The Great Wolf gave a snort. “Best my shadow-pack and I will consider your demand.” As it eased back into the darkness of its den, the shades that populated the sandy scrub forest began to drift forward, utterly silent. Their eyes gleamed in ghostly faces, their lips twitching over long white teeth.
Arik retreated slowly, keeping Lark behind him. There was no safe place to put her, but he dared not leave her by the Wolf's den, lest it lean out and snap her up on a whim. Perhaps the ghost-wolves would ignore her as they tore him apart; perhaps once he died, she and the goblin would fall safely back into the Grey, no longer held here by his connection to Raun.
It was a foolish hope. The crossing was done, the passage closed—no way out from the Wolf's realm, not even for him. But he clung to it. He could not bear the shame of having gotten them killed.
Cob, my friend, I'm sorry.
A single wolf broke from the contracting circle to approach with ears laid back, teeth bared. It stood as high as Arik's hip; in life it might have been a quillwolf like him, but in death it was a moving figure of smoked glass and ivory, coming in for the kill.
He dropped into a crouch, head lowered, clawed hands raised. The shade darted toward his belly and he swiped for it, missing as it dodged back, then turned for another slash as it swung for his flank. Again it retreated, and he planted his hands and lunged on all fours, aiming his teeth at its neck. The shade jackknifed in response and crossed his fangs with its own; they were cold, its breath like winter. As he recoiled, it ducked its head and went for his throat.
He sat back hard in the dust and brought his hands up for its neck just as it bit into his quills. Its back paws rose to rake at his chest, belly, groin, and he flung himself to the side and took it with him, trying to overbear—to get an arm around its neck, his own hindpaws on its sides, his furred hands clamping around its muzzle. Sand and salt flew as the struggle rolled them wildly, until he felt something snap within the writhing ball of rage.
The shade dissipated into cold smoke, and another fell upon him.
He fought hard, quills at full extension, his northern bulk and humanoid form giving him a sliver of advantage as the wolves came one-by-one. That, he knew, was his only saving grace; he had challenged the Great Wolf and been acknowledged as a wolf himself—a contender for rank—and not a prey-animal to be torn apart by the full pack. Low wolf all his life, he knew these fights well, and as they progressed from vicious shots toward the gut, the genitals, the vulnerable places into something more ritualized, more bravado and bluff than violence, he understood that he was making headway. Wolves might disembowel prey and kill rogue wolves, but they only bullied and jockeyed with each other. Exile was the greatest punishment, not death.
And so the first few shades turned to smoke in his teeth or grip, but the next wisped away once he bowled them over, or sent them running, or puffed himself to his greatest size and growled them down. They got their bites in—on his limbs, his haunches, his cheeks and ears, not to mention all the torn-out quills—but he had spent almost two decades like this. Hunting solo, fighting boars and wildcats, escaping traps. Shifting on the fly, or refraining from it—too stressful sometimes, or too close to the spirit and its rage.
For a while, he fought a never-ending shade—a wolf or perhaps a series of wolves that would not die, would not be caught, that harried him from every angle, small and swift like Garnet Mountain wolves and too clever to bite his quills, too sleek to catch with his paws. He went on the offensive but the shade just led him on a chase, never completely turning tail but luring him into the trees where his greater bulk was a disadvantage, snapping at his legs then slinking back, harrying him in and out of the brush like a fox with a bear. Any time he thought he hit it, the tumble of smoke and shadow came at him from a new angle, until his tongue hung like an anchor from his mouth, too heavy to reel back in.
He nearly lost track of the den and his comrades and the watchful Great Wolf. The shade fled, lunged, fled again, erratic, impossible, and when his jaws finally closed solid on its ruff, he felt it discorporate like the breath of winter down his throat. For a long moment he just stood there, shivering, disoriented by the forest and the feel of victory.
When he emerged from the trees, all was as he had left it, though Lark looked greyer than before. He paid her only a moment's attention, his gaze fixing anxiously on the den. All the boldness he had garnered in his tussles withered away as Ninke Raunagi stepped free.
