Among Wolves

by Nancy K. Wallace

  “Are wolves really a danger in Ombria?” Gaspard asked.

  “Oh yes, mon ami,” Armand replied. “The wolves of Ombria are legendary for being particularly vicious. In the past forty years they have become even more dangerous. Why do you think the roads are unsafe after dark?”

  Devin felt a chill run down his back that had nothing to do with the rain. Everyone had warned them about wolves and traveling after dark. It explained a great deal if Ombria’s wolves were famous for their savagery.

  “I guess I can understand why you might tell that story to children, then,” he said. “But why did Adrian tell it at your grandparents’ house last night? They are old and their children have long since grown up.”

  Armand fixed his gaze on the road ahead. “My grandparents lost a son to the wolves when he was only seven. He was my father’s youngest brother. He had gone out to the yard to play, just like Emeline and Renée. By the time they heard him scream, it was too late. I think sometimes that, hearing “Emeline” comforts them, because it is clear that the mother and father have warned the little girls over and over about the dangers of the forest. It is the children who make the decision to disregard their parents’ good advice, and they forfeit their lives because of it.” He wiped either rain or tears from his eyes and continued. “Now, Monsieur Roché, let me hear you tell the story. If you learn it quickly enough, I’ll see you are given the opportunity to tell it tonight in Lac Dupré.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Forêt d’Halatte

  The clouds above them deepened and the wind rose. Devin had never seen such heavy rain. Or to be truthful, he’d simply never been outside in rain like this before. The deluge was never-ending. Their clothes clung to their skin, sodden and heavy. Even their knapsacks were soaked through. They were wet, miserable, and chilled to the bone, and yet they hadn’t passed a cottage or farm for hours.

  They’d entered the Forêt d’Halatte around noon. The heavy cloud cover had left the woodland as dim as twilight. With “Emeline” running through his head, Devin had felt more than a little reluctant to walk under its canopy of branches. Armand had long since abandoned trying to teach him as they traveled. The bard was limping badly but refused to call a halt while they were still within the confines of the forest. Mid-afternoon came and went and still they walked on, sometimes in water that rose to their ankles. The mist hung in diaphanous curtains, making the deep woods around them seem mysterious and forbidding. Evergreens provided the only variety in a sea of bare and sodden tree trunks.

  The road descended into a deep ravine where the river had overflowed its banks. Broken branches swirled in the muddy current. When they reached the bridge which allowed the road to continue to the other side, the raging water was lapping at the floorboards. They stopped, viewing the only way across with apprehension.

  “This isn’t safe,” Armand pronounced. “I know another way around, up through the hills. It’s treacherous, even in good weather, but it is preferable to having this bridge give way while we are on it, or being caught in the forest after nightfall.”

  He directed them back the way they’d come only a few minutes before, to where a narrow path left the main road. It curved steadily upward under rocky outcroppings which hung precariously over the trail. Hemlocks clung to the huge boulders, their roots gnarled and exposed. Giant ferns lined the path. Some of their tightly curled fronds had opened to reveal surprisingly delicate, lacy foliage. The moss growing on the stone was a garish, brilliant green giving the place an eerie, unnatural look.

  They had lost valuable time in backtracking and evening was drawing dangerously near. Armand had to stop time after time to rest his knee. He became increasingly pale and short tempered, lines of pain marking his face. Not only did climbing the steep trail which skirted the cliff aggravate his knee, but the footing was uncertain, as well. Rivulets of water and mud cascaded down the hillside, forming gullies which had eroded the path. Below them, the river rushed through the forest, its waters devouring its banks and gobbling debris as it went. A splintering crash announced the destruction of the bridge they’d almost crossed.

  Devin glanced apprehensively at Gaspard. Nothing in his life or training had prepared him for this. He sidestepped to avoid another rush of mud and water tumbling down the slope toward them. Without warning, the earth gave way beneath him.

