Call of the Wolf (The Kohrinju Tai Saga)

by Nelson, J P

  Some of those Eayahnite priests were swearing that spirits of fire and acid would bathe the world, and anyone who stood against Eayah would burn like so much smoldering flesh. The word was, however, that members of their own hierarchy were turning on each other like hungry jackals.

  Supposedly, when Eayah descended upon Orucean he would evaluate the best of his priests. The most worthy would be allowed to merge with his excellence, while the next thirteen most worthy would be ascended into lesser godhood to reign with Eayah forever. As a result, much backstabbing and politics was now going on.

  Then there were the reports of strange goings on up in the mountains and wild lands. Creatures never seen or heard of before had been encountered, and some said a colony of were-wolves was up there somewhere.

  Whitney was a simple man, who had been a simple soldier and had simple pleasures. Among these were his wife’s beef dumplings, whittling an old piece of wood, bouncing any of his six grandchildren on his knee, and the visit of an old friend. When General Val’Ihrus showed up for a surprise visit, just hours ago, it had been a great pleasure to be the man to bid him entrance into the keep.

  With a beaming smile on his face, Whitney had exclaimed with a salute, “It is good to see you again, sir.”

  Reflecting a pleasant radiance, Hoscoe had returned the salute and replied, “As it is to see you again, Whitney.” Turning to speak as he rode in, Hoscoe asked, “And how is little Cindy? She would be six now, I believe?”

  “Absolutely, sir. She is doing well, sir, and she has two younger brothers for you to meet.”

  The major had been delighted and a festive time filled the evening. It was disappointing to learn the general would have to leave by the next noon, but such was life and the moment savored.

  Whitney had been proud to introduce not two, but a total of four more grandchildren for Hoscoe to admire and learn their names. When time came for the watch to change, Whitney regretted having to leave the great hall, but he had a duty to perform.

  ___________________________

  It was something past midnight and the keep settled in, when to the north Whitney sighted a lone rider. It was a bad time to be traveling and there was nothing up that way, nothing but an ancient trail nobody used anymore. Using a spyglass to enhance his naturally uncanny vision, Whitney studied the rider carefully.

  The air was clear; moons and starlight made visibility almost easy. As the rider got closer, it became evident he was either wounded or feigning injury. As the rider came closer still, Whitney could see he was holding a bow in his right hand.

  Whitney took no chances. Something similar had happened just two weeks ago in a tent camp over on Ucette Ridge, and the whole camp destroyed. Only one survivor made it as far as the keep to tell the tale. An apparently wounded rider advanced the evening camp, and while attention was on helping the man off of his horse, the camp had been attacked and wiped out. Whitney pulled one of two horns in place at the north wall and blew a long, piercing note into the night air.

  The signal was one of cautionary alarm, and in scant moments two dozen crossbowmen were on wall at the ready.

  Not surprisingly, Wadsworth was by his side only moments later.

  Intently scrutinizing the rider through the glass, Whitney knew others would be scouring the perimeter of the keep. The ground was always kept free of any obstructions, and small rocks measuring roddage were strategically placed to aid marksmanship.

  “What do you make of it, Whitney?” Wadsworth asked.

  “Not sure, sir. I’m thinking he may be the real deal. He’s leaned to far forward to make his face. But his one leg isn’t in stirrup and it’s hanging wrong. Sir, I don’t think this is a ploy.

  “Zaeghun’s Lair! Sir! That’s that kid who rode Madigan’s Pride to win the Henley Cup last year. What’s his name? René! Sir, they call him René. He’s been hunting for the Road Building Crew up near the Sahnuck these days, I believe.”

  “René?!” Hoscoe’s voice carried in the air with alarm, “What is René doing here, coming from the north of all places? I left him in Kynear.”

  It wasn’t a question he could expect an answer to, and several faces just turned his way with futile expressions.

  “He come down from Banshee Canyon,” An old voice suddenly remarked. “I told him ‘bout it when he was a youngun.” Hoscoe looked to the grizzled man with snow white hair, rancid smelling buckskin clothing, wicked scar down the left side of his face and a heavy crossbow in his hand. Hoscoe had heard of the man called Trap. No one knew his real name or how old he was, but he was a legendary figure in the Wilderlands.

