I recalled Vixen’s childish grin as I’d hung from the chandelier. Her solemn grief kneeling before the grave of her kindred. A creature of parts, making no whole I would ever fathom. As were all the family. But one did not need comprehend to appreciate. Surrender that mad fox-child to this posturing, posing, slavering, mocking, bullying beast? Never.
I opened mouth to call Billy River back, readying words to argue and defy. Again I hesitated. How could Lalena stand so cool before such affront? Because she had duty to her people. What right did outsider have to interfere? The Laird of the Mac Tier came to collect his own. Who knew these creatures well enow to say it were not best to yield?
Not I. Was it possible to truly know any in this family? Perhaps not, whispered my heart’s despair. Behold the reason they eschewed exact naming. They were actors. I’d sat in my theatre seat giving my heart to the stage’s Lonely Vampire Princess. How well she’d delivered her lines, depicting at times the moon-mad maiden, then the queenly statue, and my favorite role, the love-besotted wife. I knew all these parts. But the actress depicting them, bereft of costume and script? Why, I might not know her if we met on the street.
Despairing, I appealed to Lalena’s hair. But every last strand hung straight, in sign of cool and ordered thought. She would act here in accord with reason, with policy. Surrendering her cousins to this beast. My role merely to glower at stage’s edge, the outsider disapproving for lack of comprehension.
But I looked twice, as soldier must. And noted how a ripple stirred Lalena’s locks, regular as heart-beat. Behold the wave of a wind belonging to my wife alone. Her face gone salt-white as Billy River’s, with same cause. Eyes black as holes to the outer dark where demons beg not be cast. I shivered to see it, and I smiled, and do not confess in shame. For I am a killer, if a kindly one. And I knew that my new wife stood enraged as I had never beheld her. That was storm-wind rippling her hair. Again I laughed.
“Your pet finds our family amusing, milady,” noted the Laird Mac Tier. He rummaged among bottles and debris, shaking head at memories of feasts past. He found a bottle I’d overlooked, sighed in satisfaction. “Past time you ate him. We’ve brought you fresh drink in the ship, as present for our honored sept Sanglair.”
Dead silence in the hall. I exchanged looks with Mattie Horse, who had maneuvered to stand by Master Bellow. The cut I’d given the ox-man ran a livid slant across his face. His fists clenched, grasped, clenched, in fear or anger. Mattie Horse shook his head at me, but what he meant I could not say. Bide patient, surely. The Laird Mac Tier poured himself a casual cup, center of all attention. Even with this lordly bore of self-assurance, it must be family theatre. But he only held cup, did not drink. Ah, he was not so sure as he pretended.
“What mean you, Cousin?” asked Lalena, voice soft. “What drink do you bring?”
The Laird of the Mac Tier sloshed the sea-wine in circles, sniffed the bouquet. “Times change, milady. For proof of which we stand pleasantly conversing where once lightening forbade.” Sniff of wine, delivery of line. “The coming age is a prize for those with strength to seize and hold. We of the family, such as the Mac Tier and the Sanglair, have that strength.”
I looked about for Green and Black to leap from shadows, periwigs set, speech-notes readied. Then Dealer would descend deus ex machina from the rafters, speaking of the glorious future of Art. Even the Abomination would rise up from the stones, prepared to offer eldritch rebuttal. Then we would all pound fists, paws and tentacles upon the table debating Rousseau, Luther and The Wealth of Nations.
The Mac Tier tipped his full wine-cup upon the floor, deciding the drink not worth joining his gullet. I decided to kill him then. He continued unaware of this sentence of death, studying the puddle of spilt red.
“Ach, we clear the common clay from our lands. As they do as well, the kinless fools. Two-legged sheep have grown worthless these past years. In place of their dirty crofts and faces I bring in four-legged mutton. A laird can profit upon such. And we build mills, for why should I send my wool to another man’s profit?”
He stamped careful foot into the wasted wine. It splashed a bloody way. I recalled the kin-strife for which the family was castle-banned. Surely he recalled it as well, for he snarled, held back by restraint he cursed. This brute still feared the shadow of Fulgurous. Only for that dead fire did he talk and declaim now, instead of kill.
