by Ted Striker
The bearded man was nowhere in sight when Bryan woke up lying on dusty ground instead of leaves. He was in the camp of the rapists he’d been scouting. Then he saw Jwilla across the camp, tied spread between two trees. She was naked. He got up in a hurry, almost jumping into a sprint – and hit something invisible that bounced him back, stunned and sporting a bloody nose. The invisible barrier he’d hit with his face rang like a giant temple bell and the men he’d watched earlier from the bluff laughed raucously at the sight. One of them, a husky bearded man in rich clothing, reached out and tapped the barrier. It rang again, more softly this time.
Bryan saw that the force field corresponded to a white circle drawn on the earth around the fallen tree that the dark-haired girl had been tied to. She was no longer tied there; she was standing next to it, gray-blue eyes flashing with suppressed fury. There was a glinting silvery chain wrapped tightly around her neck, cutting into the skin. Small trickles of blood ran from beneath the chain. The girl seemed to be struggling to breathe and air whistled as she inhaled and exhaled. She stared at Bryan without speaking. Suddenly he realized that she was inside the barrier with him.
“You were spying on us,” said the man outside the barrier. “Why?”
Bryan saw no reason to lie. “I heard screaming. I came to see why.”
The man threw back his head and laughed again. His men echoed him. “A hero, come to save the day!” he said, jerking his thumb at Bryan. “He came charging over to rescue the Wyrg!” He doubled over. “Gods,” he gasped. “This is hilarious.” When he straightened up, cruel humor still shone in his eyes. “Fool! Do you even know what a Wyrg is?”
“A wolf person?”
“A skin walker,” said the fellow. “Person is too generous a term for a race that spends most of its life as animals. We kill them when we find them.”
“Apparently that’s not all you do to them,” said Bryan.
“Ha! You learned something with your spying, did you? And did you happen to discover my identity, as well?” He struck a pose. “I am Porvir, King of North Keep.” When the announcement drew no reaction, Porvir sighed. “Well, we are a small kingdom,” he said. “But I am the defense of the north. Creatures like this one,” he gestured to the girl, “might ravage the kingdoms of Men to the south if they weren’t held in check. We prevent that. And if we enjoy ourselves in the process, who is to say we shouldn’t? Well, you, apparently. Since you have interrupted our previous entertainment, I’m going to have to ask that you provide some. Do you see the collar that the Wyrg is wearing? It keeps her from becoming a Wolf. At my signal, my wizard Afixio over there,” he gestured to the old man that Bryan had seen in the woods, “will release the collar. The Wyrg will change into her Wolf form, and you will get your chance to play the hero. You will fight her and die. Or you will fight and kill her, I don’t care which. What I want to see is a good spectacle of death, and either way works for me. Pick up your sword, for all the good it will do you.”
Bryan glanced back to where he had been laying. There was the Soul Sword. Well, damn. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. He had no intention of humoring this sadistic bastard. How to break out?
“By the way,” said Porvir. “Whatever the outcome of the battle between you and the skin changer, afterwards I and my men will finish our entertainment with your red-headed companion. The longer you make the fight last, the longer your beautiful friend will go untouched.” He chortled. “I do love anticipation.” He walked to the chair his men had just set up for him and sat down, ready to enjoy the bloody spectacle. Afixio stood beside the king, wearing a worried frown.
“Milord King,” he said. “We should wait.”
“Release the Wyrg,” said Porvir.
Afixio frowned more, if that was possible. “Lord,” he said again, “this is not an auspicious decision. The portents indicate caution. Perhaps we should take all the prisoners back to the keep.”
Porvir laughed. “Perhaps it is time for your apprentice to take your place, Priest,” he said coldly, “if you think to frighten me with evil signs. Now do as I command! Release the Wyrg!”
The wizard bowed his head in acceptance of the king’s decision. “As you command,” he intoned. He muttered something in a low voice and made a cryptic gesture.
