Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  She said it innocently enough, but Ida’s instincts, after years of parrying, was to straighten her back and tighten her fists.

  “I did not mean to offend.” Dagni smiled. “Don’t misread my intentions. I know these times are fraught, but there is no reason we can’t be friends.”

  “There are a million,” Ida said. “But, yes, we could be friends. These matters are unpredictable. But for now, I must leave you. I have a meeting to attend.” Ida collected her papers and stood. “Don’t change your speech.” She smiled.

  “Your words are appreciated. I am sure that we will be friends. Great friends, I feel.”

  “And I thank you for your warmness, but I must caution you with a statement of the obvious – that we are on opposing sides.”

  “Hmm.” Dagni considered and looked across the room at nothing, as she did when she was remembering her speech. “The opposing sides are not what you think. We are not in a battle between Progressives and Traditionalists. It is a battle between those that want power – for power’s sake, they will gobble it up at every opportunity – and those that don’t want power, they will give it away willingly, as they believe every man should use his own mind and not be thought for.” She turned to Ida with moist eyes. “In a battle defined like this – how can the second side win? Yet it must. And the only hope is that those who are free thinkers and are not afraid of others that are free thinkers join together.”

  Ida gathered her papers into her leather satchel and swirled her black cape over her shoulders. Dagni watched her as if in an audience. Ida glimpsed herself in the reflection of a glass cabinet. The diamond brooch she was wearing shone against her black jacket.

  Dagni reached over and touched Ida’s hand. “Don’t be hasty. The room is still yours. I must go elsewhere.” She neatly turned and was out of the room in a breath. Ida looked at her hand and then breathed in the scent that was left in the room. She sat down. She had no desire to leave for another meeting and wanted to avoid the debates.

  Later, after hours had passed, her thoughts were bogged in the quagmire of Pierre, with Councillor Dagni dancing through the images like a fairy. She preferred to stay in the room, away from the supposed life-and-death debates. She would think what she was thinking about while others would think that she was contemplating matters of the state. Her councillorship intruded when she recalled that she had agreed to an appearance at the university. The regret for the agreement panged. It would be palatable if there were others to share the limelight. Or, she contemplated, with the edge of a smile on her lips, another new councillor.

  The door was opened. She expected it was Molly, or Krass sent by Molly, to take her home. No light spilled into the room. There was no person to see. The hallway was dark. A switch clicked, and the lights were extinguished. It was dark except for the outside lamplights coming through the high windows atop the bookshelves. There was someone in the room – her nerves told her this. She waited for them to show themselves and quietened her breathing. She felt the arms of the chair and lifted herself. She contemplated what mischief could find her in the heart of the establishment and edged her way to the doorway. She stayed close to the door and held her satchel against her chest.

  There was no noise. She was grabbed at her back, a claw at her neck, shoved against the wall, and turned. A strong hand at her chin pushed her head. The door was kicked and closed with a thud. Another hand squeezed at her chest. A dark head wearing a bell-shaped hat was a hand away from her face. She struggled to loosen the holds and used a knee but was met by a firm, lean, muscled body. The hand lowered from her chin, and the fingers pressed at her neck.

  The fingers dug into her skin with hatred. They seemed intent on breaking through the skin and then, as though reluctant, eased by a fraction. The smell was of sweat and anger.

  “I could kill you, you traitor.” It was the voice of Inspector Milo. Her pointed nose and brandy skin became distinguishable in the dull light. “You wrecked everything.”

  Ida held her wrist. “Get your hands off.”

  Milo shoved her against the wall. Her face was almost touching, her eyes drunken. “You sabotaged the inquiry,” she said, the words breathed out like a hiss. “You destroyed everything I did for your own selfish reasons. You will pay for this.”

  Ida knew with these words that she was not in danger.

  “Don’t ever get in my way again.” Milo let her go. Her look was that of an unpredictable animal.

  “You will regret this,” Ida said, softly and without emotion.

