Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

In the darkness I see that moment over and over again.

The Monster Hunter straddling the prone hump of red fur and splayed limbs.

Grasping the fur on top of the skull. Pulling the head back. Exposing the throat.

The plunge of his blade.

It was a quick death. Of that, at least, I have no doubt. Conrad knows his trade. The red werebeast never even knew we were coming.

But no . . . that’s not true.

She knew.

She knew the so-called freedom Granny gave her wasn’t freedom at all. It was a waiting period. Waiting for the death that was sure to come sooner rather than later.

I let out my breath in a stream of bubbles. Then, surging upward, my head breaks the surface of my bathwater, and I gasp in a lungful of air. With one hand I wipe water and soap from my eyes, blinking at my surroundings.

I’m back in my rose-and-white room. When I entered, I found a large bath basin pulled close to the flickering fire, filled to the brim with steaming water and flower-scented bubbles spilling over the sides. It was, like everything else in this room, a lie, of course. There might actually be a basin of some kind, but the water was probably tepid at best, and those bubbles? Knowing Granny, they were probably just scum and frog eggs, unstrained from the stagnant pond water used to fill the basin.

But I stripped out of my hunting clothes and entered the glamour gratefully. I sank down deep into the suds, letting the imagined heat and the nostril-stinging sweetness purge away the dirt and grime of the day.

Then I sank deeper still, plunging my head. And wished I could let this water cleanse my very soul.

Why am I so bothered about it all? It was just a monster. And I didn’t even kill it! I stood by like a lousy lump and watched.

But that’s just it.

I stood by.

And I watched.

Watched while Conrad took the unsuspecting creature down with a single shot straight through the heart. Watched while he strode swiftly forward and made sure of his kill by slitting her throat. Watched while he hacked that misshapen head from those muscular shoulders, watched while he deposited the trophy into his sack.

Only then did he look up and meet my eye.

He never once spoke to me throughout the day. Though he’d agreed to train me, apparently, in his mind, training meant allowing me to tag along in his footsteps. To be sure, I could learn a lot by simply observing him. Within five minutes of entering Whispering Wood, I realized he could have easily shaken me off and lost me without a second thought. I’m skilled at navigating the secrets of the Wood and its ways, but this man . . . he’s something else entirely. So natural and at home in this perilous environment, one might almost think he was fae.

Maybe he is part fae. It can be difficult to judge sometimes.

While he maintained a stony silence, I directed him to the last place I’d seen the werebeast, all the way to the same hateful hickory tree that tripped me. From there, Conrad took the lead, pursuing the red werebeast’s trail. Though several times I’d dared to hope the creature had lost us, the Monster Hunter was never baffled for long.

The end of the hunt had been inevitable.

Without breaking eye-contact with me, Conrad tied the sack fast. “This one’s hard,” he said.

The sound of his voice after so many long hours of silence startled me. I jumped like a frightened deer and only just stopped myself from scampering into the trees.

“This one . . .” Conrad shook his head slowly, his jaw working behind his beard. “Werebeasts are too close to people. Sometimes . . . sometimes it feels wrong.” He finished tying the sack, then straightened and slung it over his shoulder, turning to face me straight on. “But the job’s got to be done. By someone.”

“Got to be done,” I whisper now, my mouth close to the surface of the scented bathwater. My breath blows little flotillas of bubbles in eddies and ripples.

Then I close my eyes and sink back under the water. If only I could stay here in the warmth and the darkness. If only I could let my breath go and not surface for another. If only I could simply . . . cease.

But Granny has already assigned me a task for tomorrow. I must fulfill it. Like it or not.

But who knows? Maybe this Quisandoral—whatever it is—will kill me.

One can always hope.

The following morning, I shoulder my quiver and step out into Granny’s murky garden, all blurry and gray in the light of the newly risen sun. I stomp through the indistinctness, making for the iron gate, which swings silently open at my approach.

No sign of Granny. But then, that’s not surprising. She gave me all her instructions last night over dinner.

“The Quisandoral,” she informed me between bites of illusioned meat pie that was probably just some old, boiled turnips, “is a demon. A First Age demon, so not particularly strong anymore. But full of ancient malice. You must go carefully if you wish to survive.”

A demon. Great. I’ve faced a good number of monsters and menaces over the last eight years of my life as I plunged deeper and deeper into Whispering Wood. But a demon is a new one.

Lucky me.

