by Greg Curtis
“You would choose to remain as … this?” Because she suddenly understood exactly what it was that was driving his former student. No one would want to remain as he was.
“My form is crippled. My aspect beyond hideous. My magic was badly damaged so that I am no longer the wizard I once was. But somewhere inside, I am still Zo'or. In the end that is the thing I cling to. If I had not fought the orb with everything I had I would not be me. Zo'or would be dead. That is what Barachalla does not understand. And what Callum cannot accept.”
A long silence followed. Eventually it was broken by Father Argen.
“So, one man has the dream of greatness possessing him, and no sense of right and wrong, compassion or morality to stop him in his quest. A man with the knowledge of the most learned technologists and the will to use it. The other man is driven by unbearable pain and has terrible magic at his fingertips. Neither are willing to stop. And when they reach their destination the gods themselves may be angered by what they do next. We need to stop them.” He paused for a moment. And then sighed.
“If I were a man with coin to wager I would not put it on us.”
He was right, Elan thought glumly. But what choice did they have? He had to be stopped. And the technologist had to die for what he'd done to her family – even if they'd been complicit in their downfall.
“No Father, I would place it on Briagh. If he is truly called, then he is called for a reason. No one, no morph even, goes to T'illshar Ree. It is sacred to them. They are driven to stay away from it. To respect it as a place where they should not tread. We must hope that he is truly called.”
“And if he's not?” Elan had to ask.
“Then he will likely not survive the Forbidden Forest. And no more will we.”
Chapter Forty Two
The sound of a wolf growling behind her made Careyn turn around quickly. It always did. And yet she knew it shouldn't. Even though she was surrounded by wolves she was perfectly safe. Although the gaol cells had become extremely crowded with half a dozen wolves in each, at least they were secure. None of the prisoners were able to escape. Not from it anyway. But then it had been designed as a gaol from the start. So, although it now held nearly two hundred wolves – four or five times more than it had been built for – they were locked up tight. It wasn't the gaol where she and the others had to be wary. It was everywhere else.
Sixty more wolves were locked away in the barracks, a building that had never been designed as a gaol but which now had iron bars instead of windows and doors. Twenty more were locked in the armoury, another building that had never been built with that purpose in mind. She was concerned about the security of both of those buildings. Because while the steel bars and grills that had been installed were solid, the walls themselves were just wood, and she worried that the wolves, especially the dire wolves, would eventually claw or chew their way through them.
But it was the pen that gave her the most sleepless nights. It was a locked up enclosure they'd built against the northern corner of the stockade wall. It held a hundred or so wolves, though none of them were dire wolves thankfully. The palisades themselves were strong but the two walls that were built to abut the stockade walls had been hastily constructed, and were built out of logs and steel posts which the wolves tested every day. She wasn't nearly so sure about them. Her concern though was shared by the towns people as the artisans reinforced the walls every day.
Walking the ramparts above the pen was a frightening experience. Seeing all those wolves only a few feet below, snarling and leaping at her, and knowing that a slip could be fatal, tended to set her heart racing. And the knowledge that most of those in the pen were people from Perna Sill made it somehow worse. Down there were her neighbours and friends.
If that wasn't enough to leave her scared, the fact that the artisans were busy building two more pens was. It spoke volumes about what they were facing. What every town and village near Ellys Gorge was facing. And now according to the reports, some of the towns further in. This plague was spreading. And even if the wolves they had locked away didn't escape and attack them, others would in time. Unless – and she prayed to Liasa every day that it would happen – Briagh somehow stopped this.
But could he? That was the question that kept calling out to her in the quiet times. Could he stop this nightmare? Could anyone?
Briagh was strong. More than strong, he was becoming a warrior. The man he should always have been. She could see the growth in him. The way he had slowly transformed from a thief – though one with a good heart and a decent mind – into a champion. Others had seen it too. He was untrained and raw, but he had good instincts and a powerful gift. And now that he had found his courage he was becoming formidable in battle. But was it enough against what he was facing?
The technologist, the wildred and their army of wolves were dangerous enemies. They had nearly killed him before. And that was when he had at least had soldiers standing with him in battle. To stand against them alone was madness. Then again, his former occupation might serve him well. Hiding and creeping about in the shadows might be just the skills he needed to fight them.
But even if he didn't face them, there was the mountain itself to contend with. T'illshar Ree. Or, more accurately Idlewen. Death. That name wasn't given to the south west face of the mountain without reason, and every morph knew it. It was why no morph would go there. They knew it was sacred to the Goddess. Not a place for mortals to visit. Save for Briagh that was. But was it merely a dream that drove him to make the journey? Or had he truly been called?
