Of Truth and Beasts

by Barb Hendee

  Footsteps followed, and a stocky man with a dark beard and tied-back hair, both traced with gray, came around the alcove’s corner. He stopped, spotting Chane immediately. At first, he appeared more surprised than concerned. Perhaps theft was not common here.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, and when Chane did not answer, his expression clouded. “Don’t you move!”

  In another breath, the stable keeper would shout for the authorities.

  Chane bolted along the building’s side, but before he reached the corner, the man ducked back out of sight. Chane rounded into the alcove, and the tines of a pitchfork drove for his face. He twisted to the side, though an outside tine slid along his temple.

  A slight sting rose as the skin beneath his hair split. He grabbed the fork’s base with his left hand, and another tine’s tip scraped along his wrist. When he struck out, his right fist caught the stable keeper on the cheekbone. The heavy man toppled backward through the open rear door as Chane jerked the pitchfork away.

  And the beast inside of him struggled to awaken.

  Chane stood staring as the man stirred limply just inside the doorway. All he wanted was another kill, another true moment as it should be. Perhaps it would be his last chance. No one would know, even Wynn, except . . .

  Even the beast seemed only dully piqued, as if groggy from dormancy. In its strange complacency, reason plagued Chane.

  Once he returned to the caravan station, they would not leave straight off. A stolen wagon was one thing; a dead man was something else. It might bring a more thorough search for a perpetrator.

  The beast inside of him suddenly became more aware, and wailed in frustration.

  Chane bit down, but there was nothing between his teeth. He could haul the body away in the wagon, dump it along the shore where it would take longer to discover, and return safely to Wynn.

  He still hesitated, for Wynn had forbidden him to kill any sentient being.

  No . . . she had forbidden him to kill in order to feed.

  Chane had struggled and fought with himself to follow her wishes. Even if he left the stable keeper alive but unconscious, the moment the man woke, he would raise the alarm.

  The beast within him wobbled as it rose. Shaking off some lethargy, it lunged to the limits of its chains.

  Chane reached down and grabbed the man’s head in both hands. With one quick wrench, he broke the stable master’s neck. The man’s body tensed once all over and went slack upon the stable’s straw.

  The beast shrieked. Chane winced, as if hearing—feeling—its rage at being denied.

  He hauled himself up the doorframe and dragged the body out to toss it in the wagon’s back. He jerked a tarp across, took one last look around the stable, and grabbed a sack of oats, a bucket, and a pile of blankets.

  Every motion was mechanical, but inside, Chane ached from what he had not done more than for what he had done. One brief chance at release, for his own need, and he had not taken it.

  Finally, he picked up a heavy shovel leaning against one wall and slammed the sharp end against the chain holding the front wheel. It broke easily, but so did the shovel. He tossed the shovel in the wagon and climbed aboard, grabbing and flicking the reins.

  Driving the wagon south out of town, he went even farther than where he judged the caravan station lay. He dumped the body over the rock lip above the shore, not bothering to watch it splash into the water, and tossed the broken shovel after it. When he turned inland over the rough ground, finding the road back toward the city, it was not long before he spotted the campfires in the night.

  Chane had acquired what they needed. At least in part, he had done so as Wynn required.

  Wynn was quite satisfied as she led the way back carrying three heavy skins of fresh water. Ore-Locks hauled a burlap sack nearly filled with potatoes, carrots, and some strange type of apple she’d never seen before. And, of course, there was more smoked fish.

  They’d also found speckled eggs, a clay jar of olives in their own oil, and a little goat cheese sealed in wax. If Chane was successful, they could also scavenge seaside driftwood to bring, should they have trouble with dry firewood along the way.

  When they reached the caravan camp, fewer people were up and about. Some had settled into bedrolls around the embers of dying fires. Wynn saw no sign of Chane anywhere.

  What would they do if he couldn’t acquire transportation that could be covered during the day?

  “Here he comes,” Ore-Locks said. “But why is he . . . ?”

  Ore-Locks didn’t finish as Wynn followed his gaze.

