Davor

by Leslie Chase

  "Where do you think you're going, hey?" the bigger of the two asked, stepping into Davor's way. "You may be a guest here, but that doesn't mean you can shirk your day's work."

  Davor swallowed a snarl for Samsar's sake. 'Guest' was what the Fire Wolves called him, but hostage or prisoner would be more honest. And slave wouldn't be far off, either, though there were limits to how badly they were willing to mistreat him. Right now wasn't a time to test that, though.

  "Samsar is hurt," he said, keeping his tone level and the 'you idiot' silent. "I'm taking him back to camp to heal."

  The guard laughed. "Sure, he's no use like that, he can go. But you're staying and working. Got to earn your keep, and his too if he's not here."

  A vision of driving his fist into the man's face filled Davor's mind for a moment, and his muscles tensed. A deep breath and a count of four let him sound calm when he answered, though his heart filled with a burning rage.

  "No. I'm going to take him back and make sure he's okay. And you're going to get out of my way. Or you're going to have to stop me — and then you'll have to explain to Tark what happened to his prize guest."

  Or I'll have to explain why I tore your throat out, he thought. But that threat was better left unsaid, the Fire Wolf warriors weren't ones to back down from a fight. For all their failings, they were rarely cowards — not when their Clanmates were watching, at least. The guard was more likely to back down from fear of his Ard, the leader of his Clan.

  The guard drew back an arm, and Davor looked at him steadily, waiting for the blow to land. He knew he shouldn't be risking this, but right now it was hard to care about the consequences of killing this fool.

  At the last moment, the guard's partner grabbed his arm and held it back. "Come on, Orvig, you'll get us all in trouble with the Ard. Let it go."

  For a moment, the two guards glared at each other, eyes flashing, and then Orvig relaxed with a forced laugh. "Fine, fine, you can take him back. But don't think that I'm going to let the quota drop — your friends here will have to make up for both of you."

  He gestured at the rest of the work party in the grove, some of whom had stopped chopping their own trees to watch the confrontation. As soon as the guards looked at them they grabbed their tools and went back to work. A few shot angry looks at Davor for getting them stuck with the extra work. Davor shrugged mentally — the people who blamed him for this, rather than their Fire Wolf captors, were never going to be on his side. Let them hate him if it made their days easier.

  Without another word, he walked on, carrying Samsar up the path with as much care as he could manage. A trained warrior, Samsar suffered the unavoidable jolts in stony silence, but Davor could still feel the pain in his friend's tense muscles.

  The Fire Wolf village wasn't far, at least. The buildings stood in the shadow of the hills, protected from the twin suns' glare, and the two of them were glad of the shade. Davor felt a brief temptation to escape, as he did every time that he was out of sight of the guards, but that was impossible. It wasn't that he feared the men that would chase him: he'd bet on his skills as a hunter against any of the Wolves, but the retaliation wouldn't fall on him alone. It would land on his entire Clan, and he couldn't let that happen.

  The fenced off area set aside for the 'guests' and laborers held only a few rough huts for shelter. The Fire Wolves' homes took priority. Perhaps the workers would be allowed to build themselves better shelter once everything else was done, but Davor doubted that. By then there'd be other work to do, and their comfort didn't matter much to their captors.

  Laying his friend on one of the furs they'd been given, old and worn things that none of the Fire Wolves wanted any more, he looked around at the conditions they were left to live in by their captors and clenched his jaw. Usually he was only there at night, and too tired from a day's long work to worry about what the place was like. Today, seeing it by daylight, he saw it for what it was. A pit unfit for animals.

  "Wait here, Samsar," he said to his companion. "I'll fetch a healer."

  Samsar managed to laugh at that. "A fine joke. I never thought you had such a sense of humor, Davor."

