Prince of Wolves

by Dave Gross

  “I see.” No doubt the ordeal had already taxed her frail constitution, so despite my own roiling emotions, I declined to press her further. Saving me from the need to offer an innocuous tangent, the butler arrived, followed by another servant bearing covered dishes on a platter. The butler seated Tara, who said, “Thank you, Felix.” He held my chair for me before taking the dishes from the other servant and placing them before us. He unveiled them simultaneously. A trio of poached eggs in cream sauce lay upon points of toast with grilled potatoes rubbed in garlic and rosemary, the dish garnished with a gleaming rivulet of pike roe. It looked splendid, but the aroma struck me as peculiar. Tara relished the scent.

  “Count Galdana has the finest cook in western Ustalav,” she said. She had forced a note of cheer into her voice, but her eyes were heavy with sympathy, or fatigue, or perhaps her own sorrow. I wondered whether she was as homesick as I now felt, bereft of the only two companions I had brought from Cheliax. She pierced an egg with a silver fork and tasted it, closing her eyes in appreciation.

  Confirmation of my servants’ deaths balked my appetite. I regretted hiring Nicola to undertake such a long journey only to die in a foreign land. I was sorry too for the men I had hired to guard us. They were mercenaries, of course, and knew the risks, but they were still human beings, decent men each, for all that I knew of them.

  Like the mercenaries, Radovan had known from the moment I employed him that one day he might be called upon to give his life in defense of mine. In the earliest years of our association, I expected that moment might come at any time. Certainly we had shared a great many dangers, and always he had interposed himself between me and the threat without hesitation. In service to my safety, he had suffered beatings, stabbings, even immolations that would have incinerated a bodyguard of purely human blood. I had begun to think of him as indestructible.

  Now I could not help but imagine the last moments of his life. Had the wolves taken him? What was that fire I half-remembered? Surely that had not killed him, for in past he had proven uncommonly resistant to fire, even for one of diabolic heritage. Still, resistance was not immunity, and he could be burned by sufficient heat, such as that generated by magic. I prayed that he had at least been spared great pain, but in retrospect it seemed that most of his life had been about enduring pain of one kind or another. He carried his heart lightly, and although he gave it too easily at times, he seemed happy much of the time he worked for me.

  “You must tend to your hunger, Excellency,” said Tara. “The dead are beyond our help.” I recognized the wisdom of her advice, even though I did not feel it. It was right to live for present necessity rather than wallow in past misfortune.

  Returning her courtesy with a smile I did not feel, I took a bite of breakfast from this “finest cook in western Ustalav.” It dissolved upon my tongue like decayed flesh, its putrescence spilling down my throat and up into my nasal passages. I barely brought the napkin to my mouth in time to stop myself from spitting the foul stuff back onto the plate.

  “Excellency!” Tara gasped. She looked more astonished than offended. I turned away to spare her the sight of my wiping the inside of my mouth with the once-fine napkin. It was not enough to scour away the taste. I drank from my goblet, but the remaining filth instantly tainted the water so thoroughly that I dared not swallow. I rushed out the windowed doors and spat out the horrid stuff. Felix followed me outside with another goblet and napkin. Drink after drink gradually cleansed my mouth until I could control my gag reflex.

  Turning to phrase an apology, I saw that Tara had withdrawn to spare me further humiliation. Despite her kindness, the heat of shame joined my cold sense of loss without countering it. Felix stood discreetly nearby until I addressed him.

  “I shall take some air,” I said.

  “Perhaps Your Excellency desires a different meal,” he said. He nodded toward a moss-draped pavilion beside a nearby grove. “Perhaps in the rotunda.”

  “Some fruit would be pleasant,” I said. “No eggs.”

  Felix bowed and withdrew toward the manor house. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs along the riverbank, where clusters of dark willows bent to steep their tresses in the river. The passing current created the illusion that the wooded islands in the middle of the flow were the funereal barks of Ulfen heroes.

