The Crowded Shadows (40 page)

My God
, thought Wynter,
its a man
.

Ashkr roared at the dogs, an unusually vicious sound from the Merron lord, and the warhounds backed down at once, dropping to their bellies in the dirt. The man on the ground made an awful, spasming, uncoordinated attempt to crawl away, and Wari kicked him. The man howled and then abruptly lurched upwards, shrieking a string of vile curses in Hadrish.

At the sound of the Wolf’s voice, Christopher flinched, and Wynter felt him draw away. She placed a reassuring hand on his back, her eyes on Razi.

Stepping between the Merron warriors, Razi admitted himself to the inner circle, then stalked around the man on the ground. He came to a halt beside Ashkr, and the two men stood side by side, dark and light, both gazing coldly down at the Wolf. Wynter thought that Razi looked oddly detached and speculative, like a trader in a mart, sizing up a sub-standard horse. She slipped, unheeded, through the warriors and into the inner circle. Christopher drifted in her wake, but once he was within the ring of Merron he came to a halt on the edge of things, motionless and silent, his head down.

Embla stood by Úlfnaor, her sword in her hand, her warhounds flanking her. To Wynter’s amazement, Sólmundr was also there. The lady had her free arm around his waist, holding him up. Wynter moved round to stand by their side, and so got her first good look at one of David Le Garou’s Wolves.

He was young, mid-twenties at most, and clean shaven, with shoulder-length brown hair. Wynter’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the chewed mess of his legs and the way he was holding his exposed guts into his belly with both hands. She fought down a hot surge of vomit and pulled her attention back to the angry contortion of his expression He was staring at Wari, his eyes a vivid blue in the chalky white of his face.

“You God-cursed savages,” he spat in choked Hadrish. “You whoreson vagabonds. David will eat your pox-riddled hearts, you hear me? He’ll burn your eyes! You—”

Ashkr crouched abruptly by his side and leant forward to make eye contact. The Wolf flinched away in momentary fear, but quickly gathered himself and snarled defiantly once more. “Stand back, you cur. I have no wish to share your fleas.”

Ashkr nodded. “See your friend?” he said. He placed the severed head on the ground. It had been chewed and savaged by the hounds as they tore it from its owner’s body, but the features were still recognisable. Ashkr turned the head to face the now silent Wolf. Gently, he pulled the clinging hair from its lifeless forehead, tucking it neatly behind the bloodied ears. He lifted his eyes to those of the Wolf. “See your friend?” he repeated. He tapped the dead cheek. “He the lucky one,” he whispered.

The Wolf stared at the slack-lipped, waxy face of his dead companion, then drew back and gobbed a long, bloody spit at Ashkr. Wynter jumped, her sword jerking upwards, but Ashkr just sighed and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt.

“That very silly,” he said, his voice just as soft as before. “I the only person here who might have kill you before you too broken up to care.” He sucked his teeth and spread his hands. “Ah well,” he said and stood up, smiling down at the man. “Ah well.”

The Wolf fell back, his knees drawing up to his torn belly. His eyes scanned the ring of faces that glowered down at him, and Wynter saw Christopher shrink back against the surrounding Merron, his eyelids fluttering, his face turned away in fear. But pain overtook the Wolf before he could find Christopher, and he gasped, rolling to his side, and locked eyes with Razi instead.

They knew each other well; Wynter saw it in the shock that froze the Wolf’s face, and in the slow, cold satisfaction that spread itself into Razi’s smile.

“
Sabah alkhair
, Reinier,” said Razi quietly, wishing the man “good morning” in Arabic

The man lurched slightly, as if he would have been jumping to his feet if not so hideously wounded. He stared at Razi, then his lip curved into a knowing sneer and his eyes hardened. Razi grinned at him. The Merron frowned. There was a suddenly wary reappraisal of Razi, and their eyes dropped to the wicked blade that gleamed in his fist. Wynter tensed and tightened her grip on her own weapon as a subtle shift of focus rippled around the surrounding warriors.

