Then the cat approached, and they began circling, head to tail, tail to head. The circle closed, by narrow increments. Their eyes locked as they paced, and the wolf was ready to lunge at the slightest muscle twitch.
Ha-Sowa froze in mid-stalk, turned.
Then leaped…
All was blood red, as cat and wolf tumbled in the dust, teeth ripping real, solid flesh; The storm raged beyond and raged within the circle they had marked out by their walk. As he snapped and bit and fought in the dust, he became aware of the boundary they had marked out by their pacing, the division between worlds. Within they were spirit as well as beast, matter and ether. They separated, and Ha-Sowa was bleeding, their blood mixing on the ground between them. Wolf was injured, but he cared nothing about it, being only vaguely aware of the bites and the long bleeding gash down his back.
Spirit and matter, matter and spirit. To get past those claws, wolf-self thought, not in words, but abstract images emphasized by the damage those claws had already done. To get past them…
Spirit and matter. Use both, he considered. We are spirit too.
Wolf made an image of his spirit, an outline of the wolf he had become, and he made the outline solid, and real. Spirit-self and wolf-self became separate, and the image lunged.
Ha-Sowa spun about, exposing her neck Wolf attacked, jaws clamped down on the throat, stifling the cat scream that rose in protest. Tumble, tumble and roll; cat blood flowed over the wolfs tongue, rejuvenating him, giving him fresh power despite the loss of his own blood. Cat's jaws worked open, pressing against the wolfs, snapped shut on nothing. Cat claws dug into wolfs back, stayed there. The pain made him hold on even tighter, as he knew that to release now meant certain death.
Wolf held on, held on with everything.
"Aedham," Petrus whispered urgently, but the King was not responding. Wenlann and Scoriath joined him, as Fion held the steeds' reins.
Wenlann felt his pulse, checked his eyes. "He's in shock. But he's breathing. Damn, that lightning was close," she said, looking anxiously at the black sky. "We need to get him out of this open space."
Petrus didn't argue. With Scoriath's help he carried the King to an overhang of rock beneath a sheer cliff; meager shelter, but the best they could do at a moment's notice.
Aedham opened his eyes, looking stunned. "Don't stop now," the King whispered. "Go after Japhet. Destroy him. Bring me his head."
"But Sire, you—"
"But nothing. I will recover. But this storm is the perfect cover for him to escape. That lightning bolt was brought on by something greater than the Unseleighe, but they know we're here."
I'll stay with him," Wenlann said, not looking altogether convinced that the King would be fine. "Niamh, what healing can you bring?"
Niamh closed his eyes and concentrated on the appropriate powers. The King looked up, met Petrus' eyes. "Fion is commander now," he said. "Do as he says, Petrus. No hero shit, now."
"Aie, Sire," Petrus said, and obediently turned toward Fion, who was returning to the steeds. The rain had started to fall a little heavier now as he followed the captain down to the edge of the gorge. It felt good to be following, for a change. He didn't feel particularly capable of being in charge of this situation.
Fion had taken the reins of his elvensteed and was looking down at the depths of the gorge. Petrus rode Moonremere over to him. There they both saw a swiftly flowing river that was once the creek.
"It's rising, but I don't think it will be a problem," the captain said at length, then with Scoriath climbed onto their mounts. "Let's go find Japhet and get this over with."
I'm all for that, Petrus thought.
Fion led them down closer to the river, picking through the rain with a little more caution now that their visibility was reduced to practically nothing. With his own limited mage sight Petrus sent a tentative probe forward, to see if he could sense their enemy anywhere nearby. As the high ground receded behind them, Petrus began to feel a little vulnerable, as the river water had risen noticeably; once the water was covering their steeds' hoofs, Fion was starting to look uneasy.
"This may have been a mistake!" Scoriath shouted over the rain and the roar of the river. Petrus barely made out his words, and rode closer to hear what he wanted to do next. The downpour concealed whatever was ahead of them.
"Go back!" Fion shouted. "The water's rising too fast!"