  Shaking his head, Davor patted his friend on the shoulder and stood wordlessly. At the edge of the enclosure, a couple of Fire Wolf warriors waited. They watched him with a bored curiosity, no doubt surprised to see their guests back before nightfall. That made him scowl again. In his Clan, such idleness wouldn't be permitted of warriors — if these men had nothing better to do they could help fell the trees. But the Fire Wolves reserved such work for prisoners taken from other Clans and felt themselves above it.

  "You there," he said to the nearest. He didn't recognize either of them, but that wasn't a surprise. There were a few warriors he knew, either from old feuds or because they served as guards at the work camps, but the rest he stayed away from. "Samsar needs a healer, fetch one."

  The warriors stared, incredulous. "Watch your tongue! You don't get to speak to us in that tone, guest."

  "That man is injured, and cannot work. Is your Clan so stupid you won't help someone who works for you?"

  They bristled at that, and Davor knew he shouldn't have been so blunt. But the words were out before he could stop them, and that was that. It's not as though I don't mean them, he thought. They're more honest words than I've spoken in a long time. Perhaps not wise, but honest.

  The guards didn't seem to appreciate that, though. They squared up to him muscles flexing and clan markings on their skin shining silver. Davor bared his teeth in a hungry grin. Fighting his captors was even less wise than insulting them, but after seeing his friend injured and how little they cared, the urge was strong. He stepped forward, feeling his wolf wake from the slumber of captivity and strain against its chains in his heart.

  Before the fight could begin, it was interrupted by a long blow on a horn, echoing off the hillside. The three of them stopped in their tracks, looking around. Davor had been among the Fire Wolves for long enough to know what their signals meant. This one was the call of 'war party returning with spoils,' the signal he knew best.

  It was the one they'd sounded when they'd brought him to their camp. He'd never forget that sound.

  The guards turned away, forgetting about him in their eagerness to see what the war party was bringing back, and despite himself Davor let them go. He, too, was more interested in what was arriving — perhaps it would be someone with news from home. It had been a long, long time since he'd heard anything.

  Throughout the camp, Fire Wolves left their huts and tents to see the new arrivals. First to arrive were the scouts, running ahead of the party in their wolf forms to make sure everyone knew they were coming. Show offs, Davor thought. In his Silver Sea Clan, warriors wouldn't be making such a big show after a victory. Not unless it was something really impressive.

  The wolves turned to howl a welcome as the rest of their raiding party made their way over the hill from the Worldwalker's Gate. It lay on the far side of the hill from the camp, so the first the assembled crowd saw of the incoming warriors was their silhouette against the sky. A very dramatic entrance, and Davor didn't think that was accidental. The crowd cheered as the warriors descended towards them, carrying the spoils of their raid. Food and jewelry and good weapons, of course, but more important than that, they led fresh captives for the work camps.

  That was all as expected, the Fire Wolves seizing the prizes they wanted from other Clans and other worlds. But there was something else, too. One of the warriors pulled along a smaller figure, hands bound with a leather cord that he used to lead her. A woman, and not one of the People or of any species he recognized. She stumbled, trying to keep up but was clearly exhausted, and Davor nearly darted forward to help her. With ruthless will he crushed that instinct — it was one thing to challenge the warriors left to guard the camp. But this was a war party, led by one of the Ard's sons, and he didn't have the strength to challenge that alone.

  I should look away, go back to Samsar, he tol
d himself. The less I show myself to the enemy, the better. But he couldn't look away from the woman. She was small, pale, and beautiful. Her long dark hair was wind-tussled, blown into her face and with her hands bound she couldn't do anything to stop that. She wore clothes, far more than he was used to seeing outside of a religious ceremony, and they hid too much of her body from him. What little he could make out through them spoke of bountiful curves, a figure he longed to get his hands on.

  It was her face that captured his attention the most. She turned, trying to blow the hair out of her eyes, and for a moment he could see her clearly. There was fear on in her expression, yes, but a fierce anger too. An anger that matched his own feelings when he'd been brought here, so long ago. Her brown eyes met his gaze with an intensity that knocked the breath out of him.

  She must be mine.

