The half-ogre’s cudgel landed squarely against her stomach, and a wheezing groan escaped Jo’s lips. The stroke had sneaked past her guard and underneath her own stroke. Jo stumbled backward, feeling a pain in her side as she tried desperately to draw a breath. The rasping inhalation told her that her ribs were only bruised, not broken. Gamely, she held Wyrmblight before her, one hand on the pommel, the other clutching the blade in the center. Her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to see in the falling rain.
The brute stepped toward Jo and raised his cudgel. Jo gasped another breath and clutched the sword hilt with both hands, preparing for the blow. The cudgel came crashing down, catching the razor edge of Wyrmblight. The force reverberated through the sword, into Jo’s hands, and on through her arms. In pain, Jo crumpled to her knees. If she’d had breath to spare, she would have screamed.
The half-ogre brought the cudgel up over his head, preparing the same blow to smash his adversary into the paving stones. He raised his hairy arms high overhead, and his bulging, bleeding belly shook. I can’t survive another blow like the last one, Jo thought in desperation.
She drew Wyrmblight’s pommel downward and flipped the tip up. The half-ogre’s arms began to descend, the cudgel following. Jo grabbed Wyrmblight by the middle of the blade and thrust upward awkwardly. The blade’s tip caught the half-ogre’s belly and punctured through the exposed flesh. Jo stood and used the force of her body to thrust upward, twisting Wyrmblight as she rose. “For Flinn!” she muttered through bared teeth.
With a growling shriek, the half-ogre dropped his club, which glanced off Jo’s shoulder. He staggered backward. Jo held on to Wyrmblight and watched in sudden, vicious satisfaction as the half-ogre’s entrails stuck to the sword. The massive creature rolled unevenly to the ground and was still.
As she tugged Wyrmblight free from the viscera, Jo saw Braddoc Briarblood charge the remaining thug, the corner section of a crate still clinging raggedly to the dwarf’s shoulder. Braddoc’s battle-axe flashed, cleaving squarely into his adversary’s elbow. Jo watched in morbid fascination as the forearm dangled from a bit of sinew before dropping with a thud to the muddy ground. The man blinked once, stupidly, then collapsed. Braddoc stepped forward and touched the thug’s neck. Satisfied that he sensed no pulse, the dwarf turned to Jo.
“Are you all right?” Braddoc asked matter-of-factly.
Jo coughed a little and drew her breath. “Yes,” she said, though her breath was labored. She leaned against Wyrmblight and stood a little straighten Her breathing grew easier, and she looked past the half-ogre.
The thug who had been fighting Braddoc lay facedown in a puddle of bloody water, his sword beneath him. Jo blinked, aware that the rain had finally stopped. At least we won’t have that to contend with on our way back to the inn, she thought tiredly. She turned her attention to the injured man she and Braddoc had rescued.
The man groaned and touched his bruised face. Jo put her hand on Braddoc’s shoulder for support, and the pair approached cautiously. The man struggled to his feet, holding his bleeding head. “Thank you,” he said in a voice hoarse with pain. “I don’t know what I’d’ve done …”
As the man’s face turned to the light, Jo’s eyes went wide. It’s him! she thought wildly. He’s shaved the moustache and goatee, but it’s him! What’s he doing in Kelvin? He’s supposed to be in Rifllian! Jo knew the answer even as she finished the thought: The tiny village hadn’t offered enough interest to a lecherous miscreant like him. The pain in her side throbbed, a roar filled her ears and drowned out the rest of Brisbois’s words, and Jo clenched her teeth.
She stepped defiantly toward him and spat, “You!” Her eyes flashed in rage. She let the man stare at her, let recognition dawn slowly in his hazel eyes, before her hand flew out, slapping him brutally across the face.
The old she-wolf moved through the thick evergreens, soft now with spring growth. The branches were gentle on her scarred black hide, which was thin with the loss of her winter pelt. She bent her head to the ground, every now and then snuffling the wet needles. She whined, then continued her search.
Karleah Kunzay pricked her ears at a minute noise, a noise she would never have heard in human form. A rabbit, her wolf senses informed her. She lifted her head and scented the air, casting about for the rabbit’s location. A moment later she pinpointed its whereabouts; she focused her golden eyes on the underbrush before her.
Ah, there it is! Her wolf lips curled, rippling over canines still white and sharp. She lunged, and the chase was on. The cottontail, fat with spring food, dodged beneath a branch and scampered for denser cover. The wolf leaped the branch with no space to spare, conserving precious energy, and dived after the rabbit.
The cottontail veered to the left, and the old wolf smiled. A young one, she thought, and none too smart. A wilier rabbit would have headed right, toward the thorn bushes. This one had chosen the bottom lands near the stream. The wolf whined and panted as she raced after the rabbit. She’d catch it near the stream, for the undergrowth there was sparse and would offer little cover.
The rabbit broke through to open ground and squealed in fright. In a single bound the wolf caught up to her prey. She extended her jaws, her lips drawn back in a snarl. The young cottontail paused, trembling, for a moment, then kicked out with its strong back legs. The blow met the wolf squarely in the face, and Karleah rolled off balance into the soft spring earth.
She gained her feet and lunged toward the rabbit. Instantly the cottontail fled toward the stream, and the wolf snarled. Another mistake! thought Karleah. The young rabbit should have retreated to the dense brush. The old wolf leaped after the rabbit. The cottontail zigged and zagged, squealing in fear, but to no avail. The she-wolf’s jaws snapped down on the soft flesh.
“Ouch! Karleah, that hurts!” The words came out in a funny, strangled hybrid of rabbit and Common. The wolf relaxed her powerful jaws and dropped the transforming Dayin Kine to the ground. His long ears shrank, his body grew, and his soft fur disappeared and was replaced by naked skin. Brown rabbit eyes gave way to the summer-sky blue irises of a young and innocent boy. He blinked and looked up at the wolf standing above him; the wolf panted heavily, her saliva dripping onto the boys skin. He wiped it off hastily and made a face. “I hate it when you do that!” he complained.
The wolf sat down. Karleah looked at Dayin through her golden eyes, and her wolfish appetite whispered what a morsel the eleven-year-old boy would make. But she calmly ignored the lupine cravings.
“What’d you think, Karleah?” Dayin asked brightly. “Did I do good? It took you longer this time to catch me”
Karleah whined and prepared to speak. She had spent years learning how to contort her lips, tongue, and vocal cords in order to speak Common while in wolf form. She said slowly, painfully, “Better, yes, boy, but … still bad.” The wolf whined again and licked her lips, striving for control. “Could have … killed you.”
Dayin sat up and threw his arms around the old she-wolf. “Oh, Karleah!” he cried. “You’d never hurt me!” He ruffled the wolf’s black fur and added, “Besides, I’ve got one of my spells back, and I would have used it on you. See?” The boy threw his hands up in the air, and a brace of white doves suddenly appeared above his head. They fluttered away to a nearby branch and peered down at the boy and wolf. He added happily, “And I get birds now, and not feathers. I never knew how to do my spells right until you showed me.”
The wolf growled low, then let out a series of barks.
Dayin watched Karleah closely, trying to fathom the wolf language. He said, “I think I understand, Karleah. You want to know about my spell returning, right?”