The Wolves Of War

by Greg Curtis

  “Do you know which island?”

  “No Father.” Marclan shook his head. “But he said it had an ancient temple on it. One where the light of a new day could be seen.”

  “I see.” And he did see. It was a banality, no more, and once more Argen had nothing. Nothing but what sounded like a poetic metaphor. Something unfortunately in keeping with the notes he had.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Argen tried one more time to find something useful.

  “Two things Father. But I don't know how much use they will be.” Marclan suddenly found his feet extremely interesting.

  “The first is something he was always saying, but which never made much sense. Yet he kept telling me it was the most important thing in the world. He kept saying that there was no such thing as magic or science. That they were the same thing. That each was the other simply seen through a different prism. And that the ancients had known that. That they had walked as gods upon the world because they knew this truth.”

  “He claimed that when we learned to see through the right prism, we too would walk as gods.”

  It wasn't a particularly original idea, Argen thought, though it was interesting that the royal technologist should cleave to it so tightly. Especially when the globe was said to be both magical and technological. To bridge the gap between the two worlds. Maybe even to impart magic to those without it through some sort of science. Many scholars still held that view.

  “And the second?”

  “These.” Marclan reached into the satchel he was carrying and pulled out two large leather bound volumes and laid them on the small table beside him. “My grandfather said that these were too heavy and too precious for him to carry for hundreds upon hundreds of leagues across the sea, and so instead he took a smaller book with him and bade me to keep these safe until he returned. But these are his journals up until he left.”

  “The writing in them is messy and he speaks in riddles, and too often refers to things that are not contained within them. But whatever it is you seek may be contained within them.”

  His journals! Argen's eyes nearly fell out of his head as he stared at them. If there was a clue as to what had been done and how to undo it, it could be contained within them. Some days the Great Sage provided wisdom without end.

  “My thanks boy!” Argen stood up quickly, grabbed the young man's hand and pumped it heartily. Finally he had a place to start!

  “Of course Father.” Marclan managed to get to his feet, guessing that the meeting was ended and he was being dismissed. “But may I ask the importance please? All the imperial soldiers would say was that it was vital that you speak with my grandfather. Not why.”

  “They are right though unfortunately I can tell you no more. All I can say is that these journals may provide answers that could be vital to the future of Abylon. You have done the kingdom a great service in bringing them to me.”

  With that Argen began escorting the young man out of his chambers, in a desperate hurry to begin reading the journals. So much so that he almost forgot to give him the ritual blessing that was expected.

  But he couldn't help himself. He was excited. For the first time in ages he felt hope burning in his heart.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was three weeks before Briagh finally crossed the Ellys Gorge, the natural river canyon that separated the realm of Wynde Par from Abylon. Three long weeks of running all day every day as a wolfhound. But he thought he had made good time. At least as good as that of any man on horseback. Naturally though he was tired. He'd never run so far for so long.

  He was nervous too. Not of anything in particular. Simply at the thought that there were larger things at play in the world than he knew of. Bad things. As he'd travelled he'd come across several farm houses and trapper’s huts where the people had been killed. Torn apart by what he assumed were wolves. He'd come across quite a few more that were simply abandoned without any sign of why. Abandoned when there were crops still growing in them. Orchards that would soon come into bloom. That troubled him.

  Wolves didn't attack farms and homes. They went for livestock. Maybe they attacked the odd traveller. But not houses. Then again, they didn't attack cities either. And snow white dire wolves didn't roam the land. The only creatures he could think of that could perhaps drive people from their homes were the wildred. Their dark magic would send people fleeing. But he had never heard any stories of the wildred in these parts. They lived in the various wastelands. Either way, something was happening in Abylon and he didn't like it. All in all, it was good to have left the realm.

  For the moment though he was tired. He needed to find a place to rest for a few days. An inn perhaps, if there was one in this land. And if his coin would be accepted here.

  That was his next worry of course. Gold, silver and copper were precious metals everywhere he knew. But this was a new realm where the customs were unknown to him. There would be new problems he would have to face, though he hoped that at least here he would not be judged and found wanting simply on the basis that he was a morph.

  On the other hand, he might receive a less than cordial welcome simply because he was human. The fae had no greater love of humans than the humans had of them. And he didn't speak the language.

  Erthane was a tongue he had never been taught. The only thing he knew about it was that the fae claimed it was the Language of the Trees – whatever that meant. Unless of course that was simply the tales of the muckspouting bards. He would have to hope that there were enough people who spoke Abylonian.

