by Ted Striker
Bryan reluctantly passed the sword to the Council Chief, watched while he laid it in the middle of the square. He looked up from the sword at Phelan, who looked back into Bryan’s eyes and smiled a wide, toothy smile.
Connor stood over the sword. “We are gathered here to witness the judgment of the Gods,” he intoned solemnly, his melodic basso rolling out over the assembled villagers and clan members. “Only one of these warriors will survive the day and their combat will decide the fate of this clan for generations. Should Phelan win, he will be undisputed clan chief; his decisions will be our law, his least desire our commands. Should her Human champion gain the day, Branna will become Queen, the first in all our history since the Morrigán. Her will shall guide us, her decisions will be our law, her least desire our commands. At my signal, begin!” He walked to the side and cried out, “Now!”
Phelan changed and leapt almost instantly. Bryan had begun to run toward the sword, but he saw that the huge Wolf would make it first. He skidded to a stop just as Phelan’s slavering jaws snapped! closed on the spot his head would have been in. Bryan jumped back and wiped wolf spit from his face. Phelan stood straddle-legged above Bryan’s sheathed sword, a low rumbling growl emanating from his chest like distant thunder. “What was that you said about making the fight fair?” he called out to Connor.
The Council Leader coughed apologetically. “Phelan seems to have learnt to change more swiftly,” he said. “My apologies.” A roar of laughter came from the assembled Laignach warriors at that.
“Apologies my ass,” muttered Bryan. “What are you playing at, old man?”
Phelan lunged, his jaws snapping viciously. Bryan sidestepped and brought a hammer fist down on the wolf’s nose. It was reflex, his body acting without really consulting his brain. What happened next was just as automatic, and just as well; if his brain had been consulted, he would never have tried the move.
The Wolf yelped and snatched his muzzle back from the painful blow. Bryan followed and stamped hard with his booted foot on Phelan’s near fore-paw. He heard a satisfying crackle! snap! and pop! as bones broke and ligaments separated. The watching crowd cheered for his bravery. The wolf yelped again but slashed with inhuman speed at Bryan’s leg. Only Bryan’s own speed saved his flesh, and as it was, Phelan got a piece of his boot. The strong leather of the boot top ripped like paper. Phelan held his broken paw off the ground, but he still guarded the sword.
Bryan retreated several more steps, the torn leather flopping around his leg. He felt a sting and glanced down at the long scratch one of Phelan’s teeth had left under the torn leather. “Touché,” he said, feeling again that strangeness of switching languages. “You draw first blood.” He kicked off the torn boot, then raised his other foot to draw the boot from it. Phelan jumped toward him, but stumbled with a pained cry as his broken paw collapsed beneath him. Bryan moved out of the way, circling left. He threw the boot at Phelan’s nose, but the Laignach snatched it out of the air and chewed it up, then dropped the mangled leather, snarling. “Well, you got my boots, but it looks like I’m ahead on points,” said Bryan. “Ready for the next one?”
Phelan again lunged clumsily, hindered because of his maimed paw. Bryan evaded the snapping jaws without difficulty. He felt the cobblestones move slightly beneath his bare feet as he stepped farther to his left. Some were very loose. He’d have to be careful with his footing. Phelan tried his paw against the ground once more, lifted it quickly up again with a suppressed whine as pain lanced through his leg. Bryan felt a fierce sense of satisfaction at that. Unarmed defense against a werewolf. He felt another stone shift beneath his feet as he moved. They were at a kind of impasse for now since the wolf a little slower, but if he made a mistake, slipped on one of these loose stones, anything, Phelan could finish him with just one savage bite. He breathed down the panicky desire to focus on getting the Soul Sword; that was literally a dead end. It was easy to think that the sword was the only avenue of defeating the giant wolf, mostly because it was. Tamoth’s big bow would be nice just about now; a fifty-caliber machine gun would be better, Bryan thought. Any side-arm would be welcome, in fact.
Side arm. It hit him like a thrown rock. As soon as his bare foot moved another cobble, he bent down and scooped it up. In less than a minute, he had a half-dozen stones, all but a few smooth and rounded.
