They found the young wolf in a sorry state. On one side, he was all burned where he'd landed in the fire, though miraculously, the spit hadn't been knocked over, only tilted slightly askew. Yet, Charlot had no appetite. His stomach twisted with adrenaline and the stink of singed fur.
As he surveyed the hurt wolf, Charlot saw the situation was dire. The wolf was young and strong, he might recover from the burn. Yet, the black blood staining his muzzle had done for him, a dark foam flecked the corners of the wolf's mouth, and his body was twitching as he whimpered. As the arcanist approached, the wolf's struggles grew weaker until he was nearly still.
//rune// “Mercy,” Charlot said, reaching out a hand to extinguish the tortured creature, and then, suddenly, the wolf sprang back to life and snapped at him! Charlot barely yanked his hand back in time, and the air rumbled with Korak's threatening growl.
"Why you little cur! Playing more hurt than you are to lure me in, is that it?"
The wolf had no reply save a pained whine. He'd used the last of his strength in that gambit.
"Unusually clever. And your warning, perhaps it saved us both. That Sïthur shade could have done us great harm. Perhaps we would have never woken without this one. Korak! Enough growling!"
The bear stopped his low rumbling, and Charlot wondered how he might perhaps repay the wolf's good deed.
"I can perhaps save you, but nothing about it will be pleasant for either of us," Charlot offered. "Trust that I do only what must be done." The wolf was in no position to negotiate, it could only whimper.
Drawing closer to Flaccaro's unwavering light, Charlot rummaged in the pockets of his coat until he found a packet of bluish-silver dust. The mere sight of the dust made him wince. It was that bad that without the dust the wolf would perish, and even that was likely not enough. He needed inanis powder. He searched for a few moments and did not find any and was half-afraid he had none, but then he found the black paper packet, sealed in lacquer.
He set the two packets out and wished he could somehow tell the bear to hold the wolf still, but Korak might simply flatten him if Charlot couldn't get his point across. No, it had to be Charlot, and that meant he had to cast the spell.
"I hate stone-hands," Charlot complained to the night. The stillness of the confrontation was fading, and the night noises had begun to return. The stream burbled on behind it, unconcerned with all of it.
Charlot spoke the words, and there was a supremely uncomfortable feeling as his hands stiffened and grew heavier. The warmth fled them, and his bones felt like ice, all the way up his arms, so that his elbows creaked with rheumatism and the injured shoulder throbbed with complaint.
The long and delicate fingers lost all their craft and subtlety, and they became dense and impervious. How he hated this spell! What a terrible reminder that his hands must someday fade, just as his eyes were fading, just as all things would fade.
He shook his head. It was no time to be maudlin.
Slowly, he moved to the wolf's side and held one cold hand against his neck. The wolf tried to turn his head to bite, but he hadn't the strength, whereas Charlot's own was multiplied by the enchantment.
He took a hand and forced it into the wolf's mouth, getting a yelp of surprise. As the wolf tried to bite, he made a fist, forcing the jaws open. Charlot took the black packet of inanis powder in the other hand. Such was the power of the spell that he did not need to tear the packet open, he could pulverize it as if his index finger and thumb were mortar and pestle. It was a messy business, and the wolf was thrashing and squirming, but more than enough powder got down its throat as it growled and gnashed.
"I am sorry for this," Charlot said with hard sincerity.
He managed with some effort to get his heavy hand free from the wolf's mouth just as the vomiting began. Inanis was perhaps the most dramatic emetic he knew of. The wolf that had been unable to rise moments before was suddenly up on its feet. It vomited hard, and it paced around in a staggering, drunken circle, stopping every few paces to expel more bile and blood until everything seemed painted with it. Acutely aware of what would happen, Charlot had taken quite a few steps back. Finally, the wolf toppled in place, the burst of stimulation from the inanis spent.
Steeling his stomach, Charlot picked up the limp wolf beneath one arm and, with some difficulty, he picked up the packet of silver dust in the other.
