Howl of the Wolf (Heirs to the Throne Book 1) (9 page)

Donovan said, “Good.  If I must submit to tests, I prefer being in your control.”  He brushed a stray hair away from her face.  “What do you want me to do, my beauty?”  He winked as he clasped her hot fingers and raised them to his lips. 

Understanding the twinkle in Donovan’s eyes, she withdrew her hand and said, “Pebbles, my dear.  Only pebbles.” 

Donovan shrugged.  Krystal spilled the pebbles onto the table with a flip of her slender wrist.  “You must learn to control yourself.  It says so right here.”  She waved the cursed notebook in his face.  

“Anything you say.”  He saluted and she frowned.                                     

Krystal warned, “This is serious, Donovan.  It’s impossible to live up to the standards you set, so get yourself under control.”

Donovan remembered chiding slow workmen.  “You’re right, let’s get going.”

Krystal clicked the stopwatch. 

During the long, boring work session, Donovan chaffed at the tedium but made progress.  He discovered the trick.  By watching other people, he gauged his own actions to maintain a normal speed.  If he moved normally but other people slowed down or stood frozen in place, he knew he must slow his pace.  It was a matter of changing how quickly the world moved around him.  If he really wanted to move fast, he did it at will.

He dubbed his ultra-fast movements “speed time” and the speed normal people worked as “real time.”  Using speed time, Donovan moved inanimate objects without a problem, but if he touched a living animal or person, he popped back into real time. 

Donovan discovered a benefit to “timing” his actions.  After the training session, Donovan deliberately used speed time to finish unloading the ship.  He ordered large quantities of food, told his crew to ignore him, and worked at incredible speed.  Disregarding the smug smile on the doctor’s face, Donovan enjoyed his special talent.  The next day Donovan ordered Trenton to plan a route to the nearest village.  It was time to meet the natives of Drako.

*****

In the desert Jarrack spent several nights invading the dreams of the tribe’s shaman.  Assailed by dreams of a man dressed in silver with black flowing hair and eyes that consumed the soul, the shaman trembled with fear.  At the right time, the shaman would remember the messenger of the gods from his dreams. 

Jarrack hefted the pack onto his shoulder and sauntered into the camp.  The shaman sat on a rock waiting—as Jarrack knew he would—while other eyes watched Jarrack descend the mountain.  Jarrack focused on the mind of the shaman. 

The old man rose with difficulty.  His beard hung in gray strings and his hands trembled with age and fatigue.  The shaman said, “We welcome you, messenger of the gods.” 

Jarrack maintained tight control over the shaman’s mind.  He heard the correct words from the old man but the shaman’s eyes betrayed a seething anger.  When Jarrack forced the old man to kneel before him, the shaman wept with shame. 

The tribe gasped. 

They viewed themselves as free spirits, bowing to no man.  They’d rather die than wallow in the dirt like the shaman.

Jarrack grinned.  It was time the tribe recognized Jarrack as their new shaman.  He clenched his fist and the old man jerked, clutching his chest.  The shaman glared at Jarrack.  He fought through the pain and defied the devil of his dreams, cursing Jarrack and beseeching his gods for help.  With great effort he resisted Jarrack’s control, stood up, and pointed at Jarrack with a trembling finger. 

Jarrack sneered.  The old man could not resist the power of his mind!  He’d make the shaman suffer for his defiance.  Gathering strength Jarrack fought the old man’s last effort to break free of his control. 

A rasping sound escaped the shaman’s lips as he crumpled into a silent heap and died.  The mournful howl of a wolf broke the silence.  Soon other voices joined the wolf until a full chorus of howls echoed across the desert sands. 

Startled, Jarrack whirled.  He gazed into the golden eyes of a wolf, perched on the rock ledge above his head.  A prickling sensation crept down his spine as the wolf held him captive with glowing eyes.  He was unable to move until the wolf broke contact, turned, and disappeared from view. 

The dead shaman clutched a carving in his gnarled hand, the figure of a wolf with sparkling gold eyes.  

