Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I flee through the woods. Mindless. Ravening. Furious without understanding.

I need blood. Fresh, hot, flowing blood.

As I run, a single name throbs in my brain, over and over again: Elorata! Elorata!

Sometimes, however, it morphs and becomes something else: Brielle . . . Brielle . . .

But these names, these thoughts, they don’t belong to me. They are human thoughts, and I am not human. I am animal, I am beast. I want to tear and rend and break and shred. I want to sink my teeth into flesh and feel bones break between my jaws.

Elorata . . . Brielle . . .

I come to a stop, my forepaws digging into the soil, my head hanging low, foam dripping from my jaws. Every instinct tells me to turn around now, to find her scent, to track her down. She might kill me with a well-placed arrow, but I can’t think of that. I can’t bring myself to care. I just want . . . I want . . .

It’s not her fault.

I snarl, shaking my head roughly. But that small part of me still clinging to humanity holds on fast.

It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t mean to do it.

It was the witch, only the witch.

With a roar, I plunge on through the trees, running as fast as I can, trying to escape that voice. I don’t know if the huntress is on my trail or not. I haven’t smelled her in miles. But instinct tells me I need to go deeper, put more distance between us. By the time the sun has reached the apex of the sky, I’m fully animal once more. All names, all rage, all accusations or defenses fade and disappear. I simply cannot hold onto such thoughts. I’m nothing but hungry. I sink into that feeling, revel in the joy of the animal unleashed.

It’s time to hunt.

When I come to at last, I’m crouched over the carcass of a young deer. There’s blood and bone and bits of fur everywhere, and my mouth is full of warm flesh. At first, I try not to be aware, try to make my mind sink back into the safety of the animal. But my man-self relentlessly pushes further and further to the forefront of my awareness until I can no longer ignore what I am and what I am doing.

I sit back on my hairy haunches, staring at the carnage before me. At least it’s only a deer. A brutal death for such a gentle creature, but a swift one. I know my own prowess as a hunter.

Sighing, I look down at my fur-covered form, already beginning to show signs of humanity again. I’m smeared all over with gore. I could try to lick my coat clean but can’t bring myself to do so. Other days I wouldn’t hesitate. Twenty years of living like this has dulled my sense of propriety.

But after last night—after tasting the sweetness of what humanity can mean—I can’t bear to let myself fully sink back into the beast I am. Not while I have any choice about it.

“Gods help me!” I growl, rising and turning from the mutilated deer. The scent of running water tickles my nose, and I follow it to a swift-flowing creek. The icy water cannot penetrate my fur coat, but it serves well enough to wash away most of the gore and blood. By the time I climb out, I’m a little more human again, almost able to stand upright. I take a moment to inspect the two cuts from Brielle’s knife. They’re not deep, which is a mercy, for I have nothing with which to bind them. They’ll have to heal on their own, and I can only hope they won’t become infected.

Sitting heavily on the edge of the stream, I gaze down at my rippling reflection in the water, taking in the half man that I am. Then I close my eyes . . .

And I see Brielle. Lying beside me in that bed. Her body warm, her lips parted. Her eyes full of desire.

What a fool I was! To think she would come to me like that, to let myself fall for such an easy seduction! I knew better. Even in the moment I knew better. Because Brielle isn’t like that. The kiss we shared the night before . . . it was so different. Innocent in a way, though no less passionate for its innocence. It was a kiss that gave and made me want to give. It wasn’t that grasping desperation, that groping need. That possession.

I should have smelled Elorata’s influence right away. If I hadn’t fallen prey to my own cravings, my own weakness.

Growling again, I open my eyes and stare again into the water. I long ago gave up any real hope for myself. But I’d honestly believed I might be able to save Brielle. Now even that small hope is gone. Unless the witch herself can be brought down. But who would be foolish enough to try? Elorata is the most powerful ward witch in centuries. I remember only too clearly how the coven of witches and warlocks at her table cowered before her. Even Mother Ulla, stubborn and defiant though she was, ultimately would not cross her.

So Granny Dorrel will continue to rule this wardship for generations to come, sustained by her own dark magic.

My shoulders slump and my head sags heavily from my neck. I stare down at my hands planted on the earth before me—still mostly animal, but my fingers are beginning to lengthen and emerge once more. I clench them tight, squeezing hard, as though I can somehow squeeze out my own frailty.

Suddenly, my ears twitch. I frown, lifting my head, angling a little to one side. What is that sound? Am I imagining it? No, for there it goes again.

Screaming. Human screaming.

I rise to all fours, muscles tense, hair bristling down my spine. Instinct tells me to run. Screaming can mean nothing good, after all. I shouldn’t let myself get involved. Not with humans.

But what if . . . what if I could . . .

“Gods damn!” I snarl and turn toward the sound, springing into a lumbering stride. As I go, I realize I’m not as deep into Whispering Wood as I thought I was. Unless I’m much mistaken, my mindless wanderings took me in circles, and I’m no more than a mile or two away from Phaendar Hall. A disturbing thought. And where is this screaming coming from? Multiple voices, men, women, and children. Distant still, but I’m closing that distance swiftly.

I reach the edge of the forest, emerge on the rise above the dancing green. The rooftops of Gilhorn are outlined against the sky up ahead. That’s where the screaming is coming from.

I hesitate. I’ve never ventured into town while in this monstrous state. The very idea makes me recoil. But the screaming continues, tearing the air, full of terror, and beneath that screaming there’s something else. Something I can’t quite hear or sense, but which I recognize, nonetheless.

Elorata.