I listened somewhat absently as Granny continued with a series of directions—how to find the demon, how to navigate its domain. What exactly I’m looking for. I nodded, grunted as necessary, and picked at the food in front of me until the old witch finally came to an end.

“Now you must be prompt,” she concluded. “The witches of eight surrounding wardships are due to pay me a call tomorrow evening.”

“Really?” This at last piqued my interest. I know that Granny is one of many established ward witches whose task it is to guard ordinary folk from the perils of Whispering Wood. I’ve met one other ward witch in my day, a grouchy old biddy by the name of Mother Ulla. And, of course, I knew the witches all communed with each other to some degree or another. But Granny Dorrel had always struck me as an independent sort—set apart from others of her kind, aloof as a distant queen. The idea of her playing hostess to the likes of Mother Ulla was . . . intriguing.

I wonder what Mother Ulla would think of my current little arrangement with my grandmother.

“Listen to me,” Granny said sharply, drawing my attention back to her. “You must pay attention. I need you to handle this job and return before sunset. Before the witches arrive. Do you understand me?”

She might have ended on a question, but I heard the command in her tone loud and clear. “Yes, Granny,” I muttered, and shoveled a bite of meat pie into my mouth.

Granny hasn’t bothered to see me off this morning. Which is a relief. It’s a relief as well to step through the iron gate and leave the gloomy nothing of a garden behind me in exchange for the solid green and gold shadows of Whispering Wood. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in deep. The subtle scents of the forest fill my senses—scents of rot and growth, death and renewal, darkness and sudden, bursting light. All underscored by a deeper, stronger, indescribable scent of mystery.

I love the Wood. I love it in a way I can’t begin to explain. If it were up to me, I’d disappear into its depths right now, this very morning, and never look back, either at my own world or this wretched, tiny world of Granny’s in which I’ve been ensnared. I would run and run and run until I had no breath left in me.

Maybe I would go searching for Valera. Maybe . . .

The sound of approaching footsteps brings me back to myself. I open my eyes in time to see Dire appear through the trees. He’s fully human, and he’s wearing . . . very little.

A hot flush rises in my cheeks. It shouldn’t surprise me, of course. I know perfectly well that his slow transformation from wolf back to man doesn’t bring with it accompanying clothing. He’s only wearing what somehow managed to survive the night—a bit of cloth that might once have been a pair of trousers hanging loose from his hips. He’s like a creature of the wild, his body honed to perfectly defined muscle and sinew, not bulky, but lean and powerful.

I shake my head and yank my gaze up to his face. Also lean and strong, the bones standing out a little too sharply beneath taut skin, his eyes and mouth framed by stern lines. Funny how even in his man’s shape, the underlying image of the wolf remains.

“Well.” I tilt my head to one side, hoping my tone betrays none of the nervous tension the sight of him sends rippling through my veins. “Are you ready for a little adventuring today?”

He growls. It’s an animal sound, but somehow worse coming from a near-human throat. “I trust you know the way to . . . wherever it is we’re going.”

“I do.”

He waits a moment as though to give me a chance to explain. When I offer nothing, however, he simply steps to one side and waves a hand, indicating for me to take the lead. I stride forward, plunging into the forest.

Granny told me last night that the Hinter Path would take us to the Quisandoral’s garden. “It can only be reached by traveling the shadow of an owl in flight,” she’d said.

Great. Finding an owl at dawn wouldn’t be the simplest task. But I do have an idea.

“I don’t suppose your sniffer is at top performance this time of day, is it?” I toss over my shoulder.

Dire, walking several paces behind me, grunts. “My . . . sniffer?” I glance back just in time to see his confused expression clear. “Oh, you mean my—no. No, it’s not particularly strong at this hour, I’m afraid.”

“No matter.” I face forward again and push on, ducking beneath boughs and weaving through underbrush. “I know a likely spot.”

I don’t bother to explain. I don’t think he’s particularly interested anyway. This isn’t his quest, after all. Just like last time, his job is simply to keep me alive. Like a gods-blighted babysitter. Not a job I envy, truth be told. Back in the day, back when Valera and I lived with our drunkard father in the old Normas family home, we had to scrape every spare coin together just to keep ourselves fed and clothed. Valera worked as a stitch-girl at a dressmaker’s shop. I, still less fortunate, had the unpleasant task of watching other people’s children . . . possibly the worst job any person could ever endure.

Well actually, I take that back. Hunting other people’s monsters is infinitely worse.