  Milo violently breathed out one more time and then disappeared into the darkness. Ida waited for the noise of the door to close. She switched on the lights and calmly gathered her things, picking up her satchel from the floor. She walked along the long corridors, unfamiliar with the labyrinthian layout of the Forum and its buildings. She was surprised by her own calmness. The violence did not affect her. The faces of an expectant crowd would be worse. She found other people and took directions to the lobby.

  Molly was leaning against the front of a motor vehicle, arms crossed, her auburn curls being tossed by the wind. She saw Ida, and her face changed to concern. “Ida, they gave me the wrong directions. I couldn’t find you.”

  “Don’t worry. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Ida, wait. I have been looking for you for hours.”

  “Why? The time to meet was not that long ago.”

  Her usually confident lips quivered. “It is Pierre, Ida. There is news.”

  Ida’s arms dropped. Her heartbeats stampeded, and she struggled for her next breath. Molly placed a hand on her shoulder and knew to talk and not hesitate with the news, no matter what it was.

  “His boat did not dock. It is lost at sea.”

  Ida moved slowly for the motor vehicle, opened the door, and sat in the back. Molly looked inside. “It may not be bad news. Ships are lost and then come later. There are many reasons. I am sure he is all right.”

  Chapter Three

  Nico’s eyes closed. He was tired of watching the birds that circled in the bland light. Instead he imagined the Metropolis. He would be in its arms soon. It was not that he felt anything for it. It was that he was tired of this empty, lack-of-people countryside. The oxen-hauled wagon moved on. Another pothole jolted him, but he kept his eyes closed and pushed his head farther into the sack. The Metropolis would welcome him as a hero. This is what Orlov and the others had been saying. Even the monk, Grigory, who did not smile, had to admit that they were returning victorious. He could smell the monk at the front of the cart. The tainted wind blew past his nose. Four other resting bodies were between them. The Qing driver swished the reins to keep the oxen at their steady, plodding pace. The empty air lapped at his cheeks. He doubted that he would ever long for the grimy smells of the Metropolis or not being able to walk a pace without someone bumping a shoulder, but he had found no fondness for this strange land.

  Each time he looked across its vastness, he thought of his dead friends, so he kept his eyes closed mostly. Their faces still appeared to him in the darkness. Leo, the student and writer. The first to befriend him. Rhoda, the runaway nun with the zest of a sailor. Even Oskar Winterschmitt, a handsome face and a black heart. Nico corrected himself – the dead boy did not have a black heart. It was a troubled one instead, much like his own. It better explained someone who sang with the voice of an angel.

  His largest wave of sadness came when he pictured Noor. The battle had been won by the Templars. She had been in the cheering crowd when Orlov announced that they were going home. He pulled her close and moved to press his lips to hers, but her eyes told him something was wrong. She kissed him anyway, and it was only later that she expressed to him with her hands that she was not returning with the Volunteers. She pointed to the carts and then pointed to herself and shook her head with vigor. He asked her why, but he understood. She wanted to find her own people, to return to wh
ere she had been ripped from, with the same hunger that he had to be returned to where he had been ripped from. They sat for long hours while the Volunteers packed the carts. He did not begrudge her. They were traveling to Port Shanghai, and why would she want to return to a place where she had been enslaved? He wished he could communicate with her better to find out where she planned to go and where she had come from. He watched her leave, sitting on the back of the wagon, crammed with the others in a traders’ caravan, the monk had told him, journeying the route of the Ottomans, as though there had been no war. “She is Roma,” the monk had also said. “A cursed people.”

  He watched her emotionless face as it retreated and sadly questioned to himself whether anyone could love him. From then on, his thoughts returned to Isabella. He would see her again, and it would take the weeks of the long journey home to prepare himself for this. He thought about the style of haircut he would present for her. The clothes he would wear. The quest to see Isabella, to hold Isabella and kiss her, had not diminished. He felt it more than at any time before in this long ordeal. Then the ogre of his father appeared in the thoughts, and he discontinued the thread.