*****

Stowing the last of their equipment in the caves, Donovan heard the sound of horses approach.  He peered out.  A dozen savage men rode into the camp, swinging curved swords, their eyes wild.  Jarrack rode on a sleek black steed. 

“Stay in the cave, Krystal.  I’ll use speed time to take a closer look,” Donovan whispered.  He moved unseen through seemingly motionless horsemen.  The leader gripped his sword like a professional.  He sat poised on a magnificent animal with clear intensions on his scowling face.

These men would never respond to reason or diplomacy.  Force ruled.  How could Donovan avoid a full-blown war?  He searched the camp.  His talent did not allow him to move his people to safety; he could only move objects in speed time.  Could he create a diversion to give him the upper hand?  He hoped the warriors believed in magic.

Donovan scrambled onto a high rock, threw a handful of dirt into the air, and slipped into real time.  “Why do you ride into my camp?” Donovan shouted. 

The desert leader pulled his reins and stared at the man who appeared out of thin air.  The leader said, “You camp on our lands, foul our water, and steal the woman of our shaman.” 

Jarrack grinned. 

The leader glanced around the camp, eyeing the occupants.  “We will spare the miserable lives of these men if you return the woman, but the gods claim your life.”  He swung his sword in emphasis.

Jarrack wanted Krystal! 

Donovan growled, “Our women are free to choose their mate and she chooses me.” 

Petrified, the crew of the Zebulon stood listening.  Donovan noticed only one person move. Trenton slipped quietly behind the horsemen.

“We are strangers, led by the gods to this place.  Do you claim the land of the gods?” 

A startled expression flashed across the leader’s face.  Donovan knew his words struck to the core of the man’s superstitions.  Other riders shifted nervously in their saddles. 

Jarrack hissed, “Don’t let him fool you with words.  The woman is mine.  Spacemen are weaklings, but the gods led me to the chosen people.  I promised beautiful women to add to your tribe and you see my words are true.”  Jarrack gestured at the women standing nearby.  “They defile the land set aside for the gods!  Are you weaklings who listen to the weeping of a woman?” 

Jarrack swung his sword and spurred his horse.  “Take them!  They are faint-hearted dogs compared to the sons of the desert.”

The leader snarled and swung his sword.  As a group the warriors charged, cursing and whooping.  Women screamed and ran with riders chasing.

“No!”  Donovan’s words boomed.  “You anger the gods!  Wrath will descend upon your heads!”

The leader’s piercing gaze met Donovan’s.  “You lie!”  He whipped a dagger from his belt and hurled the blade at his enemy.  Instantly Donovan slipped into speed time, plucked the dagger from the air, and descended from his perch.

Examining the horses, Donovan loosened cinches on saddles and slipped weapons from the riders’ hands, careful to touch the objects and avoid living creatures.  A knot of anger formed in his stomach as he stared into Jarrack’s eyes.  He cringed at the evil inside those dark pits. 
I should slit Jarrack’s throat and dispatch the miserable wretch.  No.  I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.  Jarrack can wait.       

Gathering weapons into a pile, Donovan stood holding the leader’s dagger and sword above his head.  Slipping into real time, the show began. 

Saddles slipped, dumping riders to the ground.  Horses panicked, bucking and stomping in confusion.  Frightened men scurried around trying to catch frenzied mounts as the startled leader barked orders. 

Donovan laughed. 

The leader whirled and stared at Donovan with steely eyes.  He recognized the weapon in Donovan’s hand and stiffened.  Cocking his head, the leader assumed a new tone of voice, silken and soothing. 

“We did not recognize you, great and holy messenger of the gods.  Please forgive us for heeding the words of a serpent.”  He bowed, touching a hand to his forehead and then to his chest. 

Donovan imitated the motion.  “You are forgiven.  Depart.  The gods take care of their chosen ones.  They will watch your actions.  As for your weapons, we shall keep them.”

