Chapter Forty-One

The sweltering heat of the late afternoon sun woke Tarn. Several yards to his right, Barath lay curled in a ball with his nose resting on his thick and bushy tail. The sound of Tarn stripping his weapons and clothes off roused Barath. While Barath lazily stretched each limb, so that his legs trembled and his toes separated, Tarn washed his clothes free of dried blood. After hanging his vest to dry on a limb, he donned his buckskin pants and sat down against a tree to check his broadsword for damage inflicted by the padlocks of the galley. Before the hilt guard cleared the scabbard, waves of vitality swept through him, healing bruised- and battered muscles, mending the minor cuts and abrasions accumulated during last night's battle. Barath stopped in his tracks to observe the shimmering light surrounding Tarn, which lasted but a few seconds. A black furry head tilted sideways in thoughtful reflection. A moment later he melted into the forest.

Mild currents of superstitious fear ebbed within Tarn as he beheld Kalen's sword. The sensation he experienced felt similar to the Ramka—the awakening of his blood—when he first took hold of the pendant. What had triggered it, for he had drawn Kalen's sword previously and had not experienced the Ramka? Did the sword think? Was the occurrence of the Ramka happenstance? Or was it something other than the Ramka? Would it fail him if he put his faith in it? Magic. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was not a warrior's weapon. He scoffed deeply and turned his attention back to the sword itself.

Where he expected to find nicks and dents, there was a conspicuous absence of either. Out of habit, he removed his whetstone and ran it the length of the blade. A pure ring reverberated at the end of each stroke, keening like a satiated lover. Satisfied that it maintained full razor sharpness, Tarn unsheathed his hip sword and dagger and performed the same task. Various nicks and scratches marred the blade. The repetitive movement felt relaxing and allowed him to think.

Just as he dug into his pack for meat strips and fruit, Barath reappeared with two hares flopping out of the sides of his mouth. He set one rabbit at Tarn's feet and laid down a handful of paces away to devour his meal raw. As Tarn built a small fire, and then roasted the rabbit over the flames, he said to Barath, "The map depicts a set of mountains between us and Mycenar. The shortest route be straight through them if ye possess knowledge of a pass."

"Yes," Barath barked once.

"Thus far the Rings of Mahnaz have anticipated my every move. Though it seems they did not guess our galley visit. Mayhaps thy tutor was correct. Thy wolf form hides us from their eyes. Many eyes glimpsed us in the belly of the galley. Men will speak of us, of thy deeds, brother. They will tell how an immense wolf and a barbarian freed them. Others will ply them with wine and ale to have them retell their unbelievable story. The Rings of Mahnaz will not be among the unbelievers."

Barath went into a crouch, neck fur bristling. A deep, throaty growl answered Tarn's proclamation.

"Aye, ye words be plain and well-spoken. Now that we are two, let the sorcerers of Mahnaz believe what they will, for when they find us, they greet death."

* * * * * * *

A roaring fire warmed the stone-built hearth. Torches mounted in iron sconces added flickering illumination, setting goblin shadows chasing each other in endless circles across the walls and ceiling. Wide silk tapestries, whose pictorials were so intricately woven, as to appear real; as if they were about to spring to life, covered the rough granite walls. A plush, ochre-coloured carpet covered the polished stone floor near the hearth.

Upholstered in luxurious, red and black velvet, the only two chairs in the chamber were stuffed with baby gosling feathers, soft and rare. Two attractive, demure female slaves, blonde- and black-haired for contrast, garbed in sandals and red sheer wraps that hugged slender waists, stood to either side of the room. Neither looked in the direction of the chairs, but neither did they look away. Each wore a vacant expression that said, "I am used to waiting until called upon." Each held a pitcher of wine clasped against a flat stomach. Each bare-breasted slave's lips and nipples were painted a matching shade of ruby-red. Neither of the women seemed to object to that final act of degradation. Each had been born a slave, born to a mother who was a slave and had no knowledge of another life.

Seated comfortably in the high-backed armchairs beside the fire, two figures, attired in ebony-black robes, spoke avidly to one another with animated hand gestures.

"They failed in Galpernia, just as the Netherworld beasts failed in his village. He must be stopped!" Crovolk declared, forcefully striking the arm of his chair to punctuate his point. "Mark my words, 'tis the prophecy come to pass."

"'Twould be perilous to cross Imaran," Radmoc temporized.

"The master would reward those who slew the child of prophecy."

Radmoc leaned back, lacing his pudgy fingers under his chin, carefully considering the merit in Crovolk's tempting words. While Radmoc mulled over his response, Crovolk gestured to one of the slaves to refill his ruby-encrusted, gold chalice. The raven-haired beauty canted her head submissively and came to him. Having topped off his chalice, she looked to him for permission to take her leave. Crovolk lifted a dismissive hand and sipped at his sweet wine, hiding the tight anxiety he felt. Though his pulse raced, and his hands would have trembled had they not clasped the heavy goblet, his face remained stoic and expressionless. It seemed that it took hours for Radmoc to fold his hands in his lap, and look up, having arrived at a decision.