They turned their steeds around and began a more spirited ride back, the water now flowing swiftly over the vast, flat area that they had just crossed over.
We're in trouble, Petrus realized, urging his 'steed forward, faster now, but Moonremere was not negotiating the uneven terrain, now that it was obscured by the swollen river. Fion shouted something; Petrus looked back, just in time to see the leader's elvensteed stumble. Fion held on, but it appeared to be a losing struggle. Moonremere had stopped and when Petrus turned back around, he saw why. A surge of water, just about even with his shoulder, was raging toward them, cutting off any passage to the safety of high ground. The wall struck them sideways, and Petrus fell into the raging current.
He was not wearing a full set of armor, but Fion and Scoriath were; the current carried him downstream swiftly, the rock face of the gorge spinning past, offering no chance to grab onto it. Then something struck him, hard, in his stomach. His breath, forced out, stayed out. A big rock, which his body took the full force of, flowed past as water closed over him. Despite the pain that wracked his body the sudden cold flooding over his head gave him new life, or at least a semblance of it.
I'm going to sink like a rock if I don't get rid of this sword, he thought, but the warrior part of him screamed in protest at the idea. There was still a battle to be fought, and to walk into it without his sword was ridiculous.
But how the hell am I going to fight a battle if I drown? he thought, moments before the cold turned to numbness. He felt himself floating, from the water, from his body.
Numbness became darkness, with a coldness that carried the pain away.
Once Wolf's teeth found the artery, he nearly choked on the resulting flow of warm, pulsating blood. Ha-Sowa ceased to struggle and relaxed her claws, which seemed to take forever to withdraw from the flesh of his back. Breath, which bubbled up through her crushed throat, stopped completely after a final gasp. He backed away from the dying cat, aware now that his own wounds were as bad. Blood soaked the sand, making a morbid, sticky mud.
Rain began falling a little more heavily now, but Wolf hardly noticed it as he fell over, painfully, on his side. He watched the lifeless cat form take on a yellow, glowing aura that stood out like a headlight; it brightened, faded, then vanished, taking Ha-Sowa with it.
Ha-Sowa is no more, he thought, feeling less then jubilant. With the spirit gone, his body began its change back to human form, despite the injuries. At one point he passed out from the pain, then came to, cognizant of arms, legs, and a torso. He lay on his left side, his right side bleeding from open wounds; much of the damage was absorbed in the transformation, but not all. Laying naked in the rain, bleeding from his wounds, Wolf knew he was far from being safe.
Panoei, ananatta Okoshi? he heard from somewhere behind him. Now do you doubt what old man Fast Horse says?
Grampa was still here, lurking just beyond his sight. Pain blinded him. But Grampa was still here, still…
He thought the wolf that walked past him then was from this time and this land, here to investigate the scent of blood. But the wolf was transparent, the rain falling through and beyond its image. He watched the animal walk away, aware now that it was part of himself that was leaving. The wolf Okoshi had found dead nine hundred years before would finally go on to its destiny, after serving the Chaniwa so well for so long.
Po-kwa-taea, kahuna ka wana, Wolf tried to whisper, but made no with the thoughts instead. Farewell, dear friend.
The rain subsided, and Wolf lay naked and shivering on the ground, praying for the return of the hot desert sun. A moment later the gods
answered his prayer, spilling warm sunlight over the desert, burning the clouds and rain away as quickly as it had arrived.
Distant thunder turned into the sound of a motorbike, an unusual sounding bike but one he remembered. Thorn on his old Harley rode into view, but attached to it was a sidecar, with a passenger. Only then did he think he might live to tell the story of this unusual afternoon.
But do I know anyone who would believe it?
Thorn pulled up beside him, as transparent as the wolf-spirit who had just departed. But the boy who climbed out of the sidecar was solid, a flesh-and-blood. He was a kid, fifteen at the most. But his eyes looked like they belonged to an old man.
"I'm going for help," Thorn said, and sped away.