The leader glanced around.  Jarrack was gone.  With a fierce snarl, the leader mounted his horse and galloped away, followed by men with worried, fearful eyes.  

Donovan watched the warriors depart.  Krystal appeared within minutes.  “We’re not safe here,” she said.  “Shall I inform the crew to break camp?” 

“Yes.”  Donovan turned tired eyes toward her.  “I thought we were rid of Jarrack.  I may have made a mistake by not killing him when I had the chance.  Jarrack knows too much about us.”

“You’re not a murderer.  Jarrack is no match for my Captain.”

Donovan loosened a rock with his toe and kicked it with vehemence.  “Spread the word.  We’ll leave within the hour.  Destroy the ship.  I won’t leave anything behind for Jarrack to use against us.  Trenton!  Turn on the force field to keep our equipment safe in the caves.”

Donovan’s crew followed him through loyalty, love, and trust.  He moved as if he carried a heavy burden.  It took little time to complete preparations to leave.  The crew said farewell to the Zebulon as the ship disintegrated in the explosion.  Krystal gripped Donovan’s hand and whispered, “There’s no turning back now.”

*****

As Donovan sealed the caves, Jarrack watched from above, his anger burning hot.  “I’ll get you, Donovan!  I’ll learn your secret, and I’ll turn it against you.”  When the Zebulon exploded, Jarrack’s rage erupted.  “What have you done?  There’s no way off the planet with the ship gone.  Worse, the Transfer lab is gone!  How can you produce replacement bodies without the lab?”  Fear gripped him.  He trembled remembering the shaman, so feeble and old.  “No!  You can’t make me die like a weak, sick animal.  I’ll find a way to live.  You won’t defeat me, Donovan!”

After Donovan led his crew away from the spaceport, Jarrack wandered through empty rooms searching for something he could use against them.  His attempt to defeat the force field protecting the caves failed.  He searched like a man possessed until he found something he could use in a hidden room with long forgotten equipment.  He examined the black box with pleasure.  “I’ll get you, Donovan!”      

*****

Kriegen observed the two-legs with interest, hearing thoughts clearly.  Their minds were disorderly, uncontrolled, much like young cubs learning the basic lessons of the Law.

The gray sat nearby, his tongue dangling.  Kriegen disliked the heat of the desert, but he refused to display discomfort before the young whelp. 
We’ve seen enough
.  Kriegen’s mental voice commanded attention and the gray’s ears stood alert, ready to act. 
Take word to the Council of Elders that the reports are true.  We will follow this pack of two-legs and learn if they are dangerous
.

The gray’s tail beat excitedly. 
Do you expect trouble?

Kriegen’s growl made the gray cower. 
Deliver the message and control your eagerness for bloodshed.  Young cubs, fresh from their den, should heed the ancestor voices and learn the lessons of the past.  Expect trouble but do not yearn for it.  The yearnings of youth dissipate with experience.

We apologize for our rashness.  Our ancestor voices caution us to avoid the two-legs and their death-sticks.
  The gray turned to leave.

Kriegen watched the gray trot away.  A black shadow sat next to Kriegen.  He acknowledged Konig’s presence with a flick of his left ear.  Now the gray was gone he could relax and allow his tongue to dangle as he panted to relieve the heat.
 

The leader of this pack has an interesting mind.   He might be worth knowing, but the dark mind of his enemy concerns us.  The hunger for power in that one is dangerous.  If he gains control of the pack, we may be forced to destroy them all.  Follow this group of two-legs, keeping at a distance.

Konig scratched his ear. 
You plan to follow the evil one? 

Kriegen growled at Konig. 
Go…keep your host nearby.  We will do the same.

The subdued crew members walked at a brisk pace toward the nearest village.  They trudged silently down an overgrown pathway, casting sidelong glances at the forest and listening for desert riders.  Trenton was the exception.  His step was jaunty, and he whistled a ribald trapper’s tune, unconcerned. 

Maggie tugged on his sleeve.  “Quiet!  Everyone’s nervous about an ambush.”

