The Sable Moon (22 page)

“How many are there, do you think?” he asked.

“I cannot tell. We know there were six at goodman Brock's. My men see them in twos and threes.… Travelers say that folk are in fear of them as far north as the Waste. But I hope they may not be many, only roaming far afield. They run tirelessly, as fast as a horse.”

“Many or few, they will not be easily come upon,” Alan grumbled. “The Forest is large.”

“Vast,” Rafe agreed quietly, “and few know the inwardness of it as well as you, of the place or its creatures. I have heard there are strange things deep within.”

“Haunts, and hot steams, and grottos, and moss-men, and soft voices in the night.” Alan eyed Rafe pensively. “All that is wild and wonderful. But no such evil as this.”

“Then you know nothing of it?” Rafe was crestfallen.

“Nothing. Not even as much as you. I had heard no news of wolves before I received your letter.”

“What! The lad didn't tell you—”

“Not a whisper.” Alan's face darkened, but he tried to make light of Trevyn's omission. “On account of the lass, I dare say.”

Rafe grinned at that, then told the tale quickly enough. Alan heard it in heavy-hearted silence, envisioning a glittering ship with a leaping wolf for figurehead and a sunburst brooch lodged in the pebbles of the Long Beaches. “I must go to Nemeton,” he said abruptly when Rafe was done.

“What!” Rafe was taken aback.

“It is there that the true peril will strike. From the east; I am sure of it. I must warn Corin. And I will send for Ket, though I know he will be sorry to leave Laueroc. Perhaps his woodsmanship can help you. And I will get you men to aid you in your patrols, and I will go myself to Whitewater, to see Craig. There is one who knows the Forest, Rafe, though I expect his old bones would rather bide by the fire.”

“To Nemeton!” Rafe still floundered.

“Ay!” Alan clapped him on the shoulder, as if to awaken him. “But I will return within the month, if I can. Celydon also should increase the guard. If I write some orders, will you send them for me?”

“Of course,” muttered Rafe, then burst out, “There is no Forest within miles of Nemeton!”

“Those creatures are in the Forest, but not of it. Nor do I judge that we can hunt them down, though of course we must try.… But for now, and unless Ket advises otherwise, I think you will do well enough if you just keep them within the Forest and your folk unharmed. Waste no men in pursuing them.”

Alan went off to write his letters. The hardest was the one to Lysse, appointing her his second-in-command and telling her to send Ket to await him at Lee. He knew he had treated her badly, and his warrior spirit drove him to give her what he could, if only honesty. He wrote:

I feel a foreboding beyond all measure of reason that these wolves may put an end to us, Love. So if I do not see you again, shall you still know that I love you? It is true, my heart had gone as dead as a stone within me, but that changes nothing. The sun shines even when the clouds cover it; pray trust in that, as I must. Keep Rosemary by you there, to comfort you, and do not let her come to Celydon, as I know she will long to do; it is too perilous. Tell her that I charge her to stay with you. Now I must hasten to Nemeton, to warn Cory of a danger I can scarcely describe.

He traveled to Nemeton as fast as his retainers could follow him, skirting the Forest, though the precaution galled him. After spending only one evening with Corin he pressed onward, up the Eastern Way, to take counsel with Craig, former leader of all the outlaws in the southern Forest. Even as he traveled he heard rumors of wolves. They stalked the Forest's fringes in broad daylight now, folk said, and attacked children sent to gather sticks for the hearth. People were beginning to suffer for lack of fuel, for no one dared now to go near the Forest unless in the safety of a large group. When he came to Whitewater, Alan found that Craig had already organized patrols and expeditions for the gathering of wood. The old outlaw could not explain the strange behavior of the wolves. He had never seen anything like it, not in all the years he had dwelt in the wilds.

“Surely it cannot be
all
the wolves,” Craig offered in his cautious way.

“It could be a dozen, perhaps a score, and those very industrious in their perversity, hah? But there will be more, and worse trouble to come, Craig; I feel it.”

“For half my life I fought brutes in men's clothing,” Craig shrugged. “It will be no worse to fight brutes that wear hair and go on all fours.”

“That is very true,” Alan murmured. “I have never met such brutes except in human form.… I must make the acquaintance of these wolves.”

