Lofotan braced his bow. Treskan and Mathi closed up with him, jerking the lines to hurry the packhorses along. At the tail of the group, they would be likely targets if the wolves attacked.
Balif circled in and out, sometimes leading, sometimes trailing the others. Whenever he came close Mathi studied him for signs that the curse was asserting itself. The changes she’d noticed before were still there, but the full beast-face and features were not in evidence. Mathi did not understand the working of spells. She could not imagine why the Creator would inflict such an erratic spell. Perhaps it was weakening-or perhaps it was designed to torment the sufferer by seeming to fade, only to return more strongly than ever?
“Wake up, you two.” Lofotan’s voice carried clearly in the warm, still air.
Mathi sharpened to awareness. Treskan twisted around in the saddle, looking in all directions.
“What is it?”
“We’re not alone.” Lofotan had spotted three or four shapes darting through the grass off to their right, about thirty yards away.
“Wolves?” said the scribe.
Lofotan nocked an arrow in answer. “Watch behind and on your left,” he said calmly. “The wolf you see is often a feint for the real attack.”
The horses were certainly aware of the danger. They closed in with each other, rolling their eyes and champing their bits. Mathi drew back and let the pack animals move ahead of her. Her pony, being blinkered, was less sensitive than the baggage animals. She knew he had the predators’ scent when he bobbed his head and snorted defiantly. Mathi tapped him with her heels to keep him moving. If he stopped, it might occur to him to shed his rider, then make a break for it.
Balif was out in front a dozen yards or so. His bow was unstrung. His sword rested in its scabbard. He had to know the pack was around them, but still he rode slowly ahead, weaving back and forth across their line of march. What was he doing?
All at once Lofotan sat up as high as he could in his saddle, bent his bow, and loosed an arrow into the pale red shadows. He was rewarded with a yelp and a thrashing in the grass. Treskan started toward the spot. Lofotan ordered him to stop.
“I’ll finish him off,” said the scribe, raising his spear.
“It might be a ruse.” Wolves were known to do that, fake an injury or death, to draw an unwise hunter close.
The thrashing in the grass stopped. Lofotan’s horse slowly came to a halt.
“Where’s my lord?”
Balif’s horse was coming back to them, reins trailing on the ground. There was no sign of the general, and no traces on his mount to suggest he had transformed into a beast and been thrown off as before.
A howl erupted close by. Lofotan whirled, arrow drawn back to his ear. Something low and dark was rushing at them through the grass. Balif’s horse reared and neighed.
“Don’t!” Mathi called. “It might be him!”
Lofotan thought of that too. He held his draw magnificently, holding the eighty pound recurve bow as steady as stone. The creature charging Balif’s horse gathered its legs and leaped. With only a moment to choose, Lofotan loosed his arrow.
It hit the hurtling beast dead in the ribs. Balif’s horse gave a start, jumping sideways as the lifeless body hurtled past it. At Lofotan’s direction Mathi went to look at it. It was a fine specimen of a male savannah wolf, brown all over, weighing maybe sixty pounds.
“It’s a wolf!” she said, relieved. “Dead as a stone!”
The words had hardly left her lips when a second beast exploded from the grass and knocked Lofotan from his saddle. Shouting, Mathi rushed to his rescue. The beast had clamped its powerful jaws on the elf’s right forearm, which fortunately was sheathed in bronze. They struggled, but Lofotan drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it into his attacker’s ribs once, twice. He threw the heavy slack form off and got up in time to dodge Treskan’s well-meaning spear-thrust.
The packhorses bucked and reared, tearing at the lines that bound them together. Two wolves had the lead pony by the throat. Lofotan had lost his bow in his fall. He snatched the spear from Treskan and raced to rescue the pony. The scribe was left with just his sword, which he barely knew how to use.
A low, rolling growl behind Mathi froze her blood to ice. She turned slowly and saw a large black beast whose head and chest fur were shot through with gray advancing on him. Tugging at her sword, she backed away, swearing in Elvish.
Black lips curled, the wolf displayed long, broken teeth. He was the elder chief of his pack, powerful, and with a gleam of cruel intelligence in his eyes. Words died in Mathi’s mouth. All her spit seemed to have suddenly dried up.
Lofotan was battling two wolves at once. He speared one, pinning it to the turf, but the other leaped on his back. He went down. Treskan was swinging his sheathed sword like a club, trying to ward off a pale colored she- wolf.
The old wolf was little more than three paces away. Mathi gripped the sword in both hands to steady it.
She heard a shout. Slashing through the tall grass came Balif. He swung his sword wide, cutting a swath through the weeds. Seeing Mathi about to be attacked, he shouted again, whipping off his cloak and wrapping it around his unarmored left arm.
The wolf recognized a more dangerous opponent had joined the fray and quickly forgot Mathi, turning to face Balif. The elf general didn’t wait for the beast to spring. He plunged in, sword high. The old wolf didn’t go for his open left arm, as Mathi thought he would. He jumped headlong at Balif’s chest.
Not one warrior in a hundred would have stood their ground to receive the blow. Balif did. His sword was high, and he moved his free hand to join the other on the grip. He shouted-he bellowed-a challenge so loud and so unelflike Mathi believed for an instant that he had become a beast again. Down came the fine elf blade. Behind the general’s head Lunitari gleamed like red horns atop his head.
There was a loud crack. Balif staggered backward, worked his blade free, and swung again. The old wolf dropped in a heap at his feet, his skull split in two.
That was amazing enough. For Balif’s strength and reflexes to be so great as to cut the wolf down in mid- leap was astonishing. What happened next was terrifying.
Not satisfied with his victory, Balif stood over the fallen creature and plunged his sword into it again and again. He kicked the carcass, shouting incoherently. Angered that the wolf did not rise up and fight more, he threw aside his sword and drew a knife. As Mathi watched in horror, he stabbed the dead wolf half a dozen times until blood covered his hands and spattered his handsome face.
His rage satiated, Balif stood up. His eyes met Mathi’s.
It was not the same elf she had met in Silvanost scant weeks ago. They stared at each other, eyes locked, until Lofotan’s calls for help broke the spell. With a flash of teeth Balif smiled and darted away, carrying only his knife.
He drove off the wolf harrying his majordomo, who had cuts and bites on his hands. Lofotan thanked his lord until he saw his bloody hands and face. His thanks died in his throat.
“More out there,” Balif said, his voice low and gruff. Wolves were howling in retreat. Knife in hand, Balif raced off into the grass. Mathi watched him go. It was plain the general meant to hunt down and kill every animal in the pack.
CHAPTER 16
Lofotan poured tepid water from his waterskin over his wounds. Some hours had passed since Balif had run off after the fleeing wolves.
“If he isn’t back by dawn we’ll have to find him,” he said wearily.