He chuckled.  “Darlin’ there’s no danger.  Donovan put the fear of God into them riders, besides I can read tracks like a printed map.”  He pointed with his walking stick.  “This track is from a heavy-footed workhorse passing through more than three days ago.  Those ruffians rode high-stepping desert steeds whose hooves churn the soil.  Look, the pasture grass grows undisturbed except for munching sheep.  Common men dwell in this town, not a band of desert riders.” 

Maggie smiled.  “Thanks for easing my worries, but keep your good humor to yourself until we reach safety.  Sometimes your high spirits annoy people.” 

“But I’m happy.  We’ll build a house in my mountains.  I’ll set trap lines while you bustle around your warm kitchen cooking delicious meals to make my waistline grow.”  He kissed her cheek.  “It’s ever so difficult to keep happiness bottled up; I’m liable to explode.”

Blushing, she batted Trenton’s roaming hands away.               

Overhearing Trenton’s analysis of the trail, Krystal felt encouraged.  The small man seemed full of energy and enthusiasm.  He talked about building a mountain cabin filled with clever inventions and security secrets. 

Will Maggie enjoy living a lonely life as a trapper’s wife?  On cramped ships I often felt like a prisoner with no privacy, but won’t Maggie miss her friends?
  Krystal saw Maggie smile. Trenton whistled a cheerful tune, and Maggie curled her fingers into his hand.  Krystal thought,
I guess love will keep her happy.

Krystal enjoyed the landscape.  Drops of morning dew clung to a spider’s web that stretched between stalks of purple flowers.  The web sparkled like a diamond necklace in shafts of morning light that penetrated blue-green trees.  The dense undergrowth gave way to a sunny field full of cheerful yellow flowers sprinkled across a mossy carpet of grass.  The fragrant scents drifted on the lazy breeze.   

The lush landscape reminded Krystal of home.  She yearned to watch a cow idly munch grass in a sunny field.  She could almost hear its bell clank.  A white farmhouse, trimmed in blue, should be nestled in a grove of trees at the edge of that meadow.  She could almost smell fresh bread baking in the sunny country kitchen.  Alas, Krystal’s home was light-years away, perhaps destroyed by war.

Not everything on Drako resembled Earth.  A startling shade of blue, the sky was more vivid.  The daytime sun tempted unwary eyes to gaze deeply into its rich golden face.  Last night a crimson-red sphere the size of a large moon rose in the western sky.  She knew it was actually a distant red-dwarf sun that appeared in Drako’s sky for half of the year.  Night-blooming flowers thrived in its rays; delicate tendrils stretched to absorb the warmth of the eerie red orb.

This wild new planet lured Krystal.  She felt mesmerized, tempted to explore and find new flowers to plant in her dream garden.  The garden would surround her cottage like a pond of shimmering color.  The moist soil would cling to her hands, and each day she would watch tender shoots stretch closer to the sky.  She realized that the tranquil pastures and clean air of Drako would be her final home.  Who needed the immortality of Transfer? 

Chella moved past with graceful strides and her thoughts inundated Krystal.  For a moment Krystal considered blocking the mental transmission but sharing her friend’s pleasure seemed appropriate. 

Chella enjoyed exercise.  Her mahogany skin absorbed the heat of the sun and her mind filled with quiet thoughts. 
Drako will be a great place to meditate
.
I’ve lived so many spans, yet I’ve had no time for myself.
Chella seemed amused at the thought.
With just one span left, I’ll find time to study, worship, and discuss theology with other believers.
  

Krystal noticed Alex trudging along the path ahead.  His mind was tightly blocked, but Krystal sensed unhappiness. 
What kind of life will Alex find on this planet?  For spans he’s had his work.  Now the Transfer labs and cloning tanks are light-years away. Alex needs interesting work to occupy his brilliant mind.
Krystal felt determined to help.