  Chane drove a wagon along the dirt road. He wasn’t coming from the city, but rather from the south. He pulled up, tied off the reins, and dropped to the ground. Two fine young horses in new harnesses were hooked to the large wagon with high sides and a thick rear gate. This was more than what Wynn expected, and her pleasant surprise turned to discomfort.

  “How much did you have to pay?” she asked quietly.

  “Nothing in coin,” he answered. “I traded for it.”

  “Traded?” she echoed. “Traded what?”

  Her discomfort grew when he didn’t answer straight off.

  “Some of Welstiel’s rods,” he said. “The metal alone is worth a good deal.”

  Wynn had never liked that Chane kept all of Welstiel’s arcane possessions. Trading away any of them was fine with her, especially if someone was going to melt them down for their metal.

  She smiled, patting the neck of a pretty bay mare. “Well done. You’re getting as good at barter as Ore-Locks.”

  Then she noticed a dark line running out of his sleeve and down to the palm of his hand.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “It is nothing,” he said, turning away. “We should get the wagon ready.”

  Just before dawn, Chane lay curled in the wagon’s covered bed, listening to the bustle of team masters preparing the caravan to leave. Ore-Locks, Wynn, and even Shade were up on the front bench, ready to head out.

  No one had come looking for the wagon or horses.

  Chane still wore his heavy cloak and had put on the gloves and scarf, as well. The mask and glasses lay next to his head, along with both of his swords. Should the caravan be attacked during daylight, he would know it, hear it, and be ready.

  He pulled the narrow, leather-bound box from Welstiel’s pack and opened it, taking out a glass vial containing the violet concoction.

  “We’re off,” Wynn said, though not to him.

  Ore-Locks grunted acknowledgment as the wagon lurched forward.

  Chane downed part of the vial’s contents and then returned it to the padded box. He could already sense the burning rays of the sun just beyond the canvas above him.

  It would be a long day.

  CHAPTER 9

  The monotonous creak of wagon wheels mixed with clopping hoofs still echoed in Wynn’s head when they set up camp each night. One day blurred into the next until the caravan stopped for two days to repair a wagon wheel, and she realized that more than half a moon had passed.

  The line of wagons traversed an expansive valley between high ridges, rocking along on a northeasterly inland path. Grass-covered stone hills flowed down into intermittent woods of wild green brush, and the trees marked the landscape difference most of all. There were fewer firs and pines, as in the Numan lands, and far more massive, leafy, deciduous growths. The hardened dirt road was so old that it often exposed packed stones uncovered by years of use and rainfall.

  Like the seasons’ rhythms, Wynn’s daily life changed from her time aboard the ships. She drove the wagon all day while Chane and Ore-Locks slept in the back, under cover, and on opposite sides of the wagon. Then they woke to stand guard all night.

  Shade napped only during the day, perched upon the wagon’s bench with Wynn, but she never seemed to fully sleep. Often, she would suddenly lift her head, going rigid all over as she stared into the wild. It happened most when they passed through densely wooded regions. H
er vigilance began making Wynn more nervous in having left civilization. And too often, Wynn began peering into the trees as well, waiting to hear a voice or voices of the Fay rise in her thoughts.

  But the trees were silent, and the wagon rolled on. Soon the isolated woods thickened into even denser forests between the open fields and hills.

  One day, as dusk approached, Chane and Ore-Locks were asleep in the back when Wynn spotted a side road beyond the wagon line’s head. Another appeared shortly after on the other side. They’d come to a main fork.

  The chieftain, A’drinô, shouted from ahead for a halt. He came striding back to Wynn’s wagon, his heavy braid swinging as he walked, and he pointed to the left, northeasterly path.

  “That leads to Lhoin’na lands and a’Ghràihlôn’na,” he said. “Keep to the road, and you’ll come to an open plain. Their forest proper is beyond it, and the capital not much farther.”

  A’drinô gestured toward the southeast fork on the right.