"Let us contact Pentath," said Radmoc slowly. "If this barbarian evades Kharstad, then I agree we should act. Imaran will lay under the influence of the black lotus for another fortnight. Let us act while he remains ignorant of our plan. If we fail, he will not detect our actions, but if we succeed, then it matters naught what he learns."

Crovolk's lips thinned. A co-conspirator's tight grin curved his lips, masking his real thoughts. Wotan would grant them much power, but Radmoc would not live to enjoy it. The power belonged to him.

"Thy response appeals to me, my friend. It is cautious and wise. I will seek Pentath this eve when the black pool is at its clearest. Until then, let us enjoy a distraction," to the slaves he added, "Put down thy pitchers and come here." When the two women complied and stood before him, he ordered, "Call another to take over thy duties. Fetch thy cymbals and dance."

"At once, milord," chimed the woman together, bowed, and departed the room.

A few minutes later a different woman entered the chamber with a platter of finger food. After offering Radmoc and Crovolk a sample from her tray, she retrieved one of the pitchers and stood nearby.

The two women returned shortly wearing different outfits. Each wore silk slippers with curled toes upon which tiny crystal bells hung. The bells chimed as they walked. Long shifts made up of many layers of silk hung from waist to ankle. With each step, a shapely leg provocatively parted the layers. And though their upper bodies remained bare, a gauzy veil showed only their eyes. Upon their middle fingers and thumbs, they wore miniature cymbals.

They stood opposite each other, one leg forward, bent slightly at the waist with one hand held over their heads. Softly, only the cymbals above their heads began to ring. As the volume increased, the second cymbal joined the first. The woman began to move in time with the cymbals. With each foot movement, the crystal bells chimed. The cymbals and bells conjoined to produce exotic dance music. The women undulated their bodies like serpents coaxed from a basket.

Crovolk studied Radmoc's lecherous eyes. Radmoc lusted after the younger of the two women. He was known to have rare tastes. When their business was concluded, perhaps he would send an especially beautiful slave to him. A slave who since birth been fed tiny amounts of poison. Any fluid transfer with such a woman caused death. His lust-filled interests would prove a fitting demise. With Radmoc out the way, he would be one step closer to ruling the inner ring. Crovolk grinned a hidden, malicious smile of evil intent, and reclined in the deep cushions of the chair to ponder his next victory. Enjoy the spectacle, my carnal friend. They are numbered.

* * * * * * *

Shortly after twilight, the period separating day from night commenced; Barath transformed. Tarn read the worry on Barath's face but remained silent. Each day it took longer for Barath to begin the transformation. Each day Barath lost a little more of himself, surrendered more of his freewill, to the curse. It was progressing rapidly, strengthening. Soon he would be completely at its mercy. Barath moved close to the smokeless fire. In wolf form, he disdained to come within three paces of the flames, his lupine instincts were becoming too strong to countermand.

"Early afternoon tomorrow we should make the foothills of the Lucian mountains, two days after that we enter Mycenar," Barath said and lowered himself to his haunches to hold his hands out to the fire. Temperatures dropped quickly at higher altitudes.

"Two days only?"

"Aye Tarn. For a two-legs, ye travel quickly."

"Two legs?"

"That's what my brother wolves call us."

"Ye speak with other wolves and they to ye? What language?"

"'Tis difficult to explain," began Barath, sorting his next words into an intelligible response. "Sounds and smells combine to form a picture. If it be man-scent, an image of a man pops into my head. 'Tis the same if I smell an animal. A particular scent is tied to a particular image. If I am familiar with the owner, I see him in my mind. An individual word with an exact meaning doesn't generally exist for wolves. Definitions are a compilation of scent, sound, images, and individual experience. A snarl represents more than anger. 'Tis status, feeling, and intent all at once. The context of the snarl means everything. Wolves neither chatter like people, nor do they nag or complain. Thou would make an excellent wolf, my brother."

He listened to Barath with more than simple curiosity. In the early stages of the curse, Barath's human thinking processes carried into wolf form. Evermore often Barath had begun to think like a wolf, even when he was in his natural state. The big youth roughly calculated that Barath's humanity would be fortunate to endure another year. Tarn wasted neither pity nor empathy on his oath-brother. Neither emotion served him well. Neither feeling served their common goal. The compassion and empathy that Tarn denied himself, spawned a deeper hatred for Mahnaz, and strengthened his resolve. Hatred motivated. Anger numbed his heart against the loss of his village. While hope for the children and Shaurii endured, he set aside his grief for the loss of the others.

They had much ground to cover, and twilight was quickly ending. Sleep could wait. Already their quarry had too big of a lead. Youthful vitality fuelled his limbs to continue after only a brief rest. He shouldered his pack, saying, "Let us away. The moon and thy night eyes shall guide our steps." Barath nodded. "Tell me about thy home. How we might breach it unseen by those loyal to Mahnaz and the priest Pentath?"