  But most troubling of all, he did not know if he would be safe here. From what he understood the lands were free from brigands at least. But they were patrolled by rangers. For all he knew the rangers themselves would regard him as a threat and try to kill him. More likely though, he suspected they might just force him to leave, given that he was human. They allowed some traders to cross into the realm to sell their wares. And a few explorers had wandered through the realm. They had not been killed on sight. But none of them had been looking to make their homes in the land either.

  At least it was warmer here. But then by his reckoning Second Thaw had ended at least a week before and Late Bloom had begun. It was about time. It was the end of spring, and the sun had only just begun to show itself. But at least winter was finally loosening its grip on the land. So maybe all his suspicions about the endless winter and the connection to the white wolves had been unfounded. Maybe?

  As lands went Wynde Par didn't seem very different to Abylon, he thought. At least from where he sat on the fae side of the bridge and started dressing. On Abylon's side it was fields and rolling hills. It looked the same here. The only thing of note was the gorge just behind him, which almost seemed to fall down into the underworld itself. And of course the massive steel bridge that straddled it, which he had just crossed. A construction that was truly ancient. No one would have the knowledge today to build such a wonder. The same was true of most things ancient.

  Maybe things would change if he wandered further into the heart of the realm? He wasn’t sure if he would as yet, and if so how far he would go, but it was possible. If this realm proved unfriendly, he had the thought that he might simply pass through it and on to the next. Whatever realm that might be.

  He had no need to make that decision yet though. For the moment he was safe. No soldiers would ride across into Wynde Par from Abylon. No brigands would dare either. None would be that foolish. Wynde Par was fae land and it was protected. Patrolled by rangers. So he was safe from his own people here even when he was only – just – on the other side of the gorge.

  Still, while it had been made abundantly clear to him that he could never be safe in Abylon – not if anyone knew his nature – he didn’t yet know if he would be safe here. Or welcome. It would be best he thought, to remain close to the gorge, in case he had to leave in a hurry once again.

  Looking ahead while he dressed, he saw a road leading away from the bridge for perhaps a hu
ndred yards before it crossed with another road that ran parallel to the gorge. He figured that if he followed that road in either direction, sooner or later he would find a town or a village. He had to. There were any number of towns that ran alongside the gorge on both sides. Trading towns that survived on their merchants who regularly crossed the gorge to sell their wares. And one of those had to be his destination. He was tired of living rough. Spending his nights out in the open. He wanted a warm bed and a hot meal. So, once he was dressed he walked out to where the roads met and then took the more northerly road. North he figured would be warmer.

  The nearest village proved to be some distance away. And the roads weren't the same as they were in Abylon. They weren't graded as neatly and no one had dealt with the ruts the wagon wheels left behind. They were rough and in places difficult to walk. Still, the sun was shining and for the first time in ages he knew he was safe. Well, probably safe. So he didn't mind the walk. Not even when it was several hours before he finally spotted smoke in the distance.

  It gave him some time to think over what little he knew of the faerun and their lands. Unfortunately, it wasn't that much. He had to remember to be law abiding while he was here, and respectful. They were very strict about such things. Thieves in particular were not tolerated. Nor were the boorish. In fact, rudeness was actually considered a crime. He would have to watch his tongue and curb his larcenous ways.

  He should also probably make a small offering to their Goddess, Liasa. It would be looked upon favourably. Above all though he needed to remain unnoticed. As always.

  As he got closer to the village he began to make out some of the details about it, and they surprised him. Mostly because the village was much like any other he had seen. Briagh hadn't known what to expect in the fae lands. The stories of the bards were never to be trusted and he'd never met anyone who'd actually been to the fae lands before. But still, he’d expected the village to look different. Instead it looked exactly like a hundred others he'd seen.

  There were lots of small, single story buildings dotting the hill, most of them made of stone with thatched roofs. There were also a few larger buildings in the middle of the bunch that he assumed were the shops and sundry businesses. But none of them screamed strange or fae at him.

  The extreme neatness of it did strike him as odd, though it was in keeping with what he had heard of the fae. Even in the distance he could see that much about the town. There was no pile of refuse he could see waiting to be burnt and buried. No buildings in an obvious state of disrepair. No walls that had turned grey from the coal smog. He had heard that the fae didn’t allow refuse to litter their streets and that everything was washed and polished.

  The people he passed of course were fae, though of differing races. If there really were fae races, that was. Some said the faerun were all one people – the little people – not that they would ever call themselves that. The fae called themselves faerun, but everyone else just called them fae. Some of the fae called themselves by different names like the dwarves and pixies, gnomes and sylph. They claimed that they were as divided among themselves as they were from humans. Others said they were really all the same. Just different tribes. Briagh didn't know. He'd listened to the debates in the Arcanium between the learned men, but had paid them little attention.