She gently touched Donovan’s mind.  He thought about his collection of antique weapons. 
I’ve spent years learning ancient skills, and now we’re stuck on a world where skill and speed give me the edge we might need to survive.  Krystal will make a wonderful wife and mother.  I once dreamed of having a son, but the thought of having daughters—miniature versions of Krystal—seems perfect to me.  I’ve got an exciting world to explore, a beautiful woman at my side, and the freedom to raise a family.
Donovan felt exhilarated.             

Krystal blushed as Donovan looked into her eyes and grinned. 
Are you eves dropping?
He clasped her hand and she nuzzled against his shoulder.  They both imagined a future together.

******

In the desert Jarrack stood before the desert leader’s tent, braced for a confrontation.  He’d spent long nights of preparation—sending dreams and molding minds—so he felt ready to rejoin the tribe.  Jarrack walked boldly into the tent. 

Steel sang.  Guards brandished weapons, but Jarrack walked steadily forward, his gaze fixed on Forshell sitting cross-legged at the low banquet table.  One signal from the leader meant Jarrack’s death.   

Forshell’s hooded gaze remained fixed on Jarrack.  Flicking his hand, the guards slid their swords back into their scabbards, and Jarrack exhaled in relief.

“You were expected.  Sit.  We will talk of many things,” Forshell said.  “The man who stole your woman; he is a powerful wizard.  What more can you tell us?”

Jarrack sat and casually plucked a piece of meat from the nearest platter.  “Donovan is a man like any other.  He possesses luck, but his luck will run out.  When it does I will cut out his heart and feed it to the wolves.”

Forshell spat.  “Enough!  You tell us nothing new.  We followed you, our new shaman, and rode without knowledge of the enemy into a battle.  We lost.  Donovan shamed our tribe!  Lest we charge forward like blundering fools once again, we must understand his power.” 

Silence. 

All eyes focused on Jarrack.  He nearly choked on the bite of meat he tried to swallow.  Sweat trickled down his spine.  He slipped a trembling hand into his robe and held out the black box.  “The gods gave me a weapon to stop Donovan.  I am not afraid.  When the time is right to use this weapon, the tribe will be avenged.  His offworld wizardry is no match for mine!”  He hit his chest with a closed fist and bowed.  “I am the tribe’s wizard.”

The men of the desert were believers in the power of dreams and remembered his words from recent dreams.  Gasps hissed through the tent.  Everyone looked impressed—everyone except Forshell, who merely shrugged.

“You may possess power.”  Forshell eyed the black box.  “While others believe in portents and dreams, I trust in things I can touch.  That box is an offworld tool?” 

Jarrack bristled at the tone of ridicule in Forshell’s voice.  “It is a tool only I can use.”

“On Drako possession of such a device warrants a death sentence.”  Forshell’s eyes flickered with menace.  “We’ll let you assume that risk.  You will travel with our tribe to Havenshire for the tournament to choose the next king.  Use your magic against Donovan and redeem your honor.” 

Forshell’s hand whipped out of his robe like a snake.  A dagger struck the table next to Jarrack’s hand, and vibrated ominously. 

“Be warned!  If you fail, you shall die a coward’s death.” 

Despite the desert heat, Jarrack shivered.  Of all the tribesmen, Forshell’s mind successfully repelled invasion, making him dangerous.

Jarrack swallowed.  “Donovan is mine,” he said, trying to sound calm. 

Forshell shrugged.  Turning his back to Jarrack, he spoke quietly with other tribesmen.  Guards stood with razor-sharp blades poised to defend their leader.  Jarrack kept alert.  He ate slowly and watched Forshell.  Mind control was not an option, so Jarrack must find a way to eliminate Forshell.  He fingered the black box, too bad he couldn’t use it on both men at the same time.

*****

Kriegen listened to the mind of the evil one and his hackles bristled. 
The law forbids forcing a mind to obey, the worst crime of all listed.  What should we do with the evil one?
  he asked his ancestor voices.

An ancient mind came forward. 
Protect other humans from this evil. 

Humans?  Do you know these entities?

