The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 26: The Wolf of Light, Part 8

Yet Casimir was not Ammas's only ally at Carala's side. The airy spirit, incapable of understanding that it served the same master as the Dead, darted forward, blazing almost to the brightness of the sun itself, shimmering rays like starlight striking the Dead. It did not destroy them, but it did dazzle them, sending them stumbling backward.

Those slack and skeletal faces showed no emotion, but confusion was visible in the way they staggered from side to side; in the way their gaze shifted from Carala to the shimmering sphere of light that now challenged them. They reached for it, groping and clawing as they would any target, but with every touch it burned hotter and hotter. An especially bloated shape, swollen as if it were about to burst, thrust its hand into the spirit and caught flame. Stupidly it goggled its hand as it shriveled, burning to dust, drawn in a cloud back through the door into the worlds beyond, leaving a blackened stump below the elbow. 

The spirit was dancing now, roiling in a blinding circle around Carala and Casimir. Stray bolts of its light struck them, filling them with a warmth and even joy they had no business feeling, not when the Dead circled them on all sides. Carala's snarls abruptly ceased, her amber eyes wide in astonishment. The spirit pressed close to her, larger than it had been, soothing in its heat. Within its brilliant light a shape was beginning to emerge.

The Dead were hesitant now, unsure how to approach this entity which halted their relentless march and which obliterated any who touched it. It continued to circle through the air, growing in size, drawing on the spiritual chaos pouring through the rupture in the Veil of Ravens. Now it was not merely an indistinct sphere, but a defined shape that loped on four legs and snapped at the Dead who dared come near the beings under its protection.

It crouched between where Casimir and Carala huddled and the halted tide of the Dead, a wolf of light, a wolf of gold with eyes like stars. Its fangs were shining steel; its snarls a terrible song. The Dead did not know enough to retreat from it, and when it pounced it blasted them to ashes one by one, throwing their essence back across the Ravens' Veil.

Suddenly the Dead began to vanish -- not vanquished by the wolf of light, but drawing solemnly back through the door. They turned and retreated, not in fear but in dismissal. Their rage vanished as though it had never been. The cells' iron bars rattled like shivering chains as the rupture began to seal itself.

The Dead were gone.

The wolf of light turned its starry gaze on Carala one last time. It raised its muzzle in a howl, a beautiful and mournful sound like no howl she had ever heard or uttered. Then it leapt away, shrinking back into the shape of the airy spirit -- vanishing into the air itself, its comforting warmth departing the cellar, leaving them to shiver in the icy air that had accompanied the arrival of the Dead.

Casimir sighed and collapsed against Carala's side. Still in her wolfish shape she tucked her muzzle against the boy's cheek. Neither of them had any idea at all what to make of what had just happened. But they knew they were safe, safe from the wolves and safe from the Dead, and now they could but wait to see who had survived the Grand Curia.

*

 Only when the shape of Mourthia House rose before Ammas's eyes did he realize the magnitude of his error.

"Oh gods," he whispered, his arms sinking to his sides, the raging fury inside him doused at once. He had unleashed the Dead on every wolf in Gallowsport, including the one he had pledged his very life to save. 

"Oh gods," he said again. He could see the doors littering the arches and corners of Mourthia House, the terrible shapes beyond. "No! It is done, it is done, your time here is at an end -- draw back. Draw back now."

For an agonizing moment he was sure the Dead would not obey; that he had torn a rupture in the Ravens' Veil so profound that it would never be healed. But they heeded his command as readily as they ever had, perhaps sated by the immense number of wolfish lives they had taken. Flares of agony rose up in Ammas's lungs and heart; in the long muscles of his thighs; in the center of his head. The temptation to crumple to the ground and give over to blissful sleep -- or endless sleep -- was almost irresistible, but he could not succumb to it just yet.

Staggering, he made his way into Mourthia House, past the locked door, into the cellar. Carala and Casimir were huddled together, she still in the shape of the wolf. But the she-wolf's eyes were hazel, and recognition sparked in them as they took sight of Ammas stumbling down the stairway. The cursewright fell to his knees. "Safe. You're safe. Oh thank the gods, Carala -- I almost -- I -- I -- "

The door whispered open again. Slowly Ammas turned, a longing sigh escaping his aching lungs. Blood trickled from his mouth, down his chin. He was spent. Now was the time for rest.

The world beyond the Veil of Ravens, the endless lands of the Dead, opened before him. Mountains shaped like grasping hands rose on the horizon. Plateaus adorned with dead cities marched along rivers of black water. Innumerable legions of souls roamed and wandered, turning their blind eyes on him, beckoning him.

Somewhere on the other side of that door his father lingered. His father, his mother, all those he had lost, all those he had failed. Now he would find them. He had an eternity to find them. Ammas dropped his dagger to the floor, cast aside his hat, and raised his arms as he had done to command the Dead. 

"I am ready," he murmured, and stepped through that awful doorway, just as Othma Sulivar had warned him he would do.

But hands pulled him back. Wolfish paws that shrank into slender hands on his shoulders; small boyish hands on his waist. They pulled him back with all their strength, dragging him to the floor. Terrified hazel eyes stared down into his. Two small brown hands clutched his left hand, squeezing so hard it actually hurt. 

"Ammas, you mustn't -- you mustn't go there!" Carala hissed. Gentle fingers raked through his curls. The wonderful scent of the she-wolf still clung to her, and he breathed deep of it as she pressed her cheek to his neck, embracing him, clutching him, clinging to him as his apprentice watched on.

Slowly the door swung shut. Ammas sighed.

Gently he cupped the back of Carala's head until she glanced up, their eyes meeting. "I know where we must go to cure you," he whispered.

But he could not bear to tell her what must be done, and so with a soft moan he gave over to the pain and exhaustion and his terrible grief, collapsing into a deep and dreamless sleep. He remained unconscious for well over twenty-four hours, and even by the time he awoke the citizens of Gallowsport had not yet grasped just what had happened in their city that awful night.