rust-colored old wolf-man, the leader of his pack, his beard grizzled and stained. He reached down with his cruel hand, and with his claws he hooked her by the rope between her wrists, and dragged her down toward the encampment where the fire had burned the night before. There he threw her on her face in the dry dirt.
They were in the ruins of some Northlander stable or sheepcote from the old days, a roofless rectangle of laid stones, collapsed on two sides and the fire pit in the middle. Kip was there with a wereboar squatting over him, an albino giant with a broken tusk, who had forced his cloven hand into the shifter’s hair and pulled back his head. “Where is he?”
The Savage had disappeared during the night. Always this was the lycanthropes’ vulnerability, their long hours of sleepiness after gorged meals and frenzied motion—they spent more hours asleep than awake. Only a few of the cleverest were able to maintain their human shapes during slumber. The previous day they had gotten into camp long before sunset, and most of them had immediately collapsed into an unconsciousness that was expansive rather than profound, their claws twitching in their dreams.
The Savage was gone. The golden elf had slit his bonds, doubtless with some secret dagger he had hidden in his clothes. The two young wolves that had been supposed to guard him lay with their throats cut in a smear of dark blood.
But why hadn’t he freed her where she lay, away from the others? Marikke had never trusted him—how couldyou trust him? Everybody, everywhere had learned to hate these elves, arrogant creatures from the wilderness beneath the world, or else, if you wanted to think of it that way, from the mossy grottoes and shifting forests inside ourselves. Their outward splendor buried their black hearts. If one of them claimed to have changed his nature, run away from home, what then? Surely he could change back just as easily. Surely also the many traps he’d laid for human women, as sticky and repulsive as any web …
“Where has he gone?” snarled the albino pig-lord, forcing back the shifter’s head. In his right hand, the creature clutched a knife between his two heavy fingers. Kip whimpered in fear. At these moments of crisis he was at his most human, a thin pale boy with a shock of yellow hair.
Later, with the goddess’s help, stripes of red and brown would appear in it, but at this moment it was almost white, because of his terror. Around them and in the gap of the collapsed wall, Marikke looked into the faces of twenty or thirty creatures whose bestial nature was now paramount, and whose voices now drew tight around them like a noose of sound.
“Oh, sweet Mother,” Marikke prayed. “Not my will, but yours. Even so, a little help might be appreciated …”
One of the wolves, his long back decorated with a ridge of colored mud, lumbered through the gap. His jaws sagged open, and his long tongue protruded into the shifter’s face, while at the same time the pig-lord’s hand had changed into a boar’s cloven foot again anddropped the knife. But he pressed the sharp edge of his foot into the boy’s neck, while the rest of the animals screamed and gibbered. Marikke closed her eyes, trying to find a place of inner calm, however provisional and momentary, a foundation from which her prayer could rise. The wolf-man stood above her, his clawed foot in the middle of her back. She sought her place of soft tranquility until she found it at the moment when several of the animals cried out in surprise or grunted in dismay, and she opened her eyes to see a man break into the circle, kicking the beasts aside. He seized the wereboar by its tail and dragged it back, twisting it at the same time until the creature flipped onto its side, struggling to right itself, digging its feet into the chalky ground.
“Great Mother,” Marikke prayed. And at first this person did seem like the manifestation of a prayer, because the beasts cringed
They were in the ruins of some Northlander stable or sheepcote from the old days, a roofless rectangle of laid stones, collapsed on two sides and the fire pit in the middle. Kip was there with a wereboar squatting over him, an albino giant with a broken tusk, who had forced his cloven hand into the shifter’s hair and pulled back his head. “Where is he?”
The Savage had disappeared during the night. Always this was the lycanthropes’ vulnerability, their long hours of sleepiness after gorged meals and frenzied motion—they spent more hours asleep than awake. Only a few of the cleverest were able to maintain their human shapes during slumber. The previous day they had gotten into camp long before sunset, and most of them had immediately collapsed into an unconsciousness that was expansive rather than profound, their claws twitching in their dreams.
The Savage was gone. The golden elf had slit his bonds, doubtless with some secret dagger he had hidden in his clothes. The two young wolves that had been supposed to guard him lay with their throats cut in a smear of dark blood.
But why hadn’t he freed her where she lay, away from the others? Marikke had never trusted him—how couldyou trust him? Everybody, everywhere had learned to hate these elves, arrogant creatures from the wilderness beneath the world, or else, if you wanted to think of it that way, from the mossy grottoes and shifting forests inside ourselves. Their outward splendor buried their black hearts. If one of them claimed to have changed his nature, run away from home, what then? Surely he could change back just as easily. Surely also the many traps he’d laid for human women, as sticky and repulsive as any web …
“Where has he gone?” snarled the albino pig-lord, forcing back the shifter’s head. In his right hand, the creature clutched a knife between his two heavy fingers. Kip whimpered in fear. At these moments of crisis he was at his most human, a thin pale boy with a shock of yellow hair.
Later, with the goddess’s help, stripes of red and brown would appear in it, but at this moment it was almost white, because of his terror. Around them and in the gap of the collapsed wall, Marikke looked into the faces of twenty or thirty creatures whose bestial nature was now paramount, and whose voices now drew tight around them like a noose of sound.
“Oh, sweet Mother,” Marikke prayed. “Not my will, but yours. Even so, a little help might be appreciated …”
One of the wolves, his long back decorated with a ridge of colored mud, lumbered through the gap. His jaws sagged open, and his long tongue protruded into the shifter’s face, while at the same time the pig-lord’s hand had changed into a boar’s cloven foot again anddropped the knife. But he pressed the sharp edge of his foot into the boy’s neck, while the rest of the animals screamed and gibbered. Marikke closed her eyes, trying to find a place of inner calm, however provisional and momentary, a foundation from which her prayer could rise. The wolf-man stood above her, his clawed foot in the middle of her back. She sought her place of soft tranquility until she found it at the moment when several of the animals cried out in surprise or grunted in dismay, and she opened her eyes to see a man break into the circle, kicking the beasts aside. He seized the wereboar by its tail and dragged it back, twisting it at the same time until the creature flipped onto its side, struggling to right itself, digging its feet into the chalky ground.
“Great Mother,” Marikke prayed. And at first this person did seem like the manifestation of a prayer, because the beasts cringed
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