The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 22: The Princess's Hunt, Part 8

 Things happened so quickly Carala was never entirely sure of their sequence. The door had shattered into splintered fragments and a sleek she-wolf, like herself in build but with a wilder pelt and even wilder eyes, burst through in a shower of wood and twisted iron. Carala had felt herself tensing to leap to Ammas's defense, but before she could he had thrown an arm across her and taken the attacking wolf's blow, collapsing to the ground beneath her even as he lashed out with his dagger, drawing steaming blood from her side. 

She had twisted easily, shielding her vitals and suffering only a surface wound, and soon Ammas and the wolf were wrestling together on the ground, one of his hands clutching her muzzle, seizing it closed so she could not bite. What Carala had been planning to do she really didn't know. Like Ammas, she was no warrior, and any contribution she might make to this struggle would be dependent on assuming the shape of the wolf. But the wolf was asleep, dozing peacefully inside her having sated itself so very recently, and she herself was on the verge of exhaustion. The Swiftfoot had attacked precisely as Ammas had predicted: when they were vulnerable.

It would not be fair to say Carala felt no fear at all, but she was far from terrified. The wolf might be asleep but it was not gone, and she had seen how easily Ammas had dealt with an assault by these creatures before. What she felt above all was fury: all he had done to keep her safe and protect others from the wolf within her, and now this thing had the temerity to lay her filthy paws on him.

Carala turned away for a moment -- not from terror, but to find her own dagger, pitiful a weapon as it might be compared to a cursewright's blade or even her own wolfish fangs. But the situation quickly worsened. Two far larger wolves, clearly male and one of them fierce and hulking, prowled through the shattered door, snarling, advancing on the she-wolf and Ammas as they twisted savagely on the ground. Carala cried out a useless warning. They had descended on the two of them, hauling Ammas to his feet, twisting his arm until he cried out and the skymetal blade clattered to the floor. Before Carala's eyes they carried him beyond the door, into the rose-lit dawn.

"Come, pretty one," the she-wolf hissed in Carala's ear as she slid against her backside, panting and reeking of a forest musk far darker than the one that had come to define Carala's own scent. She shivered deeply, her stomach twisting. There was human blood in that scent. She knew it beyond question. The she-wolf's paws moved along Carala's shoulders almost sensually, her breath hot on her cheek. "You've no need to be on his leash anymore." 

With one paw clutching Carala's arm the wolf dragged her outside, pausing only to take up Ammas's blade. At first Carala struggled mightily against the panting creature: kicking, clawing at her hide, even sinking her teeth into the she-wolf's furred shoulder. Her only response was a sort of snarling laugh. If anything, she seemed pleased by Carala's outburst, tugging her closer until her face was buried against her side, her nostrils flooded with her feral stink. 

Amid the fear and outrage, Carala felt a wholly unexpected sensation: comfort. Somehow she was reminded of her mother holding her close against her breast, dressed in some soft gown or dress of velvet and silk. The memory was not a clear one, for she must have been very young, but something had frightened her badly and Yvelle had soothed her. The she-wolf here was not so gentle, but whatever malice was in her did not seem directed at Carala.

But it was directed at Ammas, and the others, and that was bad enough.

Out in the tower's dooryard the smaller wolf had pinned Ammas against its curving stone wall. His face was pale and drawn; his gray eyes glittered feverishly under his brow, his hat fallen from his head again. Carala cried aloud and reached out for him, but the she-wolf pinned her arms behind her back, hurting her for the first time. The larger wolf hung back, pacing restlessly on all fours, constantly glancing over its flanks and whining softly. "Syerre," it panted, "the woods -- the woods are haunted -- he speaks, he calls -- "

"He calls for nothing!" the she-wolf Syerre snarled, her clutch tightening painfully on Carala's arms. But Carala thought she was wrong. Staring at Ammas she realized he was not meekly accepting whatever they planned to do to him. Those gray eyes had gone glazed and unfocused, and his lips moved ceaselessly in a strange and unnerving chant. Those were the same words he had whispered against her throat to strengthen the stilling charm, but there was something dark and threatening in his tone that she had never felt when he spoke against her skin. 

Awkwardly, half-shoving and half-dragging Carala with her, Syerre stalked closer to Ammas and the wolf who had him in his paws. "When we kill him, will Nashal return to normal?" The wolf growled, pressing his snout to Ammas's throat. Still he chanted those strange, unearthly words, as if the wolves were not even there. "Korl?"

Korl shook his head, drawing back. "I do not know. The champion says their magic is powerful. It gave us the gift of the moon, didn't it?" Suddenly he thrust one thick paw forward, wrapping it around Ammas's throat. Finally those dark words were cut off, replaced by a choking, strangled noise. His hands rose up, trying to fend off Korl's paw, even as the wolf lifted him off his feet. Ammas's face began to turn red, then darker, his eyes watering.

"Stop it, stop it!" Carala screamed. No girlish shriek, her voice was almost as roughly growled as any of the three wolves'. Syerre laughed again, squeezing Carala's wrists even tighter.

"She cares for him, I think. She wears the leash too easily. Not to worry, pretty Princess, no wolf can be leashed forever, not even you. No more palace prisons, no more pretending to be what you are not." Her muzzle grazed over Carala's ear almost tenderly, pulling her backward against that soft, lush fur, the reek of whatever human she had killed during the night flooding her nose. "Set him down, Korl. We'll bring out her wolf and let her feast. He didn't let you feast, did he, Princess? The shame of it."

"I won't," she said shakily. "You cannot make me do such a thing."

Ammas was slumped against the wall, Korl's paw still wrapped around his throat, although his color suggested he was getting some air. Amazingly, he was still chanting. A few yards away, Nashal continued to pace and whine, his ears flattened against his skull. Huge or not, he looked about as threatening as a beaten puppy. So quickly did his eyes roll from Ammas to the edge of the forest to the road behind them that he looked nearly to be in the grip of a seizure.

"No one will make you do anything, dear Princess," Syerre rumbled in her ear. She had loosened her grip, her paws now gentle on Carala's waist. Against her back she could feel the silk of her pelt and the softness of her curves, all of it sheathed in muscles like well-forged steel. The power coursing through that body was something she knew intimately, but it still surprised her, feeling it in another so openly. "You will do as your nature says, or you will learn from us. Either way, when you eat of his heart it will be the greatest feast of your life."

Carala had begun to tremble, almost shake. Could she really want such a thing? Why did it feel like the she-wolf inside her was rousing? A moan in her throat, she dared to look at Ammas's face. Their eyes met.

Incredibly, he was smiling. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm, although hoarse from Korl's treatment of his throat. "Hello, Lord Marhollow."

Carala's eyes widened. Suddenly she realized she had been feeling hoofbeats thrumming up through the earth for a few seconds now. All of them had been too focused on Ammas to notice.

Whirling around, Syerre's eyes grew wide in shock as she saw the galloping horse bearing down on her. The rider looked almost mad, his eyes glaring hotly and his ginger hair flying behind him in an untidy wave, bent low over the reins with a dagger in one hand very like the cursewright's own.

"Let them go!" Denisius roared. "Let them go or die!"