Phelan watched Bryan warily. This human shouldn’t have been able to hurt him without his sword, yet he had. It was a given that Laignach were stronger, faster and fiercer than humans. Man was a clumsy, slow-moving, all-but-defenseless creature worthy of little respect. In battle, the Laignach had but to appear and humans fled like chickens, shitting themselves and dying under the wolf-warriors’ teeth. Yet this one faced him, not just because he was forced to, but obviously harboring the insane idea that he could win.
Suddenly Bryan’s arm whipped and a rough stone smashed into Phelan’s sensitive nose, tearing it terribly. Blood spurted and the Wolf could smell only the coppery scent of his own blood. “Second touch to me, wolf-boy,” taunted the human. He sent another stone hurtling toward Phelan, who jerked his head out of the way. Now he was enraged. This was intolerable! Where was the respect due him? Where was the fear? Three-legged, he bounded toward his prey, bellowing the war-cry of the Laignach, a howl so chilling that it was known to melt the bowels of even the bravest.
Bryan’s bowels didn’t melt. Instead he sent a flurry of three stones that all hit Phelan in the face and muzzle, causing the Wolf to reflexively close his eyes and duck his head. When the Wyrg looked again, he was incredulous. This fool was running straight at him! Phelan snapped at Bryan, just missing the man’s shoulder as he dipped out of the way of the clashing jaws and slid along the cobbles on one hip. Suddenly Phelan realized that he had been tricked into abandoning the sword. Bryan had taunted him out of position with a handful of pebbles! Furious, he wheeled around to rip this brash two-legged fool to pieces. The man shot his arms out at Phelan, and four more rocks pounded painfully into the Wolf’s muzzle. He checked his charge again, lowering his head, and heard the metallic hiss of the Human’s sword being pulled from its sheath.
He desperately launched himself with bared fangs. He’d misjudged this man as just another feeble human who would fall to his fury like countless others before him. But this creature had proved to be as agile and cunning as himself. When the Wyrg’s mighty frame struck the spot where the man had been he was no longer there. He howled again in frustration and pain.
The watching crowd fell silent. Expecting the quick defeat of the Human, they were now transfixed by astonishment at the apparent ease with which this man had eluded and injured the Laignach. And now, Gods! The man was rushing in behind Phelan’s shoulder. Before the beast could turn, he grasped a furry Wolf ear and threw himself upon its back. Phelan reared upon his hind legs like a horse, trying to shake his puny assailant loose. Bryan had expected this, and he was ready. His arm encircled the hairy throat; he reversed the sword and plunged the black blade in and out of the fur-covered side behind the right shoulder, seeking the mighty heart of the monstrous Wolf.
An awful roaring howl of rage and pain escaped Phelan’s muzzle; the shape shifter bucked and twisted, but Bryan could not be dislodged or brought within reach of the slavering fangs in the brief interval of life that remained to the Laignach. Finally the Soul Sword plunged into his mighty Wolf heart and the beast shuddered and shrank as the blade drank his essence. When Bryan released his hold and arose, it was he who shocked the silent crowd by uttering the terrible Laignach war howl.
Phelan’s life force did not dissipate in an instant as others had; it bounced around inside Bryan’s head like a wild animal seeking escape. The thoughts, the astonishment of the clan chieftain, swirled through his consciousness. The powerful wolf spirit howled one last time in defiance – and then the power surge hit, not as strong as the Perkunas surge, but much stronger than any of the other lives Bryan had absorbed. He leaned on his sword after the rush passed, suddenly exh
austed, and looked at the shriveled mummy that had once been Phelan. Bryan sighed and picked up the Soul Sword’s sheath. The purple-black blade, of course, carried no blood. He slipped it back home and turned wearily to where Branna stood frozen with the rest of the crowd.
“I don’t believe what I just saw,” she said into the hush. “A man should not have survived battle with a Laignach warrior.”
“If he had attacked me instead of guarding the sword, I would probably be dead,” said Bryan. “He was too afraid of the sword, when he should have been afraid of me.”
Connor looked at Phelan’s corpse, then at the Human warrior. “Indeed,” he said softly. “All of us underestimated you, lad.”
