Chapter 5
Wolves Bare Their Fangs
—Part the Second—
"The wolf has howled. How shall ye answer, Pack?" The chief's voice, calm yet as sharp and strong as the clash of steel, carried through the gathering, borne upon the wind towards the Dragon Mountains. His gaze swept over their faces, and Haar’s eyes followed in its wake.
"We heed the wolf’s call!" the Pack roared in unison.
"And who shall ne'er betray the wolves?"
"The wolves shall shield that one!"
"But he who breaks faith and silence..."
"Shall be delivered unto the wolves, and by wolves shall be avenged!"
A thin smile pressed itself tightly upon Vélho’s lips, as though he sought to swallow it whole. His hands slid beneath the folds of his cloak and into the pockets of his trousers as he began to pace slowly within the circle that the Pack had unconsciously formed around him.
"Loyalty and secrecy — grave matters, these," he said, his voice lower now, imbued with a strange, concentrated fervour. "Graver still shall they become from this day forth. Of what we shall speak here — let no breath escape your lips! Else I myself shall set the wolves upon ye..." His tone turned brisker. "But first — aye, I have summoned you to share my joy. Our comrade Sago has returned, having slipped so nimbly from the grasp of justice of our very beloved Master..." A sardonic grin curled at the corners of his mouth. "All the more commendable, for that Master is no longer a sluggish old codger but a fierce whelp, whose hatred for us burns hotter still."
Vélho laced every word with mockery, and Aéna was certain that though the wind-swept rocks atop the crag might have shown more emotion than he, his inner contempt ran deeper still. He had no love for Ferlo, but none in the Pack doubted his loathing for Gerod.
The chief cast a meaningful glance towaro, who laughed brazenly and raked his fingers through his hair.
"Bah, no feat at all, wolf-lord," Sag scoffed. "The bars of the Citadel dungeons are as rusted and rotten as the guards of their so-called justice. A greenhorn could outwit them."
"Don’t be so modest," rasped Osgod, clapping Sago on the shoulder. "The wolf-lord speaks true. Gerod is no Ferlo. His guards know the bite of fear and snap to attention when he passes. I had quite the toil of it myself fetching news at the Gates."
"And those tidings, moreover," Vélho interjected, turning back to Sago, "thou hast finally rendered useful to us." His satisfaction now shone plain, rare as it was. Lightning-bright gleams flared in his pale green eyes, a sight so uncommon that even Haar cast a startled glance at his master, puzzled by such uncharacteristic vitality. Aéna nearly quivered with curiosity. She exchanged glances with Heél, then awaited Vélho's next words with impatient eagerness.
"We all know from Osgod that Gerod has lately found himself some new trinket in the Alchemy Fortress. Supposedly valuable, perhaps even most intriguing — at the very least, one worth enough for our beloved Master to sacrifice much. And we also know that he's now beside himself with rage, for before he had the chance to play with his toy, someone whisked it right out from under his nose."
Aye, they all knew it well. Aéna had been with Vélho, sitting in the grotto atop the crag, when Osgod returned just over a week ago, his hair matted like withered reeds, his brow slick with sweat, and his ragged clothes dirtier than usual, as though he'd sprinted across the steppe from Grod Gérlod. Without even catching his breath, he had gasped out the tale — that the Gates rang with Gerod's fury, for the High Druid had spirited away that which belonged to gnomes, and now war was certain.
From the first, Vélho had regarded the news with suspicion. He had always maintained that Nol was no fool, and this time was no exception. He did not believe Nol guilty of making the mysterious treasure vanish, and now his doubt was about to be confirmed.
"And as of today, thanks to Sag, we now know where Gerod’s precious trinket lies," he said softly yet solemnly, as though some long-held expectation within him had at last come to fruition. "Sago?"