  To the south loomed the accursed mountains of Ulcazar. I should forever hate the place for taking the lives of my servants, especially Radovan. Despite his recent disgruntlement, our association had been long and, in large part, mutually beneficial, although I had never given it so much thought before this day. At the best of times, I thought of him as more than a servant, but of course the disparity in our births rendered friendship impossible. If only I had maintained a proper distance from the start, I should not so mourn his loss now.

  To die so close to returning to one’s ancestral home seemed an especially cruel irony. I had never visited my father’s homeland in Kyonin. The elves do not welcome half-breeds into the lands they themselves abandoned so long ago, before returning to reclaim them. Perhaps his death had spared Radovan the disappointment of rejection by his own people.

  Distant thunder answered my thoughts. Far to the west, a storm front fulminated over the Virlych Mountains. It had been the same last time I had gazed upon those tortured peaks. Hideous magics still ravaged that blighted terrain, the ghosts of spells that had once slain legions now stalking the spirits of their defeated foes. Even in their ultimate triumph, the armies of men and dwarves could only contain, not destroy, the Whispering Tyrant. Some in Ustalav say the storms are his dreams.

  I returned my attention to my immediate surroundings. Even by Chelish standards, Willowmourn Manor was a grand and ancient structure. It was constructed primarily of hewn bluestone, and its gables of gray slate lent it a stately aspect in the otherwise pastoral environment. Unlike southern manors, its gardens flowed subtly into the surrounding vegetation, seeming at their most exquisite points nothing more than happy accidents of nature. The gatehouse, the servants’ quarters, a large stable, and several secluded pavilions all enjoyed the shelter of shade trees. Stands of poplar, ash, linden, and birch had been reduced but not replanted in regimental order, as was the custom of gardeners in Egorian. I found this truce between civilization and the wilderness most agreeable, but there was one notable exception to the rule: to the southwest lay the most extraordinary hedge maze I had ever seen. Above its borders rose fantastic topiary heads. Among the nearest I noted the heads of a stag, a bear, and a grotesque ogre. Such a frivolity would have enchanted me in my youth, and to be honest I still delighted in exploring such simple puzzles whenever I discovered one I had not previously encountered. I decided to seek out a better vantage from one of the western rooms after breakfast.

  My perambulation took me past a number of the outdoors servants. A pair of towheaded boys, obviously brothers, swept out the empty carriage house. They peered at me through the corners of their eyes lest they meet my gaze and be required to doff their caps and wait upon my pleasure. I noticed no signs of my carriage within the building, and I worried what had become of it. For the first time since the beginning of our association, I was impatient for Casomir’s return.

  Beyond the carriage house, a hard-faced groom exercised a pair of excellent stallions in a paddock. Through the open doors of the stable I saw six equally fine animals in the nearest wing of the L-shaped building. An open kennel had been built into the outside wall, its compartments guarded by three enormous dogs who eyed me as I passed. Two were fully grown Ustalav wolfhounds, thick as mastiffs in the chest but with longer legs and a dense gray coat. Both had drooping mustaches upon their square snouts, and their resemblance to certain nobles of Ustalav might have been risible had my mood been less cloudy. The third was a younger incarnation of the elders, still developing his adult coat and lacking his parents’ mustaches. He would dwarf them both when he reached his full growth. The youngster’s ears rose at the sound of barking from the river
, where his fellows played. After a longing glance in their direction, he returned to his vigil, eyes fixed upon the stranger that walked his master’s land. Like his parents, he was destined to be a guardian.

  By the time I had completed my circumvolution, Felix awaited me in the northern rotunda. He bowed and held my seat.

  “Mistress Tara asks me to convey her apologies for her absence,” he said. “She hopes your walk has restored your appetite.”

  “Convey my thanks for her consideration,” I said, trying not to appear too apprehensive as he uncovered the breakfast salver to reveal an assortment of sliced melon, berries, and steaming buns. Felix watched as I sampled a bite. He released an audible sigh when he saw I was content.

  “Perfect,” I said as he poured a cup of tea.

  “Thank you, Excellency,” he said. “Is there anything else I may bring you?”

