The wood rose ahead of them for a short stretch up a hilltop. At the top of it, the trees ended like a bald patch. The downslope on the other side was a sheer wall of ragged slate. Voran climbed down, finding plenty of footholds to bear him. A few feet away from the ground, he jumped onto ground covered in dead leaves, but his foot slipped, and he realized that what he thought was flat ground was another slope, though not as steep. He fell in a cloud of brown and landed hard, his breath knocked out of him. When the stars stopped dancing in pairs with the dead leaves, he realized that he lay in front of a large cave. Something beckoned to him from inside.
“I’ve found something,” he called to his companions, who were still standing on the hill above him.
It was a natural cavern in the rocky hill, probably a shelter for wolves. Shards of yellow and brown bones seemed to confirm this. To Dubían’s great delight, there was dry wood strewn about aplenty. He set about to build a fire, and soon a weak flame sputtered to life.
For the first time in what seemed ages, their stiff hands prickled with warmth.
“Well, this is much better,” said Mirnían, flexing his finger over the flames. “The stories have got it all wrong. There is nothing glorious about questing. The only glory I want is a bath-house, a roaring hearth, and a piglet dripping on a spit.”
“You’re right,” said Voran, warming on the inside. “What would our exploits be called? The aimless wandering of three soaked froglings?”
Dubían threw his head back, opened his cavernous mouth—several teeth were broken or missing—and exploded in a torrent of laughter. It was so unexpected, and yet so natural, that both Voran and Mirnían laughed together with him until the tears flowed.
But they were far away from home in a distant part of Vasyllia, and they were at an impasse. It quickly sapped their mirth. Soon they were silent and tense again. Voran felt the inner stirring again, more intently this time, as if someone were looking at him. He turned around, but there was nothing there. Something was different, though. Was that rock on that ledge before? Voran couldn’t remember.
“I wonder how the Pilgrim is doing,” said Voran. “He was a big man, but that was quite a mob that attacked him.”
“Well, serves him right. What sort of a fool lectures a mob after a failed summoning? What was he thinking?” Mirnían chuckled.
“How can you be so callous? He is a Pilgrim. And he was our guest. Nothing can excuse that kind of violence. And in the Temple!”
“Oh, Voran. Always such a purist.”
“And what about you, prince? Always so presentable in public, so careful about your people’s needs. But as soon as anyone turns around, you laugh and scoff and throw them all to the ravens. Should you not actually care for your people if you are to make an even passable Dar?”
“How dare you!” Mirnían’s face contorted with rage. “You, a traitor’s son, a spineless leech who depends on my father for everything. You have the gall to pass judgment on me? I should slit your throat right here.”
“Careful, Prince Mirnían,” growled Dubían, his hands hovering over his knife-hilt. “You go too far.”
“And you!” An angry vein throbbed in Mirnían’s temple. “Are you so blind that you take Voran’s side in everything? You think Voran saw the Sirin? You actually believe in some forgotten Covenant? Voran made all of it up himself. Apparently, the attention of the Dar’s own daughter is not enough.”
Voran’s hands trembled. He grabbed his knees until his knuckles turned white.
“Men like you pollute the earth, Voran. You sit on rocks and ponder questions with no answers, while Vasyllia crumbles around you. What have you ever accomplished? Everything you touch is blighted, and now even Sabíana withers under your caresses.”
Voran struck Mirnían with the back of his hand, then pounced on him and pinned him to the ground. He felt the point of Mirnían’s dagger tickling the skin under his right ear. Mirnían’s smile was feral. The feel of the metal thrilled and enraged Voran, and he reached for his sword.
Something rustled behind them. A shrieking, frenzied fear crushed Voran to the mud next to Mirnían, face-first. Every muscle froze, but tore at itself in a wild desire to flee. His heart pulsed hysteria with the blood through his body. His mind demanded that he fly from the unknown horror behind them, but his body was locked in place. He could not even speak. Damp with sweat, Voran willed with all the strength he could muster to turn his head out of the muck.
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.”