Bryan turned back to the girl as the collar flung itself from her neck. Her blue eyes, fixed on Bryan, blazed and her skin seemed to ripple as if seen through disturbed waters. Her breath was rapid, her chest heaving as she became more oxygenated. “Wait!” he said sharply. She jerked her head at the sound of his voice. “Remember,” he said softly. “You know me. You don’t bite me, I don’t stab you, right? I have one more friend, a centaur, still free. He will be planning a rescue.” The girl continued to tremble violently. Bryan thought he heard a low rumbling growl from her chest. He bent down and pulled the sword from its sheath. The blade gleamed darkly. “I think I can take this barrier down. When it comes down, we’ll go kill those sons-of-bitches together,” he said. “Deal?” She hadn’t spoken so far, and he didn’t wait for a reply now, turning his back to her deliberately and slamming the sword point-first against the barrier.
The shock of the sword hitting the invisible barrier made it ring like the knell of doom for an instant. The sound stopped, but the reverberations seemed to go on forever inside Bryan’s head. Purplish sparks spat from the blade and its vague, almost invisible ultraviolet glow brightened to gas-flame blue as the barrier’s energy was sucked instantly into the sword. Then it flooded into Bryan.
The jolt was like a lightning strike of adrenaline. He felt as if he had swallowed a high-voltage capacitor. With a single galvanic leap, he covered the forty feet to where Jwilla was bound. He slashed at her bonds. The sword kept trying to arc in toward Jwilla, seeking her life-force even after the banquet the magical barrier had provided. Bryan sternly guided the edge away from her body with some effort. “Stop that!” he snapped sharply. Suddenly the sword became docile, letting him control it. He made four flickering cuts that parted the ropes as if they were spider web before a flame.
Jwilla shouted a warning and he turned around just in time to parry an attacker’s sword swipe. The Soul Sword woke up, sensing that this was fair game, and riposted on its own, dragging Bryan’s arm with it. The man’s color turned from ruddy tan to gray as the black blade ripped into his throat. Bryan felt a tiny popping spurt of energy, a miniscule burst of power, like a static spark compared to what he had just experienced from the barrier. He had a fleeting mental glimpse of the soldier’s startled face inside his head before the puny life force was absorbed into the maelstrom of power swirling inside him. He engaged another pair of fighters while Jwilla armed herself with a fallen man’s weapons. The men were skilled, but against Bryan’s kendo training and the black Soul Sword’s murderous desires they stood no chance. He barely guided the weapon as it slashed his opponents into ribbons with savage abandon. He hardly felt their energy become his.
Across the clearing, the giant black wolf was in the midst of the other soldiers, ripping left and right, her jaws crimson with blood. She twisted nimbly out of the way of a thrusting spear and grabbed her attacker by the arm. He screamed as she bit down and shook him like a rag doll. The arm and shoulder parted from the body in a bloody spray and the man went flying to flop on the ground until the last of his life’s blood gushed out of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Bryan saw Jwilla kill another man with a two-handed sword. She shouted wordlessly, taking out her rage and fear on the luckless fellow, gutting him with one sweeping blow and then taking off his head as he fell. Two men appeared beyond Jwilla, crossbows raised to shoot her down. Suddenly arrows sprouted from their necks like black corn stalks and they dropped dead before they could pull their triggers. Tamoth vaulted into the camp, axe in one hand, bow in the other, trumpeting a deep-throated war-cry. The Centaur rode down two more men, his axe a red whirlwind of death. Their heads jumped away from their necks on bloody fountains and the bodies took two or three more
running steps before collapsing. He kicked another with a rear hoof that caved in the fellow’s chest, then, still excited, pranced in a circle, seeking further enemies to destroy, but all was suddenly still.
Bryan glanced around in the abrupt lull, the black sword hanging loosely in his hand. There was no blood on the blade; it seemed to soak in, leaving only the sword’s purple-black oily sheen. He crossed to where the sheath lay on the ground and covered the blade, feeling a vague sense of regret emanate from the sword as he did so.