Bryan gazed keenly into Connor’s eyes with undisguised challenge. “And now what?”
“And now the Laignach have a Queen,” replied Connor. “There will be ceremony and feasting for a fortnight. After that, we plan for the future.”
Before Connor had finished speaking, Bryan was surrounded by a mob of worshiping clan members and villagers. His defeat of Phelan, and the manner of that defeat, was key to their admiration and respect.
{Everyone loves an underdog,} quipped Perkunas.
{Funny,} thought Bryan.
Men came and collected the remains, and others with buckets and brooms cleaned the blood-stained cobbles. In short order the square was transformed from a place of death into a festive venue. Meanwhile Branna took Bryan into a room at the inn so Afixio could clean and bind his wounds. The wizard smeared a purplish ointment along the edges of the deep gash on his calf that Bryan had thought was a scratch, and pushed the wound together with an incantation. As he pressed the torn tissues together, they fused, leaving a faint pinkish scar. “That will turn white in a few days, and in a year it will be so thin you’ll have trouble finding it.” He unstoppered a phial of foul-smelling orangish liquid. “Drink this down. Hold your nose; sometimes that helps.”
“What’s in it?” asked Bryan, trying to get his face out of the grimace the horrible-tasting stuff had induced.
“Better not to know,” muttered the wizard. “But it will help fight disease and will perk you up generally.” He gave Bryan a cup that proved to be whiskey. Swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing helped to lessen the nasty aftertaste.
Branna hugged him tightly. “You have done what no one thought could be done!” she said. “You have killed the most fearsome of the Laignach with a handful of rocks! You have avenged me! Both my honor, and that of my mate, is restored! Thank you!”
Suddenly she kissed him ardently. Afixio looked from one to the other and withdrew quietly, closing the door.
Chapter 19
The gray haze of dusk was upon Balstow when Afixio stepped through the inn’s door into the town square. Ruddy torch light made the festivities there seem even merrier. People were eating, drinking, talking. Lines of wagons and carts testified to the number of folk that had travelled from farm and homestead to be regaled with the tale of how a Human had defeated a Wyrg in single combat using rocks from the street.
He should have been happy, but a dark cloud had descended over Afixio’s mind, blotting out the fact that he had played a small part in the righting of this wrong. Even knowing that he had been a Wolf’s bite away from death and had survived only added to the blackness of his mood. He deliberately turned away from the revelers and half-stumbled toward the darkness at the edge of town.
“Wizard!” It was Connor. “Come have a drink, hero of Balstow!” Afixio did not answer. He recognized the appeal to his pride, and ignored it. He was sunk in his own pit of despair and failure. What he was thinking of was Porvir's beastliness-- his murders of King Harald and his household--his treatment of women generally-- his cruelty to animals and people in the arena--his viciousness; and of how he, Afixio, had failed at every turn to protect those that he should have. How he had consented to the very atrocities for which he hated the King of North Keep. And now the Gods had brought him to a man who threw himself into the very teeth of danger for one whom Afixio would have shunned. Bryan was a thousand times better than he could ever be. To hear himself called “hero” drove the dagger even deeper into the priest’s conscience. He had allowed – aided – in the ravishment of this wolf woman and of all the women King Porvir had ever mistreated, back to Harald’s Queen and daughter. Afixio’s self-loathing, always lurking beneath his thoughts, lunged forward and enveloped his soul in a dark slime of despondency.
A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Startled, Afixio realized that he was past the town gate and headed into the forest. “Where are you going, man?” asked Connor, peering into the wizard’s eyes. “It doesn’t take the nose of a Wolf to smell the feelings pouring out of you. Go into the forest like that and you’ll be dead and half devoured before morning!”
“Perhaps that were best,” stated Afixio with a half-concealed sob caught in his throat.
Connor put a tankard into his hand. “Drink that,” he commanded. When the wizard choked and coughed half the draught out, the Laignach laughed and clapped him on the back so hard that another large splash of whiskey spilled from the tankard onto the ground. “Try again,” he said. “A little slower. This is the best medicine for the kind of pain you’ve got.”