  He fell, skidding over the edge of the cliff in a rush of water, earth, and stones. A hand clamped onto his left wrist, halting his descent and nearly jerking his shoulder from its socket. In one heart-stopping instant, he hung suspended above the ravine, swinging from Marcus’s hand. Seventy-five feet below him, the rock-strewn riverbed promised a swift and painful death.

  Marcus knelt above him, his face beet red with exertion.

  “Someone grab his other hand!” he shouted to his companions.

  Devin spit dirt and water. Twisting frantically, he searched for another anchor, terrified that Marcus’s grip wouldn’t hold. He snatched at a root with his right hand but it snapped off, pitching him forward. His face smacked into rock on the side of the cliff, splitting his lip and bruising his cheek. He blinked to clear his eyes, his shoulder burning with pain. He groped for a handhold, anything to keep him from that final plunge into the ravine below him, but the hillside crumbled away at his touch.

  “Devin, hold your right arm up!” Marcus shouted.

  Devin tried to obey him, swinging against Marcus’s grip to bring his hand above his head. Strong fingers latched onto his right wrist, biting into the bone, but taking some of the pressure off his left shoulder. Slowly, they hoisted him upward.

  Another cascade of earth and stones battered his head and shoulders, eroding the cliff face still further. For an instant, he feared his rescuers might die, too, in the act of trying to save him. But more hands grabbed and held him. Gaspard and Marcus hauled him up until his head and arms were back above the edge of the cliff. Adrian grasped the waist of Devin’s trousers and hoisted him over the edge, pulling him backwards to safety.

  His rescuers collapsed on the ground around him. Devin lay face down on the muddy path for a moment, his breath ragged. He still half expected the entire hillside to give way beneath him. When the ground remained solid and steady, he could have sobbed with relief. A hand touched his back and he turned over cautiously. Armand was crouched beside him.

  “Are you hurt?” the bard asked, his voice anxious.

  Devin shook his head. “Not seriously, anyway.”

  He sat up unsteadily with Armand’s assistance. He looked for Marcus first, in the figures gathered around him. His bodyguard was seated a few feet away, grimacing as he massaged his arm. Devin extended his hand.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” he murmured.

  Marcus looked him in the eye and drew a shaky breath. “That’s my job, monsieur, in case you’ve forgotten,” he said curtly. “And while you’re being grateful, I doubt that I could ever have pulled you up from there alone.”

  “I realize that,” Devin said, looking at Adrian and Gaspard. “Thank you, mes amis, I owe you my life.”

  Gaspard gave a nervous laugh. “Thank God you don’t take after your brother Jean,” he teased. “We’d all have landed in the ravine with you.”

  It was a grim joke, Devin thought, because for a few moments he’d been afraid they all might die here. In his desire to learn the Chronicles, he had personally put them all at risk. If Gaspard or Marcus lost his life accompanying him on this trip, he would never forgive himself.

  A low thin howl broke the silence followed by several sharp yips.

  Armand flinched. “Wolves,” he groaned. He stood up awkwardly, leaning heavily on his cane. “We have to find shelter. Or believe me, Monsieur Roché, you might rather have died quickly on those rocks down there.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Among Wolves

  Devin thought the scene might as well have been conjured from one of the Gothic novels his mother loved to read: twilight on a treacherous cliff tr
ail, rain, thunder, and flickering lightning, thickening mist swirling up from the river below, and the howl of wolves echoing across the foothills. He needed no urging to set off toward shelter and firelight.

  Armand suddenly seemed less concerned about his knee. He walked briskly, wielding his cane before him like a weapon. Marcus drew his pistol and Adrian unsheathed a hunting knife. Every cluster of bushes or fallen tree might hide a potential predator, and they were taking no chances.

  When a frightened rabbit rushed out from beside the path, right under Devin’s feet, he startled, jumping out of its way. Marcus gripped his arm, steering him to the opposite side of the trail.

  “For Christ’s sake, stay to the inside of the path!” he bellowed. “If you slip again, I’ll have to let you fall. I haven’t the strength to save you a second time!”