A growl made him look up. Jwilla and the Wyrg were facing off, sword and teeth ready for action. “Stop that,” he commanded, and they both backed up, looking startled, either by the fact of his command or by the fact that they had obeyed it instantly. Bryan was just as surprised.
{The power of the ward that you absorbed is still radiating from you,} Mebd let him know. {For the next few hours you will be irresistible. Your every wish will be obeyed as soon as you speak it. Be careful what you wish for, A rún mo chroí!}
“Twelve men escaped that way,” Tamoth commented, pointing. “One was surely the leader, by his clothing and mount.” The Wolf turned with a snarl, ready to pursue.
“Wait,” said Bryan. She sat, surprise again registering on her face. She shook her head as if trying to rid herself of the compulsion to obedience.
The Wolf form evaporated in a mirage-like shimmer, leaving the naked girl he’d seen before in its stead. In spite of the fury that still contorted her face, she was beautiful. Her onyx hair was a shaggy bob, and her limbs had the lean pneumatic muscles of a dancer instead of the stringy whipcord of a runner. Bryan saw that she was more than just a girl; she was a woman whose age could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five, the mature side of her showing as she controlled her rage and spoke in a low hoarse voice. “You saw what they did to me,” she said tightly. “I was the mate of the Pack-leader of Conroight! My mate and I led that pack in peace for years, until Men trapped and killed him. Then I left to follow and take my revenge, but they caught me just as they did him. They shamed me and they would have killed me as they murdered him. I deserve to rip their limbs off, to drink their blood, to eat their livers!”
“I think that you deserve all of that.” Bryan agreed. “But it seems they have experience in dealing with Laig-nach,” he continued. He saw her eyes widen at his use of the ancient word. “They are twelve men on the run, to be sure, but this is their territory, and there are only four of us. What if we follow together? Caution is better than speed, and all of us, united, are better than just you alone. We’ll help you.” He saw Jwilla open her mouth to protest, held up his hand like a traffic cop. She closed her mouth with a snap, crossed her arms, turned on her heel, and stalked off.
Tamoth eyed Bryan with a mixture of respect and disbelief. At Bryan’s look, he shrugged. “You have an aura of command much like that of Lord Perkunas,” was all he said. Then he, too, turned and trotted off. He turned back after a few steps and said, “Jwilla will overcome her prejudice against the Wyrg, never fear. She is one of the most just people I know. In any case, it appears that our trip to Answar will take longer than we originally planned.”
Chapter 12
Porvir swore blackly as he rode. “That jackanapes! That arse! To interfere with me! And—” he turned on Afixio, who reeled in his saddle drunkenly. “How in all the five hells did that bastard break your wards?”
“Don’t know,” mumbled Afixio, holding desperately to the saddle horn. “But by all the Gods, I’m exhausted!”
“Then lie down!” Porvir backhanded the magician savagely, knocking him from his horse. The old man fell heavily and lay unmoving. Most of the remaining guardsmen rode past without even looking, but the guard captain Melthane pulled up beside the fallen wizard.
“Leave him be!” commanded the king harshly. “Serves him right to be eaten by that damned Wyrg after failing me the way he did!”
Melthane hesitated, then rode on, looking back only once at the still form of the old priest.
Chapter 13
{How did you know, dearest Bryan, that the wards would surrender to the Soul Sword?}
Bryan thought about Mebd’s question. He was sitting on a crooked tree limb a little distance away from the camp, watching the greenish-gold sunlight dapple the hillside below his perch. He listened to the leaves and pine needles as they whispered to each other in the breeze, and watched a woodpecker as it hopped up a limb above him, knocking on the wood in search of grubs.
“I don’t know how to answer that well,” he admitted. “I had the Soul Sword, and I just used it to hit the force field–”
{Ward,} corrected Perkunas.
“ –whatever. I hit it with the only weapon I had,” he said finally. “It seems strange, using a magical weapon to break a magical shield; the idea of magic being real is – well, unreal to me. But I didn’t think about all that power transferring to me, though.”
{Yes, I sensed your surprise,}Mebd said with a dry chuckle.
