(due to internet weirdness I can't place any accents on letters - so the names Ulfnaor and Solmundr, and the word 'cunna' are without the appropriate accents. Apologies!)
They followed a wide trail of broken brush that cut a blood-stained path through the trees. After a few yards, they came to another horse, mercifully dead this time, its throat ripped cleanly out, a quick kill. The Merron were stripping it of its fine tack, grimly pulling the saddle from its back, undoing the buckles of its harness. The wolfskin was casually flung onto the growing pile of Loups-Garous’ equipment. Its jewelled eyes seemed to follow Christopher and Wynter as they padded slowly by.
The horse’s rider was sprawled in the trees a yard or so further on. Hallvor was crouched over the body, her back to them. Ulfnaor’s dogs were standing by, panting happily, their tails wagging. As Christopher and Wynter came up the trail, the hounds looked up in unison, grinning, their long tongues lolling. They were painted in gore, their wiry fur matted with blood. There was a sudden, brutal, cracking sound, and Hallvor began sawing at something with her knife. The dogs whined in excitement, bowing and snuffling.
As Wynter and Christopher slid past, Hallvor, her arms elbow-deep in blood, sat back on her haunches, revealing the man’s body. Wynter saw that he had been raggedly decapitated. There was no sign of his head. Hallvor had cracked open his rib cage and was now calling to the eager dogs, offering the man’s heart to the warhounds that had killed him. She had split the organ into two, and Wynter watched in sick fascination as the huge creatures stepped forward and delicately took a half each from Hallvor’s dripping fingers.
‘Maith sibh a chunna,’ murmured the healer, wiping her arms on the dead man’s shirt. Two other Merron came down the trail, and Hallvor motioned them to help her strip the Loup-Garou of his finery. Christopher pulled Wynter along by her elbow, and they moved on.
They followed the sounds of people moving through the trees and found themselves back on the edge of the grass plains. Razi stood with his back to them, his falchion sword still in his hand. He was watching as a group of Merron gathered around Ulfnaor and Wari. They seemed to be looking at something that lay on the ground at their feet.
As Wynter and Christopher stepped from the trees, Ashkr pushed his way through the ranks of the Merron, his dogs at his heels. He was carrying something in his hand. It took Wynter’s numbed brain a few seconds to realise that it was a dripping human head. Once the Merron saw who was shoving them aside, they parted ranks and let Ashkr through to the centre of the circle, stepping back to give him room. His dogs immediately tried to get past him, baying and snarling. At the sight of the dogs the shape on the ground cried out in fear.
My God, thought Wynter, it’s a man.
Ashkr roared at the dogs, an unusually vicious sound from the Merron lord, and 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 Ulfnaor, her sword in her hand, her warhounds flanking her. To Wynter’s amazement, Solmundr 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.
‘
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.’