"Its walls are high and command a wide field of vision. A direct approach would prove faulty. Methinks darkness—"

In mid-sentence, while Barath described the layout of his ancestral home, he shimmered and reverted into a wolf. Darkness lingered in the shadow of a mountain range and day came sooner on the sunward side. Had any been present to observe, they would have beheld an outlander loping across rocky terrain with a large black wolf trotting slightly forward and at his side. They radiated a combined determination that few would have failed to see, had they cared to look.

* * * * * * *

The full moon cast its reflected light in soft beams. Pockets of dappled night spotted the trail, making it impossible to see into the moon-shaded forest at the base of the mountain range. A few hours later, the forest thinned, giving way to rolling plains. Gentle hills dotted with scrub brush and interspersed by tall grass were backlit against a long mountain ridge. Hours of travel separated the two parallel ranges. Barath's black fur glistened steel-blue in the moonlight. Barath trotted easily through the long grass, his nose dipping and weaving to part the grass for his head and body to follow. Every so often he disappeared to scout ahead, reappearing silently to guide Tarn along an easier route or to water.

Sometime after the moon had reached its apex, the pair entered the foothills. In the small hours of the morning, when false dawn threatens to turn the horizon grey, the entrance to the pass was before them. Two mountain slopes joined at the bottom to create a V-shaped ravine. Fist sized rocks and smaller sandy scree formed a rocky apron that blanketed the base of the V-cleft to several hundred feet below. It was both a landmark to identify the entrance and a rocky welcoming mat for travellers to climb into the mouth of the pass. Tarn stopped to rest, eat, and drink. Barath sat beside him, lifted his head to the waning moon, and loosed a long, forlorn howl. The echo of his voice bounced through the mountains, fading from hearing. A wolf somewhere up ahead answered his brother's lonely call. Barath gave Tarn his wolf's grin and howled again.

Tarn climbed to his feet and raised his voice to the night. No answer came back. "Come, brother. Soon we will make others howl in pain. With thy amber eyes to guide our steps, the night belongs to us. Let us away."

Man and wolf travelled swiftly through the pass. Mid-spring's mountain chill affected neither man nor man-beast. The many switchbacks and up and down hills made the distance they travelled many times longer than how the crow flew. At times the trail narrowed where fallen trees and boulders littered the way, forcing them to walk single file. It was not a route easily used by cart or wagon. Each season it would have to be cleared. More than a week passed before the pair trotted downhill to behold a landscape never before envisioned by Tarn. From their high vantage point, he viewed a broad expanse of forest that lay in a canyon valley unlike any in Asgard.

High canyon walls rose more than five hundred feet from the floor. Stubborn trees dared to grow out of cracks in the walls where sparse windblown earth gathered. Their thin and coarse trunks were all twisted and gnarled as they defied wind and rain and gravity to reach for the sun, roots anchored perilously to a vertical birth or a narrow ledge. Seeds must have blown from somewhere above, for the forest beneath was much different in scope and kind.

Within the precipitous heights of the canyon walls, magnificent trees stretched their long and straight trunks skyward as though to share the clouds. Surely the lifespan of such creatures numbered a thousand years. Hundreds of feet above the ground, leafy crowns mushroomed outward. Smooth trunks devoid of branches rose from ground to the midway point. If seven men joined hands they would not be able to encircle the massive trunks. Even during midday only a few errant rays from the sun pierced the thick leafy canopy. Bright beams and rays of sunlight slanted downward, creating a maze of light spears that spotted the forest floor. Pockets of ferns and tubers and other shade-loving plants took advantage of what little sunlight survived to reach the ground. Even during the hottest summer day, the climate within the old-growth forest was cool and comfortable.

Beneath the leafy roof, a brook gurgled softly and birds sang happily as the pair walked on. Black and brown squirrels chirruped at Barath's passing; warning a predator passed. And though it was day, the forest shadows were such that crickets chirped and clicked to one and other. A thick layer of leaves and old needles carpeted the forest floor. The soft and springy covering muffled their footsteps. Tarn stopped by the purling brook to quench his thirst. The water tasted cool and sweet. Underneath the far stream bank where the water had hollowed out a cavern, a large trout patiently waited for supper to float by.

Heading downstream and crossing to the other side, Tarn crept softly up behind the unknowing fish. He drew his hip sword and lowered its point until it fell in line with the thick-bodied brown stream trout. A lightning-quick strike skewered the fish through its fat body. As he raised it out of the water, it flip-flopped back and forth on the end of his blade. He set the fish on the bank, back from the water, and walked upstream in search of another. Not long afterward, he returned with a second trout, gutted and cleaned both, and lit a small fire. Barath was nowhere to be found.

Rather than call out and disturb Barath's hunting, or announce his presence to others, he sat down and leaned against a tree. He waited for half a glass to pass before cooking one of the fish over the hot coals. The oil from the trout dropped to the coals and burst into flames, spattering and hissing, filling the still air with the flavourful tang of fish. When the trout was cooked to his liking, Tarn pulled cheese and travel bread from his pack and ate. Still no sign of Barath. He rested his back against a tree and closed his eyes.