Wolfbreed

by S. A. Swann

  The girl glared at Burthe, which made Gedim want to laugh all the more. “Prûsan,” he muttered, chuckling. “Red hair aside, the girl is pure Prûsan.”

  “What are you saying, Gedim?” Burthe gave him a harsh look.

  “I'm saying she just needs to see an example of proper manners,” Gedim said, raising his spoon.

  ***

  Gedim walked out of the cottage and found Uldolf standing out in the field, staring up at nothing. The sky was cloudless, and stars coated the moonless sky like a layer of frost. The last claws of winter bit at his skin as he walked up next to his son.

  “You should come to bed.”

  “I know.”

  “You did good.”

  Uldolf shook his head. “No, I didn't. I was a coward. I was a few minutes' walk from the town gate. But I carried that woman five miles rather than try and get help there, just because I didn't want to get caught for poaching a damned hare.”

  Gedim reached out and placed a hand on Uldolf s shoulder. “She could have died because of that,” Uldolf said.

  “Son, has it occurred to you that she might have been a victim of the soldiers in the garrison there?”

  Uldolf turned and looked at him, frowning. “You think so?”

  “If someone was going to just abandon a woman to die in the shadow of Johannisburg Castle, who is the most likely culprit? Some random brigand, who can safely ply his trade an hour's ride away from any law at all, or the only men in the area who have little to fear from Christian law?”

  “You think they could?”

  “Son, I've seen war. I've also seen the men that the Order uses. They hire anyone willing to buy their God's favor with blood, gold, or a few mealy words. The Prûsans they employ—A Prûsan in the service of the Order is little better than those brigands you're concerned about.”

  “But—”

  “A man who looks for his own flaws will always find them,” Gedim said. “I know you. You are not a coward. If you really believed you could trust the soldiers in Johannisburg, I know you wouldn't have hesitated a moment to go there, whatever you might have been accused of. Now come back. Hilde needs her sleep, and I don't want you waking her by crawling into bed at some ungodly hour.”

  “Father?”

  Gedim turned around, hoping that the boy was done belittling himself.

  “How bad do you think it is?”

  “Her head?”

  Uldolf nodded.

  “I don't know, son.”

  “You said you had seen men injured like that.”

  Gedim sighed. He didn't talk much about his years as a warrior. Not just because he had little use for the glory that men tried to ascribe to the brutish business, but it showed how he had fallen in his own eyes. When he should have fought, in the end he had capitulated and accepted baptism. Though, looking at the man Uldolf had become, he couldn't come to regret the decision.

  “Most died quickly,” he told his son. “But I saw two men survive. One was struck blind even though his eyes were undamaged and still reacted to light.

  The other could speak, and knew his life up until the blow fell, but he lost the ability to remember anything after. He would greet everyone by saying, 'Well met, I have not seen you in ages,' even those he broke bread with that morning. Months after, you would talk to him and he would be convinced that he had just woken up from being struck down in battle.”

  “What about her? I thought at first she spoke some other language.”

  “I don't think she speaks any, at the moment.”

  “So she lost her memory, like the man you remember?”

  “Not like him. He would talk to you, and remember who you were, if he had known you before the injury. She hasn't lost her ability to remember. From her looks, she remembers you quite clearly.”

  Uldolf turned so Gedim couldn't see his face. “Like a child, an infant, then.”

  “If so, she is a quick one. I've not yet seen a baby that could learn the use of a spoon that quickly.”

  “Maybe she'll learn to speak again.”

  “Maybe.” Gedim took Uldolfs shoulder and led him back toward the cottage. “Now Hilde needs her sleep. We can talk about this later.”

  Chapter 8

  Eight days after the carnage at Johannisburg Castle, Sergeant Günter Sejod had the dubious honor of greeting a full company of fresh soldiers, secular knights, squires, turcopoles, and various men-at-arms—all led by seven armored men bearing white mantles over their shoulders, displaying the black cross of the Order of the Hospital of St. Mary of the Germans in Jerusalem.

