Quench the Day (Red Wolf Trilogy Book 1)

by Shari Branning

  “Do not forget, tomorrow you are a wolf, not a woman,” Sorrell said as the three of them sat beside the fire, gnawing on jerky and dehydrated berries. She shook her head and twitched her ears at him, which he must have taken for a shrug, because he said, “Yes, they are more familiar with curses of your kind, but it is still not common. The Shonno-mara chieftains discourage their people from turning each other into animals.” He snorted. “A wise tradition, since without being curtailed, they would end up ruling a nation of beasts.”

  Mask watched their exchange, though Sorrell spoke in Shonnowan, so he couldn’t have understood. He left the fire and crawled into his shelter a few minutes later. After a moment of rustling around getting his bedroll situated he said, “There’s room for two in here. It’s going to be a cold night.”

  Sorrell sneered, switching languages. “Yes. And a perfect opportunity to put one of those daggers through my ribs.”

  Rowan rolled her eyes and bobbed her head toward the shelter.

  “I don’t trust him,” Sorrell replied.

  They had slept in separate shelters for the past two nights, which Rowan considered a deplorable waste of time and body heat. Tonight would be the coldest night yet, and snow continued to fall, swirling around them in ever increasing intensity.

  She got up and padded over to Mask’s little tent of tree branches, slinking inside, and after a moment Sorrell followed, grumbling. She spent that night sandwiched between the two of them, listening to first one, then the other, snore, and going over in her mind just exactly how inappropriate this would be if she were still a woman. Eventually she dismissed the concern. There were more fearsome things to stay awake worrying over. Like whether the Shonno-mara would kill them all tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  The next morning Rowan woke from a fitful dream about woodcutters chasing her, to a cavern of white. Snow had piled up around their shelter, encasing them in a blue-white bubble. Sorrell was still snoring, and Mask had somehow rolled so that he was practically hugging her from behind, with one of his arms draped over her shoulder, his curled-up knees cuddled against her tail, and his breath tickling her ear fur. She froze.

  He sighed in his sleep and his arm tightened, snuggling her closer with the ghost of a whisper. “So sorry, my love.”

  Rowan lay there for one blistering moment, wondering who his love was, but then mortification sent her catapulting out of the tent, scrambling over top of Sorrell, who grunted awake, and out into the open. A bitter wind raked through her fur, chasing away the flush of embarrassment. Sorrell crawled out after her, grumbling, and a moment later Mask followed. He leaned against a tree and fished a wolf hair out of his mouth. Rowan gulped and looked away.

  It was near noon by the time they hiked down into the valley and began the climb back up the far side. Last night’s snow made the footing treacherous, and she wondered if they would not have been better off waiting several more weeks. Eventually they made it to ground though, picking their way across a river spanned only by a single, dilapidated wooden bridge. The hackles rose along her neck as they passed abandoned stone and log buildings in the valley. While the air was already drenched with the smells of the city, these outlying buildings obviously hadn’t been used in decades. Maybe centuries. She could smell Sorrell’s mounting tension as they picked their way through the ruins.

  “Our brothers allow their city to crumble with disregard, while we wander in the wilderness, without a home.”

  Rowan thought that was a bit unfair. After all, what was stopping the Shonnowa outcasts from building their own city? But then she got a sight of the city proper. She stopped and stared.

  “You may be the first of the king’s people to ever see the hidden city and still live,” Sorrell said, glancing between her and Mask.

  Hidden wasn’t the word Rowan would have used, although in a way it was hidden—in plain sight. The mountain itself was the city. Walls, ramparts, towers and bridges had all been chiseled into the mountain’s rocky face, artfully blended with the contours of the natural stone. Up and up it climbed—level upon level. Rowan’s mouth filled with questions she couldn’t voice. Above all she wanted to know how?

  Mask didn’t seem inclined to ask questions for her, but after several moments Sorrell spoke in Talvan so both of them could understand.