  Someone else let out a low whistle and exclaimed, “From Kynear through Banshee Canyon?! Cherron’s Beard!”

  “I didn’t know it could be done,” another remarked.

  “Ain’t that the place where all those devils and haunts live?” someone asked.

  “Haunts don’t live anywhere, they’re dead,” the first voice answered. “That man’s either crazy or he’s got balls of steel.”

  “I’d say both, runs in the family. Boy’s got more sand than any three men I gone out with,” that was Trap, and when he spoke everyone listened. Partly because he spoke very little, and when he did it carried weight.

  Quickly Wadsworth yelled below, “Open the gate. Go get him, double-time.” To the main house of the keep he yelled, “Get Arles to the barracks, man down.”

  “Banshee Canyon?” Hoscoe muttered as he followed Wadsworth quickly down the staircase to ground level. His blood quickened with anxious anticipation and worry for René.

  Hoscoe was waiting when the riders brought Kowi around and when he looked up into René’s face, Hoscoe was scared. His left leg was swollen to the full allowance of his leggings and was hanging in an awkward position. In his left hand he held a Mythril tipped arrow, his right shoulder looked odd and his right hand clutched his bow with a death like grip. He had tied a cord around his waist to the saddle and the reins were tied loosely to the pommel.

  René was shaking violently and his eyes weren’t focused. He kept muttering “Gotcha … gotcha … gotcha …”

  Without thinking, Hoscoe muscled two men away to get to René and try helping him from the saddle.

  “René!” Hoscoe yelled at him, “It is Hoscoe, René, I have you boy!” From the other side someone cut the cord around René’s waist. René was burning up with fever and he yelled a blood-curdling scream when they tried moving him from the saddle. The arrow had to be broken from his left hand but he held the bow with a death grip.

  Another voice, Arles the cleric, had his hands up in the air and was giving commands, “Hold the man tightly from each side, and we’ll get the horse out from under. You, get this stretcher ready to put under him. You, stand by with blankets and you, get this under his head as we lay him down, then everyone clear away ... rapido!”

  Kowi was agitated and sidestepping as someone grabbed his bridle. Hoscoe and three more, a total of two men on each side, took purchase of René as another slapped the stallion on the rump.

  René screamed again as he fell backward, the men catching him but his leg twisting where the bone had shattered. The stretcher was placed under him and pillow under his head as René went into convulsions.

  Hoscoe grabbed René by the hand and was about to speak when the cleric ordered, “Stand back, sir. Let me save this man.” Hoscoe looked almost pleading at the cleric for a moment, feeling helpless.

  Firmly, and with an air of confident authority, the cleric ordered again, “Sir, stand back … Now! Let me work.”

  Hoscoe let go of René’s hand, wanting to do something to help his still screaming friend. Wadsworth gripped Hoscoe by the arm and said, “He’s good, I swear it. If the lad can be saved he will do it. Come on, stand down!”

  Used to being in control, it was against his nature to step back, but Hoscoe knew his friend was probably right. Listening to René scream was almost more than he could bear, and his mind went back to another time. A tim
e not so long ago, where he wasn’t able to save someone, someone he cared about deeply.

  Arles knew his craft. As René was led close to him on horseback he could smell the scent of impending death. How René had stayed alive was a miracle in itself, an amazing feat of unsurpassed intestinal fortitude and determination. The thought came across his mind that stories would be told and songs written about this man.

  Arles cut the buckskin jacket and shirt open and was in consternation at the damage from claw wounds. Some kind of infection had set in which wasn’t natural. And there was the leg and shoulder. This young man’s body was swollen so as not to resemble a human, and pneumonia had already manifested itself.

  The leg was the most painful, and when the buckskin leggings were cut open the swelling immediately began to expand. Someone behind let out a sickened expression, but as bad as the leg was it was nowhere nearly as dangerous as the claw wounds.