Talked. “I would bring together all our kindred we judge of worth. Mac Tier and Sanglair, Scalen and Mac Mur, clans of mountains and woods, even those fool Decourseys. Reunited we shall be strong and clean again, the madness lifted from our hearts. We shall form a nation that no longer wanders the world, but owns it.”
Lalena nodded, repeated her question. “What gift is in your ship, cousin?”
The Laird Mac Tier grinned. “Drink for the Sanglair, as I said. Some of the human cattle I’d have elsewise kicked towards colonies or the cities.”
“Ah,” said Lalena. She spoke soft. “Ah,” she said again, as if she could think of naught else to say. The Mac Tier tensed, shifted balance. He knew his proud cousins. Knew he’d insulted. If he did not dare attack first, he sought to goad the Mac Sanglair to so do. And so avoid the wrath of ancient curse. And if Lalena held meek peace? Why, to such as him that counted for victory.
The family might be mystery, but for the moment I knew this man. To his son Howl, he ranked Most Fearsome Creature in Existence. To me, he summed to every market duelist and tavern bully I’d kicked and sliced to perdition. I saw he would kill as he pleased, once Lalena attacked. More, I saw what he intended if she did not.
Ah, I knew the man. But did I know my wife? I felt her anger as heat from fire. If she yielded to rage we would die. Gloriously, no doubt, but still. Should I go to her? Calm her with words and whispers? No need. The lady stood cold stone. Like to the one in the Gallery of Faces. Only her face shewed now more stone than that I’d touched.
The Mac Tier and the surrounding cousins watched, and she did not reply; nor leap for throats. She merely stood quiet. Hair rippling, the banner of an army told hold position. Ah, that settled it. I turned slightly, looking sadly at the rafters; hand drawing knife. The great beast-man sighed, put cup down in disappointment. He shook head for the sorrows of the world. I gazed up where late the sweet aberration sang, knowing the coming bit of music before fiddle-bow ever touched string.
The Laird Mac Tier dared not shed blood in this hall? Not quite. He could not shed family blood. One bottle upon the shelf stood proudly vin ordinaire. Mine. And so he smiled, nodded, and leaped to spill it.
Chapter 13
On the Love of Death and Kindred
He was man when he leapt. He was wolf when he landed. I’d not have credited the tale had another’s eyes seen, another tongue told. A mere blink to transform body and mind? These creatures had not mastered the spirit of animals, but the magic of dreams. I considered that truth as I stepped aside, master of my feet.
Ah, that caught him unaware. He’d thought the rabbit sleeping. He crashed where I’d stood, and now my turn to leap. Had he been no larger than real wolf, this would have failed, but he stood near great as a horse. Excellent. Who has never wanted to ride a wolf?
Upon his back, knees kept me in place surely as upon any battle-frighted horse. One hand grasped the thick fur about his throat. Firmly astride, I slashed knife behind the right front leg, seeking sinew. He howled, near buckled. The strength of those shoulders terrified. He lashed his head about, and if he had struck my arm he’d have broken bone, sure as his muzzle were iron club.
I targeted an ear, it being in my face. It fell to the scythe and the creature leaped full five ells in the air, near putting me in the chandeliers again. We came down and the knife cut him across the right eye. By accident, I confess. Almost was my eye.
I could not tell what the rest of the hall thought, though I heard sound and shout enough. We whirled to perform all a night’s dancing in a minute. Unable to reach me with those massive jaws, the
wolf now sought to shake me off. One has horses try the same. Amidst the scream and smoke of war, I add.
Next it tried rolling the monkey from his back. A dangerous move for wolf and ape alike. He crushed me but drove my knife deep beside the spine. Agony brought him upright once more, trembling and bleeding. The Laird of the Mac Tier decided he’d be man again. The creature began to shift bone and muscle till I pressed knife hard to throat.
I whispered in the remaining ear. “Stay wolf, Mac Tier. I will kill you else.”
At that he shivered, stayed beast. I kept low above his shoulders, Knife-blade within thick fur I hoped hid jugular. Fool. If he’d thought as a man, he’d have dashed among his own, tumbling and mixing till they ripped me to pieces. But as with Howl, the form of wolf made him think as wolf.