At least I’m not going after a monster today. Granny needs an apple—one of the golden apples that grows from a tree in the center of the Quisandoral’s garden. A tarathieli tree, it’s called, one from a sacred arbor planted by the Goddess Elawynn back in the dawn of the worlds.

“Be certain it’s the topmost apple from the topmost bough of the centermost tree,” Granny had said last night. “Anything less, and the magic will be useless to me.”

“Yes, Granny,” I muttered then.

“Yes, Granny,” I mutter again now as I trudge through the trees. I cast a sidelong glance back at the werewolf-man again, unexpectedly meeting his eye. My cheeks heat, and I face forward quickly. Which is stupid, really. Why should I care if he catches me looking at him? It wasn’t as though I was really looking at him. A glance is hardly a look.

But I wish I could ask him about previous tasks he’s performed for Granny. Ask what it’s like to be Granny’s slave year after year after year. Ask him if there’s any hope of holding onto a small piece of personhood, of dignity. Of honor.

But what’s the point? Though he might look like a person right now, already I can see signs of the change. His limbs are subtly lengthening, his face elongating, fur sprouting along his arms and shoulders.

He’s not a person. He’s a monster. One doesn’t make conversation with a monster.

I press on silently, following an inkling of an idea. I know a place where an old hollow oak tree stands, scarred by the lightning that struck and killed it long ago. I found it back when I was still trying to make my way to Granny’s house for the first time, before I’d discovered the secret of the holly path. I still vividly recall the uneasy feeling that had come over me at the sight of that poor dead tree. Oaks are friendly to humans, one of the few trees in Whispering Wood I could count on to not actively seek my harm. Seeing one dead and rotting like this had been a bit of a shock.

But I also remember the hollow opening far up the oak’s trunk. It had struck me at the time as an excellent roosting place for an owl.

We arrive at the tree now. It had been a large, grand thing back in its day, the canopy of its branches casting such dark shadows that little undergrowth dared to creep in around its roots. Those shadows were gone now, the dead branches bare of leaves, but still the rest of the forest hasn’t dared to encroach. Perhaps out of some sort of respect to the dead.

Shading my eyes, I peer up the side of the trunk to the hollow a good twelve feet up. I frown. There’s something a little odd about that hole. Something I’d not noticed the last time I passed this way. A faint shimmering of magic, a warping of some kind.

Looking at the hollow now, I can’t help feeling that it’s somehow much bigger than it looks to the naked eye.

“Well,” I say, lowering my hand and planting my fist on my hip. “Here we are then.”

Dire steps to my side, crossing his arms over his bare chest. If he’s curious, he doesn’t show it. His expression, glimpsed in profile, is utterly unreadable. He’s determined to make it through this day without speaking to me save when absolutely necessary . . . which is fine by me.

“Wait here,” I tell him, even as I unsling my quiver and drop both it and my bow in a pile beside the werewolf. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He regards me from beneath faintly upraised brows. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him and instead turn to the tree. It doesn’t have any conveniently low boughs for me to climb, but the trunk has a gnarled tumor near its base, and the whole tree grows at such a severe tilt, I should be able to scramble up, fitting my fingers into cracks in the bark.

I approach the tree. There are strange things lying all around its base, dark lumps that I at first took for clumps of dirt. On closer inspection, they don’t seem to be dirt at all, but clusters of . . . bone. And hair. And other strange things. Owl pellets? The smallest is about the size of a small cat. Which is not very encouraging.

I stop at the base of the trunk, considering. What kind of owl will I find up there? Or is it an owl at all?

I feel Dire’s gaze on the back of my head. Not wanting him to see me hesitate, I scramble up the tumorous trunk and swiftly scale the twelve feet to the opening. Here, that sense ofwarping strangeness intensifies. But it’s just a sense and doesn’t seem to have any physical effect on me. Sometimes that’s how magic is—present but not pertinent, as it were. I push on until I reach the lip of the hollow.

Slowly, cautiously, I raise my head. Peer inside.

There’s something in there all right. Something huge.

It’s an owl. Or rather . . . not quite.

My heart suddenly in my throat, I lower myself slowly. My hands are trembling so hard, I struggle to maintain my hold on the trunk as I inch my way back down. When my feet touch solid ground, it’s all I can do not to turn and flee. Instead, I force myself to stand there, drawing deep breaths, taking care that my body language betrays nothing of the adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins.