  The rain tapered off before they reached the top of the cliff. The thunder became more distant, rumbling off to the east. Ragged clouds scattered before the wind, revealing the waning moon rising above the treetops. Tonight, the moon looked eerie and misshapen, like a yellow apple beginning to go bad. It only added to the nightmarish aspect of the dimly lit scene before them. A main road cut through the clearing in front of them. Across it raced a herd of deer, pursued by a pack of wolves.

  Marcus threw out his arm, keeping them within the deeper shadow of the forest. They watched in horrified silence as a doe near the back of the herd faltered; one wolf locked on her throat, another latched onto her side. She crumbled under their attack, thrashing feebly for a moment in the tall grass. She raised her head, mutely, only once before she lay still in the moonlight. The remaining deer bounded into the forest, the sounds of their terrified flight fading away as they descended the steep slope down toward the river. The rest of the wolf pack turned, smelling fresh blood, and loped back to the kill. Their lips curled, exposing savage teeth.

  Armand moved his hand slightly, indicating that the route they must take lay diagonally across the near edge of the meadow where a bridge crossed the river chasm. The town of Lac Dupré lay several miles further along the road on the other side.

  Gaspard let out a shuddering breath that sounded like a smothered sob. Devin reached out a tentative hand and rested it on his friend’s shoulder. Gaspard’s face was pale and ghostly and Devin could feel him shaking. There seemed to be no way to reach their destination without attracting the wolf pack’s attention. For the second time that day, he questioned the wisdom of this venture. What had possessed him to think that two scholars from the Académie could make their way through fifteen primitive provinces and return home in one piece? No wonder his father had argued against his making the trip from the very beginning.

  Marcus gestured slightly with his pistol but Armand shook his head. Armand held up six fingers indicating six wolves and then nodded toward the upper meadow where a furtive movement caught Devin’s eye. Another wolf pack was moving cautiously toward the first.

  The wolves devouring the deer saw the rival pack approaching and began to growl and snarl, dragging the deer carcass back toward the tree line. The second pack followed; their noses to the ground, their hackles raised.

  Armand touched Devin’s arm and indicated that they should move toward the bridge quietly, while remaining under the shadow of the trees.

  They walked sideways, turned toward the wolves but proceeding toward the bridge on the right. The plan appeared to be working until Gaspard stepped on a brittle stick that snapped like a gunshot. The wolves froze, then turned as one body and focused on the five men gathered under the trees.

  Devin’s mouth went dry as both packs wheeled and headed directly for them. Marcus’s pistol cracked and the lead wolf went down; a second shot reduced the pack by two. But they didn’t falter in their attack, and they were coming much too fast to pick them off one at a time.

  “Run!” Armand shouted. “They won’t cross the bridge!”

  The men crashed through the woods, racing toward the bridge but the distance seemed to lengthen in front of them. Even as they leaped over fallen branches and debris, it was obvious that it was impossible to reach safety before the first wolves were upon them.

  A huge wolf hurled itself at Devin. The jarring impact of fur and muscle swept him off his feet. He rolled, throwing his arm up as savage jaws snapped at his throat. The wolf clamped down on his wrist instead, snarling and wrestling his arm back and forth as though it were a small animal.

  Marcus’s pistol cracked. Devin felt the impact as the wolf jerked once and fell dead across his chest. Then more gunshots joined Marcus’s, filling the night with one concussion after another, the pounding of horse hooves, and the reek of gunpowder.

  Devin clawed his way out from under the furry, blood-covered body.

  Marcus dragged him to his feet. “How badly are you hurt?” he demanded, his eyes going to Devin’s arm.

  “It’s just a bite,” Devin said, but his sleeve was already soaked in blood.

  Marcus took his knife and split the fabric on Devin’s sleeve but it was nearly too dark to see. He mopped at the blood with his own handkerchief and then bound the wound with Gaspard’s.

  Armed horsemen surrounded them. The ground around them was littered with the bodies of wolves, but miraculously everyone else was still standing and appeared unhurt.

  The leader of the mounted men inclined his head to Armand. “It is late to be out walking, Master Bard,” he said. “You shouldn’t subject yourself or your friends to such danger.”