And the next day he rode straight into the Forest, though his retainers followed him nervously and Craig creased his brow in protest. They wound their way through the wilderness in the half-light of a gray winter's day, glancing over their shoulders at the gloomy distances beneath the trees. But it was not in a shadowy assault that Alan met his adversary. While the day was still young, the company came up against a big wolf sitting on its haunches squarely in the path, as indolent as a dog on a doorstep, with its long tongue lolling from its grinning mouth. Alan motioned his men to hold.

“What game is this, little brother?” he asked in the Old Language.

The wolf laughed, a shrill, yapping sound. “The sweetest game, O Crowned Head! Likely it will give you the soundest sleep you have ever known. Your heir has learned the game, O Fading Sun; ask him about it, when you see him! Where is the Princeling, O Majesty?”

Alan flushed hotly with inarticulate rage and signaled his men to the attack. But on the instant a dozen more wolves leaped to the side of the first, facing them with gleeful snarls. The horses reared back from the sight, plunging for escape, even the
elwedeyn
horse that Alan rode. He flung himself down from his unruly steed and snatched out his sword to attack the wolves on foot, heedless of his men's frightened cries. But his enemies turned away and trotted off into the Forest, insolent in their leisure. When they were gone, Alan's fury turned all at once into sick sorrow, making him so weak that he leaned on his sword for support with the blood of his son swirling before his eyes. Shed to death by tearing teeth, Alan thought.

“If these are creatures of the One,” he groaned, “then we have all been betrayed.” His wrath and despair hardened within him into a cold, helpless knot of resolve.

He left the Forest, leading his retainers back to Whitewater for the night, then northward the next day onto the barren, stony expanse of the Waste. He did not tell Craig his plan. Alan did not like to speak of deeds until he had done them. And Craig would not have heard of Hau Ferddas anyway, except perhaps as the dimmest kind of legend, a children's tale of a long-ago magical sword. Even scholars who had studied the ancient Great Books hardly knew more. But Alan had seen the magnificent golden sword one day of his youth, and Hal had touched it, and renounced it, and let it lie.

“Mine by right,” Alan muttered as he rode, for he traced his lineage to the ancient house of Lyrdion.

He took his men for a hard journey, pressing the pace, riding long and late, sleeping short hours on the comfortless ground. Still, Winterfest had come and gone without their notice before they reached the place Alan remembered. A copse, a scar of brittle stone, a gentle rise, and a barrow on top ringed by man-size standing stones. Alan's retainers, pallid and trembling, pulled their horses to a stop without his command. They sensed the haunt, he knew.

“Wait for me here, then,” he told them, and left his horse with them, and strode, businesslike, up the hill. But halfway to the barrow the fear of the unresting shades struck him in his turn, brought him up short with astonishment that almost topped the terror: he had not felt such fear of the wakeful dead since the day, years ago, that Hal had taken his hand and led him gently through their cordon. Hal's warm touch.… The memory, though mixed with pain, softened the fear somewhat, and he was able to push his way through it. Bent and panting, he reached the barrow. The fear left him at the circle of standing stones, but no warm welcome awaited him. He sensed the spirits' dismay tingling through their bodiless presence all around him.

“Elwyndas,” spoke a deep voice, echoing through a void of time and Otherness. The single word, Alan's elfin name, seemed to be neither greeting nor question, but rather a reminder—of what? Prophecies and destinies? Mireldeyn had left; those days were over now.

“Culean,” Alan responded coolly. The last of the High Kings had been cut off in his youth, in the ruin of his realm, and by his own hand.

“You come here with anger and hatred in your heart,” the low voice of the dead King stated. “Why? You have always been full of loyalty and love.”

“I have enemies now,” Alan grimly replied, “and my loyalties have betrayed me. Aene, brother, wife, and son—they have all betrayed me.” He stooped and started tugging at the barrow stones, clawing himself an entrance.

“You come for the sword? But it was not offered to you, Elwyndas, worthy as you are of all our aid. We were told that an elf-man shall take it back to the sea. Your son, perhaps.”