That owl . . . I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely more than an owl. Will it serve my purpose? Will its shadow open the way to the demon’s garden?

If I’m wise, I’ll get out of here now. Find a different owl. There’s got to be plenty of them in this forest, right? But it might take hours. Even now, I feel the compulsion of Granny’s command wrapping around me like a snake. I’m to follow an owl shadow-path to the demon’s garden and return by sundown. If I walk away from this opportunity, is that a contradiction of my orders? Can I even walk away?

I breathe out a long sigh through blustering lips. After all, if I’m going to die today, does it really matter whether it’s by an owl-monster or a demon?

Setting my face into a hard mask, I begin to circle the tree. As I go, I reach out with my senses, grabbing at little pieces of magic in the air and pulling them to me. It’s not much of a spell so far as spells go. Not real magic, at least not in the way I’ve always thought of magic with all its potions and runes and sigils and things. Still, I’ve had years of practice, so it doesn’t take me long to gather what I need.

All the while, I feel Dire’s cold gaze upon me.

I’m just looping the tree a third time when I happen to look up and catch his narrow-eyed stare. His eyes have turned from gray back to yellow, and his face is covered in a lot more fur than just his trim gray beard.

“What?” I demand.

“You’re opening a Hinter Path,” he says.

“That’s about the shape of things, yes.”

“Can we not simply walk to our destination?”

I give him a look. “Do you know a shortcut to this demon’s garden?”

“The Quisandoral?”

“That’s the one.”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your answer then.” I keep circling, gathering the motes of magic and stringing them together in a trailing line behind me. At least, that’s one way to describe it. It’s not like I can actually feel or see the magic. But I sense the effect. I’ve got enough gathered now; I could open the path—if the conditions are right.

I glance back at the werewolf again in time to see him shudder. He really hates walking the paths. I’d almost feel sorry for him. You know, if he wasn’t a monster.

“You can stay behind if you’re afraid,” I say with a sneer.

He shoots me a withering stare. We both know perfectly well that Granny’s command compels him to follow me, regardless of his feelings. He could be positively fainting with terror, and he would still have to tag along at my heels. My bitter, resentful protector.

I finish the final circle of the tree and come to a stop, gazing up to the hollow. I need to get the owl flying so I can catch the shadow and open the path. But if I climb the tree again while trying to hold onto this delicate bit of magic, it’ll break to pieces in my hand.

I turn to Dire. “All right, big fellow. Time to put you to some use.”

“I am already of use,” he responds stiffly. He’s got a tail again now. It lashes irritably behind him. “I’m watching over you. Seeing that no harm comes to you.”

“Well, I’m not in any immediate trouble, am I?”

“Not so far as I can detect, but—”

“And I will be in trouble if I don’t do what Granny asks of me, right?”             

He doesn’t respond.

“Right.” I smile as though I’ve won a point, though I’m not altogether certain I have. “So, in the spirit of keeping me out of trouble, I need you to climb up there and wake the owl sleeping inside this old tree. Get it to fly out, will you?”

He sniffs the air delicately. He’s beginning to form a muzzle, and the distortion of his face is unsettling. His lips curl, revealing a line of sharp teeth. “That’s no owl.”

“What is it then?”

“An owlkin.”

I blink. Then I roll my eyes. “Sounds close enough to me.” I pause a moment, however, my brow puckering. “So . . . what exactly is an owlkin?”

He looks at me, his yellow eyes glittering strangely. “It’s a sort of woodland sprite—but not the good kind. By night, they look somewhat like large, winged men and women, and they prey upon travelers through the Wood. Come dawn, they vomit up the souls of their victims, after which they slowly revert back to a more natural owl state as a sort of disguise while they sleep.”

Slowly, my gaze moves from Dire to travel around the clearing beneath the dead oak, looking at each of those awful, overlarge clumps. Pellets. Vomited souls? My stomach turns over. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ll lose what little breakfast I managed to eat this morning.

Swallowing with an effort, I turn and face Dire again, offering him a determined smile. “It’s daytime now. So presumably the creature sleeping up there is an owl, right?”

“It wears an owl form, yes,” Dire agrees reluctantly. “But it’s still not an owl. Not really.”

“Close enough.” I set my jaw. “And I still need you to make it fly.”

He shakes his head heavily. I hear a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll do it myself then.”

With that, I turn for the tree. There’s no way I can climb up there, drive the sleeping thing inside into flight, and catch whatever path opens in its wake all while holding onto this handful of magic. But something tells me I won’t have to.