  What mattered to him was what it would be like as a human and a morph to live among them. Because while he knew his curse wouldn't be a straight path to the gallows here – not on its own anyway – he didn't know how welcome or unwelcome he would be.

  Curious, Briagh studied some of the people working in the fields as he passed them by. The people were by and large of smaller stature and thinner builds. Some had pointed ears, others strange colourations of skin and hair. But those things didn't matter to him. What mattered was that as he passed them by though a few stared at him, none pointed or shouted warnings. None ran for cover. Perhaps he should have expected that. He was only just on their side of the border. The people here probably had regular dealings with humans. Traders would surely visit from time to time at the least. Maybe some of them even crossed the gorge to trade in Abylon? Here he might be out of place, but he wasn't a complete unknown.

  The village proved larger than he'd expected, and when he finally reached the top of the gentle hill to look down over it to its heart he could see that there had to be a thousand homes or so. That made it a town of perhaps three or four thousand. More than he had expected.

  It was a wealthier village than he had expected too. The houses were all in good condition, the thatch on the buildings well maintained and the windows filled with glass. Clearly there was plenty of gold around to pay for the artisans. Each house had a front garden as had the ones in the docks. But here the gardens were well maintained. Weeds had been pulled, trees had been pruned, edges had been maintained and there wasn't a bald patch of ground in sight. That was very different to the docks where many yards were either overgrown with weeds or stripped back to bare dirt. It signalled to him that people either had a lot of free time on their hands or enough coin to pay for others to tend to their gardens.

  It was odd. But at the same time it was good. A larger, more prosperous town meant more businesses. A larger market and maybe several alehouses and inns instead of just the one he had expected. It was strange how much the thought of a nice pitcher of ale suddenly appealed.

  The other thing that struck him as he continued his walk into the town, was how much more magic there was around. The street lights weren't lit by paraffin or gas as he would have seen back in Abysynth. Instead they had glow stones. Enchanted stones that glowed with a soft white light when the right word was spoken. There were less industrial workshops lining the street and more arcane ones. He saw children playing in the street, some of them using their various gifts as they did so. Up ahead he could see street performers juggling fire and playing with light. And every door he passed he saw the markings of the ward smiths on.

  At the same time their technology was dwarven. But then the dwarves were truly fae themselves in his view. Some of the masters in the Arcanium had argued otherwise, but he had never agreed with them. The guards carried pistols and not rifles as he was used to, and their barrels were made of hexagonally cast bronze instead of rounded steel. Longbows were also more common than he was used to, and some glowed with light that spoke of certain enchantments. Others had cogs and gears that he hadn't seen before, but which he could only imagine made them far more powerful. He didn't ask any of the guards about their weapons though. Thieves didn't generally approach guards.

  Then there were the animals. He had expected this realm to be far more home to the magical and mythical such as the cockatrice. But though he might have expected it, he still wasn’t prepared. The first thing he noticed was that the horses weren't all typical horses such as he was used to. He saw many that bore the markings of the verdan – the patches of black on the white were unmistakeable – and he knew that they would be far more intelligent than other horses. In fact, some of the bards claimed that the verdan horses could actually speak. They were probably muckspouting though. But even if they couldn't talk there were also horses with manes, fetlocks and tails that glowed with a soft white light, and he knew that that was a sign of unicorn blood.

  There were more than just unusual horses in the streets. Many of the children had pets, though not the pets he was familiar with. Some had lizards – little ones with wings that he thought might be smaller cousins to basilisks. Squirrels were popular too – but these didn’t look like any squirrels he had ever seen. They were far too large, and if he was honest, far too fat. There were also birds of every colour perched on roofs and fences. He didn’t see any dogs however, and the only cat he saw was bright orange with startling blue eyes. It stared at him suspiciously as he walked by.

  This town was unlike any he had ever visited. Still, it was recognisable as such and he didn't feel threatened. A little confused perhaps, but no more. And he had to remind himself that he h
ad come here for a reason.

  His first stop he decided as he headed down the hill into the heart of the town, had to be the market. Whether he remained here or moved on he needed to restock his provisions. And looking down into the market square at the heart of the village he was sure it would have everything he needed.

  It was a busy little market. There were at least three score of stalls set out, and plenty of people wandering among them. Most of them seemed happy too. The children were running around, laughing and playing as children did. A few of the small flying lizards trailed some of them around – Briagh guessed they were the local equivalent of pet dogs following their masters around. The adults were engaged in conversation, either shopping or haggling for the most part. There was laughter and in the distance pipes and stringed instruments playing a tune he didn't recognise. And none of that changed as he approached. It didn't even change when he entered it and started scanning the stalls for what he needed.