  “It is late to be out hunting, Monsieur Chastel,” Armand responded coolly.

  “It depends entirely on what prey you are seeking,” Chastel retorted.

  “Tonight, my men were preparing to reduce the size of the Forêt d’Halatte’s wolf pack. Thank you for gathering so many here in one spot. You made our job a simple one.”

  “Most men hunt wolves with rifles,” Armand said, suspiciously. “Why would you carry nets, as well?”

  Chastel shrugged. “Don’t question the techniques of those who just saved your life, Armand,” he answered. “I may not be inclined to intervene in the future.”

  Puzzled by Armand’s animosity, Devin pushed past Marcus to thank their rescuer.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Monsieur Chastel,” he said. “Another moment and I fear we might not have survived.”

  Chastel bowed. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  Devin lifted the leather pouch that held his official papers from around his neck and passed them up.

  “Devin Roché,” he said. “This is my bodyguard, Marcus Beringer.”

  Chastel returned the pouch without opening it.

  “I’m Jean Chastel,” he said. “I had heard rumors that you might be coming through my province. I would have thought Armand would know better than to bring you through my forest at dusk. I would prefer it not fall to me to have to notify your father that his youngest son was killed by wolves on my estate.” He extended a hand to Gaspard. “And you must be Gaspard Forneaux.”

  Gaspard shook his hand. “I am, monsieur.”

  Chastel’s hand fluttered. “Enough formalities, you are obviously wet and chilled. Let me offer you the hospitality of my home, tonight.”

  “An escort into town will be sufficient,” Armand growled.

  “Nonsense,” Chastel replied. “My house is closer. Besides, our Chancellor’s son seems a bit worse for wear. Surely you won’t deny him a hot meal and medical attention? Tomorrow you can take him to your house, Armand. Tonight, allow me to entertain all of you.”

  Chastel made five of his men dismount and give Armand’s party their horses. Devin felt instantly safer, traveling well above the level of snapping jaws, but he questioned, after what he had seen tonight, whether a horse could truly outrun a wolf. In spite of the size of their group and the large number of armed men, Chastel didn’t linger in the forest. He led them across the meadow, past the massacred deer carcass, and through several miles of pasture beyond.

 
; Chastel’s mansion faced the famous Lac Dupré. The water lay peaceful and still, its glass-like surface luminous with moonlight and stars, mirroring the night sky above it. Tendrils of mist played across the water, resembling sylphlike dancers, twirling in the moonlight. The serene atmosphere dimmed as the howls of wolves echoed again in the distance. Devin imagined their teeth tearing into the still-warm flesh of the fallen doe, and shuddered.

  They were treated like royalty from the time they crossed the threshold into Chastel’s beautiful château. Greeting them in an elegant entrance hall, Chastel’s servants directed them immediately to spacious guest rooms, arranging for baths and clean clothing.

  Surrounded by the familiar comforts of servants and airy, lighted-filled rooms Devin was truly tempted to abandon his quest and return to his father’s house in Coreé. Tonight, the glaring inconsistencies between the information in the Archives and the Chronicles seemed like too great a problem for him to tackle.

  He was taken upstairs to one of Chastel’s guest rooms, where Marcus unwound Gaspard’s blood soaked handkerchief and examined his wrist. The bite was still bleeding, the tooth marks deep and painful. A ragged flap of skin lay open, revealing the tendons and muscle beneath. His wrist was already bruised and discolored.

  “This is bad,” Marcus pronounced. “I’ve already sent for Chastel’s physician. This could easily become infected.”

  Devin nodded, acquiescing. He wasn’t about to question the judgment of a man who saved his life twice in the same day.

  “Thank you again, Marcus. I’m sorry that…”

  Marcus cut him off. “I’ll go and see about that physician.”

  Devin smiled; Marcus seemed to be back to normal, and he had pushed away the nagging doubts that had been haunting him about his bodyguard. It felt good to be free of them.

  CHAPTER 21