  Günter had expected the Landkomtur to return with some dramatic gesture on behalf of the Order. Christian charity aside, he couldn't help but picture it involving his head parting company with his shoulders.

  He had not expected Landkomtur Erhard von Stendal to return with nearly fivescore men. When the Landkomtur had left his monstrous prisoner in Günter's inadequate care a fortnight ago, he had originally been heading for campaigns east with only six other knights, a few retainers, and the redheaded woman.

  The redheaded monster.

  The mass of men rode inside the castle walls and made camp in the bailey, in the shadow of the stone keep where so many had recently died.

  Riding at the fore was Landkomtur Erhard himself. He rode his mount across the bailey and drew the animal up within a few paces of Günter. One of Günter's surviving men, arm still splinted from when the cell door crushed it, reached up to hold the horse for the Landkomtur to dismount.

  Günter walked up and held himself at attention. He watched as the Landkomtur surveyed the half-dozen men who remained. Erhard's frown was ominous.

  “Sergeant?” The man addressed him in flawless Prûsan. “Yes, sir.”

  “By my count you've lost fourteen men.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Erhard shook his head. “God have mercy. Christ have mercy.” The knight stared up at the keep, whose gray-white walls were turning scarlet in the setting sun. The reflected light gave a bloody tinge to the white of his mantle. “I am afraid we are to be sorely tested.”

  “Sir, may I ask why—”

  Erhard held up his hand. “Please, not here. Tell me first, did she trouble the townsfolk?”

  “No.” He added, “Praise be to God,” making a conscious effort to use the singular in front of Erhard. “The creature made its escape to the east.”

  “What is in that direction?”

  “There is a road and some farms when the land flattens again.”

  “Did you find any signs of what became of her?”

  You mean, did I send out my four remaining able-bodied men after that thing, armed with silver daggers? No I did not, you addle-brained monk. Some of us are not quite as eager to meet God as you are.

  “After tending to the dead and injured we did search the woods below the eastern wall. We found nothing of substance. A footprint in mud, bloody fur caught in a thicket, a tree freshly clawed.”

  Erhard nodded. He whispered something in Latin then reverted to the Prûsan tongue. “Show me the scene of the disaster.”

  ***

  After the removal of the soldiers' remains for proper burial, the lowest levels of the keep's storerooms had been left as they had been after the monster's escape. Günter led Erhard alone. None of Günter's men wanted to retrace these steps, and Erhard took none of his own.

  They each carried a lantern, and the pair carved long fingers of shadow across the damp walls—shadows that mirrored the ribbons of ruddy black where blood had dried. It smelled of rotten meat and death down here.

  Erhard paused briefly by the short table where Manfried's sword and dagger still rested. Then he walked down the corridor to the banded door and checked its edges.

  “I told you,” Günter said. “Manfried opened the door on his own.” He wanted to make it clear that this was no Prûsan's doing.

  Erhard nodded. “I see that.” He examined a long gouge on the floor that traced an arc from
the doorway halfway to where the door now hung open. Unrecognizable fragments of silver rested on the ground where the gouge terminated. “He didn't know enough to remove my seals before opening the door. The lower one was wedged under it.”

  He picked another silver remnant from the edge of the doorframe and shook his head. “This was the second line of defense. How did she escape the shackle? You cannot tell me that Manfried removed her chains as well?”

  “No.” Günter waved inside the cell. “The creature amputated its own foot.”

  There was a long pause before Erhard said, “She did what?”

  “You can see for yourself, if you don't smell it already.”

  It seemed to dawn on Erhard that the stench was coming from inside the cell itself. He turned and shone his light inside, muttered “Christus,” and crossed himself.

  “The state of this cell ...” He turned to look at Günter with an expression that was half accusing, half shock. “Was this your doing?”

  Günter shook his head. “We followed your strictures. Food and water, no other contact.” He gestured at the feces-and urine-soaked straw. “She had a clean bucket for refuse, which she chose not to use.”