  “Hendella was the capitol of the Shonnowa nation a thousand years ago. There were three mountain cities in the north, and towns across the plains. Our nation was great once, before we divided. The Whonollo in the south were also our people, but they separated from us even before the Shonno-mara broke the ancient laws. And now your people occupy our towns on the plains, and soon, possibly, these cities as well, if your king’s ambition is not checked.”

  He ceased speaking as they passed under a towering archway, pitted with age and spotted with moss. They entered the mountain, and were hailed by two guards that stepped out of the shadows, bows drawn and trained on them.

  “What’s your business?” They asked in Shonnowan, eyeing Rowan and Mask by turns.

  Sorrell performed an exaggerated bow, twisting his words to mimic their accent. “Friends!” He swept his hands out to include them in a gesture of welcome, even though he was the stranger, not they. “We are most honored to set foot in our ancient home! I have recently come from travelling among the king’s men, seeking news and learning their ways. My friend and I seek shelter until this cursed snow ceases, when we can return to Tennorra.”

  “What do you want with a wolf, and why does your friend wear a mask?”

  “A beautiful creature, is she not? I acquired her from one of our weaker cousins, who did not appreciate her true value.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “In truth, I think there may be value of another kind in this beast, but I assure you, she’s no danger.”

  “And your silent friend?”

  Sorrell shrugged, all but dismissing Mask. “An assassin. His skills are valuable to the clumsy king’s men. He has no professional business here, but he’s become so used to silence I believe he’s forgotten how to speak.” He elbowed Mask in the ribs, and was rewarded with a grunt.

  Rowan nearly choked on a snort.

  “Keep that wolf contained,” the guards warned as they lowered their weapons.

  “But of course! She’s a perfect lady.” Sorrell grinned as he sauntered past them. Mask, for his part, glanced at each of them as he passed, and remained silent. He could not have understood the conversation, yet acted in keeping with the explanation given, and Rowan took a second to appreciate Sorrell’s brilliance at telling them what was mostly the truth.

  A wide staircase of shallow stone steps led them into the mountain, and into the city proper. They trudged up the grand staircase into a great, cavernous marketplace, then out again into the sunlight, where houses of stone and wood, fused together by Nawassa, lined a flagstone road. Side streets wove in and out of the inside of the mountain. Another broad, winding staircase brought them to the second level, where again, the city spread half inside and half outside the mountain.

  The city’s second level had another cavernous marketplace, where Sorrell paused beside one of the great bonfires that they must keep burning continuously throughout the winter. Smoke drifted up and swirled around the stalactite-bedecked ceiling, a hundred feet above, where vent shafts had been carved to let it out. A dozen or more of the Shonno-mara formed a circled around the fire, watching them with suspicious glances and whispers.

  Rowan sat beside Sorrell, glancing at the milling crowd. Stone pillars, sculpted like giant oak trees, held lanterns in their cold, stony branches. She looked around with equal parts awe and trepidation. She’d never imagined the Shonno-maran city to be an actual city. They were only on the second level, and it spread out above, below, and around them like a massive anthill.

  “Where’d you find a beast like that?” someone said.

  Sorrell dropped his hand to Rowan’s head, scratching behind her ears. “I liberated her from one of our weaker
cousins.” He gave the man an acidic laugh.

  “How much for her?” The man asked, his glance shifting between Sorrell and Mask, unsure whom he should address. His glance turned wary as he took in the leather and silver mask.

  Rowan studied the man, twitching her ears. He looked like the Shonnowa from her village, yet he didn’t. There was something off about him, and the others too, she realized. Though she couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly. An air, perhaps. He wore callous disregard like a coat, but she sensed a hidden savagery in him as well, and it made her cringe.

  Instead of immediately refusing, Sorrell shrugged, scratching the dark stubble on his chin. “I hadn’t thought of selling her right away—though I might be persuaded. In truth, I wonder if she is not more than an ordinary wolf. It would be rich if our cousins, after all these millennia, turned to cursing their own.” He snorted.