The Wolf muttered something in Arabic, then gurgled a clogged laugh, his lips splattered red. “It
is
you,” he choked in Hadrish. Razi bowed, spreading his arms sarcastically. “David knew it!” hissed the Wolf. “He
knew
it! Gérard said you were dead, but David knew, as soon as the boys brought those bracelets back to camp
…”
He shifted painfully, his eyes roaming the crowd, searching. “He knew ’twas your little mongrel. And where the mongrel is, the master ain’t never… hah!” He had found Christopher at last. Razi stepped forward, his sword jerking convulsively upwards.

The Wolf laughed again, contorting his body around to see the pale young man. Christopher flicked him the briefest of glances, slid a look at Wynter, then dropped his gaze. His face was perfectly blank, his body utterly still.

The Wolf twisted his head in the dust and grinned up at Razi once more. “David is looking for you, al-
Sayyid
.” He drawled Razi’s title, giving the words a contemptuous emphasis. “He will find you soon. You haven’t a hope.”

Smiling, Razi sheathed his falchion and dropped to a crouch. He rested his elbows on his knees. “These people are going to blood-eagle you, Reinier,” he murmured. The Wolf’s eyes grew wide and Razi drew the word out for him. “
Blood-eagle
,” he said. “You will die screaming. I shall enjoy the sound.”

There was a long moment of silence, Razi and the Wolf looking into each other’s eyes, the severed head on the ground between them. Then the Wolf purposely rolled to his side, all the better to face Razi. He released only the smallest whimper of pain, though the movement must have been excruciating, and laid his head in the dust for only a moment before raising it once again. He flicked a glance to Ashkr, to Úlfnaor, to Embla and Sólmundr.

“We all speak Hadrish, do we?” he said. Then he smiled. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You four, at least, understand me.” The Wolf raised himself onto his elbow, clenching his scarlet fist in the dust. “All right, al-Sayyid,” he said, staring Razi in the eye. “I will die screaming, if that is what you wish.” He grinned, blood in his teeth. “I shall scream very loud, shall I? Tell these sheep what a rabid little cur your mongrel is? What a dangerous piece of work you’ve brought in amongst them?”

Razi’s face went pale, and he jerked back slightly. The Loup-Garou laughed.

“You should have seen him, when the boys took his trinkets. You should have seen him change! Know what we call his kind?” he gurgled. “
Slywolf
…
Feeblewolf…
pathetic, slithering fools who try and deny their nature and run with the sheep.” He spat on the ground.

Wynter stared at him, disbelieving. “Do you mean Christopher?” she whispered.

The Wolf turned to his attention to her, and Christopher moaned, twisting his head away. Understanding brightened the Wolf’s blood-stained face and he leaned towards her. “You want to be careful, bitch,” he rasped. “You better take care. His kind can only hold themselves in check for so long, and then—”

The Wolf jerked forward suddenly, his mouth all fang, his eyes yellow. Everyone skittered back at the inhumanity of his face. He laughed at their fear, and fell back, just a man again, scrabbling with bloody fingers in the dust. But there were claw-marks in the dirt now, deep and long, a permanent testament to the moment when his scarlet fingers had gouged into the impossibly hard ground. He grinned at Wynter. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” he gasped. “You stupid bint. He didn’t tell you that you were bedding a Wolf?”

Razi surged to his feet. “Shut up,” he cried, “shut your filthy mouth.”

The Wolf laughed again as Razi loomed over him. “Oh,” he gasped. “You reckless bastard. He’ll turn! They always do. His kind can’t help it. They
always
bite the hand that feeds them.” He leered at Wynter. “Or eat the bitch that fu—” With a roar, Razi lifted his foot and stamped his heel down onto the Wolf’s temple.

The Wolf’s head changed shape in a sickening way, and Wynter slapped her hand over her mouth, her stomach rebelling. Razi lifted his foot again and Wynter turned away, everything combining at once to finally bring her stomach into her mouth. She heard the ripe, flat smack of Razi’s heel connecting with the Wolf’s head, and the circle of Merron skipped back as Wynter vomited hot bile onto the ground at their feet. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop and she heaved and gagged for what seemed like an eternity as things continued to happen around her.