"You're bleeding," the boy said, taking off his't-shirt. With his teeth he started a tear in the cotton knit, and started shredding it up into bandages. Wolf hadn't noticed the wound in his wrist, bleeding profusely; he couldn't have done a better job if he'd cut them himself. The boy wrapped a strip of cotton cloth around it, tied it just tight enough to stop the blood. Wolf would have sworn he was a paramedic.
"Who are you?" Wolf managed to whisper.
"Lucas," replied the boy, applying pressure to the gash in his side. In shock, Wolf didn't feel anything. "Don't talk. You're really messed up."
No shit, Wolf thought, before he passed out again.
Chapter Nineteen
"I think we should cut our losses and get the hell out of Dodge," King Aedham said morosely, leaning on Wenlann for support. "After we find Petrus." He didn't sound hopeful that they would, but Wenlann knew they would take whatever time was required to find then-comrade, alive or not.
The King is right, she thought. It was not our fate to succeed in this land. Japhet may get away yet.
Fion and Scoriath had returned, half drowned and minus their armor. Their steeds had survived, and after a short search they turned up Moonremere, grazing on a juniper bush. But there was no sign of Petrus.
"If you can help me onto my steed I will be" fine," the King said, and Wenlann obliged by giving him a leg up. "Let's go find Petrus before Japhet does."
Until now, that had been the unspoken fear. Now that the King had voiced the concern, a new urgency revived them. Niamh had tried to scan the area for any elven presence, but the electrical storm made it too difficult for him, and the King's mage-sight was still on the fritz from the lightning hit. All that was left to do now was to search for Petrus using non-magical means.
Niamh was intently looking at something else, and everyone seemed to notice this at the same time; all turned their gaze to the desert, where a motorcycle was approaching.
Thorn pulled up, looking rattled. "Begging your pardon, Sire," he said, nodding slightly toward Aedham. "I need your help. Wolf survived his confrontation, but at great cost. He's bleeding to death as I speak."
Oh dear Gods no, Wenlann thought, terrified. I can't… I don't want to lose him.
"Aedham, please, let me…" she began.
The King said simply, "Go to him, Wenlann. You can work a healing?"
She nodded quickly, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Without another word she hopped on her 'steed and followed Thorn back to the location. In less than a minute she saw the Indian with a pile of clothes beside it, and beyond it two figures, one naked and lying down, the other at his side.
Look at all the blood, she thought in anguish. I should have gone with him!
Too late for that, of course; she leaned over him and took in the damage, only slightly aware of the other person.
"He had a cut on his wrist, and I got it to stop bleeding," a young, male voice said. "I've been putting pressure on this big one. That's the main problem."
She looked up, noticing the other person for the first time.
"Lucas?" she said, momentarily baffled. I'll ask later how he happened to be here, of all places. "You did the right thing. But he's still… in trouble." She turned his head, and looked into his eyes, which were dilated and glazed over. At least he's still breathing.
Wenlann calmed herself and concentrated on her hands, stilling them, preparing diem to receive the native energy. I just hope it's enough. This isn't all his blood, is it?
Her rudimentary knowledge of elven healing did not include training in Earth magic, so she had to improvise.
Now I know it's enough, she thought uneasily, regarding the work ahead of her. I hope it isn't too much!
Once the link between her hands and the power was established, she held her palms over the deep gash in Wolf's side. His entire torso was caked in blood, but the wound in question, the long rip under his arm, exposing four ribs, could not have been caused by anything but a claw, and a big, nasty one, at that. The heat left her arm, and went directly into the injury. Wolf's eyes shot open, and he started to moan.
"Hold him. Hold him still," she said, and Lucas held his shoulder. He was still writhing, if not as violently. This probably hurts like hell, she thought, wishing she could speed the process up. But this was as fast as she dared take it, and with this much blood loss she didn't think a sleep spell would be a good idea.
Beneath her hands the wound stopped bleeding, and the blood that had caked around it began to fleck off from the heat, revealing other, though smaller cuts. I'll come back for those later, she thought, concentrating on stopping the bleeding. After the first pass the wound had a thin layer of transparent skin, and she looked him over for any more leaks. There were none; Lucas' quick action had saved him. After the second pass the wound was covered by a bright pink scar, and she had started on some of the others when the fatigue caught up.