It was like staring up at a portcullis made of fangs. Paws the size of his chest, claws the length of his forearm—a tail he could have climbed like a ladder. His ears set back tight as the great beast approached, and like before, he could barely keep from pissing himself. There was no chance.
Of course there was no chance.
Realization laid him on the ground in an instant, tail tucked tight across his groin and legs spread, arms flat beside his head. He felt the chuff of the Great Wolf's laughter as it bent low to sniff him. Of course he could not fight his patron spirit. Wolf conflicts were not human conflicts, done for dominance; wolf packs were families. They bickered about breeding, food, personality, age and rank, and while every parent eventually fell, it was for the health of the pack. But Ninke Raunagi was not a king, not a parent. It was Wolf—all wolves united in one.
Still, it terrified him when that fetid breath rolled over his fur, when the massive teeth grazed his ribs as if mouth-testing a new toy. He tried to lay as still as possible, tried to keep the whimpers bottled up. He was not a man, not a dog; he was worthy of a pack. He was—
“Sufficient,” rumbled the Great Wolf.
It took an effort not to wag his tail.
The huge nose nudged him, and he cautiously scrambled to his feet, keeping low and deferent but daring to perk his ears. The Great Wolf chuckled again, then licked him from eyebrows to tail with a tongue like an entry rug. Arik's quills settled flat to his skin and he almost fell over again, overwhelmed by a feeling of homecoming.
The Great Wolf settled down casually, forepaws crossed, still dwarfing him but no longer imposing. “Well now,” it said in its mountainous voice, “why have you come, little cub?”
“We have lost our makeshift pack,” said Arik, straightening cautiously. “Wraiths and mages attacked us, and we were flung into the Grey. Our pack-mates may still wander there. We must find them, and the Guardian. We did not wish to impose upon you, Great One, but...”
The spirit huffed, then raised its muzzle and took a deep draught of the air. “You come to me from the faded sea, where my children's children run dry-mouthed and poisoned, salt-mad. What business had you there?”
“None, Great One, only a wish to avoid conflict with the local clans and the eagle-kin nests. We sought the Ravager.”
“Not within the salt, hm? Else I would know of it. My children still watch it for me when they can. The wraiths, the treacherous metals, and the Eater below—so many enemies just out of reach. It distresses me.”
Arik blinked. He'd never heard of an Eater before. Another thing he'd missed while alone. “If the Guardian is still there, we must return, Great One. As the cat-blood says, we hunt the Ravager as a pack—though the Guardian is not very good at pack tactics.”
The Great Wolf snorted. “Perhaps I should not blame her for borrowing one of my children. It troubles me to see her as the hunter, though. When I drew first blood, it was to divide us from them—the hunters and the hunted. I do not like the changes that have been wrought since. Wraiths, hybrids, magic.”
As much as he wanted to defend humans, Arik knew better. Some had been kind to him but others had pursued him with skinning knives, and he remembered Cob's face at the Garnet Mountain gathering, when some of the participants asked him when he would take their land back from the humans. The unease there—conqueror's guilt warring with prey's fear—told him nothing would be done, because fear always won. The Great Wolf had done its job too well.
Instead, he said meekly, “Can you find her? The Guardian
?”
A rumble welled up from the Great Wolf's chest. “I have her scent, but I do not wish to speak with her. When she crosses into the physical realm, I will take you there. Until then, you may stay here. Drink, rest. You will need it.”
Arik traded a look with Lark—the first in a while—and found her no longer wan, the goblin curled up in her arms and her jaw firm with determination. She nodded to him, and so he bowed his head to the spirit. “Thank you for your hospitality, Great One,” he said, and saw the massive wolf's eyes crinkle in what might have been pleasure. Then it settled its head on its paws as if to rest, and Arik moved to sit by Lark before his legs could turn into soggy noodles.
“Nice rescue,” she whispered, and his urge to turn her into turf subsided. She was a mouthy human, but she'd tried.
