Allan Cole: Wolves of the Gods

The young man said he'd made good time on the return, but then it became too dark, the trail too treacherous, and he was forced to make a cold camp a few hours from the meadow.

"I couldn't sleep," he said. "I was worried about Tio the whole the time so I got up before first light-I didn't even eat-and set off to meet my brother."

Finally he came to the meadow. "It was like walking into a nightmare," he said.

The ground was torn up, barely a blade left untouched, and there was a huge smoking crater in the center. There was blood everywhere and the mangled remains of animals strewn about the field made it look like a giant's butcher shop. Renor ran for the shelter and there he found Tio's body, ripped so badly he barely recognized him. Next to him was a big gray she wolf, also torn to pieces.

"I couldn't figure out what happened," Renor sobbed. "I went mad for a bit. I rushed all around the valley and the hills calling him, 'Tio! Tio!' He didn't answer, of course. But I couldn't believe what had happened. I kept thinking of my mother and father. And of Tio, poor little Tio who never did a wrong to anyone. Then I became angry, stupidly angry, and I ran all over the meadow looking for something to kill.

But everything was already dead. Goats and wolves … all dead."

"I don't understand," said another of the Elders. "How could they all be dead? Goats and wolves alike?"

The man was Masura, who was second in command and no friend of the Timuras. A prissy fellow, Masura considered himself the ultimate word in village morality.

Renor shook his head. "I don't know," was all he said.

Safar remained silent during the discussion. He had an idea what was at the end of this bumpy trail of logic, but he thought it was important the Elders find it for themselves.

Foron scratched his grizzled chin. "If the wolves killed Tio and the goats," he said. "Tell me-who killed the wolves?"

"Maybe it was another pack," Masura suggested. "But stronger, much stronger."

"That doesn't make sense," Safar's father said, drawing a hot glare from Masura, who disliked being contradicted. "I've heard of such things, of course. Wolves attack other wolves all the time. But only when they come on the same prey. And then the weaker wolves run away as soon as they see all is lost.

They don't stay around to be killed."

Foron agreed. "You're right, Khadji. Also, once the others took flight, the stronger pack wouldn't chase after them. After all, the object would be to eat goats, not to fight other wolves."

"There's another thing that was strange," Renor said, breaking in. Then he ducked his head and blushed, embarrassed by having interrupted the headman.

"Tell us what you saw," Safar said, gentle as he could. "We have to know everything."

"Well, it wasn't what was done," Renor said, "but what wasn't done that bothered me. I mean-nothing was eaten. All the bodies were ripped up, but they weren't gnawed on … or anything. They were just … I don't know … torn apart!"

"Sorcery!" Masura exclaimed. "Of the foulest kind." He glared at Safar as if he were responsible for all the foul magical deeds in the world.

All eyes turned to Safar. "I suspect you're right," he said. "In fact, if you think about it closely, you'll see there is no other reasonable explanation."

The house became so silent Safar could hear the ticking of the roof beams and the scuttle of insects hunting in the cold hearth. The men only looked at him with fearful eyes.

"What could it be, my son?" Safar's father asked. "And what have we done to deserve such a curse?"

"The whole world is cursed, father," Safar replied. "It isn't just us. Down on the flatlands people are suffering greatly, as you know. And there are all sorts of magical beasts plaguing them. I once dealt with a creature who had a whole region under its thrall." He was thinking of the Worm of Kyshaat, whom he had defeated some years before.

The Worm was just the first of many manifestations to infect the world.

Safar sighed, mourning the end of his people's innocence.

"What should we do about this … this … creature, Lord Timura?" Foron asked.

"Exorcise it," Safar said firmly. "That's what I did before." He turned to Foron. "If you'll provide me with a guard I'll go up into the mountains tomorrow and see what I can do."

As frightened as everyone was they were so angry at what had happened to Tio that Safar was deluged with volunteers to accompany him. He held them off, preferring to hand pick the party in the light of day.

Then he said, "If you will excuse us, Renor, I'm sure your family is anxious to see you."

The young man looked startled, then realized Safar was politely indicating he should leave. Safar turned back to the group when he was gone.

He hesitated. There was much he had to say, but his thoughts were disorganized. The emergency had left him little time to consider the vision of Asper's Tomb. Still, he knew one thing: he had to leave Kyrania. If there was any chance to stop the magical poisons blowing on the winds of Hadin, he would find it in Syrapis. Before he left, however, he had to protect them as best he could.

So absorbed was he in his musings, he forgot the others. His father's voice brought him back.

"What is it, son?" he asked. "You seem as if you wish to tell us something."

Safar started to speak, then shook his head.

"Let it wait," he said. "We can discuss it later."

There was heavy fog upon the mountain when Safar entered the meadow where Tio had been killed. The mist was so thick it was like a midnight garden; wet, heavy cobwebs breaking before him, then clinging and trailing behind. He was accompanied by five of Kyrania's best men, including Sergeant Dario, the village's elderly fighting master, as dangerous at seventy as when he'd fought on the Jasper Plains fifty years before. Guiding the group was Tio's brother, Renor.

"Better let us secure it first, me lord," Dario said. He tapped his sharp, beaked nose. "Don't smell nothin'

amiss. And the old sniffer never failed me all these years. But like I always tell the lads-better a good professional look around than blind guessin'."

Safar stopped a grin and nodded solemnly. Dario was a proud little man-short, bowlegged and so skinny and wrinkled he looked like a whip made of snake hide. His only concession to age was a tendency to be a bit loquacious. Even so, he was no figure of fun as he motioned to his men and they fanned out. He gave another signal and they all disappeared at once-slipping through the fog like ghosts to investigate the meadow.

It was cold and Renor wrapped his arms about his heavy coat and stamped his feet. He started to speak, but Safar shushed him.

He took a small pot from his cloak and set it on the ground. Then he withdrew a little silver tinder box, lit a wick and pulled the stopper from the pot. Oily, orange-tinged fumes coiled out, heavy smelling, like overripe fruit. Safar quickly inserted the smoldering wick into the fumes. Flames sheeted up and a great trumpet blared.

It was a great hammer of a sound, smashing against the foggy shield. Then there was the indrawn whop!

of an implosion as all moisture was drained from the atmosphere and air rushed in from all sides to quarrel over the vacuum left behind. The fog vanished, showing Dario and the others creeping forward, looking a little foolish as they turned to gape at Safar and Renor.

Safar pointed past them. "Over there!" he said, indicating the blackened crater in the center of the meadow.

The men revolved to look and it was if the force of their eyes let loose nature's darkest side. With sight came smell, and the odor of the goat corpses drifted across the torn up ground and the men had to turn their faces away to gasp for sweeter air.