Mathi felt no pity for the nomads. Their brutal treatment of the kender was deplorable, but now that the little folk were aroused-and had discovered they enjoyed tormenting their tormentors-the nomads were in for unimaginable frustration. The nomads deserved their comeuppance.
At twilight they left the forest to cross open country to the newly named Thon-Haddaras. Their map was unclear of the exact distance to the river. Much of the survey had been done from the sky, by griffon riders, who were notoriously inaccurate at judging distances on the ground from a height. Balif was willing to travel all night if necessary to reach the Thon-Haddaras as soon as possible.
“All night?” asked Lofotan. “Does my lord mean that?”
Riding slowly through the high grass, Balif said, “It will not be a problem.”
Lofotan pulled a coil of chain from his saddlebag. The clinking sound made Balif rein up. He turned his horse sharply right, blocking Lofotan’s path.
“Do you doubt my word?” he said. Neither the captain, the girl, nor the scribe answered. Fists tight on his reins, the general snapped, “I will not be chained like a beast again! I am in control of myself. Is that clear?”
Cold as ice, Lofotan replied, “Perfectly, my lord.”
With a final glare Balif resumed riding. Lofotan held his place until his commander was half a hundred yards ahead. With a soft thump of his heels he started his mount forward. Mathi kept beside him with the pack train trailing behind.
“We shall not sleep tonight,” the old warrior said quietly.
“Do you think he will transform?”
“He already has. The question is, how much?”
Personally, Mathi thought it was perfectly reasonable of Balif to resent being shackled when the threat of nomad attack was so high.
Night came on clear and bright with stars. The crescent red moon rose like a bloody smile in the sky, lighting the dry, waving grass with a strange pinkish light. They heard something they hadn’t heard on their travels so far: the howl of a wolf. Savannah wolves had long been driven out of Silvanesti proper. They were common in the mountains, but so far the elves had not encountered any on their journey. Crossing the plain they now heard half a dozen different calls, indication of a sizable pack.
Lofotan braced his bow. Treskan and Mathi closed up with him, jerking the lines to hurry the packhorses along. At the tail of the group, they would be likely targets if the wolves attacked.
Balif circled in and out, sometimes leading, sometimes trailing the others. Whenever he came close Mathi studied him for signs that the curse was asserting itself. The changes she’d noticed before were still there, but the full beast-face and features were not in evidence. Mathi did not understand the working of spells. She could not imagine why the Creator would inflict such an erratic spell. Perhaps it was weakening-or perhaps it was designed to torment the sufferer by seeming to fade, only to return more strongly than ever?
“Wake up, you two.” Lofotan’s voice carried clearly in the warm, still air.
Mathi sharpened to awareness. Treskan twisted around in the saddle, looking in all directions.
“What is it?”
“We’re not alone.” Lofotan had spotted three or four shapes darting through the grass off to their right, about thirty yards away.
“Wolves?” said the scribe.
Lofotan nocked an arrow in answer. “Watch behind and on your left,” he said calmly. “The wolf you see is often a feint for the real attack.”
The horses were certainly aware of the danger. They closed in with each other, rolling their eyes and champing their bits. Mathi drew back and let the pack animals move ahead of her. Her pony, being blinkered, was less sensitive than the baggage animals. She knew he had the predators’ scent when he bobbed his head and snorted defiantly. Mathi tapped him with her heels to keep him moving. If he stopped, it might occur to him to shed his rider, then make a break for it.
Balif was out in front a dozen yards or so. His bow was unstrung. His sword rested in its scabbard. He had to know the pack was around them, but still he rode slowly ahead, weaving back and forth across their line of march. What was he doing?
All at once Lofotan sat up as high as he could in his saddle, bent his bow, and loosed an arrow into the pale red shadows. He was rewarded with a yelp and a thrashing in the grass. Treskan started toward the spot. Lofotan ordered him to stop.
“I’ll finish him off,” said the scribe, raising his spear.
“It might be a ruse.” Wolves were known to do that, fake an injury or death, to draw an unwise hunter close.
The thrashing in the grass stopped. Lofotan’s horse slowly came to a halt.
“Where’s my lord?”
Balif’s horse was coming back to them, reins trailing on the ground. There was no sign of the general, and no traces on his mount to suggest he had transformed into a beast and been thrown off as before.
A howl erupted close by. Lofotan whirled, arrow drawn back to his ear. Something low and dark was rushing at them through the grass. Balif’s horse reared and neighed.
“Don’t!” Mathi called. “It might be him!”
Lofotan thought of that too. He held his draw magnificently, holding the eighty pound recurve bow as steady as stone. The creature charging Balif’s horse gathered its legs and leaped. With only a moment to choose, Lofotan loosed his arrow.
It hit the hurtling beast dead in the ribs. Balif’s horse gave a start, jumping sideways as the lifeless body hurtled past it. At Lofotan’s direction Mathi went to look at it. It was a fine specimen of a male savannah wolf, brown all over, weighing maybe sixty pounds.
“It’s a wolf!” she said, relieved. “Dead as a stone!”
The words had hardly left her lips when a second beast exploded from the grass and knocked Lofotan from his saddle. Shouting, Mathi rushed to his rescue. The beast had clamped its powerful jaws on the elf’s right forearm, which fortunately was sheathed in bronze. They struggled, but Lofotan drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it into his attacker’s ribs once, twice. He threw the heavy slack form off and got up in time to dodge Treskan’s well-meaning spear-thrust.
The packhorses bucked and reared, tearing at the lines that bound them together. Two wolves had the lead pony by the throat. Lofotan had lost his bow in his fall. He snatched the spear from Treskan and raced to rescue the pony. The scribe was left with just his sword, which he barely knew how to use.
A low, rolling growl behind Mathi froze her blood to ice. She turned slowly and saw a large black beast whose head and chest fur were shot through with gray advancing on him. Tugging at her sword, she backed away, swearing in Elvish.
Black lips curled, the wolf displayed long, broken teeth. He was the elder chief of his pack, powerful, and with a gleam of cruel intelligence in his eyes. Words died in Mathi’s mouth. All her spit seemed to have suddenly dried up.
Lofotan was battling two wolves at once. He speared one, pinning it to the turf, but the other leaped on his back. He went down. Treskan was swinging his sheathed sword like a club, trying to ward off a pale colored she-wolf.
The old wolf was little more than three paces away. Mathi gripped the sword in both hands to steady it.
She heard a shout. Slashing through the tall grass came Balif. He swung his sword wide, cutting a swath through the weeds. Seeing Mathi about to be attacked, he shouted again, whipping off his cloak and wrapping it around his unarmored left arm.
The wolf recognized a more dangerous opponent had joined the fray and quickly forgot Mathi, turning to face Balif. The elf general didn’t wait for the beast to spring. He plunged in, sword high. The old wolf didn’t go for his open left arm, as Mathi thought he would. He jumped headlong at Balif’s chest.
Not one warrior in a hundred would have stood their ground to receive the blow. Balif did. His sword was high, and he moved his free hand to join the other on the grip. He shouted-he bellowed-a challenge so loud and so unelflike Mathi believed for an instant that he had become a beast again. Down came the fine elf blade. Behind the general’s head Lunitari gleamed like red horns atop his head.