  “We’ve a few stops along the valley’s southern foothills.” He glanced at Shade, then back at Wynn, and a wry smile spread across his mouth. “Tell your pale friend and the dwarf they might not be missed. Some of my men have grown lazy, sleeping through the nights.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Wynn replied, though she was puzzled. Apparently the caravan wasn’t bound for Lhoin’na lands; perhaps they had no cargo to trade there.

  A’drinô nodded, still smiling, and turned away. But he paused, glancing northward with a frown.

  “Lhoin’na patrollers are . . . strict about anyone crossing the plain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Never understood it. They allow no blood spilled there, neither for hunting nor injury. Keep any weapons sheathed or stored, and take it slow, at a comfortable pace.”

  His words tickled something at the back of Wynn’s mind—something about an open field on the way to an elven forest. She couldn’t remember what it was, let alone where she’d heard . . . whatever she couldn’t remember.

  “You don’t know why?” she asked.

  “For any people, the reasons for some old ways can be long forgotten. All that’s left is a tradition. But polite as the elves are in their way, they take this one seriously.”

  Wynn nodded, anxious without knowing why. A’drinô returned a curt bow and walked away. When the caravan rolled on and Wynn reached the fork, she guided the wagon out of the line and onto the side road.

  Shade immediately rose on the bench, ears stiff as she watched the caravan leave them behind. She turned about, pressing her shoulder against Wynn and exhaling two sharp huffs.

  —stay . . . Wynn . . . people—

  With those words came another flash of the night the Fay had assaulted Wynn.

  “This is the only way,” she answered, but even she watched the trees closely.

  The farther they went, the more Shade fidgeted, trying to watch everywhere at once. But in less time than expected, a break in the forest appeared ahead. Wynn pulled the horses to a halt where the trees stopped.

  An open plain of tall grass gently undulated with tans and traces of yellow-green. Wynn thought she spotted hints of white wildflowers, but they were too hidden to see clearly. Farther out, the edge of a vast forest, more overwhelming than the one she left, stretched both ways beyond sight.

  At first, the trees didn’t seem too far away, but then Wynn realized why. Where the road entered between them, it looked like no more than a thread in width. The tallest of those trees were immense, ancient sentinels.

  Wynn had never been here before, but the sight was eerily familiar.

  Shade huffed again, looking off to the left as she shoved in closer against Wynn. A dull, distant pounding grew in volume.

  Three riders came across the grassy plain at a full gallop. The rear pair held their reins one-handed, and gripped long, wooden poles in the other. The leader appeared to hold only a bow in his free grip. But as they raced nearer, the first thing Wynn noticed about the riders themselves was their hair and eyes.

  Oversized and teardrop-shaped, their amber irises glowed in the falling sun’s light. All three had their wheat- or sand-colored hair pulled up and back in high tails held by single rings, and the narrow tips of their tall ears were plain to see. They were garbed in tawny leather vestments with swirling steel garnishes that matched sparkling spaulders on their shoulders. Running diagonal over their chests, each bore a sash the color of pale gold. As they drew closer, slightly curved sword hilts became visible, protruding over their right shoulders.

  Wynn grew relieved. These had to be the border guard that A’drinô had mentioned. At least as a sage, she might ask for escort.

  The leader reined in his tall russet mare directly in front of the wagon’s horses.

  “Veasg’âr-äilleach,” Wynn said, greeting him.

  His stern expression relaxed as he quizzically raised a thin, slanted eyebrow. Wynn noticed a silver ash-leaf brooch on his sash, though the other two didn’t wear one. He nodded and his thin lips parted, but a reply never came.

  His gaze fixed on Shade, and he sucked in a hissing breath. Horror flattened his features just before they wrinkled in anger.

  “Valhachkasej’ä!” he spat at her.

  Wynn tensed at the foul utterance Leesil had often used. She’d even picked up his bad habit, but she’d never heard it aimed at her. Before she could speak, the leader reached over his left shoulder and pinched the notched end of an arrow in his quiver.

  “Pull the wagon back, woman!” he commanded in Elvish.

  “What? I don’t—” Wynn started.

  “Now . . . despoiler!”

  “Blessed Bäynæ, what is the problem?” Ore-Locks growled from the wagon’s back.