“Stay still, be quiet and return no stares,” he advised as he nodded toward the woods, which had filled up once more with spectral wolves—perhaps the same ones he had 'slain' in his challenge. It was said that all wolves came here when they died, to rejoin with Ninke Raunagi or serve as his pack. Perhaps among the ghostly faces were those of Arik's long-lost parents.
It was not worth thinking about. He would find out when he died; right now he needed to stay alive.
The girl made a face and raised her arm. She'd wrapped it, he saw, in a strip torn from her leggings; the cloth was stained but already the blood smelled old. “You bit me, you jerk. You better not've been licking your butt recently.”
His ears cocked back in distress. “I apologize. It was necessary. While we are in this realm, it should not fester.”
“Better not,” she mumbled, then sighed. “At least it's nicer here.”
“Yes.”
Having exhausted the extent of their interest in each other, they hunkered down to wait.
*****
Dasira crouched within the mist, trying to slow her breathing. The neutral ground told her quite clearly where she was. She wished she could curse Ilshenrir for it, but with her bracer's threads working full-time to expel the toxins from her pores, she understood.
Still, it was a bad idea—probably as bad as Cob reinvigorating that village's spring. Maybe even her own idea of crossing the desert. She had seen a flash just after the mist closed in—a bright pale arrow rising into the air—and guessed it was Ilshenrir abandoning them.
She'd tried approaching that spot, hoping to bump into the others, but had found only more mist. Now she didn't know what to do. Without Ilshenrir, she had no way out.
And no perspective. The mist was not uniform, but in combination with the sourceless diffuse light, it confused her eyes. Parts swirled slowly as if pushed by phantom wind, but other sections hung like still curtains—or solid walls, for all she knew.
And it was so quiet. No sound but her own heartbeat, the slowing rasps of her breath. Unending, unnerving occlusion—
Something moved in the corner of her vision.
She turned her head slowly, hoping she was as cloaked as everything else. She remembered Ilshenrir saying Don't encourage them, back when they'd rescued Cob in Amandon, but he'd never explained what they were. Something sentient in the mist? Nothing seemed unusual about the place where the movement had been.
Are my eyes playing tricks already?
This place was a crack between realms, he'd said. A catch-bin for the things that fell through. How many realms did it touch? The physical and the spirit, but where else?
Stop it. Don't speculate.
What happened to the creatures that got stuck here? Did they die and decay, or just...linger, endlessly lost?
Shut up, brain.
Another shift in the mist. Eyes sliding sideways, she saw a shape—a substance there, darker through the grey—but when she turned her head, it vanished.
Hallucinating? Or hunted?
Serindas slid into her palm, bathing the mist around her in dim pinkish-orange light. That startled her, and she turned her attention to the blade, remembering this color from their climb up Erestoia By-The-Sea. It hadn't lasted—the blade had gone back to blood-red within marks—so why it would reoccur now...
The blade tugged slightly in her hand, pointing its tip into the distance.
“What, you want to go back there? To that spire?” she hissed at it. “You have some kind of special connection now? Pike that. Even if you could pull me through, it would take a month to get back here, and who knows—“
Serindas tugged again, like a dog on a leash. Dasira frowned and weighed her options. She had no idea where the others were, or if they'd even crossed over, and doubted Ilshenrir could find her unless he accidentally walked into her. The few steps she'd already taken could have been miles. And she had no crystal chunk, no arrowhead—not even Enkhaelen's ear-stud.
“Pikes,” she muttered. The last thing she wanted was to trek all the way back to Erestoia, but contact with a wraith spire might be the only way to get out.
Then again, there were multiple spires...
Narrowing her eyes, she positioned herself to face away from Serindas' pull. Unless she'd moved a great distance, the spire Hlacaasteia should stand almost opposite Erestoia, at a distance of maybe thirty miles. Much better than retreating all the way to the coast.
Dangerous though, in the deep salt and surrounded by wraiths...
A smile twitched across her mouth. Danger had never been a deterrent.
“A little bit further west, though. Not straight on,” she murmured. “And if I miss it, I end up walking into the sea. If there even is a sea here. If not, I walk forever.”