  Erhard looked down at the filthy straw mats, his face white-skinned. He walked in and knelt next to the manacle that still held a woman's foot, now black with rot. In the lamplight, the slightly glistening skin undulated with an infection of maggots.

  “She couldn't break the silver?” Günter asked.

  Erhard nodded, looking at the cell. He shone the light around, until it settled on a corner of the room where a small pile of clothing rested on top of an upturned bucket.

  “She shed her clothes and befouled this cell. She tore her own foot off to free herself from touching the silver binding her—so she could change herself. This was long in the planning.” Erhard straightened. “Manfried was a young man, wasn't he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Romantic, perhaps?”

  “Sir?”

  “She is more of a monster than I knew. She seduced a man with his own pity. God have mercy on his soul.”

  It was appalling to Günter, the lengths this thing had gone to, to delude poor Manfried. However, at the moment, there were other aspects of the monstrosity that concerned him more.

  “Sir, I tried to ask you before, silver is supposed to kill it. Why is it still alive?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of my men fired a silver-tipped crossbow bolt into the creature's head.”

  Erhard straightened up. “He did? Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I witnessed it myself. Just before it slaughtered him.” Günter shuddered at the memory, but for some inexplicable reason, Erhard was taking Günter's news very well. In fact, it seemed to brighten his mood considerably. Günter didn't understand the reaction. “Don't you understand what I'm saying? You told me that silver was the only thing that could kill it! But it didn'tl”

  “Silver isn't poison to this creature, Sergeant. All a silver weapon does is give it a normal wound. A cut from a steel sword will seal up as soon as you withdraw the blade. This foot had probably regrown within an hour. But your man's crossbow bolt—that would injure her as well, as it would have injured you, had he fired it into your skull.”

  “But it didn't kill—”

  “Men have stumbled off the field with similar wounds, most to die very shortly after.” Erhard clasped him on the shoulder. “If you'd pray for something, pray for that.”

  When Erhard let go of him, Günter heard him add in German, “And pray that I find her body.”

  Chapter 9

  At night now, Hilde had to share her bed with Ulfie. Hilde liked being close to her brother, even though Ulfie snored like her father did, and sometimes he moaned and had nightmares. But when he was quiet, she liked to rest her head against his chest and listen to his insides gurgle, and she liked the way her brother smelled after the day was over. Earthy, like the field after a hard rain, or like their horse when he wasn't working and got so full of himself that he rolled in the pasture.

  She was probably too old to sleep with her brother—he was almost too big for her bed, feet hanging off the end—but their guest was sick from the nasty wounds that Mama had sewn up. Mama said that fevers almost always came after someone was hurt that bad, and as bad as it seemed, Mama said she thought that their guest was doing well. Better than Mama expected her to.

  Hilde was still scared for her. She didn't know if Mama really thought she was doing well, or if Mama just didn't want Hilde to worry. Sometimes Mama and Papa would avoid saying things, afraid that Hilde might not understand what was happening.

  However, Hilde understood what a fever was, and how awful it could be. Sometimes it seemed that she had spent most of her life fighting to wake from a fever, and it made her wish she could make their guest feel better.

  But there was also some selfishness with the sympathy. Hilde loved Ulfie, yet there were times she wanted a big sister.

  It was very late. The sun had been down for hours, and Hilde thought she was the only one in the house awake right now. Ulfie was snoring as badly as Papa was, and Hilde wondered how Mama could sleep through all the racket. However, even without the noise, Hilde didn't feel tired. She supposed that she'd had so much sleep when she'd been sick that she didn't need as much now.

  She spent her time in the dark wondering about their guest—who she was, where she had come from. She was so pretty that Hilde imagined she must be a lost princess, or a fairy, from some far-off place where people didn't talk like normal folks. Maybe that's why she didn't speak—

  Hilde heard something odd in the cabin and held her breath. In her mind she had made their guest a fairy princess who had escaped from a tribe of evil ogres. The sudden odd sound made her think that the ogres might have come for her ...

