Wolf Captured (4 page)

“I wonder,” Derian said to distract himself, “what day it is? How long do you think we were out? It was late evening when we were taken and the sun’s bright now, but is it the next day or later?”

“Not know,” Firekeeper admitted. “I would say next day, but my belly is rumbling so it may be longer. Derian, do you think they take us east?”

“That seems most likely. I’m not a sailor, but if we were going west I think we’d hear more motion from above, sails being set to go against the current, that kind of thing.”

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he could see Firekeeper’s nod.

“And more back-and-forthing, I think,” she added. “Down we just go like a leaf, with some keeping from rocks.”

“They could use a sail going downstream,” Derian said, “and probably are. I don’t remember where the winds come from this time of year, but I know I’ve seen sailing boats out on the Flin.”

They sat for a moment, Derian pondering his ignorance, Firekeeper perhaps doing the same.

The Flin River eventually emptied into the Barren, which provided the boundary between Hawk Haven and Bright Bay. The confluence of those rivers was fairly densely populated. Only a year or so before, any boat coming through that point might have faced customs inspections from either or both of the kingdoms. Indeed, the cities of Rock Fort and Broadview had maintained garrisons expressly for that purpose. Now the two kingdoms were so eager to avoid any appearance of friction that anything other than an obvious warship would probably make it through unchallenged. The garrisons remained, focusing their attention on easing the economic merging of the two former rivals.

All right,
Derian thought,
then unless we’ve been missed, we can’t count on any random search finding us. I wonder if we have been missed? I wonder what day it is? I wonder how far from Eagle’s Nest we are? Did they risk sailing by night? Smugglers do. Could Rarby and Shelby be smugglers? And who is Harjeedian?

Derian longed to articulate his questions, but knew Firekeeper would be frustrated by empty conjecture. He looked over and saw that Firekeeper had moved in her cage, crossing to the side nearest to the cage holding the wolf.

“Is Blind Seer awake yet?”

“Waking. I think. Yes.”

Derian moved as close as his ankle chain would permit. The enormous grey wolf was indeed stirring, and with that awakening he seemed to gain in size as well as in mobility.

Blind Seer belonged to a type of animal that Firekeeper, struggling for an appropriate term in those days when her command of Pellish had been limited, had dubbed “royal.” As Derian understood it, the Royal Beasts were at least as intelligent as humans, and were possessed of their own laws, customs, and legends. If Firekeeper was to be believed, the Royal Beasts—or at least the wolves who had reared her after the death of her human parents—were also possessed of far greater integrity and far less indecision than the mass of humanity.

The Royal Beasts had been the sole inhabitants of the land before explorers from the Old World nations had established the colonies that had evolved into Hawk Haven, Bright Bay, and their neighboring nations. The Old World nations had used very powerful magic to force the Royal Beasts into retreat across the mountains to the west. They had also used it to control their own colonists, teaching the key elements of magical lore only to those who traveled to the homeland. When plague had driven the rulers back across the ocean, knowledge of greater magic had vanished as well—a forgetting hastened along by the colonists themselves, who had no desire to find themselves under some homegrown version of that particular yoke.

Even after the Old World rulers had departed, the Royal Beasts had not returned from their exile across the mountains, and until recently—at least as far as Derian knew—humans had stayed to their lands in the east. An unconscious truce existed, helped by the fact that until Firekeeper had been found, most humans had believed the tales of gigantic, intelligent beasts were just legend. It was more comfortable to believe the legend—even when faced with the evidence.

Blind Seer was the size of a pony, though leaner in build. His fur was predominantly grey, touched with brown and white. His eyes were a startling blue. Derian had learned to read some of the moods in those eyes, though perhaps the tilt of ears and the amount of exposure given to gleaming white fangs told more about the wolf’s feelings. In turn, Blind Seer had developed a limited ability to communicate with humans, nodding and shaking his head for “yes” and “no,” refining these gestures with growls, whines, and tail motion—whatever served to get his point across.

But Derian was certain that Firekeeper’s ability to communicate with the wolf was far less limited. Indeed, he thought she might speak “wolf,” if there was such a language, far more easily than she spoke Pellish.