I’m not wrong.

Before I’ve gone two paces, a huge hand lands on my shoulder. I bite back a triumphant grin. I knew his compulsion would force him to protect me, even if that means protecting me from my own rash decisions. Turning, I meet his gaze and raise one eyebrow.

He snarls. “Stand back, girl.”

Tilting my head, I step to one side. The werewolf sighs enormously. With a last vicious look my way, he strides between the huge pellets and approaches the tree. I gather my quiver and bow, then stand at the ready on the edge of the clearing, my handful of magic upraised. Whichever way the owl flies, I’ll have to dart into its shadow, drawing the gathered magic with me to open the path. I’ve never opened a path quite like this one. It’s going to be tricky.

Dire scales the tree quickly, his enlarged hands, now tipped with claws, tearing into the brittle, dead bark. He reaches the hollow and, ears flattened, peers inside. I watch a shudder ripple down his spine just before he casts a look back at me over his shoulder. He shakes his head, his eyes wide.

“Go on!” I urge, motioning with one hand. “Go on, do it!”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, the werewolf faces the hollow again and leans into the dark opening. He reaches one arm inside.

The next moment, a shriek rips the quiet morning air.

Dire flies back from the opening, falling the whole twelve feet to the hard, root-gnarled ground below. In his human form, a fall like that may have done serious damage, and I’m not sure how much this larger, wolfish form protects him. I scarcely have time for a flash of worry, however, before all my attention is diverted to movement in the hollow.

The owlkin emerges.

Massive black feathers tipped with blue fan out to make the already enormous bird look bigger still. But it’s more than a bird—I see that truth at once. Beneath the spread of its wings, two large, humanoid arms appear, gripping the ragged lip of the hole, talon nails tearing deep into the bark. Its four saucer-like eyes, stacked two atop each other, blink blindly out into the morning sun.

Then its flat head angles, catching the sound of the werewolf’s labored breathing as Dire struggles to pick himself up. The owlkin crouches. I see those awful hands tense, the wings spreading, gathering for a lunge.

“Watch out!” I scream.

The owlkin descends like a bolt of lightning. Two taloned feet lash out, very nearly catching the werewolf by the chest. Dire rolls, and the talons tear into dirt and roots instead. Vast wings pulse and swoop, even as the unnatural arms reach out, bracing for balance. I catch a glimpse of the owlkin’s body beneath the wings, weirdly manlike but covered with feathers.

Part of me wants to raise my bow and shoot an arrow over the creature’s head, startling it into flight. But to do that, I’d have to drop the carefully accumulated magic, ending my chance of opening the path. But maybe . . .

“Hey!” I wave my free arm. “Hey! Over here!”

The owlkin’s four blind eyes turn to me, the disk-shaped head swiveling.

I kneel, scoop up a stone, and fling it. My aim is good; the stone strikes the owlkin directly on the beak.

It screeches. Spreads its wings.

The next instant, it’s lunging straight at me. And I’m frozen, like a stupid little mouse, watching those talons closing down on me—

Something large and muscular slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I tumble, feel the whoosh of feathers and talons sweep over my head. Then I’m crushed beneath a huge body, and for a moment, I think the owlkin has pinned me, is about to tear into me with its razor beak, shredding the flesh from my bones. Instead, the musky scent of man and wolf fills my nostrils. It’s not feathers I feel brushing against my cheek, but fur.

Dire pulls back. My spinning vision tries to make sense of his awful face. I see his jaw open, hear him roar, “There it goes!”

My limbs jolt. My path! I can’t miss it!

“Get off me,” I growl, pushing against his chest. He backs away, and I scramble into a kneeling position. I just see black wings disappearing into the trees, angling somehow so that the enormous body glides soundlessly through a space that should be far too small for it. Its shadow flits across the ground in its wake.

I draw back my arm and hurl the accumulated magic.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then—ah! Seven gods be praised, there it is! The shimmering distortion of reality that precedes the opening of a gate. The owlkin’s long shadow spreads, spilling out in a long, narrow path leading into the trees. It won’t stay open long.

“After it!” I cry, nearly falling on my face in my haste to get to my feet. Without looking to make certain Dire is with me, I stagger, stumble, catch my stride, and leap for the path. My foot comes down hard on the shadow, and I feel the moment of transition, the moment as I pass over.

Whispering Wood fades around me, and the strangeness of the Hinter closes in.