  There was much to do and this man should have long been dead. Carefully placing his hands on the correct acu-points of René’s body, Arles focused inward to touch on the power. First objective was to neutralize the poison, then address the gangrene which had already set in.

  Hoscoe had never actually seen a cleric heal, and this was completely new for him to witness. He was beginning to wonder if Arles was going to do anything more than just touch his agonized friend, and was about to step forward when Wadsworth held him back, “Wait. Look …”

  René began to writhe like a serpent, then suddenly the bulge in his leg began to change shape and René’s screams became worse. Wadsworth and Whitney both held Hoscoe as he started to lunge at the cleric.

  Whitney hissed, “General, stand fast, sir!”

  Several loud popping sounds could be heard, and several groans in the background could be heard in sympathy. Then the leg suddenly took on several different shapes as it straightened. Arles’s face was steady and almost content as he breathed incredibly deep, slow, and full, and then the shoulder also started to move.

  Arles called out, “Quickly, douse us both with hot water and keep it coming. At once!”

  René choked and coughed as several gouts of mingled blood and puss-like fluid projected out of his mouth; then the water came and was steadily poured over the two. Hoscoe watched as green, purple, and yellow puss started to flow out of René’s chest and sides. Arles’s face seemed to contort as he pushed his power deep into the writhing man before him.

  Suddenly, needle-like objects emerged from the wounds, two of these shot out of his body as projectiles, one which became imbedded in the barracks wall. More of the puss came out; followed by black and then clean red blood; then a clear fluid after which the wounds began to close.

  More of the water washed the excrement away and then Arles staggered up. He almost fell as one of the men caught him. Arles looked weakly at René and said, “Get him into the barracks, quickly, and keep him covered. Treat him as if he was recovering from the Tomriu Plague.” Weakly he glanced about and added, “Don’t worry, that isn’t what he has, so everyone is safe.

  “Feed him lots …” he wavered as he tried to speak and stand, “… lots of Ahstrum Berry … juice, berries, pie, whatever.” He looked at Hoscoe without animosity and said in a weak voice, “He’ll be sick for a few days, but he’ll be fine.”

  Hoscoe nodded his head in speechless appreciation, and then went to take René’s hand and help carry his stretcher into the barracks.

  They got René cleaned and into some fresh clothing, then into a warm cot. Hoscoe pulled a chair to sit by his side when Wadsworth stepped in and asked, “Good friend?”

  “Yes.” Hoscoe replied, “He is one to fight a battle with.”

  René then turned his head and weakly said, “Hoscoe …”

  “Not now, René, you need to rest. It can wait.”

  Shaking his head and closing his eyes for the effort to talk, René weakly took Hoscoe’s arm and tried to speak, “This morning, I heard … Sormiske … taking Wolf … left early … today … for Teamon.” He breathed a ragged breath and said, “Got here … quick … as could …”

  Wadsworth was stunned. Glancing from Hoscoe to René he remarked with awe, “By the Hounds of Hades, man, through the Cody Buck and around Banshee Canyon would be at least one hundred miles. And you did this in one day?!”

  “Mon’Gouchett!” Hoscoe exclaimed, and ground his teeth while clenching his fist. “I should have run that mongrel through on the spot.” Running his hand through his hair, he respected and appreciated René’s urgency and sense of honor.

  Hesitantly, yet realizing the necessity, Hoscoe asked, “What can you tell me, René? What happened?”

  As best as he could, René explained the situation at Kynear, the fight at the tavern and plans for Yank to seek post on the wagon box. He hesitated, then with a weak smile said, “Got me … a Cautra Beast … took him … in … the mouth …” coughing, he added, “Got here … quick … as I … could …”

  “Mon’Gouchett!” Hoscoe exclaimed again.

  Wadsworth asked, “This Wolf person? Does he have something to do with why you came here?”

  Hoscoe nodded at Wadsworth, then gripped René’s hand and smiled. “Well done, René, well done indeed. You have done your job. Now it is my part to play.”

