Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1)

by Wilson, David Niall; Lamio, Michael; Newman, James; Maberry, Jonathan; Everson, John; Daley, James Roy

  “Very dramatic,” I said. “Just tell me what you need––we can discuss the security arrangements if I decide to take the case.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” he said. “I need your word on the matter.”

  “And I’m afraid I must insist,” I replied. I gave him a big smile. “I can’t give you my word before you tell me what you want me to keep quiet about. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”

  I watched him squirm. He wasn’t used to being refused, and his red face told me he wanted to take my offer and leave, but he stayed in the chair. Whatever it was that bothered him, it was big enough to override his pride.

  Finally he sighed, and relaxed back into the chair.

  “I need you more than you need me? Is that it?” he said.

  I smiled again.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better tell you,” he said. “But remember––”

  “I know––the local economy will collapse, the future of the citadel depends on it, all that happy-crappy.”

  It was his turn to smile again, but once more his eyes would have nothing to do with it.

  “You don’t get to be in my position without stepping on a few toes over the years. I made an enemy recently.”

  He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it over to me. I checked it over. It had been written with a thick quill and by someone whose touch was none too light. There was a single statement.

  “The belt is mine.”

  It was signed, The Dubh Sithe.

  I turned the sheet of paper over in my hands, but there was nothing on the other side.

  “That’s all?”

  He nodded.

  “The Dubh Sithe?”

  “Loosely translated, it means the Black Elf.”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  He handed me a belt, made of thick course black hair. It felt dry and dusty in my hands. It had a buckle attached; brass clasps, cunningly wrought as wolf heads, that linked together at the jaws.

  I examined it from all angles.

  “So what’s the big deal?”

  “It’s a Lougrou belt. It allowed the sorcerer who fashioned it to turn himself into a wolf. I bought it last week from a trader from the badlands.”

  I watched him closely, but he kept a straight face.

  It was time for my token cynicism.

  “I’m sorry––I’m having trouble with that,” I said.

  “What? With the cases you’ve been getting recently?” He gave me a smile that was neither polite nor friendly. “You didn’t think I chose you at random did you? You’ve got experience in this area.”

  “Word certainly gets around,” I said. “But I thought it was only among the lower ranks.”

  He laughed.

  “In this town, a lot of words get around. At all ranks.”

  “So what exactly is it you want me to do?” I said, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.

  “Keep the belt for me––protect it and see that nothing happens to it. And find out what you can about this Dubh Sithe––see if it really does belong to him.”

  “I charge five gold pieces a day, plus expenses.”

  “I can’t sanction that kind of payment.”

  “That’s okay. You know where the door is,” I said.

  He stayed in the chair. I watched him wonder whether to get angry, then think better of it. In the end he gave me another tight little smile.

  “Are you always this hard to hire?”

  “Only when I’m in a good mood,” I said.

  He took out a purse and counted out the gold, laying them down on the desk, slowly, as if afraid to part with them.

  After he left I pocketed the gold, spoke a few words to my mirror, strapped on my sword and went to work.

  * * *

  The Barrows area in the east-end is the delivery point for anything coming in from the Badlands. Legit and gray-area traders rub shoulders in a vibrant, heaving, market, selling everything from meat to ankle rings, silk gowns to armor plating.

  Even this early in the day, the place was busy. Stall holders heckled, promised and cajoled while youths barely out of acne ran the three-card trick on street corners. Queues of women formed at a stall selling thick woolen undergarments, while queues of men snaked around a trader offering a gallon of liquor for ten groats. The smell of frying grease hung in the air, wafting from a score of caravans and someone offered a unique chance to buy an eagle.

  And all that was just ‘The Barrows’ public face. I knew of at least two card schools in huts round the back where you needed ten gold pieces to get a seat. Down a side alley, just out of view of the main market, whores plied their trade and hard faced men sold sleep-weed to soft-eyed youths.

  Then there is Paddy’s Market.

  Rumor had it there was once a seaman who took small items from every cargo of every ship he worked on. When he came ashore he had walked a reasonable distance from the docks, then set up shop, selling goods from a rolled out blanket. That was back when the city was still making its money, when magnates scoured the world and brought it back up the river.

  Paddy’s Market was still open for business. The merchandise no longer held the quality it once did.

  “Hey, pretty thing,” a drunk said to me. “See anything you like?”

  He had a rug stretched out in front of him. On it he had; one Queene Freda commemorative coin, a fake Wayland broadsword, a quill pen without a point, and a sheaf of bleached papyrus so thin that the sun shone through it.

  “I’ve got some good stuff coming this afternoon,” he said, and cackled, until he started to wheeze and cough. “So what is it today? Buying or selling?”

  I’d done business with Harold before. He knew everything that passed in and out of the Barrows, and was willing to tell all, for a price.

  I passed him a gold piece.

  His eyebrows almost raised through his hairline when I told him about the belt and he got visibly excited.

  “The Djanto Belt,” he whispered, and I thought he was going to drool.