"You must wake, friend, or the dust will finish you," Charlot said, apology in his tone. Gathering the wolf's front legs in one hand and his back legs in the other, Charlot dipped him in the stream, holding him under until his legs thrashed, and then he pulled the sputtering wolf out of the water.
What a sorry, wet and ragged sight he was! The wolf was too weak to fight, but he hacked and sneezed and caught his breath, and Charlot laid him by the bank of the stream, with his burnt side up.
Hunting about, Charlot saw no suitable branch handy, so he reached up and snapped off a tree limb hanging over the stream, as thick as his wrist. The wood bent and cracked under the crushing force of his ensorcelled hands, and he broke off a foot-long piece, and then fitted it into the wolf's mouth.
You had men bite down on something before you gave them the dust, but he did not know if it was the same for a wolf. Charlot did not even know if Audera’s silver dust would work on a wolf, but weakened by the poison, the young wolf would surely die of the burn without it.
"You must take the pain, all of it. If you let go, the Void will take you. Good luck, noble wolf," Charlot said, and in truth, he was almost certain he was wasting his very expensive dust on a doomed animal. But the wolf had warned them of the demon, saved him from his own incompetence.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Charlot released the spell and felt the agonizing return of feeling to his hands, all those years returning at once, and he had to shut his eyes for a moment and take in the pain himself. When his hands stopped trembling, he slid open the packet. The wolf was whimpering again, but his legs were no longer spasming. This was a good sign.
Charlot had to work swiftly. It was darker here by the stream, and he could barely see what he was doing. He emptied the packet into his palm, recoiling at the scent his mind had long associated with the utmost agony. Then, he scooped up a packetful of water from the stream and mixed the two in his hand, and then applied the silvery paste to the burn as quickly as he could.
The wolf flinched from his touch, but that discomfort was nothing before what was to come. When it was spread, he held a hand against the wolf's neck and his thigh, hoping his own strength was enough to hold down the wolf. Paces away, Korak snuffled at the strange scent. His ears were pinned back with alarm.
“Steady, friend,” Charlot advised. He had his hands full with his unwilling patient.
The dust set in, and the whimpering became a weird animal scream. The wolf was trying to howl with his mouth full. His eyes were wide open, his whole body was tensed, and Charlot held the beast down with great difficulty, it was a large burn. Many strong men would perish beneath such agony.
It went on and on until, at last, the wail faded to a pained whimpering, and Charlot took the length of wood from the beast's mouth so that it did not choke.
For an instant, the wolf met his gaze, and there was a sudden light in his eyes. Was it anger? Relief? The wolf closed its eyes, and Charlot thought he must be gone, but then he saw the slight movement of the wolf's side, rising and falling as it drew breath. The wolf had taken all the pain. Perhaps he would survive.
But what to do with him now? Would the wolf attack when he woke? Normally, the wolf would be laid up for days, recovering from such injuries, but the silver dust was strange stuff. Charlot could not pretend he understood its workings fully. Only the true wandering priests of the Laughing Star knew how to make it.
History was full of magicians who'd spent lifetimes failing to replicate it. He'd felt that same tug, to unravel the mystery, but there were always other projects more pressing. One thing he knew, it did not come without a cost, and the pain was just the first part of the price.
Korak was over by the ruins of his fire, snuffling hopefully at the turning joint of meat.
"Why you gluttonous oaf! A whole stag I gave to you! Where were you when the shadow came to slay us? Asleep!"
The bear lowered his head, and Charlot knew already that he would wind up giving the bear a piece of his meat. He'd known all along, purposefully cutting out a much larger piece than he could eat. He looked at the wolf, and taking a risk, again lifted the creature up, and carried it beside the fire. Without the enchantment, it was a struggle. The wolf weighed nearly sixty pounds! Setting the wolf by the fire where he would be warm, Charlot pointed to the wolf when he had Korak's attention.
"Friend. No eat!"
The bear turned his head from side to side, then snuffled at the wolf, making an uncertain noise. But he forgot all about the wolf as Charlot built up the fire again, replacing the stones from the ring that had been knocked aside. The coals were still hot enough that he needed no cantrip to start a new blaze.