Her first coherent thought was
Christopher
, and she straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm, and looked anxiously to where he had been standing. He was gone, his katar abandoned in the dust, and Wynter stared at the discarded weapon, her spine creeping with cold fear. Then she realised that the Merron were all standing in wary silence, watching as something transpired behind her. The subtle, metallic scrape of a sword being drawn from its scabbard froze her in place for a moment, then she turned slowly and followed the Merron’s gaze.

Razi had drawn his falchion again and was standing facing Úlfnaor, his arms hanging by his sides, his face unreadable. The Merron Lords were ranged in a pale row, their swords loosely ready in their hands, their expressions wary. Behind them, and all around her, the watchful ranks of the People stood, weapons at the ready, postures tense. Wynter tightened her grip on her own sword, her eyes darting around the crowd.

Razi took his knife from the sheath on his thigh. Slowly, his eyes on Úlfnaor, he twisted knife and sword so that the blades of each rested along his forearms, then he held them out, offering the weapons, handle first. He lifted his chin and spoke in his deep, clear voice.

“I am al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl,” he said.

Wynter stared anxiously at Úlfnaor, but Razi’s name and title did not seem to register with the big man, and after a pause, Razi went on.

“I am a messenger for the Good King Jonathon,” he said. “I am dispatched by his Majesty to find the Royal Prince Alberon in hopes of conveying to him his father’s desire for reconciliation, and as an opening for negotiations for peace.” Razi dropped to one knee, his weapons held out for Úlfnaor to take from him. He bowed his head in submission. “But these Loups-Garous will see me dead before I can fulfil my duty, Aoire. I can no longer expose my companions to the danger of travelling alone. I throw myself on your mercy, in the hope that you will understand that what is good for this Kingdom will ultimately be good for your people. I beg your protection. Aoire. I beg your protection in my journey to the Prince.”

Wynter flung herself onto her knees by Razi, her eyes flicking up to take in Úlfnaor’s uncertain face. “Razi!” she hissed, putting her hand on his outstretched arm. “Razi, stop. You can’t.” Razi didn’t look at her, just continued to hold his weapons out in supplication, his head bowed. Wynter tugged at his arm, begging him in Southlandast. “They will kill you, Razi! Christopher says
…”

“It matters not.”

“
Razi!
Did you hear me? They will—”

“It matters
not
, Wyn. I will not bring you back out there alone.”

Wynter turned to Embla. “Tell him! Tell him what Christopher said to you. Tell him!”

Embla’s eyes were wide with panic, and she stepped back, her hand to her mouth, not knowing what to do. “Oh lady,
please!
” begged Wynter. She dashed her hands under her eyes, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Lady, please!” she insisted firmly. “
Please!
Tell him that he cannot stay!”

Embla remained silent, and Wynter looked around for Christopher, or Ashkr, or Sólmundr, anyone who might support her, but they were nowhere to be found.

Úlfnaor reached down and placed his hand on the hilt of Razi’s knife. Wynter looked up into the man’s dark eyes. “Don’t, Aoire,” she whispered. “I beg you.” Úlfnaor glanced at her, his expression hard, then he took Razi’s weapons from him and handed them to Wari.

Wynter got slowly to her feet, expecting that at any minute the Aoire would demand her sword from her. Úlfnaor watched her carefully, but made no move to disarm her. Razi allowed his empty hands to drop to his sides, his eyes still on the ground. Embla continued to stare at him, her hand pressed to her mouth.

Wynter backed slowly away. She knocked against something with her heel. It rolled away in the dust, and she knew without looking that it was the severed head. Her foot nudged against the Wolf’s body and she sidled her way past it, her eyes fixed on Razi and the heavily armed warriors standing over him. Úlfnaor’s dark eyes followed her as she backed through the surrounding Merron. The crowd parted and soon Wynter found herself on the outside of the circle, staring through the silent ranks of warriors as Razi continued to kneel, vulnerable and defenceless, in their midst. She got one last glimpse of his kneeling figure, then the wall of Merron closed against her and Razi disappeared from her sight.

Wynter ran towards the river, instinct taking her to the little beach where she had last found Christopher. Sure enough, there were footprints leading across the sand, and in the shadows of the willow trees, at the far end of the beach, she saw his slim silhouette.

“Christopher!” she screamed, running towards him. “Christopher!”