  The man looked at Red with new appreciation. “She can’t understand us, can she?”

  “No, although she does have a remarkable intelligence. If she is indeed cursed, then whoever did it must have been a true master. I hoped to find him and hire him myself, which is why I am reluctant to sell her.

  Rowan had to work hard not to pin her ears back when the man reached a hand toward her. She backed off, growling. Several people scurried away from the bonfire. But Sorrell just grated out another of his fake laughs. “She’s not the friendly sort, but she is quite loyal, once she warms up to you.”

  “I’ll give you silver.”

  “Talvan currency?” Sorrell said, drawing his brows together.

  “Straight from Skybreak. Where have you been, that you haven’t heard of the new negotiations with their King Ormand?”

  “Eh. Travelling,” Sorrell replied, glancing at Rowan and Mask. “I’ve had no news since the summer.”

  The man nodded, his eyes flickering away from Rowan only for a moment. “Their king sent a caravan with silver, cloths, and mirrors.”

  “And what did he require in return?”

  The man shrugged. “It is rumor only. They say he wanted a tutor, that he wishes to learn our craft.”

  Shock turned Rowan’s world dark for an instant as her heartbeat exploded in her chest. Ormand with magic? Almighty help them. But that would mean that he no longer had Rigall under his thumb, wouldn’t it? Had he defied Ormand and been killed? Or released, as the king promised? Or was Ormand simply greedy for more power than his pet magician could give him?

  Sorrell threw his head back and laughed, the sound jarring her out of her panicked thoughts. “That is indeed rich. And how did all of this come about?” he asked.

  “A token. Scrying stones, such as we have been seeking to achieve for years. He and the Chieftain are able to communicate directly, as well as our other leaders.” The man shifted impatiently, his frown growing into a scowl. “What of your price, stranger? I have not all day to discuss gossip.”

  Sorrell nodded and grinned, though Rowan could see it was forced. “My apologies. Your hints at this news took me by surprise. But for the price of the wolf—alas! I do not think I could part with her for silver. As I said, I am seeking a skilled Nawassa craftsman myself…”

  “Gold then,” the man snapped, fumbling in his pockets.

  Sorrell shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  He was interrupted by a shout from the crowd. The three of them tensed, searching the throng. People were already beginning to scatter as several men shoved their way toward the bonfire. “Kingsman!” one of them shouted again, pointing at Mask. “Grab the man in the mask!”

  Chapter 18

  Mask’s lips pressed flat, and in the next fraction of a second he had his gun in hand, and the bellow of it filled the enormous cavern. One of the men running toward them stumbled, a red stain spreading over his heart. His companion went down next, the bullet tearing through his neck. But the damage had already been done. The man Sorrell had been talking to whipped out a sword while the crowd screamed and scattered, some running away, some running toward them.

  Sorrell pulled his twin knives in time to block the sword, and Mask shot two more men before they could join the fight. He never missed. Even with his sharpshooting though, they were nearly surrounded within moments. Mask emptied his gun and shoved it back into his belt. The other, she knew, he’d hidden inside his coat, out of sight, but also out of easy reach. He pulled one of his twin daggers, going back-to-back with Sorrell, but everything after that she only caught in flashes as the fight reached her, and she dodged someone’s sword.

  Another instant of panic nearly blinded her as several men came at her at once. She’d never killed anyone before, let alone with her teeth. She’d ripped the throats out of animals, and hated the feel of hot blood flowing in her mouth, sticking her prey’s fur to her tongue. But now it was fight or die—or lose her friends.

  She leaped straight into the air as a blade whistled underneath her. Before her opponent could recover she launched herself at his face, claws ripping down his forehead and cheeks, over his eyes. He screamed, dropping the sword, hands going to his slashed eyelid. Another two came for her. She ducked and dodged weapons, biting the back of someone’s leg, crippling them, breaking another’s arm in her jaws, which was appallingly easy.