So he thrashed, snapping jaws useless as Howl against the Abomination. I cast a quick gaze upon the room. Not yet in open battle? Excellent. The entertainment of me riding the wild wolf, full consumed all eyes and minds. I’d liked to have seen it myself.
I had knife ready to kill. If killing were to be done, best done quick. But likely that act would end with all the Moon Tartan falling upon me, then the Mac Sanglair falling upon them. War and death would half-spoil my honeymoon. Could I bargain with this creature?
It trembled, wounded and enraged, growling, snapping the air. Foam of rage dripping from muzzle. Clear enough. No bargain. Not with it. But perhaps with the son.
“Master Howl,” I called out. “Have you a stick? Here’s a dog in need of beating.”
No answer. Well, let him consider his answer. As likely come to his da’s aid as mine. No doubt Howl loved this bullying beast, as he hated and feared. But if I do not know wolves or wives, a spadassin know what moves a man to violence. I counted that Howl hated most, the fear he felt for his father.
Snarl from the wolf beneath the monkey. Words within the beastly growl. “I will kill you for this.”
“You were going to kill me anyway, you tedious fool,” I noted. My concern no longer with him, but his kin. Some of the folk of the Moon Tartan now circled warily, ready to aid their chieftain. A Jackal-headed man looked ready to leap. I shook my head, pressed knife into the Wolf-Laird’s throat till the beast gave a growl perilously near whimper. The approaching people of the Moon Tartan slowed, faces shifting in and out of humanity. A dream throng, where nothing need be what it was the second before.
The Jackal-head spat. “Fulgurous’s curse shall fall upon the Sanglair, if you dare strike our laird,” he declared.
And now at last Lalena gave over being statue, and turned living flesh, moving quick as thought. No, quicker. Thought is often rather slow. Whereas she suddenly stood before the man-beast, lifting him by throat. He gurgled, flailed arms. Then she threw him over the crowd to land with crash by the hearth. Her hair whipped in twists of fury. No restraint now, only the blood-lust of the children of the cold brides.
She turned upon the crowd, putting hands to dress. She prepared to rip it away. ‘Do you know how awful it feels to stand in clothes dripping with blood?’ Lalena once asked. When we courted, so to speak. She turned eyes upon the crowd, and they stumbled back, because those eyes shone as windows to a madhouse in Hell. Mouth wide open, a furnace of white teeth burning with red delight. The Mac Tier cursed, retreated, shivered to animal form. They knew right well what their cousin’s mad fury foretold.
But then Lalena stopped herself, shook herself. She looked about the hall, fresh seeing where she stood. Not in night’s dark, but in a beam of morning sun through narrow windows. She faced kindred, not foes; faces like to hers, hearts like to hers. And so my warm bride took deep breath and settled her hair. An act of self-command astonishing as turning oneself to beast or butterfly. I longed to go to her then, tell the clans to dance their quarrel in other seas. Leave us to continue our honeymoon, our time of introduction of self to self, body to body.
When at last she spoke, it came in tones firm and sane, the Lady of clan Mac Sanglair, daughter of a magic and perilous folk.
“My man is not our blood, else your dog had never dared bite. No curse nor ban applies should Master Gray now cut the cur’s throat in return. Your laird’s life is ours to spill or spare.”
Excellent words. I jabbed knife in wolf-flesh, giving emphasis to their expression. The wolf growled, snapped, but could not dispute the point. So to speak.
In dramatic thunder, a chair smashed down upon the table. The audience jumped, turned. For they were audience, make no mistake. Here was no battle twixt proper armies set in ordered rows for homicide. No, this was family quarrel and entertainment. Each individual present sought to savor the full tangle of hate and rivalry; yes and love and admiration, that set them to shouts, shoves and wary glances.
I alone stood outside the tangled concerns of their hearts. For which reason their eyes judged me more a puzzle than any Abomination up from the floor.
And who broke property of my castle? Ah, Master Howl, who now seized a great chair-leg of oak for a club. He hefted this, weighing whether the tool would serve. His face made no shift toward beast-hood to hide the determination of a man. Bludgeon in hand, he strode on two legs confident as his father had marched on four. He pushed cousins aside, tossing his great mane of black hair, a match to that I yet grasped.