"Thank you, Flaccaro, your light is most brilliant. You may rest," Charlot called across the clearing and, for a moment, the staff burned even brighter, as if to say it was barely taxed by the display.
Charlot prodded at the meat, and then cut an exploratory slice with the phase dagger. He decided it needed another few hours on the spit. The fire had died too soon to fully cook it. All that work had brought his hunger back with a fury, but he was not fool enough to eat game meat rare. He would not find the boy if he had to stop every hundred paces to void his bowels.
He looked at the wolf, hoping it was warm enough. Much of the fur on its left side had been burned away. With a thought, he got off the deerskin, and then laid it over the wolf. The shadowcat pelt was more than warm enough for him, besides, he had Korak.
Seeing nothing about to eat, the bear had already settled back down to sleep against the oak tree again. Charlot leaned back against the bear's side, feeling a slight tug that it was foolish to trust an such a big animal like this, but he had faith in the bear. Korak's emotions were not hard to discern.
Again, he thought he ought to set up the black diamond ward, but he told himself the demon might somehow use it to free itself. In truth, he was just tired and was willing to gamble they’d already defeated the primary threat in the area.
Overhead, the clouds were gone, and he was glad of it. He had no desire for rain. The stars were out, though he could only see the very brightest of them. There was the Laughing Star, far to the north silvery blue, and the Star of Fortune had deigned to appear as well, chasing at her feet. Far to the west, the Blood Star hung brooding over Urth'Wyrth, forever contemplating its destruction. If only there was some semblance of an organized priesthood…but there was nothing. The zealots wasted their time massacring Truestar fools and sacking fishing villages.
For the thousandth, thousandth time, Charlot contemplated his plan to destroy the city of Urth’Wyrth and shatter the legion’s implacable grip on the northlands. Charlot had made contact with an outsider trapped in an icy prison high above the Arc. He would strike a pact with that ruinous power, loosing it upon the Wyrth capital.
Next, he would raise a great army, rallying the forces of Yarlbeth, Khaz, Khemeria, Aran, even the hordes of Malsk and the fanatics of Ibexia would answer his great call to battle. The Wyrth would hole up in their impenetrable fortress, confident behind their unassailable walls of obsidian that had broken a hundred armies.
Yet, never before had they faced an adversary like Charlot! He would call down the comet upon those wicked spires, obliterating everything in sight. Nothing would remain of the stronghold but a blasted crater! From the dust-choked ruins, the frozen colossus would rise, sweeping up entire cohorts with monstrous hands of living ice, delivering them into its hungering maw!
The Wyrth would perish by the thousands. In the face of such devastation, Charlot was certain the Wyrth priesthood would have no choice but to wake the demon beneath the mountain. The false god of the Wyrth would rise in a column of burning rock that choked the sky. Charlot would stand upon the blasted battlefield at the van of a vast army, with Flaccaro in hand, ready for the final confrontation.
What a sublime idea! Charlot could think of no greater legacy than to be the one who rid the Arc of that cancerous devil! Yet, he lacked the ability to make it reality. The calculations to accurately strike the city with a comet were fiendishly difficult, far beyond his abilities.
For years, Charlot had struggled to decipher the writings of a perplexing mathematician named Mansilikis without success. Perhaps it was time to concede and seek help from others. He had long endeavored to keep every aspect of his plan secret, but now the Arc had forgotten him. The plan was so audacious that any who heard it would scoff, thinking him just a crackpot old hermit.
Would the Manatramord aid him? Charlot assumed they would welcome the destruction of Urth'Wyrth, but there was nothing so tangled upon the Arc as the plans of the black monks. Upsetting the balance of power in the north might spoil some centuries-long scheme they'd been weaving.
Perhaps they would use the opportunity to eliminate him as part of whatever they had planned for Fraughten. The mind of a demon was less complex than their machinations. And while he was thinking of demons…
Long into the night his mind spun until, at last, the wheel wound down, and he drifted back to sleep.