I have to stop now or I'm going to burn myself out. Then I'll be the one who needs a healer, she thought, then looked at Wolf's face. He was awake now, and gazing at her lovingly.
Petrus rolled over on the river's shore, feeling the water trying to pull him by his legs back into the current. He dragged himself onto the relatively dry land, on what at first appeared to be an isolated island in the middle of the river. But no, there was a shallow part, bridging the island to the main shore. In the islands center were more massive rocks, which he would have likely smashed into if the river were any higher. All told, a good place to wash ashore.
He sat trembling on the rocks, amazed to find his sword in its scabbard still at his side. After coughing up some water he struggled to his feet and inventoried his injuries. Chest and stomach would become one big bruise; perhaps the cold water would keep the swelling down, perhaps not. He stood up, testing his legs, and looked around in vain for Moonremere. No one was in the river, or on the shore.
Over the roar of water, he heard a footfall on the loose rocks behind him. Pulling his sword, he turned around to confront the source. By the time his eyes met Japhet Dhu's he was in a full fighting stance.
"Oh, it's you" Japhet said, looking disgusted. He'd al ready drawn his sword, a long, dark bronze piece with jewels in the hilt. "I was hoping for a challenge. Instead, it's only a child."
Now that the danger was clearly defined, his senses sharpened, filtering everything out including the pain wracking him from head to toe. Petrus lunged immediately, the blade glancing off Japhet's hilt; the Unseleighe jumped hack in surprise, and Petrus thrust again. Swords met in a blur of bronze. Petrus drove Japhet back, against the large rocks, where he ducked and rolled out from under the young elf's attack.
Now the tables were turned, Petrus had his back against the rock. Victory graced Japhet's features with a hideous snarl. Petrus knew he had fallen for the trick, looked for ways out. He hopped backwards onto one of the smaller boulders, Japhet's blade striking the stone where Petrus' midsection had been a moment before.
Over there, he thought, seeing a possible way out through the rocks. I can get him over there.
Already the fight was taking its toll; he could ignore pain, but summoning energy when one was already exhausted was another matter altogether. Indeed, Japhet followed him, stumbling in the process; he recovered f
rom it before Petrus could take advantage. Japhet seemed to be exhausted, too; he'd been running nonstop, while they had been chasing, non-stop.
No time to assume, Petrus said, finding an energy reserve.
"You would have to get up there," Japhet sneered, and swung at his legs. Sword tip sliced through the laces, and the boot started to loosen. He couldn't believe the hit had been anything but luck; this was dirty street tactics.
Return kind with kind, Petrus thought, their blades clashing madly now. Standing on the rocks had its advantages, but the boot was getting looser, and would soon eliminate any mobility on the uneven, rocky surface.
"Hard to dance around with one boot, is it?" Japhet laughed.
The Unseleighe struck again, this time a vertical slice that barely cleared the end of his nose. But with a resounding thunk, the blade landed in the fork, and stayed there. Japhet pulled, but it was not coming out.
Petrus saw his only chance for a clean kill, and took it. He tumbled from the rocks, and landed face to face with Japhet's severed head.
The King insisted they stay together, even if they would cover more ground in separate teams; he didn't want to risk losing any more of his people than he had to, and there were other dangers out here besides Unseleighe ones. The search party returned after searching one side of the river, in a hilly area that anyone could get lost in. The paths to the creek were limited, but they explored every possible way, looking for signs of either Petrus or Japhet. They came back to the cliff, which had become their informal headquarters, empty handed and depressed.
When an elvensteed came around the bend, the King raised an eyebrow and grinned; Wenlann had returned, with not one but two scantily clad young men, riding in front and behind her. Evidently her healing skills were sufficient to revive Wolf, although even from here he saw the pink welts that were a sure giveaway of quickly healed skin. As for the other youngster, he was not much younger than Petrus, but didn't seem the slightest bit astounded at the sight of all these elvenfolk.
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