  Wynn heard further rustling behind her but didn’t take her eyes off the patrol’s leader. Her wagon wasn’t even onto the plain yet, and he wanted her to retreat?

  “I don’t understand,” she finished in Elvish. “Why can’t—”

  The leader’s hand flashed down across his face.

  Wynn heard a crack close beside her, and Shade erupted into loud snarls. An arrow shaft vibrated between them, its head buried in the wood near her thigh.

  “Force her down!” the leader shouted.

  The other patrollers lowered blunt lances, and Wynn’s breath caught as they kicked their mounts into a lunge. One lance slipped between her and Shade, separating them before she could move. Shade snapped it in her jaws as the rider tried to sweep it toward Wynn.

  Wynn exhaled, “Oh, seven hells!”

  This wasn’t about her; it was about Shade.

  “I can explain,” she called, forgetfully slipping into Numanese. “Just let me—”

  The other lance struck her shoulder.

  Wynn tumbled off the wagon’s side, slamming down beside it. She’d barely rolled over when she heard the canvas snap. Over the thud of two feet, she heard a rasping hiss.

  Chane stood over her, gloved and cloaked, his face obscured by the leather mask and darkened glasses. She could only imagine what he looked like to the elven patrollers.

  “No,” Wynn groaned, “ah no!”

  Chane heard Wynn speaking with someone but could not understand either of them. It was likely Elvish, as he had heard Wynn speak in the strange, lyrical lilt a few times. Though not dormant, he was groggy and barely aware. He had not taken a dose of the potion for several nights, and the last one was beginning to wear off.

  His awareness increased when Ore-Locks had grumbled, “Blessed Bäynæ, what is the problem?”

  Wynn shouted something more, and then a crack of wood cut her off.

  Chane heard—felt—it through the wagon’s frame. Something had struck the bench above his head. When Shade snarled, Chane frantically groped for his mask and glasses.

  “A’Jeann a-shéos è!” shouted an angry, lilting voice.

  “Oh, seven hells!” Wynn said breathily.

  More shouts and scuffling ho
oves built as Chane ripped away the canvas. He vaulted the wagon’s side, nearly landing atop Wynn. She was curled on the ground, holding her shoulder, and he jerked out both swords.

  Three elven riders blocked the wagon’s path. An arrow was stuck in the wagon’s bench. Shade snarled and snapped at the trio.

  This was all Chane needed to know.

  “No . . . ah no!” Wynn whispered.

  He did not look down, and rasped out one word: “Shade!”

  Chane vaulted over Wynn as Shade leaped, her paws touching twice along a thick, protruding lance.

  The instant Chane jumped over Wynn, she scrambled up the wagon’s side, but Shade had already charged, as well. The dog bounded off the lance and rammed headlong into the patrol’s leader. Both tumbled off the flanks of the panicked, rearing horse. Then Ore-Locks rolled out of the wagon’s back, bleary-eyed.

  “All of you! Stop this!” Wynn shouted. “Èan bârtva’na!”

  The first lunging rider swept his lance across the bench and at her head.

  Wynn ducked, and then someone grabbed the back of her cloak. She spun as she was slung around and barely caught herself on the wagon’s rear wheel.

  “Get back, and stay there!” Ore-Locks ordered.

  A rider wheeled his mount around the wagon.

  “Behind you!” Wynn shouted.

  Ore-Locks twisted back as the lance’s blunt tip came straight at his head. He slapped it aside, but the rider’s horse barreled straight into him. Wynn’s mouth gaped, and she lurched off the wagon’s wheel, reflexively trying to reach for him. But Ore-Locks didn’t go down.

  The hulkish dwarf’s heavy boots skidded across the packed earth and stones under the horse’s momentum. Then they caught, and he rooted.

  Ore-Locks’s thick arms wrapped around the horse’s shoulders, and he grabbed the saddle’s girth on both sides. The rider dropped his lance and reached over his shoulder for his sword’s hilt. Before Wynn shouted another warning, Ore-Locks heaved.

  The rider went slack-mouthed as his mount’s front hooves left the ground.