  “You know of it then?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “It was found in Djanto, two hundred years ago, and was brought back into the country by Lord Cantor, a shipping magnate of the time. It’s got a long history––something about black magic––hocus-pocus anyway. It caused quite a stir back in its day. There was a scandal, and Cantor disappeared in suspicious circumstances. The belt wasn’t amongst his effects, and hasn’t been seen since.”

  A predatory look came to his eyes. “How did you hear about it?” he asked.

  “From a client. Is it worth much?” I asked.

  “It’s priceless.” Harold said, and this time I believe he did drool. “Scholars all over the city would be cutting off parts of their body for just a look at it. I suppose that if it ever came up for auction it would go for, say, a couple of thousand gold pieces. But, as I said, it is lost. Most probably there’s a rich private hoarder who sits and gloats over it during the long winter nights.”

  “It isn’t lost,” I said. “I’ve seen it.”

  I watched the excitement grow in Harold’s eyes. I knew it was almost time to leave––he was getting close to his manic puppy dog phase, and I would have him following me everywhere if I wasn’t careful.

  “But what I really need to know is how it connects to the Black Elf?”

  “You don’t want to mess with him,” Harold said, suddenly serious. “He’s big league.”

  “I guessed as much,” I said. “But is there anything to connect him with the belt?”

  “Rumor and gossip, that’s all,” he said. “It is said he is over two hundred years old himself and that he was the one that killed Cantor. But that’s all it is, rumor.”

  “There’s another gold piece in it if you can find out more?” I said, but he shook his head.

  “I’m not getting involved this time,” he said, rolling up his goo
ds and backing away from me. “If you want to see the ‘Elf, he has chambers up the hill. Three doors up from the Law Lord.”

  That told me all I needed to know. This Dubh Sithe was high status––higher than Lord Eyr himself. The fact that I had never heard of him wasn’t unusual. The higher up the hill they were, the more secretive they became.

  He probably wouldn’t even see me; but I had to try.

  * * *

  I never usually ventured far up the hill––too rarified for my tastes. As I left the east-end, the stalls became smarter, the goods more expensive. Stalls soon gave way to wooden stores, and eventually, stone buildings. Near the castle itself they were more like tiny, fortified palaces, complete with private security and warding spells.

  The Dubh Sithe’s property was little different, but the warding spell was an old one, and two hand movements were enough for me to by-pass it. I walked through the heavy oak door and into a white marble chamber.

  The walls were white, a brilliant, scintillating white. There were maybe ten items on display, all on cubical white pedestals, all encased in a pale blue glass that looked like it cost more than the pieces themselves.

  I stopped and looked at the first one.

  It had once been a piece of crystal, almost a foot cubed, glowing in silver, purple and black. An artist, someone with exceptional talent, had carved it into a cathedral, one with its roof open to the skies. Tiny robed figures worshipped around an altar. There was a figure above the altar, something that didn’t look quite human, but as I bent for a closer look, I felt a hand on my shoulder pulling me back.

  “It’s from the Sunken City,” a deep voice said.

  I turned to face the voice, and had to look up. He was at least six-four, and big with it. There were wrinkles around his eyes, and he was nearly bald. He wore a pale blue silk robe that would have cost more than I’ve made in my career. I had him pegged for at least sixty but his eyes were pale blue and clear, and his grip was strong on my collarbone.

  “The Black Elf, I presume,” I said.

  He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I prefer Dubh Sithe,” he replied. “But I don’t need an introduction. I already know who you are, and why you are here.”

  “You know me?” I said.

  “I know of you. And I know you have my belt.”

  He had the smile back again, like a cat playing with a mouse.

  “What belt?” I said. I gave him my best gamine smile, but he was immune to my charms.

  He grabbed me by the throat, forced my head to one side and exposed my neck. Then he sniffed, twice, close together, as if checking my scent.

  “Where is it!” he said.

  His voice was rough, harsh, almost a bark.

  I tried to speak, but the grip around my throat was so tight that all I could manage was to keep breathing.

  “Where is it!” he said again, almost shouting this time. His breath smelled, of stale food and stagnant water, but I guessed now wasn’t a good time to tell him.

  With his spare hand he went through my clothes; fast and methodical, like a pro. When he didn’t find anything, the hold on my throat tightened further still. I tried to break the grip, but my strength was going fast. I punched him, hard, just below the heart, but he didn’t even wince.

  He laughed in my face.

  “Is that all you’ve got girl?”

  I did the only thing I could think of—I butted him, hard, across the bridge of the nose. Pain flared in my forehead, but the grip on my throat loosened. I brought up my left knee, hard as I could. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but did knock him off balance.

  I butted him again, and felt bones crack, unsure whether they were his or mine. He fell away from me, and I kicked out, hard, taking small joy in the grunt of pain I raised.

  I stepped to one side, just as he came for me again. I grabbed his arm and, using his own speed, swung him against the wall.

  He tripped over one of the exhibits, and I took my chance. I turned and ran.