Gathering my limbs, I spring into motion, loping out from the shelter of the trees and across the dancing green, picking up speed as I go. People flee into the countryside all around me—men with their arms around their wives, women carrying their children. At the sight of me, their terror redoubles. The men try to fling themselves in front of their families, the women clutch their small ones close to their bosoms. Pitchforks, spades, and scythes flash before my eyes.

I ignore this rustic weaponry and plunge on into the town itself. Dodging terrified townsfolk, I make my way through the streets, head for the town square where the bulk of the noise seems to be coming from. I emerge from a narrow street and skid to a halt, swiftly taking in the scene before me. Two big oxen lie on the ground, still trapped in their traces. One of them is dead, the other dying. Blood spatters the paving stones, and the air stinks of death and carnage.

And in the midst of it all . . . the beast.

It’s a werebeast. I recognize the magic and the warping at once. But it’s not one I’ve met before, a big catlike thing with golden-red fur and stripes around its eyes and hindquarters. Despite the lateness of the day, it is wholly animal, huge and monstrous, with only the very faintest traces of humanity in its features. This is a recent transformation.

Elorata has taken a new apprentice.

Men rush into the square—three speckle-faced youths who pass for the Gilhorn town watchmen. Clad in humble leather armor, carrying rusty old swords handed down from their great-grandfathers, they surround the monster. But they stink of fear, and I know the beast can smell it too.

The werecat lunges at the first of them, knocking his sword to one side and sending him sprawling flat on his back. One huge paw plants on his chest, claws digging straight into the leather. The young man screams. One of his fellow watchmen stands in place, shocked, staring. The other, however charges the cat from behind. The werecat’s sensitive ears hear his approach, and it whips around, avoiding the slice of his old blade. The steel hits the stones like a ringing bell, and the watchman stumbles. A sideswipe from a great paw sends him flying. I would be tempted to laugh the scene wasn’t so grim.

The werecat turns again to the pinned man. Throwing back its head, it lets out a wild roar, then lunges as though to tear out the young fellow’s throat. But I’m already on the move.

I hurtle into the monster from the side, throwing all the force of my body into that blow. The beast sprawls on the paving stones but scrambles back to its feet much faster than I would have expected. Spitting foam, it locks its gaze on me, fire dancing in its green eyes. If it’s surprised to see another werebeast, it doesn’t show it.

“Easy there, kittycat,” I say, forcing the words through my half-animal muzzle. “You don’t really want to do this. I know it’s frightening just now, but soon you will—”

The cat throws back its head and yowls. The next instant, it hurtles straight at me. I’m neither as fast nor as nimble as the werecat, impeded by my own slowly returning humanity. But I’m bigger and bulkier by far. I use that bulk now, rising to meet the beast’s attack. It launches into me, but I catch it by its outstretched forelimbs. We struggle, both braced on our hind legs, eye to eye.

And as I stare into those eyes, I see . . . I see . . .

“Brielle?” I gasp.

The werecat blinks.

Then it lunges again, using all the force in its powerful haunches. I’m too startled, and the force of her lunge knocks me from my feet. I land hard, the breath knocked out of me, and have no time to recover before she’s on top of me, jaws tearing at my throat. The thick fur of my ruff offers some protection. I catch hold of her with my clawed hands, wrenching her head back. She tears at my shoulders, my chest, her claws seeking to dig into my flesh.

Some distant part of me is aware of the watchmen regathering. Someone is shouting something about crossbows.

The next instant, a bolt hits the ground right next to my ear and pings off the stone. I whip my head about, looking for the source of that bolt. The werecat takes the opportunity to spring away from me. A second bolt whistles just over her head. She flinches, crouching to all fours.

“Get out of here!” I cry, turning to her desperately. “Get out of here before they kill us both!”

But she’s too wild. She doesn’t understand.

She snarls at the archers positioned in the upper windows of the nearest building. Her sights set on them with predatory bloodlust, she lunges straight for the building, heedless of my cries.

A single flying leap takes her most of the way to the windowsill, and her claws dig into wood and plaster. She climbs, impossibly, even as more crossbow bolts fly at her. But the angle is wrong; the marksmen cannot land a hit. She reaches the window, catches one man by the front of his tunic, flings him out over her shoulder.

I’m on my feet and diving already. I catch the fellow and roll across the ground with him in my arms. I don’t have time to set him down gently, but simply drop him where we land.

Then I’m running toward the building myself, leaping, flying through the air. I hit the werecat, wrap my arms around her, drag her back down. We land hard with her on top. Shocked by the impact, I lie stunned, the breath knocked from my lungs.

The werecat rolls off me, her lips pulled back in a terrible snarl. She’s about to lunge at me again when a bolt strikes her in the haunch. She screams and spins in place, trying to knock the thing out. Another bolt hits her shoulder.

“Brielle!” I shout. “Brielle, run!”

Does she understand me? Her gaze, frenzied with pain, meets mine for an instant. Is there a flash of comprehension there?

Then, moving fast despite the bolts bristling from her body, she springs away from the village square and disappears among the houses. I can only hope she’ll make it out to the green and, beyond that, to the Wood.

I rise, chest heaving. Watchmen surround me, both the three on foot in the square and the archers in the windows above. They’re reloading their crossbows. I cast a glance at the fellow I’d caught and saved, who’s just pulling himself up, shaking his head blearily. We lock gazes for an instant. His eyes widen.

Then I turn and gallop away, leap over the carcass of the dead ox, and race back through the streets of Gilhorn in pursuit of the werecat.