“You will wait long for him!” Alan shouted, stung by sudden pain. He grappled furiously with the stones, then crawled into the barrow. The dim interior was much as he remembered: bones, dust, weapons, shreds of ancient finery. Centered under the dome lay a slab supporting the remains of High King Culean, his blackened crown, and his mighty sword. Stepping over skulls, Alan made his way to the skeleton's side and reached for the sword, then hesitated with his hand poised to take it, feeling an eerie reluctance seize him.

“That sword could kill one whom you love,” breathed the deep, unearthly voice of the departed monarch. “It killed me.” But Alan felt stubborn resentment stir in him at the dead man's interference.

“What, am I to surrender Isle to the wolves, then?” he mumbled, and grasped the golden sword by its jewel-studded hilt, wrestled it from its place. The weapon hung heavily in his hand, its massive point dragging on the ground. With an effort, Alan swung it clear and carried it outside. Strange—it had not seemed so unwieldy when Hal had lifted it, and he remembered its fair golden sheen. But now the precious metal glared coppery red in the cold daylight and the jewels crouched sullenly, unblinking, on the hilt. Alan matched their stare for a moment, frowning, then suddenly pulled off his cloak and wrapped the sword in it, scorning the winter wind. Heaving Hau Ferddas up, he hoisted it with both hands, lancelike, and trudged back to the others. The reproachful presence of the spirits followed him far down the hill.

Chapter Four

“There was no scabbard,” he told Rafe crossly, a week later. He had carried Hau Ferddas to Lee wrapped in his blanket, finding himself obliged to sleep with it, when he chose to sleep. He had set course straight through the Forest and kept good guard, with fully half his men standing awake at night. Alan took turns at guard himself, swinging his heavy weapon. But no wolves were to be seen, though the Forest often rang with their mocking wails, full of darkest meaning to Alan's ears. His whole being felt dragged down into that darkness when he reached Lee. And Rafe met him with a haggard face.

“I have not succeeded in doing even what you said. The patrols cannot contain them. They stalk the land now by bright light of day, and folk huddle within doors for fear of them. Only yesterday, my men found a graybeard and his goodwife dead in their home. They froze for want of fuel.”

“The wolves are to blame, even so,” declared Ket. He had come from Laueroc to join Alan, bringing him Rhyssiart, Trevyn's golden charger, and a missive from Lysse. He would have need of a war horse, she said. She had put out a call for volunteers, and when companies were formed she would send them eastward. She longed to see him, even if only for a day, to talk with him. But there was no gainsaying the dread that lay over the land, a vague and shadowy fear that touched even the folk of Laueroc, who lived far from any forest. She would see him when the peril was past. Alan felt shamefully glad that he would not have to face her. For some reason he would not explain even to himself, he could not have showed her the sword.

He showed it to Ket and Rafe in private. Ket was dubious, Rafe awed and cheered by the sight of Hau Ferddas. “So that is the weapon of which Gwem sang!” he exclaimed, and Alan lifted his bent head to eye him fishily.

“Gwern sang? That must have been a treat! And how would he know of this sword?”

“What matter?” Rafe cried recklessly. “You have got yourself a magical sword to use against the wolves! Now, if only you could find a magical steed to put under it!”

Alan had ordered Rafe special troops from Laueroc, picked men mounted on horses of the elfin blood. But the news of their performance was disappointing.

“Ordinary horses flee from the wolves,” Rafe reported bleakly. “The
elwedeyn
steeds flee sooner and more swiftly. They bolt at even the sound of a wolf.”

“Marvelously sensible creatures,” Alan grumbled. “If only we could all follow their example! But Isle is not big enough for that. Has Rhyssiart had a chance to prove himself, Ket?”

The lanky seneschal looked uncomfortable. “Ye know I'm no horseman, Alan. But the first time we spied a shadow in the Forest, he carried me clear back to the river before I could stop him.”

“We must hunt the wolves afoot, then.”

“That suits me,” Ket drawled.

“My men have no stomach to face them afoot, not in the Forest,” Rafe stated. “And I will not order them to do what I would not do myself.” His fear showed frankly in his dark, ardent eyes.

“Rafe and the Forest,” Alan sighed. “Will you never come to terms? Well, Ket and I are woodsmen, and we'll find some volunteers. What power will we need, do you think? How many wolves are seen these days?”