Rygel shook his head. “Not possible under the circumstances. Changing someone’s face is quite possible, but another wizard might hear a working like that. Call me paranoid, but in these troubled times, I think we need to keep a very low profile. Gods alone know who might be out there.”

  “Just change my eyes, then. Maybe the color of my hair. Would that work?”

  I knew being born with eyes like mine was not always a blessing. While some found them fascinating, many others pissed their breeches when they looked into them. My eyes were far too unique and I had become easily recognizable because of them. But then, I thought ruefully, I had never before found being easily recognized a burden until now.

  Rygel looked at me speculatively. “New eyes,” he muttered. “You would look common enough without them, wouldn’t you? There are plenty of big men around. Farm boys. Blond hair, like mine. You can be my cousin, from back home.”

  Staring hard into my face, Rygel muttered something under his breath. I felt nothing at all, but after a moment, he ceased his mutter and looked askance at me. “There. Just ordinary blue eyes. And blond hair, like me. No one will know any different. Take my advice and not shave for a while. Grow a beard.”

  “A beard?”

  “That’s what the hair over the lower half of your face is called. You drop food in it, for snacking on later.”

  * * *

  We dodged rioters and Federal peacekeepers alike for the next hour or so, Rygel wending his way through the east side of the city and me following obediently. I had never been to this part of town and found it interesting. Of the people, I saw few, but the buildings I observed were simple yet colorful and dignified. Most had tiny gardens with flowers and small trees that grew behind low stone walls. The graceful homes and buildings spouted attractive dark red tiles on peaked roofs. Many a door sprouted religious icons, a request for the gods and goddesses to protect those residing within.

  Rygel finally called a halt in an alley behind a row of small merchants’ shops. While I waited with the horses, Rygel took a small gem and walked around the front. How he persuaded the shopkeeper to open his store, I have no idea. Perhaps he used magic. In any case, he purchased new breeches, tunics and cloaks for both of us. He also had the foresight to buy extra sword belts so we could discard the more elaborate sheaths and belts we took from the Synn’jhani.

  The tunic sleeves were too short to cover my slave tattoo. I eyed myself with dismay, wondering how I might hide the sneering Lion. Even crossing the brand off with a new scar would fail: seldom were slaves freed, their brands struck off.

  “Here.” Rygel handed me an armband made of copper. “I picked that up for you, also. It might help to make you less noticeable.”

  Grateful, I clapped it over my bicep, finding it nearly too small. My muscles bulged in the wrong places. I kept the steel cuffs on my wrists I took from the Sin, as did Rygel. I suspected we could easily pass as merchants’ guards or mercenaries with our broadswords, plain clothes, and ordinary jewelry.

  “Now to the inn and food and prayers that no one will still recognize you even with your new eyes and new hair.”

  “You call that a plan?”

  Rygel scowled. “Can you think of anything better?”

  I sighed. His sense of humor had its lapses. “How much further is it to your inn?”

  “Not far,” he replied. “It’s about half a league or so down that way.” He jerked his head eastward.

  I picked up our discarded uniforms and armor and shoved them under a rubbish heap nearby.
Glancing around, I saw no trace that we had been there. Nor did I see any eyes watching us. Feeling secure that the uniforms, if ever found, could not be traced to us, I grabbed the pommel of Rufus’s saddle and vaulted aboard.

  “Hurry up, will you?”

  The impatience and rudeness in him surprised me. Until then, while he was seldom the soul of courtesy, he had never been truly mean. Glancing at him sidelong, I caught him fingering his belt pouch. The glassiness in his eyes and the faint flush on his cheekbones told me all too much. We assassinated the High King, critically injured the Crown Prince, escaped the palace, Kel’Hallans and rioters, and now he needs a fix? Gods above and below, I swore silently.

  What would we do when he needed the tros and he had none? There were many miles to ride away from anyone who even knew what tros was, much less manufacture it. What would we do then?

  Rather than embarrass him by staring, I merely clucked to Rufus and rode back out into the street. I heard his gelding skitter under suddenly sharp heels, falling into step behind Rufus’s tail. We rode on, following Rygel’s curtly spoken directions while I pondered the suddenness in which the fit took him. My thoughts made me very uneasy.

  The inn Rygel led me to appeared comfortable and welcoming. A painted sign over the door read “The Royal Crown” with the depiction of a pair of hands holding a gold crown. Four stories tall, it stood no larger than many of the surrounding buildings. The red tile roof jutted sharply against the afternoon sky, only one of the six chimneys belting out much smoke.

  Although the riots and fighting had not reached this section of the city, the few people I saw looked rushed, hurried, glancing fearfully at us. In spite of the heat, shutters concealed windows, doors shut against strangers. The stable lad who came to take our horses eyed us warily as we dismounted before the inn. Rufus’s white stockings were splashed bloody red, I saw as I dismounted. Would the kid start yelling an alarm? I braced myself, waiting for the expected shout. The stable boy took in the blood and sweat, his expression concerned only in that we had no intention of gutting him.