  A howl followed behind me—rage and pain; but mostly rage.

  * * *

  At least I knew more than I had before. I knew the Dubh Sithe did indeed lay claim to the belt. And I knew he’d be coming for it, and me.

  I needed to move the belt. My office was no longer safe, but I was already too late. There were three of them in my office, tearing the place apart.

  I already knew what they were looking for—just as I knew they hadn’t found it.

  “It’s usual to ask permission before entering a lady’s chamber’s,” I said, loudly.

  The men spun on their heels, the left hand one helping my cause by tripping over an upturned chair. The man lost his footing and, falling sideward disturbed the balance of the man to his right.

  I concentrated on the man on the far right. He drew his sword as I moved in. The man slashed at me, and I parried, aware already that he was no swordsman. I feinted to go under his sword, then twisted my wrist and went over. The steel felt like an extension of my arm as it slid through the man’s throat and, with a twitch of the wrist, sliced his jugular and sent him gurgling to the ground.

  I sensed a movement to my left, and turned and ducked in one movement as a sword flashed over the top of my head. A second man advanced, sword swinging wildly. Again, this was no swordsman, but he was big and fast, his heavy sword sending shocks up my arm every time I had to parry.

  The third man had regained his composure, and was at the point of drawing his own sword.

  I had to finish this fast.

  The big man drew his sword back to swing at me again. I stepped inside the swing, cramping his movements and at the same time smashing the pommel of my sword into his face, feeling the small bones in the nose crush wetly with the force of the blow. The big man let out a yell, but he managed to push me away, and came back swinging.

  I let him come, and, just as the sword seemed set to cleave my skull, stepped to one side.

  The momentum of his swing carried him forward and off balance, and I thrust my blade deep into his side, at the same time kicking him over to the floor. He tried to raise his sword, but a final blow, with the flat of the blade to the side of his head, put him out of the fight.

  I had no time to think. The third man had advanced, snarling at me, like a cornered wildcat.

  “Fancy blade-work, girl. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

  This one carried himself like a true swordsman—he wasn’t about to rush in swinging. I circled him, saying nothing, trying to stay calm.

  “That’s two fine men you’ve dispatched there, girl. I don’t think the Elf will admonish me if I send you to join them.”

  The man sent his blade out in a quicksilver flicker that I only just managed to parry as it was over my heart.

  I stepped forward into a lunge that caught him off guard, but he managed to weave to one side and the stroke cut a slice across his ribs instead of taking him through the heart. He let out a yell and stepped into the attack with renewed vigor so that I was hard pressed to defend myself.

  The sound of clashing steel echoed around the room as we circled, each of us searching for an opening. I was painfully aware that I was weakening faster than my opponent, and decided to try a risky feint, one that I had sometimes had success with on the training ground.

  I stepped backwards, as if retreating before the attack, and let my right leg give under me, feigning a stumble and letting my sword hand go down towards the floor, looking as if I was going to use it to steady myself. As I hoped, he went for my suddenly exposed left-hand side. I ignored the descending blade, and, with a straight arm, punched my sword upwards, catching him opponent under the ribs and pushing through to cleave his heart.

  He fell, already a dead weight, pinning me to the floor, and I had to use all my remaining strength to push the body off and stand upright.

  Suddenly the room fell quiet, and all I heard was my own heavy panting.

  I tasted copper
at the back of my throat, and felt nausea build. I forced it down. If the Elf was as smart as I suspected, I had no time to lose.

  I retrieved my hand mirror from the desk, and left. Housekeeping was just going to have to wait.

  * * *

  I headed for the only place I knew I would be safe.

  Cameron let me in to the Two Hounds when I gave the sign on the window.

  “I’m in trouble,” was all I had to say.

  “Law trouble?”

  “Probably. And any minute now.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Somewhere to crash—that’s all. For now anyway.”

  “You can have the back room again. Come on through.”

  He showed me to a roughly hewn chamber at the back. It had a chair and a table, and little else.

  He left me there with a flagon of ale. I waited until I could hear him working in the bar before I took my looking glass from my tunic.

  “It’s about time,” Face said as I wiped my hand over the glass.

  “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  “I noticed.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Straight to business again. You know, sometimes a girl needs a little attention.”

  “Later, Face. This is important.”

  She sighed.

  “It always is with you. Your mother never—”

  I wiped a hand across the glass. It went gray—and thankfully quiet. I gave her two minutes then wiped her on again.

  “Ready now?” I asked.

  “You know, one of these days—”

  I wiped her and gave her three minutes. I couldn’t really spare the time, but Face needed told who was boss every so often.

  “Okay… I’ll play nice,” she said when I wiped her back again.

  “So what have we got?”

  “The Dubh Sithe has been around for at least two hundred years,” Face said. “Nearly as long as the Patron. He first came to view on Cantor’s expedition to the ruins of Djanto.”

  “And the belt?”

  “Cantor and him found it—rumor has it that they both coveted it.”