Again, she had no way of knowing. All she could do was hope that he was either truly called, or that he was smart enough and quick enough to make it back out. Perhaps she would say a few more prayers to Liasa? Or maybe that should be Morphia – though the thought of making a prayer to the lawless Goddess was almost sacrilege to her. And Briagh would probably tell her that she should be making her offerings to Elm Tibesh – the impertinent scoundrel! Yet he had truly made her laugh the day he had suggested building a shrine to the Lord of Thieves in the gaol.
The thought still made her smile as she continued her rounds. And she needed to find some cheer as she wandered between the cells filled with dire wolves. Filled with villagers as she kept having to remind herself – though she feared they might never again be the people she had known all her life. Certainly they weren't them now.
When she looked at them as she often did, she saw absolutely nothing of who they had been. And she knew when they tried to attack her as they tried to attack everyone, they recognised no kinship to her or anyone else. They were truly just wild animals.
The priests couldn't explain it. They couldn't explain anything about the curse or the transformation. Not why some became wolves and some dire wolves. Not why they recognised no one from their past. Not even loved ones. And she would have thought that even if they had lost their ability to think and speak during the transformation, they would still at last have known their husbands and wives. Their children. Felt something for them. But most of all the priests couldn't explain how this might be undone.
They might be like this until they died.
A flash of silver to her side made her flinch suddenly; a steel clad fist aiming for her cheek. Without thinking Careyn ducked to one side, letting the blow sail harmlessly past her.
Then she danced back, drawing her sword in the same fluid movement, her training finally taking control. She was angry with herself. Angry that she hadn't been more alert as she did her rounds. Because she should have spotted her attacker instead of losing herself in her thoughts. And it was only after that as she stood there, sword in hand staring at her attacker that she realised who he was.
“You!” She was shocked by who it was. It was the barbarian Prince. She'd thought he’d gone. Fled from the town in the confusion of the attack. Run away.
“Me.” He smiled at her. The cruel smile of a man with no heart who planned on taking whatever he wanted. Then he drew his own wea
pon, a huge two handed greatsword. “You can address me as Your Lord.”
Her Lord! That was something she would never do. Especially when she saw the leer all over his face and knew what he wanted. Every woman understood the lecherous stares of men. Unfortunately though she found the thought of his putting his hands on her disgusting, she wasn’t surprised. It was the barbarian way and he was their Prince. The Prince of Pigs!
“So this should make things fun. I plan on having you of course. But a little entertainment before the main event should make it more memorable.”
He stabbed at her thigh with his blade forcing Careyn to jump back again and then twist to the side. His blade missed, but not by a lot. And strangely he didn't seem to care. In fact, it made him smile.
“Women soldiers! What a perfectly stupid idea. And yet so exciting!”
Meanwhile Careyn was panicking, wondering what she should do. He was huge, well trained, armoured, and probably the victor of hundreds of battles. And all her training hadn't prepared her for a battle like this. Did she try to run? But there was nowhere safe she could get to quickly enough. There was another locked door at the front of the gaol, but even if she got past the Prince she'd need time to open it. And besides, she didn't want to turn her back on him. Not for a heartbeat. Did she scream? Try to bring help? But would anyone even hear her over the constant growling of the wolves, not to mention that she was locked away behind heavy stone walls? Or did she simply stand and fight? Against a renown swordsman? And as terrible as it seemed, she suddenly realised that that might be her only choice.
He tried a swipe with the blade, thinking to have her parry with her own. But Careyn knew better than that. The weight of his blade and the strength of his arm behind it meant that she would just get knocked around if she tried to block his blows. Instead she dodged, letting the tip of his blade swing past her and then struck back, lunging with the tip of her rapier aimed straight at his eye.
After that it was his turn to dance back a step.
It was then she remembered the most basic of facts. What she should have remembered from the start. She had magic! It annoyed her that she'd forgotten that, even though it had only been a few heartbeats. Normally it was the first thing she thought of. But add a little fear and a giant madman with a sword, and somehow she forgot? Even a child would know better! Careyn immediately reached for her gift and cast it, aiming to freeze the barbarian Prince in place.
It didn’t work! Instead she watched as he came towards her once more, then raised the greatsword and tried to skewer her. She barely got out of the way in time, dodging to the side and then darting around him.
He was immune to her magic?! That was impossible! No one was immune! But even as she was reeling with shock and trying not to panic, the truth came to her. He was warded. Someone had warded him against her. And that could only be a wizard who was both very knowledgeable and very powerful. Not a local one either. The chances were that it was whoever had crafted his armour.
“You know, you're better than I expected girl.” The Prince licked his lips obscenely as he advanced on her again. “Not good enough to be one of my soldiers, but good enough that I’m going to enjoy this.”
He didn't mean the debauchery she knew. He meant killing her. It seemed that he'd had a change of heart. He got just as much enjoyment from killing as he did from the rest.
“Oh, and I should tell you, I'm going to take your hair as a memento.”