  3

  Helen

  The group of prisoners finally crested the hill, and Helen stumbled over the top of it to look down at the settlement beyond. It looked crude, for the most part, primitively thrown together rather than planned, with tents and huts mixed. In the center, stood the skeletal framework of a much more impressive building, like a small castle being built. And all through the camp, more of the aliens stood. Men and women, all of them tall and muscular and powerful. No one old, she noticed, wondering what that meant for a moment before dismissing the thought. For all I know these bastards don't get old, she thought. Maybe they're immortal? Or maybe they just kill each other off.

  Given how quick they'd been to violence, she couldn't dismiss that possibility. But as satisfying as the thought of her kidnappers murdering each other was, the idea of being stuck in such a violent culture made her feel sick.

  The warrior holding her leash didn't pause to let her admire the view. Tugging on the cord around her wrists he pulled her forward, and she shot his broad back a glare. If there was any justice in the world, that glare should have killed him as sure as a knife would have, but he carried on obliviously.

  At least on this side of the hill they were in shadow, and she started to be able to breathe again. The march would have been a tough one in normal temperatures, but this heat was something she'd been completely unprepared for. Shaking her head, she tried to blow the hair out of her face, and as she did so her gaze met that of one of the alien men.

  Oof! The impact of his stare froze her in place. He was tall, taller even than the men who'd taken her prisoner, and he was as muscular as any man she could imagine. His blue skin was crisscrossed with silver patterns which looked subtly different to her captors'. Something about the way he stared at her made her want to look away, but she couldn't. Not from that body, those muscles, and most of all his powerful gaze. Her fingers itched for her sketchbook, wanting to capture his perfection on paper.

  Distracted by the stranger, she didn't notice the rock until her foot hit it. Stumbling, she nearly fell, would have if her captor hadn't jerked her upright by the cord he held. The leather bit into her wrists painfully and she struggled to catch her balance as the man snarled something angry at her in his strange, guttural language.

  "Yeah, yeah," she grumbled back at him. "Maybe I'd be better at keeping my balance if you untied my hands, did you think of that?"

  Paying her words no attention, he turned and pulled her along again, setting a faster pace that meant she had to scurry to keep up. The other prisoners didn't seem to mind the speed, but they were all giants like her captor, and no one seemed to care about her short legs.

  The crowd in the small settlement all stared as the prisoners marched by, some pointing and laughing, some shouting out comments. None of it meant anything to her, but from the way her fellow prisoners were reacting it didn't seem to be anything nice. Soon they marched out into the open space at the center of the village, in front of the central building. Up close she could see that some of it was, if not finished, at least ready enough to use. Work carried on as they approached, but seated in front of it was a small group of aliens. These looked older than the warriors that had brought her here, though they didn't look any less intimidating. The man seated at the center of the group looked more so, if anything: his scarred, cruel face made her shiver to look at.

  The war party around her shoved all the prisoners to their knees, and she sank down before they reached her. No point in getting shoved around when I don't need to be.

  Standing above them, the old man shouted something in a guttural voice, and all around the locals answered with a roar of approval. The other prisoners seemed to shrink into themselves at the sound, and Helen wondered if they could understand the language. Are they scared because they don't know what's happening, like me? Or are they scared because they do? She wasn't sure which would be worse.

  Whatever was being said, it had a ritual quality to it. The older man shouted something, and the crowd answered. He gestured, they responded. And when he laid his hand on the shoulder of the man who'd captured her, the crowd went wild, cheering and howling. The wolves howled too, loud and clear, and the prisoners shrank back. Her captor turned to the prisoners, a broad grin showing them his pointed teeth. Making a show of looking from one prisoner to the next, he looked as though he were choosing the ripest fruit at a stall.

  Helen didn't know what to make of all of this, but she knew a bad sign when she saw one. Shrinking in on herself, she tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, praying that his gaze would slide over her. But when he looked at her, he lingered, smile widening, his eyes flashing. Whatever he was looking for, Helen was sure he was about to choose her.