  Gripping René on the shoulder, Hoscoe stood up and said, “You get well.” With a wink at him, he added, “Be wary the soup of these young lasses who shall seek to tend you. I wager you shall have your choice of flowers within a day or two.”

  He turned to Wadsworth and asked if they could go outside to talk.

  ___________________________

  Within the hour, an exhausted Hoscoe rode out of the keep bound for Teamon. With him rode a squad of some of the finest fighting men in southern Aeshea. His original purpose for riding to Wadsworth Keep was now moot, but he nonetheless wrote a letter and handed it to his friend before taking time to pack his things. Briefly Hoscoe explained.

  Wadsworth just looked at his longtime friend before holding the letter up and asking, “And you’re sure about this?”

  “Yes,” Replied Hoscoe. And the two clasped forearms, followed by a solid embrace. Such an embrace as can only be understood by those who have shared engagements of blood and death, and emerged victorious together. And embrace which speaks without words the sentiment, “We may never see each other again; be well my brother or sister of the blade.”

  “Travel Strong, old friend,” Wadsworth remarked with his hand on Hoscoe’s shoulder.

  “And you.” Hoscoe set about preparing to depart. There was no time to waste, and he would not sully the effort made by René to get him the news straightway. A hundred miles in one day, Hoscoe mused shaking his head. Now that was a feat in itself, let alone what René rode through and had to overcome. Hoscoe would like to hear the whole story over an ale or two, some day.

  Once he completed gathering his things, Hoscoe spent a few moments talking with Arles. Hoscoe felt an apology was in order, and he wasn’t a man who let things drift on.

  When Wadsworth asked for volunteers to ride with the general, there was no shortage of men to step forward. Among the team chosen was Whitney, his eldest son, and Trap. No one asked if the ragged looking old man could stand the journey. If anyone had a doubt of any kind, it was whether the team could keep up with him. And Trap knew this country better than any man alive.

  Two hours after René had been spotted, six seasoned and conditioned fighting men left to make quick time for the port of Teamon.

  Trap knew several short cuts which cut down the time, and he knew the best places to camp with shelter, water and fuel for fire.

  Twice they encountered sign of possible brigands, and for a while they were sure they were being followed.

  During one camp, Trap had faded into the night like a ghost. After an hour and a half the sound of a far off scream could be heard, but nobody moved. They just stayed in place waiting and ready. Trap ambled into camp about an hour later, tossed what
turned out to be a scalp off to one side, and casually poured himself a cup of tea and helped himself to some stew. No one asked questions. An attack never occurred.

  As men will do when traveling a distance, they often exchanged stories between them. On this journey, Whitney’s choice subject was sharing tales of the general.

  “That there is a man who forgets nothing. I’d bet you my last shill he can tell you the name of everyone he’s ever worked with, their favorite color and how they carried their weapon. And he has the respect of everyone who ever fought beside him or against.

  “When Bantlrog the Bloody was cornered up at Yazeir, he said he would surrender only if it could be to General Val’Ihrus. So they hold a cease fight until they can find the general and bring him in. It took over a week, but it was the smartest move ever made. That Bantlrog knew fighting and his people usually took eleven men for every one he lost.

  “The general rode out to meet him one on one, and Bantlrog came out to meet him likewise, then they rode in together. Bantlrog was tried and lost his head, but he said he knew he and his men would get the fairest shake if the general was involved.

  “I was at the Battle of Hatchapeik, when he was still a colonel. It was one of the worst I had ever seen and lasted for days. The tide had clearly started going our way when it got quiet one night. I was one of the scouts who went over and found they had run slap out of food.

  “We all thought that would be the beginning of a slaughter. But Val’Ihrus thought about it and chewed his jaw, then he ordered us put a wagon of food together and take it to them under a white flag.

  “That made us all scratch heads, but orders are orders. A couple hours later, the opposing general rode over under the white with some of his men. He wanted to know just why Val’Ihrus would do such a thing, especially since he was about to win.

  “The general, colonel then, walked up to the man and said, ‘Sir, you are too honorable a warrior to defeat in such a demeaning fashion. I wish to allow your company the courtesy of a good meal.’