The rock he had noticed before moved of its own accord off its ledge. It fell, struck the ground, bounced, and changed…

…into a monstrous creature, over seven feet in height, standing on two rippling, hairy legs. Its arms and chest had the shape of a man’s, but larger and covered in a thick tangle of grey fur. Instead of a face, it had the slavering maw of a wolf. Its eyes were the source of the screaming fear. They were the eyes of a demon with pits of emptiness instead of pupils, black like a bottomless abyss. Brown saliva dripped from its fangs. It growled, but it also laughed. Voran’s blood felt like ice in his veins.

“I come as bidden, prince,” the creature spoke with a guttural bass. “What would you have me do?”

“I… did not…” Mirnían sounded like he had pebbles in his mouth. “What are you?”

“The sound of strife calls to me like fresh blood. Malice sings to my ears like a lamb in death-throes. I am hungry, fair prince. Will you kill the offending wretch, or will you let me?” He pointed at Voran with a twisted black claw.

Mirnían did not answer.

Hissing with excitement, the changer approached Voran. Its eyes, dull yellow with black absence in the center, darted up and down. Its jaws panted with expectation. Black claws twitched as they reached for Voran’s eyes. The wolf ears lay flat against its monstrous head.

“Such young blood I have not tasted in centuries,” it whispered, then grimaced. “Is that the stink of Sirin on you? Never mind. I am very hungry. Your eyes first, my beautiful boy.”

It reached for Voran’s face. He lay without power, fear choking him. His breath gasped frantically, but his body was in a vise, helpless, as though laid out in a blasphemous sacrifice to this demon.

Something growled behind the beast, and Voran heard a nauseating crunch. The changer howled. It snapped Voran awake, like falling out of a nightmare. The changer was on the floor, scrabbling at something colossal and black. A wolf the size of a bear. Voran felt the flame surge inside him. He drew his sword. Tense and ready, he waited for an opening.

The changer managed to throw off the black wolf and faced Voran. It screamed and it screamed.

“I do not fear you, creature of the Darkness,” whispered Voran. He feinted, waited for the changer to defend himself, then plunged the sword into the creature’s chest, underneath its arm. The beast dissolved. Voran’s sword clattered on the rocks. A stench of rotting flesh filled the cave, and a column of black smoke oozed out into the forest, puss-like.

The black wolf shook its head, as if disgusted. It stood up and padded toward the three travelers.

Voran laughed and extended his arms to the huge wolf. It cuddled against him with its huge head like a house cat.

“I was hoping I would see you again,” said Voran, smiling. “It seems you have paid off your debt to me handsomely.”

The wolf harrumphed. “You have a high opinion of yourself, cub. Your debt to me is now lifelong. Do you even realize what that thing was?” She spoke with a woman’s voice. When Voran got over the initial shock of hearing the wolf actually talk, he realized there was something vaguely familiar about the wolf’s voice.

“A changer, is it not?” Voran said.

“You say that as though you know what that is. You have no idea.”

Voran turned to the others. Their eyes were bigger than their faces, especially Mirnían’s, who was clearly having a hard time convincing himself that the talking wolf was a figment of his imagination.

“Cub,” said the wolf. “That creature is the least of your problems. The army of the Vasylli has been routed.”

“What?” Mirnían snapped out of his stupor. “What do you mean, routed? Impossible!”

“As impossible as wolf-men prowling the woods, my prince?” She turned on Mirnían, snarling. “As impossible as a prince of Vasyllia calling on a creature of the Raven in the anger of his heart?”

Mirnían flushed.

“I don’t understand,” said Voran. “Mirnían called that thing? How? Why?”

Mirnían moaned, answering as if against his will. “I wished your death, Voran. You drove me to such a passion that I lost all self-control. I wanted to kill you with my own hands.”

“Why, Mirnían?”

“You really are that thick-headed, aren’t you?”

The wolf growled. “Envy, Voran. That creature smelled his envy like a wolf smells blood.”

“Wolf!” Dubían visibly trembled. “How do you know that the Vasylli were defeated?”

“Do you doubt the word of Leshaya?” She bared bloody fangs at Dubían.

“No, Leshaya,” said Voran, placating. “But tell us nonetheless.”

“Come, I will show you. I watched the battle.”

“You did nothing to intervene?” asked Mirnían.

“I have little love for Vasyllia,” she said and loped out of the cave.

She took them deeper into the woods, to a craggy hill overlooking the tree line. Voran climbed it before the rest. All around he saw nothing but forest, except in one direction. To the west stood a high plateau, a mile away at most. Even from this vantage point, he saw a horrific mound of piled bodies, their mail glinting in the morning sun. The ravens looked like flies swarming a dung-heap. Voran felt sick.

“What happened?” Mirnían stood next to Voran. His face was chalk-white.

“They never had a chance,” said Leshaya. “This is a new kind of enemy, like nothing ever seen in these woods. They have no fear. They sidle up to death as if it were a life-long companion. Pain affects them little. But the Vasylli destroyed themselves. They were too arrogant. It was almost laughable. The initial skirmish was bloody, and the invaders took to their heels and ran away. Thinking this was a rout, the Vasylli ran after them with no semblance of order, giving up the high ground. As soon as they entered the deepwood, the marauders turned around and counterattacked. Reinforcements were waiting in the trees. In seconds, they surrounded the Vasylli. It was a calculated move. A trap. They left none alive.”

The reality seeped into Voran slowly, like waking to realize a nightmare was real. That was at least three, four thousand lives snuffed out. How many of them were his friends, his cohort elders? He stood staring at the mound of death, trying to make sense of the disaster. If the pilgrims were also dead, the three of them could be the last Vasylli in the forest.

Voran felt a song rise up from the depths of the earth through him and up to the Heights, a dirge from the time of Lassar of Blessed Memory. He sang.

Peace eternal to your servants,

in your bosom, Adonais,

grant this.

Sobs spluttered through the song. When Voran could sing no longer, Mirnían repeated the dirge with his resonant baritone. Dubían wept aloud, his tears streaming down his beard and hissing as they fell on the cold earth. The wind picked up as they sang, harmonizing. Rain dropped on them, slowly and heavily, then clumped into feathery bunches of snow. The trees swayed back and forth, in time with the flow of the dirge. Then all fell silent.

Voran fell on his knees and bowed his head as his tears continued for his fallen brothers, for all the orphaned children, for Vasyllia’s dark time.

Do not joke with giants. Their humor can get you killed.

Old Karila proverb

Chapter 12

The Waystone

They followed Leshaya for a week, heading east. The distant shimmer of the last Vasyllian ridge remained on their right for the first few days, then they turned away, and the mountains faded into mist. By the end of the week, the peaks were no longer in sight. This was completely unfamiliar territory for Voran.

They no longer pitched tents, sleeping instead under the stars, wrapped in wools that kept every part of their bodies warm, except their faces. At least once a night, Voran woke from the numb burning of his frozen nose.