  He snarled something, raising his arm. Helen's heart froze for a second before she realized that he was pointing to the man on her left, not her.

  Whatever he was choosing, the man beside her was having none of it. As soon as he realized he'd been selected, the prisoner leaped forward towards his captor, howling and changing as he went. Helen gasped, her bound hands rising to her face as she saw the man transform in mid-leap, transforming into a great wolf before he struck his target.

  But that didn't seem to surprise their captor. Waiting for the last moment, he twisted aside, a hand darting out to smash into the wolf's jaw as it snapped at the space his throat had been a moment earlier. Stunned, the huge animal fell to the ground, and the warrior grabbed it up with contemptuous ease.

  Maybe there'd be more of a fight if the wolf's legs weren't tied together, Helen thought. The bonds on the man's wrists hadn't vanished during his change, and with its front paws bound, the wolf couldn't fight back. It wasn't anything like a fair fight, but the crowd didn't seem to care about that. The victor lifted the fallen wolf up above his head to cheers and applause.

  Then he slammed his fallen foe down again, smashing him down with a force that shook the ground. The old man held up a knife that gleamed as it caught the light, handing it to the war band leader.

  Oh no. Helen could see what was coming next, and couldn't watch. As the man lowered his blade to the wolf's throat she turned away, looking out over the heads of the crowd. Behind them, keeping back from the cheering throng, she saw another who didn't look like he was enjoying the show. It was the same man who'd been watching when they arrived, and his stony glare showed an anger that was as deep as her own. But unlike Helen, his anger wasn't mixed with fear. He didn't look away. As the wolf howled in pain and then cut off to a wet sputtering sound, he stared at the murderer wielding the knife.

  4

  Davor

  Watching the welcoming ceremony awoke memories for Davor, memories he'd thought long-buried. The memory of his arrival here, in theory an honored guest of the Fire Wolves but in practice as much a prisoner as the others he'd marched in with. That day, too, the warriors had chosen one of their prisoners as a sacrifice to their gods.

  I hope they choked on Azan's soul, he thought for the thousandth time. He hadn't known the victim long, only for their march as prisoners, but he'd respected the warrior for his strength and humor. And then Karak son of Tark, the leader of th
e warband that had captured them, had slit Azan's throat for a spectacle.

  This time, Karak's victim was someone Davor had never met, a random warrior captured from a random world. But still his rage welled up at the sight of the sacrifice's blood spilling on the ground, at the sound of the Fire Wolves cheering the pointless death. It was almost enough to make Davor intervene, to allow his rage to take over and spur him into a fight he couldn't win against the whole Clan. I would fall, yes. But I could take more than a few with me, and remind them how a warrior dies.

  The temptation was nearly overwhelming, but something stopped him from taking that fatal step. He looked away from the ceremony and saw the alien woman's eyes on him. She watched him with wide eyes, full of anger and disgust at the spectacle. There was fear there, too, and Davor wanted nothing more than to go and embrace her, to hold her and reassure her that she was safe.

  Safe? He scoffed at himself and his foolishness. She's not safe here, how can she be? We're both in the hands of the Fire Wolves. Unless she is the daughter of some lord of her people, she's no safer than anyone else. That didn't matter to his wolf, though. For the first time since his captivity, the animal in his soul wanted something other than to rend and tear at the enemies who held him prisoner. It wanted to protect this small, beautiful woman and keep her safe from harm.

  And he couldn't do that if he got himself killed.

  With an effort, he held himself back, taking a deep breath to bury his anger. He couldn't save the sacrificed prisoner, anyway. The man was dead already and slaughtering a few Fire Wolves wouldn't bring him back any more than it would bring back Azan.

  As he watched, Karak lifted the bloody blade and wiped it on his cheeks, then called forward the men he had led on this latest raid. As each one stepped up in front of him he offered praise and dabbed a spot of blood onto their foreheads, marking them as victorious warriors. It was, Davor had to admit, a good way to build up their loyalty to him.