{That amount of power surprised all of us,} said Perkunas. {When I took the life of Hrungnir the Giant, it felt thus.}
{Beware the Soul Sword, beloved,} cautioned Mebd. {It is self-aware, as you have seen and felt first-hand. It thirsts after life above all else. Its wielders have often become its slaves, living only to feed it until they, too, are consumed. Those are the – minds is too strong a word— the feelings you sense as you near the sword or grasp its hilt. The sword drove them to madness; most of its slaves end their lives by falling on it themselves, and it absorbs their life-force without having to share. It seeks to influence all who wield it. It will try to control your mind as well, and will reach out to other minds.}
“I did feel that,” Bryan replied. He felt the Sword tremble now in its sheath and slapped the hilt lightly.
{That’s right, son. Show it who’s in charge, just as you would a new horse. Your mother speaks truth, but the sword was mine for ages, and now it is yours. To wield it is your right, now.}
{Indeed,} said Mebd. Bryan could feel the irony of the single word heavy in his mind. {But what has truly shown both of us your quality is the way you responded to the needs of this Laignach. Neither of us would ever have thought to aid a Wyrg, and you have done it without any thought except to help another. And she is a Queen among the Laignach! Truly, fate leads us down interesting paths. Continue to help this one, my son, but beware!}
“I know,” said Bryan. “All our lives depend on it.”
“All our lives depend on what, exactly?” It was the wolf girl, coming up behind him. .
Bryan started. “Damn, you move like a ghost!” That reminded him of another Ghost, as much of a friend as a man in his profession might have. Where was the Ghost now? On assignment, waiting to take down another target? He shook his head slightly, coming back to the present.
“Quiet is a good habit to cultivate,” replied the dark-haired girl. She was dressed now, in an outfit of soft leather that might have come from Jwilla’s trunk. “You have that habit, as well. You are pretty enough to draw the eye, yet I might not have noticed you if I weren’t looking for you.”
Bryan smiled at the compliment. “I think that I would always notice you,” he said.
She frowned. “Are you saying that you are better in the forest than I?”
Bryan shook his head. “No challenge,” he said, hands raised, placating. “I can be stealthy, but I have to concentrate on it. It comes naturally to you. I was just saying that your beauty must be hard to hide.”
Her face softened with a small smile. “You speak as finely as one of our bards,” she said, “flattering and silver-tongued.”
“What did you want of me?” asked Bryan.
“I came here to tell you that your mate is against you keeping your promise to me. So I will not hold you to it, but will continue my hunt as I began it – alone.”
“First of all,” said Bryan , “Jwilla is not my mate.”
“But I could smell her musk on you,”
said the Laignach, eyebrows raised. “It was weak, to be sure, but still fresh enough to know that you two have been together. And I have seen how she acts toward you. She is a jealous mate.”
“Actions or no, scent or no,” he said, “she is not my mate. By the way, my name is Bryan. What’s yours?”
She regarded him with eyes that were suddenly wide. Then she said softly, “Bryan. Noble One, you are. My name is Branna. It means ‘Dark Hair.’” She was silent for a moment. “Interesting that our names should be so close, at least in sound, no?”
Bryan found himself agreeing that this was an interesting fact. He said, “But tell me again: why were you searching for me?”
“Simply what I have already said: to tell you that I can hunt these creatures on my own,” replied the girl.
“I don’t see why we can’t –” Branna let a harsh growl escape her chest. Bryan suddenly found himself five feet away, on his feet with the Soul Sword half drawn. “What the hell was that?”
Branna wasn’t paying attention to him, though. She was trembling the way she had before her transformation in the camp. Bryan put his hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”
“I can smell one of them, the old man; he’s not far. This way.” She didn’t bother to change into a Wolf, just bounded off into the wind, long legs flashing beneath her buckskin tunic. Bryan ran after her, but without the fluid grace she showed, even in human form. He could move quickly and well over whatever terrain, but there was no way he could match the way Branna moved through the brush and trees, instinctively avoiding roots, holes and branches without pausing.