The Council Leader led the wizard back to the torch-lit tables in the square, by which time he had encouraged Afixio to consume the better portion of what remained in the tankard. “This burly red-haired giant is Aodhan, and the skinny one is his brother Neit, good friends of mine,” he said by way of introduction. He signaled for another round of drinks. “So tell me,” he asked gently, “Why would a fine man such as yourself be wishing to be devoured on the occasion of your friend’s great triumph?”
With gentle persuasion and a liberal lubrication of the vocal chords, Connor coaxed from the inebriated priest of Offet the entire story of Branna’s capture, torture, and rescue. Afixio elaborated his shame further, relating the account, some of which Connor already knew, of King Harald’s overthrow. Aodhan and Neit, drinking silently, listened intently.
A third round of drinks came. Afixio, now accustomed to the bite of the whiskey, took a long drink that dribbled down his beard in a golden stream. “Bryan,” he said with difficulty, “Bryan’s good with that sword of his. Took care of that Wolf problem of yours, eh? I just wish it was Porvir he stabbed through the heart.” Then the wizard laid his head down on the table and slept, drooling onto the rough boards.
The three Laignach looked at each other in astonishment.
“Lads,” said Connor, “I thought that the Gods had sent us a rare gift when Branna returned. I seized the chance to free the clan from a bad chief, but I thought that these Men were mere baggage that we would need to discard. I see now the Gods’ true generosity, and I am appalled that I almost wasted the treasure that these two Men represent.”
“Connor, I see where you are going with this,” said Aodhan with a grin, and toasted the thought, tossing back half a tankard of Lainn’s Gold. “Bryan proved to be very resourceful in the Challenge against Phelan, didn’t he?”
“Aye, that he was. I had thought that I would need to Change the vicious one back to Human for him to even have a chance. Who would have thought that a mere man could stand against one of us in single combat and win?”
“A warrior that could kill a Wyrg might even stand a chance against Porvir’s giant,” suggested Aodhan thoughtfully.
“You’re daft!” scoffed Neit. “Thorm has killed every opponent he has ever faced.”
“But no one of us would have thought that he stood a chance against a blooded Laignach, either.” Aodhan shook his head in wonder. “And he did it with cobblestones! I would put my money on Bryan in a Challenge against Porvir and his champion any day.”
“We don’t even know this man,” protested Neit. “What if it was pure luck that he was able to kill Phelan?”
Now it was Aodhan’s turn to scoff. “I’d rather be daft than blind, brother,�
�� he declared. “Did you not see the fight? First Bryan hit Phelan on the nose, then broke his paw. After that, he scooped up a fistful of rocks and drove the beast into such a fury that he forgot he was guarding that sword, which led to his downfall. The Human played on Phelan’s overconfidence. That was courage and quick thinking, not luck.”
“Courage and quick thinking are important, to be sure,” said Connor. “I agree with Aodhan that Bryan might stand a good chance to win a Challenge against the King of North Keep, and remember, we also have a wizard who was in the castle for years. I believe that both these Men will be important in any effort we make to remove Porvir from the throne. Whatever we do will require a great deal of planning.”
There was no denying that, the other two agreed. They summoned a tired and footsore Lainn for three more tankards of the Gold to help stimulate their thought processes.
Chapter 20
Jwilla and Tamoth followed footpaths and cart roads to the village of Lakewoods, then cross country toward the Indigo Mountains. In the morning light the ice-clad peaks were sparkling white, but the shadows and fissures in the glacier topping the high slopes were a deep, dark blue. The distant mountains were a welcome sight for Jwilla; this was where she had grown up, where she had begun her calling as a priestess of the Defender.
It was clear and cool. The wind blowing off the mountains was fresh, and Jwilla found herself eager to move, not only for the purpose of misleading their enemies, but simply for the joy of walking through this beautiful land. The meadows were matted with wild flowers. The mountain slopes were dark forests of pine. Once a small blue butterfly lit for an instant on Tamoth’s back and then was gone.
There was no sound but the beat of Tamoth’s hoofs. How long before their deception would be discovered? How long before an attack? Someone had sent the Erych, and these were not known for their patience on the scout. They would strike, hard and soon, Jwilla was sure of that.