Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
She left a clear trail into the wood. I can be grateful for that, at least. I scarcely need my wolf senses to guide me; I simply follow the blood and broken branches, an obvious path even for an inexpert tracker.
She makes it farther than I thought possible. With those wounds, I would have expected her to collapse long before now. But Brielle always surprises me with her strength of spirit. And with this new monstrous form Elorata has given her, she now has bodily strength to match. Maybe she’ll even survive those wounds. Maybe . . .
I hasten on. The sun is falling faster now, and I’m losing my wolf form, becoming nothing more than a man. But I push on. I have no way of knowing what I’ll find at the end of the trail. A dead girl? A savage monster? When I was first transformed, it was days before my human form returned. But then, I wasn’t Elorata’s blood kin. I had nothing with which to fight her magic, while Brielle is much more resistant than she realizes.
The bloody trail seems a little fresher now. I’m getting close, I’m sure of it. The gurgle of running water plays in my ears. I redouble my pace. She’ll make for water. If her animal senses are guiding her, she’ll be drawn that way.
I push through foliage and low branches, which lash at my bare skin, leaving small cuts. But I emerge in a clear space by the stream and, turning my gaze upstream, I spy her at last. Not the great golden cat that she was, but her. Brielle. She lies outstretched beside the water, one hand and long snarls of her hair trailing in the flow. Naked. Small. Vulnerable.
My heart thuds painfully at the sight.
At first, I’m almost afraid to approach, afraid to discover that she’s dead. But no! She’s breathing. I can see her ribcage rising and falling. I step to her side, kneel, my hands hesitant to reach out and touch her. She looks so small, so frail in her nakedness. And, though I hate to admit it, my gaze longs to drink in the sight of her like this, to take in her well-formed, muscular limbs, her soft, feminine curves . . .
I shake this unwholesome desire away, concentrating instead on her injuries. Neither of the crossbow bolts penetrated deeply, thank the gods. They lie nearby; I guess they fell out when her body reverted to human shape. But she’s still bleeding badly, and I have nothing with which to stop the blood. I don’t even have clothes of my own to tear and turn into makeshift bandages.
I make do with what I can find, grabbing leaves from a nearby sycamore and pressing them against her shoulder and thigh. The bolt to her shoulder struck not far from the scar left by Conrad’s knife, but at least this wound is not so deep. I manage to get the blood stopped, then pack more leaves against the wounds and tie them in place with a bit of tough vine pulled from a nearby tree. It’ll have to do.
And now . . . what?
I sit back, gazing down at the girl. Fur is starting to creep back in along her shoulders and arms. My human form won’t last much longer either, for the sun is already mostly set, and darkness closes in. Do I dare pick her up and carry her back to Phaendar Hall? But Elorata knows that’s where I took her before. Once she realizes Brielle is missing again, she’ll send her two werebeasts directly there to sniff us out. I’ve got to think of something else.
A memory stirs in the back of my mind: an image of Brielle standing on the edge of Elorata’s northernmost border, talking to a fat witch on the other side.
Mother Ulla.
Mother Ulla, who had, at least to a certain degree, stood up to Elorata.
Mother Ulla, who had even dared leave a rune mark on one of Granny’s trees.
Would she help us? Is there even a chance?
Desperation churning my gut, I scoop Brielle into my arms, shivering at the sensation of her bare flesh pressed against mine. But our animal bodies will return soon, and with them the barrier of fur between us. Meanwhile, I can’t wait for propriety’s sake. I’ve got to get moving.
Cradling her close to my pounding heart, I stride into the forest, setting a determined pace.
It is many hours past sunset by the time I reach the border. My wolf form is dominant, which is good. I need those animal senses to help me navigate through the night shadows.
Struggling a little to walk upright and carry Brielle in my forelimbs, I creep up to a certain tree, sniffing at recent knife cuts. I think I smell the residue of the rune mark the witch left. This is definitely the place where Brielle confronted that fat little ward witch.
I look down at my burden. She’s much more animal than human now. I no longer feel the feverish warmth of her skin, for velvety fur covers most of her body. She’s very still in my arms, but I feel the pulse of life in her, thready but present.
“I spend much too much of my life carrying your wounded hide around the Wood,” I growl softly.
Did she stir at the sound of my voice? Did her brows pucker slightly? It might be a trick of the light and my own imagination.