The ancient one sighed. 
The history of our kind is linked with humans.  Follow the evil one and we will provide information to defeat him when the time is right.

Kriegen flicked his ears flat against his skull, disturbed.  How could these humans be linked with the wolves?  Why did the ancestors hold back important information? 

*****

Donovan led his group into the main square of a dilapidated village.  Livestock roamed unhampered through shabby buildings with gaping holes in shingled roofs, crumbling plaster walls, and doors dangling from rusted hinges.  Half-printed words on broken signs, and an empty tourism booth showed that the once-bustling space-town no longer catered to tourists.  Expressionless people stared from dirty windows like ghosts afraid to leave their haunts. 

Trenton nudged Donovan and nodded at a man standing at the doorway of the largest building.  The man lifted an eyepiece and disdainfully examined Donovan’s group.  He brushed invisible dirt from an expensive blue velvet jacket, and then sauntered forward. 

“It’s about time you arrived!  As an emissary of the king, I welcome you…and your party…” his sour tone denied the welcome, “to our planet.” 

“Thank you.  Greetings are returned,” Donovan said bowing from the waist.

The man sighed.  “King Halder requests your presence at Havenshire forthwith.  Personal attendants may accompany you to the castle, but the remainder of your staff shall be housed here until appropriate accommodations are arranged.”

Donovan bristled.  “My crew must remain together.”

The man ignored Donovan and glanced distastefully at the village.  “This meager village lacks creature comforts…but it will do until we determine your status.”  The man turned to walk away. 

Donovan said, “I am Captain Donovan.  I missed your name.”

The man stopped, pivoted, and bowed.  “Sir Hembly,” he snapped, “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”

“We thought someone might greet us as the spaceport.”  Donovan shrugged. 

“The spaceport?  The facilities at the spaceport have not been used in spans.  Since you entered through the planetary defense system, we assumed you were aware of our restrictions.”  Hembly yawned, patting his mouth with a white-gloved hand.  “I dispatched a messenger to inform His Highness that you departed the spaceport.  Prepare to leave within the hour.  There is no reason for further delay!”  Hembly’s glare implied that delay would not be tolerated. 

“My crew must travel with us to Havenshire.”

“Impossible.  The king specified five companions.  The rest remain here.” 

Donovan suspected a trap.  Hembly wanted them to defy the king’s order—a killing offense?  He glanced at Trenton, who flashed an irksome smile.  “We need time to arrange housing and supplies for my crew.  Three hours should be sufficient.” 

Hembly opened his mouth to object, thought better of it, and pulled a silken handkerchief from his ruffled sleeve.  He dabbed at imaginary sweat on his brow.  “As you will.”  Hembly waved the handkerchief and a villager came out of the building.  “Bring a tankard of that poison you brew and don’t keep me waiting this time.” 

Glancing furtively at Hembly, the villager rushed away.  After dusting a chair, Hembly stationed himself in the shade and watched Donovan. 

“Trenton and I will check out the town,” Donovan said.  “Krystal, organize things here and calm the crew.  Maggie, Chella, and Alex will all travel with us to Havenshire, so the rest need to settle in here.”   

Trenton nodded.  “I spotted a village smithy.  We’ll find out everything from him.”  He led the way to the blacksmith shop.  The smithy doors stood wide open and they heard the smith clang a red-hot horseshoe.  “Greetings, friend.  I have a problem you might be able to solve,” Trenton said. 

The smith scowled, eyeing Donovan, who stood inside the doorway. 

“I’ve chipped my favorite knife. I won’t let anyone except a true smith see to the repair.”  He handed the smith a heavy trapper’s knife. 

The smith scrutinized Trenton’s bronze uniform with displeasure but hefted the knife and carefully checked the edge.  “This be good steel.  Ye be a trapper?  How do ye travel with them sky gypsies?”

Trenton laughed.  “Oh plenty of good men serve in the skies—what with the war.  They needed hard muscle and cunning wits to beat the enemy.”