  But that wasn't what she heard.

  Very quietly, she thought she heard a girl's voice say, “No.”

  Hilde sat up. Ulfie didn't stir; he slept like a stone. A very loud stone.

  She looked across the cabin and saw their guest stirring. She was speaking, but low, and her voice sounded like a girl's. Not much older than Hilde even though she was nearly Ulfie's age. Hilde thought she heard her say, “No,” again.

  Hilde carefully slid out from between her brother and the wall, off the foot of her short bed. The light in the cabin was dim, cast by strips of moonlight filtering through the shutters, but Hilde could see enough to keep from stumbling as she walked to Ulfie's bed.

  She stopped at the head of the bed. A strip of moonlight had fallen diagonally across the woman's face, lighting part of the bandage on her head, a strand of hair, a slice of her damp brow, and a single eye, half-lidded, looking at Hilde.

  Hilde touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She grabbed Hilde's hand so quickly that Hilde gasped and tried to pull away. But the grip was much stronger than Hilde was. The woman's eyes opened as she looked at Hilde, though she didn't seem to quite see her.

  “Rose?” the woman whispered. “Is that you?”

  “You're talking!” Papa had said that she couldn't talk because of the wound to her head, but if she talked now, it meant that Mama was right; their guest was getting better. Hilde smiled. “Let me wake Mama.”

  “No!” The woman's grip tightened. “Don't get the guards. He's their master, too.”

  “You're hurting me,” Hilde whispered.

  Her grip loosened. “How did you get through the bars, Rose?”

  “What bars?”

  “You can't escape, Rose. They won't let you.”

  “Why are you calling me that?”

  Her hand let go, and she reached up and touched Hilde's face. “Don't leave me again. I don't know if I can face him alone.”

  Her breathing became heavy. Hilde looked at her and thought of how her own fever had made her dream of things that weren't really there. She didn't remember much of those times, but she did remember when she
had talked to Mama thinking Mama was their horse. She had kept asking how he had gotten through the people door, and why he had started talking in Mama's voice.

  Hilde touched the woman's brow, under the bandages, and it still burned with fever. The woman didn't know what she was saying. Hilde saw the tears on her cheek and decided if she wanted to call her Rose it was fine. “I won't leave.”

  “Thank you.” Her hand lowered to the blanket.

  “If I am Rose, who are you?”

  “Don't you know me? I'm Lilly, your sister.”

  ***

  In the morning, after Ulfie and Papa had gone out to work in the field, Lilly began waking up. Mama went to fetch a bowl to feed her and Hilde

  grabbed her sleeve. “Mama?”

  Mamma looked down at her. “Yes?”

  “Can I feed Lilly?”

  “Lilly?”

  Hilde suddenly felt a little nervous. Lilly had been so scared last night that Hilde might tell someone something. But she had been so feverish that Hilde hadn't been sure whom, or what. Still, Lilly had trusted her.

  But Hilde certainly could tell Mama, right?

  “Uh, I spoke to her last night.” Hilde glanced over at Lilly, and Lilly looked back at her, a little groggy.

  “She spoke?”

  “Yes. She didn't make much sense, though. But she said her name was Lilly and that she was my big sister.”

  Mama smiled and turned away for a moment, covering her mouth.

  Is Mama laughing?

  She turned around, still smiling, and said, “Of course you can feed ... Lilly?”

  “That's her name.”

  “It's a pretty name,” Mama said. She bent over and kissed Hilde on the forehead and whispered, “You have such sweet dreams.”

  Mama handed her a bowl of barley porridge and went to do other chores without asking Hilde any more about her conversation with Lilly. Hilde looked at Lilly and frowned. “I don't think she believes me.”

  ***

  Uldolf worked in the front field, by the tree line. They had the third frost-free morning in a row now, and it was time to start the first tilling. His father had already begun, taking a loaf of bread baked with last year's grain and plowing it into the field. Since they were Christian, it was less an offering than a gesture of respect for the old god Patrimpas.