What the relationship was between Blind Seer and Firekeeper Derian couldn’t quite tell. Sometimes Firekeeper referred to the wolf as her brother, always referring to the heads of their pack as “their” parents. Other times the two seemed like best friends or sworn companions, recalling the tales of warriors from Old Country ballads.

Of one thing Derian was absolutely certain. Blind Seer was not Firekeeper’s pet, and though she had ceased to object when such a reference was made, Derian knew that the easiest way to offend her was to refer to the wolf as such.

Firekeeper was intent on the wolf, watching as Blind Seer tested his footing, shook the straw and chaff from his fur, otherwise ascertained just how much damage remained from the drug. Doubtless Firekeeper was also informing the wolf what had happened while he had been asleep, for at one point Blind Seer looked toward the deck above and gave a deep, rumbling growl.

“Derian,” Firekeeper asked, “how deep into boat is bottom of chain?”

Derian was puzzling through this odd question when footsteps on the deck above signaled someone approaching the trapdoor to the upper deck. Woman, wolf, and man each froze, eyes turning in the direction of the hatchway, all questions forgotten but for the essential one: Who was coming and what were his intentions?

They heard the solid metallic thud of a bolt being shot back, then a rectangle of light announced a lantern being lowered. Shelby followed the light, waterskins flung over his shoulders. While he was hanging the lantern from the ceiling, Rarby descended, carrying a covered pot.

“Supper,” Rarby said with mocking cheerfulness. “Harjeedian said the wolf would be awake by now, and I see he was correct. We have a different menu for him. Go get it, Shel.”

Shelby grunted assent and mounted the ladder. Rarby set his pot down on a shelf built into one side of the hold, then rummaged in a cabinet snugged below the shelf, coming out with wooden bowls and spoons.

“Now,” Rarby said, still with that tone of assumed geniality. “Let me explain the rules. I give each of you two a bowl of this stew. Fish stew. Fresh. Same as we had ourselves. I give you bread and fresh water. You enjoy. Any messing about, trying to grab me or attack or such, and I stop waiting on you and you go hungry. Same goes for the wolf when Shelby comes down with his grub. Understand?”

Derian nodded. His mouth was watering at the scent of the savory stuff, but he wondered if he should trust the contents. He didn’t much want to be knocked out again.

Rarby seemed to divine his thoughts.

“This stuff is good. No drugs. I’ll even demonstrate.” He dipped a ladle into the pot and drank from it. “Harjeedian says too many drugs aren’t good for a person—especially one like you who has mucked up his system with too many nights out on the town. So you can eat what we offer and keep your strength. That’s what Harjeedian wants.”

Shelby came down the ladder carrying a loose canvas sack. Damp bloodstains leaked through the fabric at several points. He stepped toward Blind Seer’s cage, then hesitated. Standing, the wolf looked very big. Rarby gave Shelby a crooked half-grin.

“I’ve explained the terms,” he said, “and I think our guests are smart enough to accept them. Anyhow, you don’t have to open the wolf’s cage to put that sack in there, just squash it through the bars.”

Shelby did as he’d been told, but Derian could tell he was nervous. Blind Seer didn’t make the sailor’s job any easier by standing in the center of the cage, his jaws parted so that his teeth showed. Derian thought the wolf might be laughing, but to anyone unfamiliar with the animal, the pose looked watchful and dangerous—indeed, humor or not, it was watchful and dangerous.

After shoving the sack of meat through the bars, Shelby stood back and squeezed water from one of the large leather bottles into the deep bowl inside the cage. While he was doing this, Rarby served Derian a bowl of what proved to be very good seafood stew and cut him a thick slab of dark brown bread.

“Butter or soft cheese?”

“Butter,” Derian replied automatically. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Rarby turned to Firekeeper. “You’re not going to try anything, are you? I have to open the cage to hand you your bowl. Give me any trouble, and you’ll get raw meat.”

“No problem,” Firekeeper said, her voice sounding strained, “and I like meat.”

“Well, you’re not going to see much this trip. We’re saving what we can keep fresh for the wolf. After that, he eats fish, if we can catch it.”