At that, Sag stepped forward. Standing beside Vélho, he drew something from the inner pocket of his cloak and placed it upon a flat stone that served as their table during councils. All heads craned forward with curiosity. Aéna, the smallest of the pack, braced her hands on Heél’s shoulder and bounced on her toes, trying to peer past Sago’s back. Failing that, she sidled between Lor and Osgod, worming her way to a better vantage.
In Sago's hands lay a crumpled roll of reed papyrus, soiled and singed. At last, as he spread it upon the stone and smoothed it with a flattened palm, she glimpsed it clearly.
Must’ve pulled it from the fire , she thought with unbidden admiration for Sago’s skill — he had a knack for plunging his hands into flames as easily as one might into water. Her gaze returned to the scroll. Its twisted script glimmered in black ink, like tangled branches under moonlight.
"What in Likho are those scorched runes you’ve dug up? What’s it supposed to be?" Lor guffawed stupidly. Aéna cocked her head, glaring at him with disdain.
Even a dolt like Lor ought to know wolf-tongue when he saw it.
Lor reached to snatch the papyrus for a closer look, but Jara smacked his outstretched hands with a force far from gentle.
"Hands off!" she growled. "Let Sago speak!"
Sag swept his hand across the papyrus once more.
"I bolted straight from the Citadel, up into the forest. A paltry watch they keep, for there’s precious few folk left stationed there. As I said, the place is nought but a heap of rust and mouldering stone — its glory long since perished. Only a handful gave chase, those I hadn’t already dealt a knock on the way out. But there’s yet to be a man born who can catch me in the wilds." He grinned from ear to ear, brimming with his usual brazen satisfaction. "And the night was thick with cloud, so I made it to the waterfall without trouble. There, as you well know, none can lay a hand on you."
"I crept between the rocks. Took me a while to find the path, but every stone has its tale under the hand, and mine remember well. I found it soon enough and followed it along, when my nose caught wind of something strange.
"I was as surprised as a hundred Likhos — fire! At first, I thought it must’ve been smoke lingering from the woods, but no, my nose isn’t prone to falsehoods. I left the path and headed toward the scent. Erelong, light began seeping through cracks in the rocks — at first faint, then growing ever stronger. I softened my tread, slipping into foxlike stealth. And then I heard a voice. Speaking the common tongue, but soft and lilting, much like the speech of sylphs. I pressed my eye to a crevice.
"The first thing I saw was a wolf — black as pitch, with alder twigs sprouting from its thick pelt. A stunning beast, I tell you! I rubbed my eyes twice over! By the hundred storms, I still can't believe such creatures yet roam. Had wolf-lord not confirmed it, I’d swear I’d dreamed it."
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Vélho nodded gravely, his face taut with contemplation. Aéna narrowed her eyes, hoping they'd speak more of the wolf, but the chieftain kept his silence, and Sago carried on.
"Then I saw there was a figure behind the wolf — the one speaking. Tall enough, clad in a green cloak that swept the ground."
"A sylph-blooded bastard!" Osgod cut in, his long, gaunt nose wrinkling with excitement. "Gerod's counsellor! Did you see his face? They say no soul in the Gates has ever laid eyes on it!"
Sag ran his hand over the papyrus once more.
"I saw a bit — just what the dim, flickering fire allowed. He’s no stripling, that much was plain; hair black as that wolven beast's pelt. At first, I doubted he was Gerod’s mage. Thought him some common druid or wandering philosopher. But then I pricked up my ears, hoping to catch their talk. Just then the wolf spoke — grinding out words in wolfspeech so rough I scarce understood them.
'So ye knew, my lord, that the bauble was not in Nélchod’s tower? And ye know, then, who took it from there?' says he.
'You pry too much, meddlesome wolf,' the other answers, slow and lilting, as though spell upon spell curled off his tongue. Strange voice it was — one you might follow to the world’s edge if you’d no sense in your head. 'That’s no business of yours,' he goes on, 'to puzzle over. Your task is to find for me where it now lies. For the one Gerod suspects — he’s neither there nor ever laid so much as a finger on the Dagger. Too weak for such deeds, he always was.'