  Orlov called to the driver. “Slow down – a tavern.” He said to the others, “We are to stop for the day.”

  Nico sighed. Orlov did not understand that the Qing couldn’t know a word he said. Also, the last road tavern they had stopped at was empty, with no food or drink, because of the war. The cart kept moving. He opened his eyes and sat up anyway, if only for the chance to see something different. The two carts ahead had stopped. He could see the oversized body of Babyman sitting up. He shared a cart with only two skinny Volunteers because of his weight. The tavern was built low to the ground in a clearing. Smoke was coming from a chimney. The cart abruptly stopped, and Orlov grunted satisfaction. There were twenty in their convoy of four carts, with Qing driving the oxen. Orlov had told them that they would travel like this until another form of transport could be found. There was a city and a train terminal always on the horizon, according to him. They were to travel in small groups to meet the rules of the dynasty. They were the first to leave. Many had died and were buried with the Qing. Others, those with a blood-lust, had joined the Templars.

  The sun was without warmth. The landscape was drab. As much as he wanted to continue to get home, a break was needed. There was the smell of food coming from the building. Orlov jumped off the cart and stumbled before he straightened and inspected the tavern like the admiral he once had been. The others followed. There was mud outside and water troughs for the animals. The sky was overcast, and Nico looked into the distance to see if it was all the same. The land was undulated by green mounds. The dirt road in front and behind was empty except for puddles. Babyman hit the ground with a thud and stretched his thick arms. Nico moved to stand next to him and felt safer in his shadow. Atop a distant mound, he could make out the outline of three riders on horses. They cast knife-edge shadows across the landscape. They were still, watching. He looked to Orlov to see if he had noticed them, but he was oblivious, waving his hands to order the Volunteers into a group.

  Orlov moved toward him, a concerned look on his old face. Nico pointed to the mound. “Look there. Have you seen them?”

  Orlov squinted in the direction. “I can’t see anything.” The horsemen had gone. “Are you right?” He placed his hand on Nico’s shoulder. “Let’s see if they will accommodate us for the night.” The old man moved in the direction of the tavern. A Qing couple had come out to study him as he strutted, as best an old man could, for the entrance.

  Nico looked at Babyman who had a sour look on his face. “Hungry, eh?” The big man, who looked like a boy, was always thinking of food. There was a smell coming from the inn, but it didn’t smell like any cooking Nico knew. The Qing were strange in what they ate.

  They were accommodated in a stable with a thatched roof, straw on the floor, and no walls. It started to rain, and this convinced Orlov that they would spend the night. The food was a tepid stew. Nico twisted his nose as he smelled it and moved around the pieces of food with his spoon, unsure of what they were. He ate because he was hungry, getting through half the bowl before handing it to Babyman. After the food had been finished, Orlov read out the names of the Volunteers who had died in the mountains and at the walls of the Qing fortress city. Nico stared at the ground and listened for the names that he knew. The monk began the nightly payers, and Nico mouthed the words.

  “For faith, for the tsar, and the fatherland. God is with us,” Orlov declared when the monk had finished. There was little talk after this. The Volunteers were too exhausted and only interested in making a comfortable place to sleep. Night dropped quickly. Lanterns were hung from posts, and it was not long before Nico heard the first of the snoring.

  He wrapped himself tightly with the blanket. He had become used to an uncomfortable bed. He tried to find sleep with thoughts of Isabella. The harder he tried, the more unreal she appeared in his mind. He changed position to his side and kept his eyes open. He could see the mountainlike back of Babyman blocking all else. In a few moments he changed sides. The monk had fallen asleep, his holy book lying open on his chest, his mouth also open and his beard hanging over the book pages. He did not know the other Volunteers in the group well.

