Realms of War

matter of time before the animal's struggles would choke it to death.

Gethred's first thought was to wait for the hunter to come along so that he might beg for food and shelter, but the thought shamed him and he prayed to Mielikki to forgive him. Besides, seeing the cruel way the other wolf had been slaughtered—whether as bait or the first kill, he could not tell—and reflecting upon the rune burned there, Gethred decided he'd rather not meet this hunter. Something about the rune bothered him even more than the malice evident in the slaughter.

Gethred sheathed his knife and removed his cloak. Freeing a wolf from a snare was no easy task, even for a team of men. Moved to panic, the wolf would try to kill anyone who came near. His one hope would be to cover the animal's head long enough to cut the snare. After that, he hoped the wolf would be more concerned about getting away than ripping his throat out. If not... well, it spared him the choice between death by cold or death from the Tuigan warriors.

Holding his cloak spread out before him, Gethred approached, nice and slow, making no sudden movements.

The wolf's lips peeled back, revealing long teeth. The foam around the wolf's black lips was flecked with blood. Another step, and the wolf growled and lunged. But it only succeeded in pulling the noose tighter, and its growl broke off into a choked whine. Gethred took the opportunity to dive forward, throwing his thick cloak over the wolf's head and grabbing it in a tight hug. He was probably twice the wolf's weight, but still its desperate thrashing nearly threw him off. Had it not been for the tight line around its neck, Gethred knew it would have thrown him and gone for his throat.

Keeping his right arm around the wolf's neck so that the cloak enveloped its head like a hood, he made a quick grab for his knife, brought it out, and swiped at the line. The blade caught and slipped, and for one panicked moment Gethred almost dropped it. The line seemed to have been braided from some sort of tendon, and it was as strong as wire. Gethred tightened his grip and brought the blade down again.

The line snapped, and the branch holding it shot upward, shattering winter dry branches. Suddenly freed from the tension of the snare, the wolf twisted beneath Gethred and raked him with its back paws. Had it not been for his canvas coat and the leather vest beneath it, the wolf would have disemboweled him.

Gethred let go, tucked his chin to his chest, and covered his head with his arms. He knew that if the wolf came for him, it would go for the neck. If it got his throat, he could take a while to die, but the creature could snap the back of his neck with one crunch of its jaws, and he'd likely be dead before the breath left his body.

But no bite came.

Nice and slow, Gethred rolled to his side and looked up. The wolf stood at the far end of the clearing. The severed snare was still around its neck, but the tension was gone, and the line hung loose. The creature just stood there, the play of light and shadow through the boughs dappling its fur as it watched Gethred. Its gaze unnerved him. But then, wolves' eyes always had. He'd tracked, hunted, and even tamed many beasts in his life, and he'd always thought that a wolf's eyes seemed the most human.

Then something happened. At first he thought a breeze had come up, setting the boughs to swaying and moving the shadows beneath. But there was no breeze. The light around the wolf seemed to be breaking and bending, and the minuscule shadows in its fur rippled as if alive. The wolf's shape twisted and distorted, and when the shimmering of light and shadow slowed and cleared, the wolf was gone. Where the wolf had been stood a young woman, her skin and hair only a shade darker than the snow. She stood naked and barefoot in the frost, but the cold did not seem to bother her. Her gaze was fixed on Gethred, and he saw by the slight cant of her eyes and the line of her jaw that she resembled an elf more than a human.

With one hand she took the loose bit of snare from around her neck, pulled it over her head, and tossed it aside. She said something, a word or two only, in a language that Gethred had never before heard.

Dumbstruck, Gethred said, 'I—'

The woman cocked her head as if listening. Though the rest of her body hadn't moved, Gethred could see every muscle was taut and tense.

'What—?' Gethred began, but the woman turned and ran away. There was a brief rustling in the brush, a soft whisper as snow fell from a dislodged branch, and she was gone.

Then Gethred heard it, too. Something approaching from the way he had come through the thick holly. Something big.

But Gethred was too tired, too hungry, and too stunned to run. He was done with running.

He was reaching for his knife, which had fallen a few paces away, when the largest man Gethred had ever seen lumbered out of the brush. The man was dressed all in skins and furs, and his beard and head of hair stood out in a great tangle. Seeing the empty snare and Gethred beside it reaching for a knife, the man let loose a bellow that rebounded off the moun­tainside. He descended upon Gethred.

* * * * *

Holwan said nothing at first, just maintained his easy crouch and watched Gethred. Finally he stood and spoke at length to his two companions in their own language. They conversed back and forth, the fire crackling beside them, then Holwan knelt again so that he faced Gethred eye to eye.

'The girl you said you saw... she was one of the Rashemi witches?'

'I don't know who she was.'

'But you are from Cormyr.'

Gethred held Holwan's gaze and said, 'I'd like some more water, please.'

'What is your name?' Holwan asked.

He thought a moment before deciding there was no harm in this answer. 'Gethred,' he said.

Holwan nodded, and something in his gaze hardened. 'Gethred Cormyrean, heed my words. I am going to cut your bonds. At first light, we need you to ride. The man who had you was a shu t'met, a fell spirit of great power. He killed three of our company before escaping. You robbed him of his prey. Foolish. Your only hope is to stay with us. Close. If the shu t'met finds you, he'll kill you.'

'And you won't?'

'Our khan ordered us to capture the spies from Cormyr who escaped Citadel Rashemar. Alive, he will be pleased. Dead he will be ... less pleased. Your comrades are dead. For now, it pleases us to keep you alive.'

'And your Khahan?'

'That is up to him. But I would suggest that you find a way to loosen your tongue before meeting him. In mercy, Yamun Khahan is most generous. In wrath . . . well, loosen your tongue. You are a long way from Cormyr.'

* * * * *

That night, after being fed for the first time in days—though he was a little afraid to ask what the meat was he was eating—Gethred slept in a thick blanket beside a warm fire. He almost thanked the gods for his captivity. If the Khahan had him killed in a few days, at least tonight he was warm and fed. For now, that is enough, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

How long he'd been drifting he didn't know, but when he woke it was still dark, the sky a blue darker than the sea, and every star seemed a diamond reflecting distant fire. What had woken him?

Then he heard it. Howling. Far away, he thought, but in the winter-hardened air of the steppe, sound traveled far, and the plaintive sound seemed very clear.

Gethred sat up. The fire still crackled, but it had burned low, only a few tiny tongues of blue flame licked the dried dung the Tuigan used for fuel.

The howling came again, and the picketed horses whickered and stamped their feet. The howls seemed closer. Somewhere off to the east.

A dark shape moved on the other side of the fire. 'You rest,' said Holwan. 'We ride hard and fast at first light.'

'I hear wolves,' said Gethred.

'Among my people, it is said that the sight of a wolf on a journey is a good omen.'

'And what do your people say that hearing a wolf portends?'