  “No,” I said. “You can, however, answer a few questions.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” he said. I could not help but notice a shadow of reluctance cross his face.

  “When do you expect the Count to return?” I said. “And do not say, ‘before the snow.’”

  He nodded. “We expect the Count, as well as the first touch of winter, to arrive within the next week or so. Forgive me, Excellency. The duration of my lord Galdana’s autumn hunt varies from year to year.”

  While unsatisfying, the answer was no worse than I deserved for presuming upon the hospitality of a lord who had not been informed of my visit. Still, there was much I could learn in his absence and that of his proxy, Casomir. “Tell me of this plague in Kavapesta.”

  “Master Casomir has gone to learn more, but we have heard it has stricken dozens. Several have perished, but the priests of Pharasma have saved the worthiest among the afflicted.”

  He did not need to explain that those saved were among the more generous donors to the church. Wherever priests bestowed their divine cures among the people, the same hierarchy existed.

  “This morning I saw a man collecting the carcasses of dead birds,” I said.

  “Odav, Your Excellency,” said the butler. “He is my lord Galdana’s gardener.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “But I was inquiring as to the reason the birds have died.”

  “Of course. Forgive me, Excellency, but I do not know the reason. It is a recent phenomenon.”

  “But it is thought to be related to the plague?”

  He raised his empty palms. “Perhaps Master Casomir will return with the answer to that question, Your Excellency. Until then, we must take every wise precaution.”

  “I see,” I said. “Apart from collecting the dead birds, have you taken no other steps to prevent the spread of this plague?’

  “Your Excellency, ferry travel is forbidden except by permission of the mayor or, in the absence of Count Galdana, Master Casomir. The staff are confined to Willowmourn, which has thus far been spared affliction.”

  “Very well,” I said. “When did our party arrive?”

  “Yesterday morning, Excellency,” he said. “Although I am given to understand that you were another day conveyed from the Senir Bridge.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Where is my carriage?”

  The butler’s face paled. He hesitated to answer, but at my insistent look, he said, “I regret to inform Your Excellency that the vehicle was destroyed.”

  His words struck the breath from me. The red carriage was my sole material legacy from the father I had never met, and, except for my home at Greensteeples, the only surviving connection I had with my late mother. It was far more than a property. For nearly a century, it had been a key feature of my household. It had been with me longer than any friend, relative, or rival. It had been a part of me, and I felt its absence like a wound in my heart.

  “If Your Excellency desires privacy,” said the butler, his body leaning back as if yearning to escape.

  “No,” I snapped. “What of the wreckage? Where are its remains?”

  It seemed impossible for the man’s face to become even whiter, but he faded like a ghost before answering in a near whisper, “Your Excellency, I do not know. Perhaps it was burned along with the bodies of your servants.”

  “Burned?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Are you quite certain the bodies were burned?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” he said. “Burned and the ashes cast upon the river.”

  And thus I knew for certain that someone at Willowmourn was lying to me. The question was why.

  Chapter Six

  The Ugly Little Girl

  You know what focuses the mind? I’ll tell you what works for me: waking up face down inside a coffin crackling on a heap of pitch-soaked timber.

  My claustrophobic twitches melted away like fat on a spit. My back felt as though someone had sewn hot stones under the skin. I couldn’t feel my legs at all. The spurs on my elbows dug into the coffin walls, but the twine binding my thumbs wouldn’t break. If I kept struggling, I’d soon sever my thumbs, which dripped a pool of hot blood onto the small of my back. The fire’s glow penetrated the seams of the coffin, and I could see the wood blackening.

  A little fire doesn’t usually bother me, but this time I was in the oven. The flames prickled my face, and the smoke stung my eyes and nostrils. If this had been a hypothetical situation, I might wonder whether the flames would grow hot enough to kill me before the smoke suffocated me.