Turning my gaze to the forest on the far side of the invisible boundary, I draw a deep breath into my lungs. Then I throw back my head and howl, “Mother Ulla!” My voice rings through the trees, echoing and reechoing until it is lost.
Only silence answers.
But then, what did I expect? The ward witch probably retired to her bed long ago. Why would she happen to be out at such a late hour, patrolling this particular part of her wardship? It was foolish of me to hope. But I can’t give up now.
I howl again, throwing my voice even further. “Mother Ulla! Help us! Please!”
I sound more animal than human, my words almost inarticulate. But the emotion and the need are there. I want to howl and howl and keep on howling until I’ve made enough noise to bring the old witch running. But it won’t do Brielle any good if the racket I make draws Elorata’s two other werebeasts to us. No doubt they’re out hunting even now.
Growling, I pace up and down the border, scanning the far side for any sign of movement. Several times I step too near the invisible boundary and leap back as searing pain rips across my senses. I know well enough what will happen if I try to cross over. Will it be the same for Brielle? Have I brought her out here for nothing?
Shaking these thoughts from my head, I lift my voice, crying out one last time, “Mother Ulla, I beg of you! Hear me!”
“All right, all right, enough of that racket.”
I spring back from the boundary, blinking hard. Even with my wolf senses, I struggle to discern anything on the far side. There’s just an impression. A shape, a silhouette that I smell rather than see. It smells of mothballs and basil and good, clean dirt.
“Mother Ulla?” I ask.
The next moment, the impression clarifies. The silhouette becomes a fat old lady in a patchwork gown, her broad-brimmed hat pulled low over one eye, both gnarled hands gripping a long, twisted witch’s staff. Her one visible eye snaps at me like a glinting hot coal in the night.
“Well now. Ain’t you looking a bit different from how I last saw you? I knew you was wearin’ glamours when you served at table that night, but . . . gods above love me, I had no idea them glamours were that strong.”
“They weren’t,” I answer. “At that hour, I’m mostly human anyway. The glamours simply maintained the appearance a little longer than usual.”
“Eh?” The witch snorts. “You sayin’ this ain’t your natural self? You goes back and forth?”
I nod. “Indeed, good Mother.” My tone is respectful, if a bit rumbling in my animal throat. “I’m a werewolf. I spend my life between two states of existence, sometimes more of one, sometimes more of the other.”
Mother Ulla lets out a long, wheezing breath that ends with a curse. “A werewolf!” She shakes her head, the bent peak of her tall hat flapping. “I’ve heard rumors here and there, but . . . you know how it is. None of us likes to cross Granny now, does we? Sometimes it’s easiest to turn a blind eye or a deaf ear. Not proud of it, but it’s the truth. Still, I knew in my bones all weren’t well.”
She nods then at the bundle in my arms. “And what’s that there? The girl? Granny’s girl?”
I take a half step closer to the boundary, holding Brielle up so that a stray beam of moonlight falls on her face, illuminating the catlike features. Mother Ulla inhales a sharp hiss. “Gods save us, did that old crone go and use Black Magic on her own flesh and blood?”
I nod again. “She’s wounded,” I add. “Marksmen from Gilhorn. She was out of the wood, rampaging through town like a rabid creature. They shot her.”
“Rampaging you say?” Mother Ulla grunts. “I ain’t never heard tell of a werebeast being that careless. Granny must have sent her there. Must have wanted her to get shot.”
Bile rises in my throat. I’ve wondered as much myself, however. After all, in the twenty years of my enslavement, I’ve never once stepped foot out of Whispering Wood. Granny doesn’t like her creatures being seen.
“Please,” I say, “can you help her?”
Mother Ulla’s lips twitch to one side then the other, her visible eye glimmering as she studies the creature Brielle has become. “Granny put a compulsion on her, didn’t she? I ain’t often known Granny Dorrel to put a foot wrong, but she’s made a mistake here all right. Compulsion magic is wicked stuff at the best of times, but putting it on your own kin? That’s downright stupid, that is! No wonder the girl revolted. And this!” She lifts a hand from her staff and waves it vaguely to indicate Brielle’s transformed body. “A curse like that on top of a compulsion is just too much. If Granny ain’t broken some of her own spells along the way, she’s certainly compromised them.”