Firekeeper did not reply, only stepped back in her cage when Rarby approached with the bowl of fish stew. She let him put the bowl on the deck and close the door between them before claiming her meal. She tested the temperature, then tilted the bowl to her mouth, drinking messily, slurping out the chunky bits with evident satisfaction.

Rarby watched her with disgust for a few moments before slicing a chunk off of the loaf of bread.

“Butter or cheese?”

“Butter,” came the wolf-woman’s reply, muttered around a spine bone from a large fish. She spat the bone out, “Please.”

Rarby shook his head. Derian heard him say softly to Shelby, “And they call that ‘Lady’?” Shelby, who had been trying not to watch Blind Seer efficiently ripping open the bag of meat and tearing into the contents, didn’t comment.

The two men stayed until their captives had eaten, then retrieved bowls and spoons. Smaller leather water bottles were filled and distributed, and the captives were reminded to use the waste buckets.

“We’ll make arrangements for cleaning up after the wolf,” Rarby said. “Nice if he’d shit near where we can get to it without opening the cage.”

Firekeeper didn’t reply, and Derian wondered if she’d even take the hint. Lately she’d been as reluctant to do anything that would confirm rumors about the wolf’s intelligence as she had once been to prove it. He didn’t much like the idea of being imprisoned in a small area reeking of wolf shit, though, and hoped Firekeeper wouldn’t press the point.

For now she was lying on her back, as close as possible to Blind Seer. Her eyes were shut, and Derian couldn’t tell if she was sleeping. He did know she was in no mood for conversation, so reluctantly he settled himself onto his straw pallet, wrapped his fear and loneliness around him, and tried to sleep.

“FIREKEEPER,”
Blind Seer’s words went unheeded by Derian or the other two humans. Indeed, they were not words as humans used them but a combination of sounds and body cues. Firekeeper understood them automatically, not even thinking about how she managed. For her, the language of the wolves was her birth tongue and Pellish a clumsy second.

“What?”
she grunted.

The fish stew had tasted good, but to Firekeeper’s surprise her stomach did not seem happy with it. It was all she could do to choke the thick stuff down. Even after being swallowed, the viscous mass moved uneasily in her belly. She left the slab of bread half-eaten, tucking it under the straw for later.

“My meat,”
the wolf said, trailing off.

“Is it tainted? Did they lie about the drugs?”

Blind Seer shoved a piece near where she could see it.

“Can you catch the scent from there, Little Two-legs? The hide is still attached.”

The use of her childhood name indicated that Blind Seer was uneasy, feeling protective. Firekeeper ignored her unhappy belly and moved closer to the edge of the cage. Blind Seer had shoved a large chunk of meat cut from a haunch, leg bones still attached, to where she could see it. She sniffed.

“Only blood scent,”
she replied apologetically.
“Horse blood?”

“Horse,”
Blind Seer replied.
“A horse I know. Derian’s Roanne.
”

Firekeeper froze, weighing the implications of this and not liking them at all. She took a closer look. The long white stocking that had flashed so proudly in contrast to the gleaming chestnut coat was there, though bloodied, the chestnut hair dimmed with dirt and handling.

“Didn’t you say,”
Blind Seer asked,
“that Derian hoped the finding of the horses would lead to our disappearance being noted? I think someone else had that thought and took steps to make certain all would think we had left by usual routes. Roanne was a showy beast, though, and could not be easily sold or disguised. Then, too, they would need feed for me. Slaughtering her and possibly the pack horse as well would solve two problems.”

Firekeeper nodded stiffly, a variety of emotions warring within her. She, too, had known Roanne, and had come to something of a truce with the chestnut mare. The mare was Cousin-kind, not Royal, but she had been smart enough to know that neither Firekeeper nor Blind Seer offered a real threat. Roanne’s awareness had communicated itself to other horses, and they had been moderately content to follow the herd mare’s lead.

For that reason, if no other, Firekeeper had reason to regret the mare’s death. However, she had other reasons. Derian had loved the mare as humans did their valued pets. Roanne had not merely been an elegant and reliable means of transportation, she had been a friend and ally. Derian had known her moods, good and bad, treasured her beauty and laughed over her little vanities. Learning that Roanne was dead would have been hard at any time. To find that she had been slaughtered and turned into wolf-feed would …