Young Master Howl stood before his father, studying the bloody beast and the bloody lunatic upon its back, and then nodded as if to say ‘well then’. I took this for sign he meant to deal with family concerns, no business of mine. As outsider, it were impolite to remain further en scène.
Therefore did I leap from the wolf’s back, as surprised to be alive as ever I stood after battle. I staggered, all but fell, strength spent. Trembled bruised and bleeding. When had I taken this rip across the thigh? A glancing slash of fang, no doubt. A straight bite would have taken the leg. It burned. Perhaps I’d turn mad dog now. I had a vision of myself upon all fours like Nebuchadnezzar, growling and barking, chasing the Mac Tier about the Gathering Hall. I laughed, and then beheld a crowd of beast-people eyeing me. Backing frighted as if I were, well, a mad dog.
I looked to the wolf, who stood no better. He dripped from a slashed eye, a missing ear. Throat and back hacked and bloody, right leg lame. Not the proud creature whose shadow had late frightened the hall. Still he turned open jaws to me, promising death. I winked one eye, as I still had two. In reply he gathered himself to leap and rend. I sought footing, knife before me.
But Howl’s club came down with a horrid yet pleasing thump. The beast staggered, shaking head in pain and surprise. Howl gave no time to recover. He leaped beside the beast, struck again. The wolf snapped jaws, seized the club with its teeth. At which moment of safety Howl kicked the beast’s wounded leg. The creature yelped, fell away, now backing towards the wall.
“Face me with teeth, coward,” snarled his father’s jaws.
“You always frighted the wolf in me,” observed Howl, voice mild. “And the boy. But this role of man takes a different view.”
“Weakling,” hissed the beast. “You lack the -,” but Howl struck again. Whatever he lacked, it was neither club nor arm. Further words came not, only thumps and whimpers, some groans. At length the wolf collapsed into man, lying face up upon the ground, panting.
Such a look of fury in young Howl’s face. More frightening that any fang-lined beast-muzzle. He raised the club for a killing blow, while his father stared up. “You haven’t the liver,” he whispered.
I made what move I could, but it was Cousin Bellow who leaped in time to halt the killing strike. I doubt many had strength of arm to match Howl’s fury. But Bellow stayed the act, whispering fast and low. None but Howl heard the words, but all the hall took their meaning. Do not kill your father.
Only then did Howl’s features flee into beast-shadows. Which mattered little beside Bellow, seemingly locked into the head of a bull. And yet a master musician. I determined to know Master Bellow better when time allowed. He contained much of the paradox
of the family. At length Howl took a breath, stared down at ‘the most fearsome being ever’, then tossed aside the club. He wiped tears from eyes. Trembled, as a man will do after long battle.
Doe came then, and stood between the two. She reached hand up to Bellow, hand up to Howl, and the three shared touch and a long beating of hearts. And all the hall sighed.
And if I admit I stood in my wedding-present castle, fresh from victory over a monster yet felt downcast? It will go hard but I sound a fool. But victory or not, I saw I waited a beggar outside a palace of wonder, staring in, never to enter. As their story went: The least of our blood was royalty in the measure of our love. All others, plaything people.
Awkward whispers through the Hall of Gathering. The Laird of the Mac Tier laughed weakly up, a gutter-drunk mocking passersby, till Doe kicked him quiet. No one stayed the act. But some of the blue-silver kilts stooped, carried their wounded chieftain to the great table. They lay him down not far from the still-quiet sea-girl, curled in a cloak of seal-skin. A sound sleeper, obviously. Her dark, puckish face held a look of concentration. Being family, she might well run in dreams now across fairy hills, beholding wonders far surpassing a man riding a wolf-horse.
A few of the blue tartan poked their laird’s wounds, discussing what to bind, what to sew. I considered reaching past and cutting his throat. I hesitated; it would raise objections and stain the table. Most of the Mac Tier stared at Howl or Lalena, else turned eye each to each, wondering what came next?
What came was clatter and alarum at the inner doors, flying open. The Tiger-man rushed through, fur standing straight in fear or anger. A dark liquid dripped across his chest, too black to be blood. Human blood, at least. Seemingly he’d lost his great sword, and half his reason.
“Flee!” he shouted. “Run for your lives!”
The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 10