“What does that mean?” I don’t know whether to be hopeful, frustrated, or fearful. “Can you help her or not?”
“Ain’t sure. But I might. Under ordinary circumstances, no way. But in this case . . .” The witch sucks on one tooth thoughtfully for some moments. Then she nods. “Put her down on the ground there, easy-like. I’m going to try something.”
I obey, laying Brielle as close to the borderline as I dare. Even then, the proximity makes my fur prickle uncomfortably. I hope it doesn’t add to Brielle’s pain. I arrange her body to put as little pressure on the wounds as possible. My awkward leaf and vine bandages are falling apart, but I can smell that no fresh blood is flowing. That’s a good sign at least.
Mother Ulla, meanwhile, mutters to herself and digs the end of her staff in the dirt. I don’t have much affinity for magic, but I feel a tension in the air that tells me magic is stirring. Are those runes the witch is drawing in the earth?
Finally, Mother Ulla comes to the end of her spell. She crouches, groaning as she does so, her back and knees clicking audibly. But once she’s close to the ground, she lays out her staff so that the twisted, rootlike head points toward Elorata’s boundary. To my surprise, the roots begin to grow and twist, shooting out from the end of the staff. A greenish glow surrounds them, a glow I’m not quite certain I see but might be smelling instead. It’s a sharp scent, not altogether unpleasant.
The roots stretch further and further until they creep across the boundary line into Granny’s wardship. Once across, they sprout more little branching arms that wrap around Brielle, covering her from head to foot. I growl sharply, but stop myself from lunging at it, no matter how much I want to. I came to Mother Ulla for help, after all. I’d better not interfere now.
Slowly, cautiously, the staff branches pull Brielle to the boundary. Every nerve in my body spikes, every hair stands on end. Will she survive? Or will Elorata’s curse kill her for trying to escape?
There’s a moment of resistance . . . a moment when I feel Elorata’s magic pushing back. Mother Ulla grunts and mutters something, scratching in the dirt next to the staff with one hand. Another rune, another flare of magic. The resistance gives way. The branches pull Brielle to the other side of the boundary, all the way to where the witch crouches.
Mother Ulla puts a finger to Brielle’s pulse.
“Is she all right?” I ask, leaning heavily on my forelegs. “Is she alive?”
“Yup. Still breathing.” Mother Ulla shoots me a wry look. “Gone and lost your heart to this fool girl, didn’t you? Well, I guess a body can’t blame you, brute that you are. Like calls to like, so they say.”
While I’m still puzzling out whether I’ve just been insulted, Mother Ulla gets to her feet and picks up her staff. To my shock, she lifts Brielle right along with it—the girl suspended in the air above the witch’s head in a network of tiny branches, like a bizarre parasol.
“Sorry I can’t get you over,” Mother Ulla says, tossing me a look over her shoulder. “That curse Granny’s got on you . . . it’s a bad’un. Not something I can break. But it can be broken; did you know?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“But you ain’t gots the guts to go through with it?”
I shake my head slowly. “I would rather die.”
Mother Ulla cackles. “Typical! You sound a bit like this one here.”
“What will happen to her?” I ask, taking a tentative step nearer the boundary. I try to see Brielle’s face through the snarl of branches containing her, but they’re too densely grown. “Can you help her?”
“I should think so. And then I’m gonna try to convince her to put as much distance between herself and her grandmother as she possibly can. Something tells me she ain’t going to like what I’ve got to say, however.” The witch raises a bristling eyebrow, giving me a significant look. “Something tells me she’ll be hightailing it back here as soon as she rightly can.”
“You can’t let her.”
“Don’t think I gots much say in the matter.” She shrugs. “But I’ll do my best. Off with you now, wolf boy! You done what you can for the girl. I’ll do what I can now.”
With that, she turns away from the boundary line and totters off into the night-darkened forest, leaning heavily on her staff for support. Her staff, which continues to smell of glowing magic, and which holds Brielle wrapped in its branchy grip over the witch’s head. It’s the strangest sight I’ve ever seen.
I watch until they vanish into the underbrush. Then I stand there a while longer, breathing deep, inhaling the last traces of Brielle’s scent.
She’s gone.
Gone.
Gods willing, she won’t be back.
My lips curled back in an ugly snarl, I turn my back to the boundary line. Then, tossing back my head, I howl to the moon overhead before racing off into the trees.