  I can live without both thumbs, I decided. I jerked my elbows outward harder than ever, hoping to pierce the coffin sides. The scream came from my thumbs and rushed up to leap into to my brain and escape through my mouth. The only other sound I could hear was the hiss and pop of the pyre. After the second jerk, I couldn’t even feel whether my arms were moving. I smelled the stench of my melting hair and felt a brand above either eye where my eyebrows had been.

  My body lurched to the side, and cool air washed over my left arm. An instant later, I felt the freezing pain of flame rushing up it. The orange flames were inside the coffin. The sleeves of my jacket were on fire, and at last I felt my skin shrinking beneath the disintegrating fabric. I tried to blink, but my left eye was sealed shut.

  I lurched again, and the coffin rolled with me. I heard a woman’s scream. A distant part of my brain hoped it was not the sound of my own voice. The coffin slid fast, turned over once, and hit the ground with a splintering crash. I couldn’t tell whether it was the wood or my bones that cracked, but I kept thrashing, kicking, howling.

  My hands flew apart—with or without thumbs I couldn’t tell. My left arm passed through a ragged hole in the side of the coffin. I shoved my hand through the splinters, smashing at the lid. For an instant I was astonished as it flew up, breaking into charred pieces as it disintegrated against the backdrop of a cloudy sky. I rolled out onto the cool grass, tearing off my burning jacket and the shirt beneath. All around, people screamed and shouted, running away. I pushed myself up to my knees and squinted through the bars formed by my fused eyelashes.

  I was at a crossroads. Dead center in the intersection was a rectangular hole about six feet deep. My grave.

  The gravediggers stood gaping beside an open cart attached to a lowing ox that shied from the sight of me. The fabric of their clothes was homespun wool in the grays and browns of peasant farmers. Several of the men grabbed tools from the cart: picks, a few spades, and a pitchfork. Why had they brought a pitchfork? The sight of it drew a growl from the well in my chest. It was not a sound I’d made before. The ox bolted away.

  I shot the tines at the man with the fork, and a warm splash of blood wet my chin. I glanced at my bloody hand. It looked as if it had been through a meat grinder, but it was all there, more or less. More, actually. My fingers had grown half again their normal length, and the tiny bone nubs on my knuckles had grown into coarse spurs like the ones on my elbows.

  The shock of the first blow refocused my mind if not my vision. A long dark shaft trembled before me. It rose out of my
right leg where the tines of the pitchfork pierced my thigh, but what really upset me was seeing the long bony spike that had emerged from my kneecap. Only shreds remained of my expensive trousers, and beneath them my skin had turned the color of molten copper. There was no time to appreciate the rage building inside me before a terrific howl burst out of me.

  No, it’s not my usual thing, but under the circumstances it felt exactly right.

  Four of the village men approached, weapons held high. Cowering lower with each step, they looked as tiny as slips, although they were all human, not halflings. I ripped the pitchfork from my thigh, gripped it just above the tines, and swung hard. The butt of the handle cracked one man on the head, knocking him cold before sweeping past to smash the cheek of the one standing beside him. A pick swung down at my uninjured thigh, but to me it was as slowly as through water. I caught it by the haft and forced it back, smashing the villager’s face with its butt. The man dropped the weapon and clutched his bloody mouth.

  The fourth stepped back, gaping at the spade humming in his hands like a tuning fork. Only then did I realize that son of a bitch had hit me in the head. I almost felt sorry for him as I threw him the big smile. All blood drained from the man’s face. He turned his head as if to flee, but instead he only cocked his arms in a comical manner and fainted dead away.

  I laughed. The sound boomed across the hill to echo in nearby dells. I never laugh like that. Nobody laughs like that.

  The rest of the villagers fled like a herd of startled lambs, most of them heading toward a cluster of thatched buildings just down a gentle hill from the crossroads. Their Varisian cries were still mostly babble to my ears, but I made out the words “devil” and “monster,” and those names suited me just fine. There was also an unfamiliar word they kept repeating: Azra. Whether that was some local demigoddess or their name for Pharasma or Desna, I didn’t care. I felt so big and strong, they’d need a goddess by the time I came to town. They’d need a whole other village of gravediggers before I was done.