"I couldn't make out his face clearly, but you could hear the smile in his voice — mocking, sly. 'Ever was,' he said.
"Then, after a pause, he pulled this" — Sag tapped the papyrus beneath his hand — "out from beneath his cloak.
'Take this,' he tells the wolf. 'It’s all writ down here in your tongue, though wrapped in riddles you’ll never unravel yourself. Seek the Philosopher of the Alder Lady. Question him. Bid him solve it. Then return swift with what you learn.'
'But mark my words,' he adds, 'if this riddle falls into eyes or ears other than yours and that philosopher’s, I shall show no mercy.'
"The wolf spread the scroll open with his paw, and from the side, I saw him bare his fangs in a grin.
'My memory’s sharp, my lord,' he growls. 'Sharp enough to know that ere long this parchment shall burn in the fire.'
"The mage nodded, seemingly pleased. But then the black beast asked, 'Why seek ye Nélchod’s Dagger now, my lord? So many years ye’ve had no care for it.'
"Foolish question, that — and it set the mage ablaze with fury." Sag laughed, still relishing the wolf's misfortune. "He didn’t lay a finger on the beast, stood as still as a post, but his face turned white as the moon, and the fire hissed like nothing I’ve ever heard. Even the wolf whimpered and crouched low before him.
"I stared into the flames for a moment. Not just hissing, mind you — the fire moved like a living thing, as though blood flowed from its very heart. Strange craft, their spells and tricks... I once met a fellow who swore all such things bent to laws of matter, though laws only they know...
"When I looked back for the mage, he was gone. Vanished, the scoundrel. A sylph-born Likho if ever there was one!" He spat, though not without grudging awe.
"The wolf glared at the papyrus for a spell, then snatched it in his jaws and tossed it into the fire. I cursed him, trying to make him flee before it burned — taking down a wolf’s no easy feat. And that was that. To us, a scroll; to the beast, nought but a scrap. Thought the fire would devour it in a blink, didn’t care to wait.
"He vanished from sight, so I leapt into the fire to save what I could. A bit fearful, mind, lest the mage was lurking about, watching. But blast it all — I took my chance. And here it is." He pointed to the papyrus and turned his foxlike grin toward Vélho.
He has a comely face, thought Aéna unexpectedly, stealing a glance at Sago. Were it not for Heél, one might well fall for him, she added with a crooked, playful smile.
The chieftain nodded again, lost in thought awhile ere his gaze settled firmly on the papyrus.
"So, you see for yourselves, my Pack," he said. "At last, we’ve a chance to lay hands on something truly precious. The Nélchod Dagger — the very treasure for which Gerod is now willing to lay waste to half the Land."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Lor blurted eagerly. "Let’s grab the trinket and wave it in Gerod’s face!"
The pack jeered at him in unison, yet Vélho raised a commanding hand to silence them all. His tone grew grave.
"It’s not that simple. This isn’t some order for the town guard, scrawled plain enough for any dullard to follow. It's a riddle for the chosen few. Even the mage himself didn’t crack it — else he wouldn’t risk sending the wolf. I am but a mere wolf-lord, I read the words well enough, yet I know nought of philosopher’s tomes or their tongue... Heél? Have a look."
At once Sago’s face darkened. Pressing his hand firmly against the papyrus, he glared at Vélho.
"You’d hand to that elf-pup what I braved the flames to fetch?"
Vélho quelled him with a single sharp look, then took the scroll from the table and handed it to Heél. The boy brushed his hair from his brow and, with his usual unhurried grace, reached for the papyrus. He studied it for a long moment ere speaking.
"It’s the wolf-tongue of philosophers."
Sag snorted like a wild horse, muttering, "Elf-genius," under his breath.
The chieftain, rare impatience roughening his voice, grumbled:
"That much we already know."
