Allan Cole: Wolves of the Gods

Graymuzzle sensed a wrongness. She didn't know what it was-there was no smellsign in the air; no sound that couldn't be traced to an innocent source. Still, she felt as if something was watching. Not her.

Not the pack. But the boy and the goats in the meadow below. Whenever she moved forward her hackles rose of their own accord in warning. Graymuzzle was an old wolf, a careful wolf, who had learned to trust her deepest instincts. So she waited and watched.

Now dawn was breaking. The morning was bright, the air without the slightest taint of strangeness.

Whatever it was that had troubled her was gone. She could see the goats grazing in the meadow and the sleeping figure of the boy sprawled behind the low stone walls of the windbreak. There was nothing to fear. No reason to hesitate.

She yawned. It was a signal to the others and when she came to her feet they were waiting.

Graymuzzle slipped out of the hiding place and trotted down the rocky path-her packmates at her heels.

A moment later she felt the soft wet meadow grass under her pads. Heard the wind sing a hunter's song as she quickened her stride, smelled the strong goat smell as she rushed her first bleating victim.

Then lighting cracked-bursting from the ground in front of her, exploding rock and turf in every direction.

And all she'd feared during the long night of hunger howled out of nothingness to confront her.

Tio could hear the goats bleating. He was awake, but he couldn't open his eyes. He tried to move, but a heavy weight crushed down on him so hard he could barely breathe. He heard growling and bleats of pain.

You must get up, he thought. The wolves are coming, Tio! You must get your stick and drive them off.

Get up, Tio! Get up! Don't be such a child! What will Renor think?

He forced his eyes open.

A nightmare shape rushed at him. All burning red eyes and slavering jaws.

Long fangs stretched out to take him.

Tio threw up his hands and screamed.

The wolf leaped for him and Safar shouted, scrabbling for his dagger.

He rolled out of bed, landing in a crouch; bare toes digging into the rough floor for balance, dagger coming up to strike.

He blinked out of sleep, then gaped about in amazement. He was standing in an empty room- his room!

There was no wolf, there was no threat of any kind. Instead he was presented with the most peaceful of scenes-the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window, spilling across his writing desk where the cat was sprawled across his papers basking in the warmth. The window was open and he could hear birds singing and smell the fresh breeze coming off the lake.

Safar turned away from the strong light, dagger hand sagging in relief. He came out of the crouch and suddenly found himself shivering in his thin nightshirt.

Nothing but a damned dream, he thought. Safar padded over to his desk, set the dagger down and poured himself a goblet of brandy. He drank it off, shuddered at the sudden heat rising from his belly and started to pour another. The cat stared at him, an accusing look in her eyes. She was only irritated for being disturbed but the look make Safar feel guilty for entirely different reasons.

He glanced at the brandy jug and made a face, thinking, you've certainly been doing a little too much of that of late, my friend. But the nightmare had been so realistic he only felt a little guilty when he gave in and poured himself "just a bit more" to calm his racing heart. Safar had dreamed he was a small boy, alone on the mountain, with a wolf pack closing in. He'd awakened just as they were attacking-the pack leader rising on its hind feet and its front legs turning into demon arms, reaching for him with razor-sharp talons.

At the last moment, as he hovered between dream and consciousness, the wolf's mask transformed into a human face. Long snout retreating into a strong human jaw, sharp brow broadening and rising into a human forehead, a human mouth with human lips parting to speak … and it was then that he'd awakened

… just before the words were spoken.

Safar set the tumbler on its tray, wondering what the dream beast had been about to say. He snorted.

Don't be ridiculous! The brandy's got you. It was a dream. Nothing more.

He glanced down at his notes, a scatter of linen pages peeping out from under the cat who had gone back to sleep. Yes, nothing but a dream. Brought on, no doubt, by the long fruitless night he'd spent poring over the Book of Asper. Trying to make some sense of the ancient demon wizard's musings.

And yes, he'd imbibed a bit too much and worked a bit too late. The last thing he'd read before he'd fallen asleep was another of Lord Asper's warnings, maddeningly couched in murky poetry.

What was it? How did it go? Oh, yes:

" … the Age of the Wolf will soon draw near

When all is deceit and all is to fear.

Then ask who is hunter and who is prey?

And whose dark commands do we obey?

With the Heavens silent-the world forsaken-

Beware the Wolf, until the Gods awaken … "

Safar sighed. It was no wonder he'd dreamed of wolves. Too much brandy and Asper's poetry was a certain recipe for nightmares.

He put the jug down, found a robe, shrugged it on, then stuffed his feet into soft, hightopped slippers-a habit he'd formed during his years at the court of King Protarus. Felt-lined comfort on a chilly morn was only one very small luxury of many he'd enjoyed in his days as Grand Wazier to the late, unlamented by him, King of Kings.

Once Safar had possessed more palaces than there were cusps in the Heavenly Wheel. The finest food, wine, clothing, jewelry and women were his for the asking. Men and demons alike bowed when he passed, whispering his name for their children to hear and remember. Safar missed none of this. The rough, healthy life of Kyrania-the remote, high mountain valley of his birth-was all he'd ever really wanted. In the greater world he was Lord Timura, a wizard among wizards. A man to be to be feared.

Here he was merely Safar Timura, son of a potter and now village priest and teacher to giggling school children. A man whose main faults were a citified taste for warm slippers on a chilly morning and possibly, just possibly, a bit more of a desire for strong spirits than was good for him. The only spoiler was that his fellow Kyranians called him by the title King Protarus had bestowed on him. So even here among the people he loved, the people he had known all his days, he was called Lord Timura.

As for women-Safar glanced at the tangled covers of his empty bed-well, he hadn't had much luck in that area. Oh, he supposed he could wed just about any maid in the village if he so desired. He was barely in his third decade of life, after all. Taller than any man in Kyrania and stronger than most. In the past women had called him handsome, although his blue eyes in a world of dark-eyed people made some nervous in his presence until they had been in his company for a time.

He was also quite rich. Thanks to Lieria he'd fled Zanzair with enough precious gems in his saddlebags to match even the greatest miser's measure of immense wealth.

Since he'd returned to Kyrania the young maids had buzzed about him like ardent bees, making it known they were available. A few had even made it plain that marriage wasn't necessary and they'd be satisfied just to share his bed. Scandalous offers indeed in puritanical Kyrania. In the early days, when Leiria still graced his bed, many an old Kyranian woman's tongue had been set clucking whenever she passed. In the moral double-standard favored in Kyrania, Safar was not blamed. A man will do what a man can, was the motto. And it is a woman who must preserve respect for Dame Chastity.