hurry.
And yet King Valeray and Queen Saissa and their get, as well as Princess Camille and wee Prince Duran, had remained, and this had had a calming effect on many a taut nerve.
Still, at the stables stood other horses, ready to bear Borel and Liaze and Celeste in haste to their own manors. Only Prince Alain and Princess Camille would ride at a more leisurely pace, and that was because of wee Prince Duran, who would slow the stride of that particular cavalcade. Even so, they would press forward as fast as they could, for if the Wizard Orbane were indeed to be set free, then the presence of prince and princess in their demesnes would strengthen trembling hearts.
And so, as the sun sank through the sky, through the dilute crowd of well-wishers rode the procession and toward the arena where the faire would come to an end.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded the entry of the royal party into the amphitheater, and ’round the perimeter rode the procession, people cheering to see them pass by, especially Prince Duran, seated before his father on a high-stepping black.
To the royal box rode all, and there they dismounted, and pages led the horses away as into the seats King Valeray and his family ascended. At a gesture from Borel, the Wolves plopped down upon the ground off to one side.
And as Valeray stood to give the ceremonial closing speech, Borel smiled as Duran “clip-clopped” his toy along the forward rail.
Of a sudden, Borel’s eyes widened. “Mithras!” he exclaimed, turning to Alain. “But I now know what at least a part of Skuld’s rede means, though I don’t understand the full of it.” In that same moment, Scruff leapt into the shoulder pocket of Camille’s gown and frantically tugged on her hair, and Wolves sprang to their feet, and a Sprite came hurtling through the air and across the arena, shrilling, “It’s not a crow, not a crow!” Camille glanced up to see a black bird lazily circling o’erhead-
— and then it wasn’t a bird, but a witch and someone else astride a broom.
“Orbane!” cried Valeray.
“Hradian!” shouted Alain, even as Camille reached for Duran.
Arcane words rent the air, and amid gleeful laughter from above, a great, roaring, whirling black wind descended upon the royal box and bore them all away.
Pack
The black wind roared; posts and rails and the boards of the arena stands hurtled through the shrieking air and smashed into whatever stood in the way-ripping, rending, bashing, killing-people and horses and ought else. Dust and dirt and wood shavings and rocks and straw hurled ’round and blinded all, and men and women and animals screamed and fled, some running straight to their doom. And all the while unheard laughter rang down from above.
And then the wind lifted up and away, and wreckage and dirt and stones fell, and straw and wood shavings fluttered down. .
and the air cleared, revealing the devastation wrought: men and women and children lay wounded or slain; horses lay dead or dying; nought remained of the arena but shattered wood and rent cloth and other such flinders.
But in the center of all stood Slate and the pack, for the great Wolf had led the others to the safety of the eye of the spin, where they stood their ground and snarled at the witch and wizard above.
“The Wolves, my lord,” shrieked Hradian, “kill the Wolves.” Even as she called for their deaths, Hradian reached for the thong about her throat, where hung the last of the clay amulets known as the Seals of Orbane- terrible talismans filled with arcane power. With it she could easily slaughter the animals.
But Orbane snarled, “Pah! They are of no import whatsoever, for the Fates and Wolves truck not with one another.”
“But they are the ones who tore Rhensibe asunder.”
“Silence! Would you have me discipline you?” Hradian cowered, a mewl of fear escaping her lips.
“Away, Acolyte,” commanded Orbane. “I have removed those with whom the Fates ally themselves. Now little stands in my path. Away, I say, to rally my own armies.” With one last venomous glance at the pack below, Hradian’s hand fell away from her throat, and she spun the besom about, and toward the dawnwise bound she and Orbane sped.
. .
Slate and the pack watched the bitch two-legs and the other one vanish. Not-birds they were, yet still they flew. Once before the Wolves had seen the same bird-not-bird bitch two-legs, there at the little stone den near the long bad place in the territory of snow. That, too, was a time when a terrible black wind bore their master away.
Slate turned to the others and chuffed, and then he and the pack trotted past the broken-legged and maimed horses and those that were not-alive, past the two-legs that were hurt, some of those not-alive, too, while other two-legs wandered among the sharp odor of mark-water, and the strong smell of mark-pile, and the intense reek of life-water. Through the wrack they passed and among the two-legs now rushing toward the not-alive and hurt ones, many two-legs running out from the big stone den.
And when they were free of the place of the two-legs in the field, and had rounded the big stone den, Slate broke into a lope, with Dark, Render, Shank, Trot, Loll, and Blue-eye following. Starwise they ran, toward where they knew lay the territory of snow, for the last time the black wind had carried their master away, they had waited at his big den, and he had finally come home with his own bitch two-legs. And the master had begun to teach his bitch a limited form of True-People-speak, for the two-legs had no tails and could not move their ears; still she had much left to learn. And even though her understanding was stunted, he would tell her of the terrible black wind taking the master away.
Through the warm-days woodland the pack sped, and ere the sun had set they came to the twilight border, and they slowed not a step but plunged on through.
Foxes scattered before them, and Slate paused a moment to snap up the remains of a dead crow, mostly rent of feathers, thanks to the canine brethren. All others in the pack lingered a moment to take up stripped birds of their own. And with a snap and a crunch and a swallow, they were swiftly on their way once more.
Through the snow they hammered, white clots flying from paws, and they came to a swift-running stream, ice lining the banks though the center flowed free. They took a moment to lap water, and with thirsts quenched, away they sped.
On they ran and on, tireless in their pace, and the waxing half-moon high above slowly sank duskwise through the star-laden wheeling sky.
Some Sprites watched them run, and some raced alongside the Wolves, popping from icicle to clad limb to covered rock to frozen pond, while others flashed on ahead to bear mute word to the manor of the presence of the pack in the wood.
. .
“M’lady,” said Arnot.
Michelle looked up from her book. “Oui?”
“M’lady, the Sprites tell that the Wolves are on their way.”
“Ah, good. Then my Borel will soon be home.” Arnot shook his head. “The prince is not with them.” Michelle frowned. “Not with them? But why would he send them on alone? — Oh, my, are you then telling me Borel comes without the pack’s protection?”
“Princess, the Sprites say that Borel has not entered the Winterwood.”
“Non Borel; just Wolves?”
“Oui.”
Michelle set her book aside and stood. She bowed her head and frowned a moment in thought, and then looked up and said, “Have a falcon ready to fly on the wings of dawn, Arnot, for I would know what is afoot.”
“Mayhap, my lady, a falcon will come from the castle ere midmorn and let us know.”