Heél smiled gently.
"What it means," he said, "is that this is a most peculiar riddle. Everything within it is cloaked in metaphor, poetic imagery that speaks nought plainly. True, that’s the nature of any cipher, yet in the riddles of philosophers, the metaphors are far more intricate and fanciful. It’s a play of language. Moreover, these aren’t mere simple symbols; they call upon deep knowledge from many fields. Thus, no common mind could ever hope to decipher them."
"And you, oh uncommon one , will surely unravel it for us, eh?" Sago mocked, adjusting the collar of his doublet. "Just my luck — all my toil gone to waste, dashed by foolery! I might as well have chased after that wolf myself and followed him right to the philosopher’s door."
"You’d catch a wolf, would you?" snorted Jara, though without malice. Whenas she did jest at Sag’s expense, it was alway tempered by the blunt but honest fondness she bore him. They got on well enough — or at least respected each other, which was perhaps of greater worth among their band. "More likely you’d just end up clutching at his tail."
Sag curled his lip, ready with a retort, but Vélho silenced them both with a stern gesture.
"What do you think, Heél?" he asked. "Can you read it?"
"Maybe," Heél said, his eyes still fixed on the papyrus. "But I’ll need time."
"How long?"
"I can’t say... Even the translation will yield more than one version. The same words can be interpreted differently, and different metaphors woven from them. Every line, every single word here carries meaning and links to the next. And when I’ve fashioned it into a verse, I may not even find the answer myself. I’ll have to search the philosophers' library, pour through books and lexicons — perhaps even break into a restricted one to grasp it fully..."
"How long, then?" pressed Vélho impatiently.
"Don’t be a fool, wolf-lord!" Sag cut in again. "Doesn’t take a swollen-headed whelp to see why that wolf was sent to a seasoned thinker. By the time he puzzles out a single line of this riddle, the others’ll have the treasure clutched in their paws."
"Watch your tongue!" snapped Aéna, leaping to Heél’s defence. "He knows more about philosophy than most!"
Her heart skipped a beat as it always did when she dared oppose Sago. What is it about him that makes me tremble so? she thought angrily, vexed at herself. She despised being afraid.
"Hold thy sweet tongue, wench!" Sag sneered at her with mocking disdain. "No one asked for thy counsel!"
Heél cast a glance at Aéna, smiling indulgently as though to gently chide her for meddling needlessly. She scowled, then snorted under her breath, wounded by his condescension.
"In part, I find myself agreeing with Sago," Heél said calmly to Vélho. "Even if I manage to glean some sense from this riddle, it may all be for nought if we’re already too late."
"We've no other choice; no other course lies open to us," Vélho answered after a moment's thought. "Read what you can, as swiftly as you can. Time lost is the only danger here... And this matter is far too precious for me to abandon."
"I shan't let such a chance slip by..." he murmured then, more to himself than to the rest of the band, his eyes once again flashing with lightning.
Satisfaction? Vengeance? Or perhaps something else — something Aéna could not fathom.
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By night, as she drifted off to sleep, Aéna could hear Heél muttering to himself in that peculiar way of his:
“The Philosopher of the Alder Lady… The Lady of the Alders… Surely not that one… Gnomish poppies, poppies turned gnomish, poppies now yellow… Beloved was late, love was late, serpent, viper… The same… All the same… The same lover, the same love…”
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The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,
That which never was.
It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,
Twin-born, echoing love.
When behind the mist the father’s eye turns,
A wheel ever circling,
When the moon of the lover doth rise,
Twin flames in mirrors burn,
And the Lady of Song dances.
The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,
That which never was.
It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,
Twin-born, echoing love.
The Lady of Song and the Lady of Ring
Gaze into the mirror of sorrow.
Gaze into mirror, and in that glass
See the door to castle of love.
The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,
That which never was.
It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,
Twin-born, echoing love.