He made a flat advance, the sword held sidewise at chest height as he took two quick dancing steps at her, intending to bully her and then swing his sword sideways, cutting her in half. Careyn dodged again, and then ducked as his sword came flying at her. It missed and went sailing over her head. More importantly, he had exposed himself. The weight of the sword as it swung stopped him from turning back to face her and his armour lifted just a little. It was just enough for her to see the gap appear between the bottom of his chest plate and the top of his chausses. He should have worn a full length hauberk of mail under his chest plate, but the extra weight had probably made him reconsider. Seeing the sliver of skin appear she stabbed it, sending the tip of her sword into his hip. And then as she leapt back she celebrated. He was a dangerous man with a sword, but he was over confident, and he hadn't allowed for the fact that being so much shorter than him, she could strike at him from a lower angle.
The Prince grunted and danced back angrily, but the smile on his face was gone she noticed. And that pleased her more than she could say. More importantly there were a couple of inches of blood on the end of her sword.
“First blood to me then Prince.” She smiled. For a time she had been frightened, thinking she had no chance. But now she though better. The wolves seemed to know it too as they roared and howled. The sound gave her an idea. Her gift might not work on the prince but it should still work on the villagers, even if they had been changed into wolves.
“I've had worse shaving cuts, girl!” He spat on the ground. “But just for that I’m going to make sure your death is long and painful. I'm going to slice all your tendons, cripple you, and make you mine. You’ll beg me to put you out of your misery by the time I’m done. You'll remember it until all the thrice cursed wolves out there finally come and kill us all!”
Suddenly she understood why the Prince had come. He'd given up. He was now a man alone, facing a legion of wolves. He'd decided he wasn't safe on his own, so he'd either returned to Perna Sil or never left. He had decided to remain where there were others who could fight for him. And somewhere along the way he'd decided he'd have a little fun while he waited for the end. After all, if he was going to die anyway, why not have some fun beforehand?
“Promises, promises.” She laughed at him, and then lunged, sword pointed straight as his head. But she didn't intend to stab him. Only to make him think she would. It was enough to make him step back, brushing the bars of the cell. Half a second later the dire wolf she was controlling through her gift reached out a limb through the bars and grabbed his shoulder. Some of its claws raked his neck badly in the process.
The prince leapt away, shocked by the unexpected attack, and she went low and let her sword take a slice out of the back of one of his calves as he tried to escape. His chausses only covered the fronts of his legs. Again, he'd obviously decided to forgo the weight of full armour.
“Liasa be praised, Prince! It looks like the Lord of Wrath has deserted you!” Careyn mocked him, knowing the value of a good taunt. And then she advanced on him again. He was wounded, not perhaps badly, but enough that he was sore and realising she was dangerous. Enough that he had decided he needed to defend himself against her. It was the edge she needed.
She tried another feint, making him think she was going for his eyes again, and once again he dodged, but not blindly into a cell this time. He immediately countered, swinging his greatsword around in an arc as he tried to take her head off. Obviously he'd decided he didn't want to bed her any more after all. But it didn't work as the tip of his sword came too close to a cell door and a dire wolf reached out and blocked it with its paw.
The wolf howled in pain, blood flew, and the Prince lost his flow. Suddenly he was caught out of position, his sword not ready, and Careyn had another chance to take a slice out of him. This time it was from his calf. And this time when her sword came away bloody he yelled at her. Better still, he was limping.
“Would you like a healer Prince?” She laughed at him. “Looks like you're losing a lot of blood. All over that precious armour of yours. And of course, now that a wolf's got you, sooner or later you'll begin to transform into one.”
“Bitch!”
He didn't bother with any more banter but instead came at her with all the speed he could find. But injured as he was he was unsteady on his feet while she could still dodge. She did so, and managed to stick the tip of her sword in the back of his thigh as he tottered away from her. His expensive leggings were looking like bloody rags by then. No wonder the wolves were howling.
> Careyn wanted to celebrate then. She was winning! Somehow. But her victory cry came too soon as the Prince struck back, unexpectedly dropping the two handed greatsword and tossing a dagger at her. It was accurately thrown, especially from a man with his back half to her. It would have hit her in the face had she not leapt out of the way.
Unfortunately, she leapt the wrong way, and backed herself into a cell door. Instantly she felt the puncture of teeth as a wolf bit right through her leather armour.
Careyn leapt away, not badly injured, but knowing in that instant that she was doomed. The bite meant certain transformation. And there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
The Prince laughed as he went down on one knee to pick up his greatsword, and in that moment she knew only hatred for him. Fury such as she had never known. Forgetting all her training, she screamed in rage, and simply rushed him.
He was already down on one knee. One leg was crippled and he was slow. She was by now beyond rational thought. And he wasn't ready for her. So when she hit him he went sprawling across the floor, sliding in a pool of his own blood. He slid too far and crashed against the bars of the opposite cell where the wolves were waiting. Worse, his arm went through the bars.