  Out of nowhere a curling whip snapped across her shoulder, and she yelped. It must have been infused with the Nawassa, for it glowed red, sending out sparks as it struck. She felt the searing burn, then the instant tingle of magic coalescing around the wound, beginning to heal it even as she leaped over the hissing whip toward the man wielding it, driving him back by sheer force, grabbing onto his arm and shaking him like a puppy. She’d had no idea she had the strength for such a thing.

  Then, above the blood thundering in her ears she heard Sorrell shouting, and got a glimpse of him and Mask fighting their way toward the merchant’s stands, and beyond them, toward the houses built inside the mountain. She plowed over another Shonno-maran and ran after them, aware without consciously taking note that arrows had begun to fly. One hit the ground at her feet and skidded along the floor. She leapt over it.

  As she reached them, Sorrell and Mask settled the last man near them, gaining a break from the steadily growing mob. They turned and ran, with Rowan on their heels. An arrow stuck in Sorrell’s thick leather coat collar, half an inch from his neck. Mask, meanwhile, had got his daggers back onto his belt as they ran, and dragged his other gun out of its inner pocket. He ran with it in hand, and when they ducked around a corner, he paused and took out three of their pursuers with three shots.

  Sorrell touched his shockwave-creating belt, his face scrunched for a moment as he looked up at the distant cavern ceiling with its stalactites. He must have thought better of using it inside the mountain. When Mask quit shooting they ran again, continuing their mad dash until the huge cavern with its stone huts and gardens of stalagmites began to run out. First they passed more pillars, elongated along their bases so that they formed dividers between the roads, then in another moment they entered a broad, open tunnel with more buildings carved out of stone on each side. They must have passed a stable at some point, because Rowan was overwhelmed by the scent of horses, hay, and dung. They kept running, and at the first opportunity turned off, following a smaller road. Then another. Sounds of pursuit faded, along with the shouts and screams of the wounded they’d left in their wake.

  Finally they got onto a narrow road between buildings that led away, deeper into the mountain, becoming a tunnel, claustrophobic and only dimly lit. For the first time, Rowan noticed that instead of torches, the road was lined with phosphorescence. Glowing patterns had been painted onto the walls, either some sort of phosphorescent plant-based paint, or else infused with Nawassa to keep the way eternally lit. She could still feel the tingling magic healing her shoulder, numbing it as the muscle and fur knit back together.

  Sorrell stopped and leaned against the glowing wall, swearing softy in Shonnowan as he plucked the arrow out of his collar. He switched languag
es to ask, “Everyone alright?”

  “Yeah.” Mask’s voice sounded harsh and angry in the stillness.

  “Red?”

  She let out a shaking sigh and nodded. Her legs felt like water, her muscles trembling and threatening to dump her on the floor, while she became aware suddenly of the taste of blood in her mouth. Revulsion shook her, and she heaved, turning away to throw up by the wall. Her mouth tasted sour afterward, but it was better than the blood. Neither of the men said anything.

  Still hacking and scraping her tongue against her teeth, Rowan put her nose to the ground and went down the tunnel a bit. The smell of horse manure pervaded, wafting on the air rising from the ground, though they’d passed the stables long ago. She sat down on her haunches, head cocked to one side in thought.

  Mask joined her, squatting on his heels, and she noticed his scent had grown stronger, laced with fear and blood, though not his own blood this time.

  “What do you smell?” he asked.

  But she had no way to tell him. Only a hunch that could be completely wrong. Any turn could bring them back to the growing manhunt they’d left behind. She cast them an anxious look.

  “Go on,” Sorrell said. “We’ll follow.”

  They tailed her down the tunnel as she tracked the smell of dung through the mountain. The path stayed level, eventually branching off several times. She stuck with the scent trail, and it didn’t disappoint. In a few minutes, she could also smell fresh air and pine. A cold draft brushed her whiskers.

  “Darsaw!” Sorrell exclaimed as they stepped out onto a ledge on the side of the mountain. “You’ve led us out! Good woman.”