She looked at the blade, then around at the mist, and shrugged. What else was she going to do?
*****
“Can anyone hear me?” Fiora called into the mist, to no avail. She cleared her throat roughly; like her eyes and nose, it still burned from the fumes, and the words came wet with phlegm. Her stomach was settling, but the taste of bile permeated her mouth.
Her goddess protected her from heat and flame, but not from other hazards.
Grimacing, she scrubbed at her mouth with the inner edge of her robe collar. It itched but there was no better option; the outside of all her gear was crusted with salt and sand, and she had lost her pack and shield while tumbling through the collapsing dunes.
She felt naked without the shield, her only blessed object. Everything else she could replace, though the priestesses would scold her for losing a liturgical text. She still had a few necessities in the pouches bound to her belt—coins, tea herbs, bandages—plus the eye-guard, plus the two swords: her own plain one and the longer silver sword strapped across her back.
But nothing else. No water, no food. No idea how to get out of this.
Do I stay and wait? Do I keep calling? Am I doomed? The last thought did not seem real. She was not a pessimistic person, and had practiced Sister Merrow's self-control routine exhaustively: deep breathing, calm speech, and prioritizing thought before action.
She just wasn't very good at it.
She'd always been aggressive. There was a core of anger like a little furnace in her chest, and on bad days she warmed herself with it. On good days, she pretended it was a lantern instead, and Sister Merrow encouraged that; she said it was the sort of flame that brought justice into the world.
Fiora wasn't so sure. Sometimes it felt like if she let it out, it would burn down everything in its path. She'd tried to temper it like a blade, but with nothing to strike out at, its sharp edge bit at her hand until she couldn't take it. Until she shouted at someone, like Cob or Dasira.
All she'd ever wanted was to champion the weak, avenge the hurt and protect the threatened. And yet here she was—stymied, frustrated, lost—in service to a Guardian who refused to consider killing the Emperor.
She clenched her teeth and forced her mind to the situation. This wasn't the time to dwell on the end-goal, but to find her way out, and then find Cob. Lark had been close enough to the wolf and the goblin, so they were probably together and fine, and as for Das
ira and Ilshenrir...
Good riddance.
She didn't dislike them as people; it wasn't their fault they were inhuman monsters. But they were both tied to Enkhaelen somehow, and if Ilshenrir served him—if he had been spared the Ravager's bite because of some complicity—then he could be delivering Cob to him right now.
Digging under her robe, she drew up the sword-shaped pendant she wore and cupped her hands around it. “Breana,” she whispered, then amended her entreaty to, “Brea Eranine, if you can hear me, if you can reach me, please send me a guide. Or a message. Anything. Even the warmth of your hand, my goddess, my captain. I pray you lead me from this trackless place.”
Neither breeze nor shape stirred the mist around her. She prayed again and again—alternating between closed eyes and open, standing and kneeling, sword sheathed or out—but nothing changed, and eventually a knot formed in her chest.
Either Breana couldn't hear, or...
No. I'm in her favor. She came to me at the spire by the sea; she poured into me like molten iron and moved me with her will. That only happens to the blessed, to those who call her by her sacred name. If she was wroth with me, she would have destroyed me when I spoke it.
So Sister Merrow had warned her when she was inducted into the secret ranks. That spire had been the first time she'd felt the goddess's presence—and it had been glorious. If only she could remember what she'd done. She'd come back to herself with the arrowhead in hand, crouched among the dunes where she'd started. Dasira's pointed questions hadn't helped, but she'd stayed quiet to protect her sect's secret. She was sure she'd done well.
Breana just has no foothold in this place, she thought, and nodded to herself. It made sense. The Sword Maiden was an ascendant human with no interests beyond the mortal plane, and none of the bountiful perceptions of Brigydde the Seer. This riven realm was beyond her.
But Brancir was greater.
It pained her to call upon another deity, even one of the Trifold. With no other choice, though, she drew the silver sword. It was heavy, and too long for her short stature, but she did not plan to swing it.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 38