  There was Timothy, who had been rejected by the Templars because he was too short. He was lying under a lantern, head propped up, looking up at something. He was overly friendly and chatted as the miles had passed about his reluctance to return to the Metropolis and his uncle’s shoe repair shop. Nico suspected that he had been rejected by the Templars for other reasons. His sentences always ended as if he were asking a question. “The life of a warrior would beat the smell of a dirty sole, wouldn’t it?” He looked and spoke tough, but he was short. He mixed his questions with stating the obvious. “Can you see the sun? It’s shining, isn’t it?” Nico had listened with his face but not his ears when the little man spoke, preferring to think of Isabella.

  Babyman had listened too. When they were washing at a narrow stream, he had asked a question in his cautious, minimal-word way. “Prince, should we not have joined the Temple Order?”

  Nico scoffed before he replied. “Not for me. I have seen enough fighting for my lifetime. Now it is time to return to a wasted, idle life.” Babyman’s glum face told him that he needed to say more. “And you. You have seen enough too.”

  Then there was Olga. She had a pretty round head but had no front teeth. They had been lost in the battle, or before the battle. A Qing dog on edge had bit at her, and she had lost them pulling away and hitting a wall or a pillar. She was always near him and was brushing her hair a body away from Nico’s bedroll. She spoke a lot to him, but he preferred to only smile in reply.

  He flipped to his other side and thought of narcotics and alcohol, and then for no obvious reason thought of his dead mother. He saw her forever-angry face scowling at him when he closed his eyes. He snapped them opened and remembered that he would have to see his family again – not his mother, but his father. Or would he? He had been disowned. He was free of everything he hated from his past. Strange thoughts twisted in his mind, for he could also not be free and return as someone no one expected. He forced his eyes shut, and his mind settled on imagining a warm bath, scrubbing the grime from himself, shaving his chin until it sparkled, dressing in a formal jacket and bow tie, styling his hair with a thick clump of gel, and striding into a Russian society ball, with every head turning to look at the young prince. The thoughts did not hold any strength before they returned to Isabella and a craving for something strong to pour down his throat. He sank into his usual fit-ful sleep.

  He heard movement. His hearing senses had improved beyond anything they had been as a necessity for survival. The noise was of someone walking but not the usual noise of a Volunteer clumsily moving to find wherever the place was supposed to be for the toilet. It was someone moving stealthily, trying not to be
heard. He opened his eyes. The moonlight made everything a deep gray. He used his elbows to lift himself so he could see more. Orlov, carefree, had not placed any watchmen. His eyes focused, and there was no one up that he could see, yet his uneasiness did not lessen. He looked harder across the camp and into the murk. The camp was heavy with sleep. Babyman’s breathing sounded like the rat-tat-tat of a drum beating. Timothy had thrown out an exhausted-looking arm. Olga had an open book lying on the blanket next to her.

  He heard something – the secret crack of a bone joint. The owner was shadow bound. Nico had overhead Orlov being warned that bandits were common on the road but then told not to fear them, as they would not attack larger groups. He kept scanning the darkness that surrounded the camp. He caught a glint of moonlight at the edge. He swung his head in this direction while lifting himself so that he was sitting, and the blanket fell off his chest. He saw nothing but blackness. He did not lower himself. He strained his eyes harder. He was unsettled, conscious that he needed to be rid of this cursed land and desperate for the darkness to pass. His eyes hurt. He rubbed them and looked again, sure that he had seen the blackness move. He was unable to look away. A face came eerily into focus. It was colored by the dark. It was still as if it were hovering with no body. But then he saw the glint again underneath. The handle of a blade.

  He opened his mouth to call to the others. No words came out. His shaking hand pushed into the back of Babyman. He forcefully shoved him, and Babyman woke with a loud grunt. The face disappeared. “What? What is it?” the boy-man said loudly. Others in the camp stirred.

  Voices joined the noises of bodies moving. “What is happening?” The admiral’s voice of Orlov rose above the rest.

  “Somebody called an alarm,” one of the Volunteers said.