Child of a Dead God

CHAPTER FIVE

"What are you doing in here?" Chane awoke with a flinch. He was curled in a ball against the door frame of the monastery's library; for some reason, he kept coming back to this place.

Welstiel stood inside the entrance with a lantern in his hand.

"Get up!" he ordered. "We leave tonight… after the final feeding." The thought of leaving this place sparked relief in Chane, but that starving beast inside him perked at the mention of "feeding." Gripping the small library's door frame, he climbed to his feet.

Chane numbly stepped past Welstiel, through the work area, and into the monastery's front entry room. All the way, his back muscles clenched at each of Welstiel's heavy footfalls behind him.

"We will feed them one last time-but no more than before," Welstiel admonished. "Then you will gather what supplies this place has to offer. We leave tonight."

Chane crested the stairs and stared down the passage. The blood that Welstiel had disgorged upon the stone floor had dried up. Moans and whimpers of mad undead grew louder now that dusk had come and gone. But the corridor's right side was silent, as if the occupants there did not wish to make a sound.

Only one of the right-side doors was still barred. Welstiel slipped around Chane and opened it.

Two shriveled corpses lay inside. Still garbed in pale blue tabards over dusky robes, it was difficult to tell if either had been male or female, though one was lighter of frame. The sight was nothing more than Chane expected, but knowing how similar the monastery's inhabitants were to the sages, and the world he dreamed of, made him stiffen.

And worse, the cell's last living occupant huddled in a ball on the bed. Its face was half-buried in the corner, with one arm wrapped over its head as if to hide. Then it turned its cowled head just enough to peer toward the door.

Chane's twinge of excitement at the prospect of feeding wavered.

The occupant was a man in his late twenties, haggard with thirst, hunger, and lack of sleep. Welstiel strode in without hesitation and grabbed the shoulder of his robe.

The young monk heaved a sharp breath but didn't have time to release a cry. Welstiel struck him down with a fist, and he flopped across the bed's edge, unconscious.

Chane just stood silent beyond the cell's doorway.

"What is wrong?" Welstiel asked.

Chane lifted his gaze. He saw only cold resolution in Welstiel's face- not bloodlust or even longing.

"I will finish here," Welstiel said, when Chane did not answer. "Search the storerooms. Gather what is of use. And look for clean robes or spare clothing for our new companions. I do not want their present state to attract undue attention if we are seen."

Chane turned away down the stairs, stopping only to light a lantern at the hearth's dwindling fire.

What else could he do? Fight Welstiel for the life of one monk by strength or conjury? Either was pointless. He had already been outmatched in the former, and as for the latter…

Conjuring fire and light, or making familiars, was of little advantage. Welstiel preferred artifice rather than the ritual or spellcraft that Chane leaned on for his own conjury. But even Chane resorted to artificing at times, so it stood to reason that Welstiel could resort to the speed of spellcraft in place of the slower but more powerful effect of a ritual. And the older undead had decades of experience.

Also, Welstiel would be guarded by his new children, waiting to feed and then serve their maker.

Chane reached the first storage room in the front passage and pulled on the door latch, and the screaming up above began.

A pathetic sound, it echoed through the monastery. The young monk's cries were little more than a raw voice driven by exhales of terror, as the teeth and cold fingers of Welstiel's children roused him with pain. Every cry made the beast within Chane thrash more wildly-until the voice suddenly stopped.

Chane stepped into the storage room and set down his lantern. He mindlessly rummaged through clothing, blankets, and what canvas he could find for tarps and tents and makeshift packs. When he uncovered a stack of dusky robes, he halted.

Memories of an old barracks in Bela swam in his head. The garments under his fingers felt… looked so much like those of young sages in gray robes.

So much like those Wynn had worn.

She had no power or authority, unlike those born to it by chance. No illusory position of influence that set her above the rest of humanity. No, Wynn elevated herself in more meaningful ways.

Chane closed his fingers tightly on one dark wool robe stacked in the storage room. And he tried to crush the longing of false hunger as well. He jerked a pile of robes out and tossed them into the passage.

He gathered whatever supplies might be useful and stacked them in the entry room. Canvas, thick wool blankets to reinforce tents, lanterns, kindling and flint, knives and other weaponlike tools, plus a pot, tea leaves, and several water flasks from the kitchen. He had learned from Welstiel that even undeads needed moisture when they had little or no blood to consume. Finally, he returned to the stairs, and when he crested the last step, he nearly retreated again.

All the left-side cell doors were open. Welstiel stood in the passage with his six minions shifting about him.

Chane had no revulsion to strong scents, but the stench of feces and urine disgusted him. A corpse soon released all its wastes, and these newly risen ones had not bathed since they'd awakened on their first night. Their soiled robes were shredded from assaulting each other in a frenzy of hunger. They were covered in the dried remains of each other's black fluids, but their faces and hands were smeared red with the blood of their last living comrade.

Two were young men not much older than twenty, but they crouched like animals, grunting and sniffing. One drooled heavily, his saliva stained pink.

An older woman straightened up behind Welstiel. She swayed and whispered something as her eyes wandered, but her words made no sense. A tall beardless man with silvery hair hunkered near her like a lost puppy-the same who had torn apart his younger female companion in the first cell.

And that young woman, the one Chane had insisted was worth saving…

A mass of snarled brown-black hair hid half her face as she huddled against the wall. Once she might have been pretty, but now Chane couldn't tell. Her face and throat, wrists and exposed chest, were a mass of half-closed wounds set starkly against pallid flesh. She had not fed enough to heal fully. When she looked at him, nearly all color gone from her eyes, her features twitched from either terror or hunger.

The sixth stood with his back against the wall. He was stocky and muscular, and his fingers hooked like claws where his hands pressed against the stone. He had curly dark hair and a square jaw, and he sniffed the air like a wolf-sniffed at Welstiel, intently watching his maker's back.

Chane felt their glittering eyes shift toward him, one by one. Their yearning to feed roused an echo in him, but Welstiel seemed unaffected.

"I made sure they left something for your trouble," he said.

His cloak was brushed free of most of the dried mud stains and other debris of the wilderness. His hair was carefully groomed, exposing the white patches at his temples. Welstiel looked wholly the gentleman Chane had first met outside of Bela, though perhaps a little more traveled. And he stood there like a noble among his fetid servants, fully composed.

But his eyes were cold, devoid of even hunger's passion. He had no concept of what he had done here-what he had forced Chane to do.

Welstiel cocked his head toward the last door on the passage's right.

"Be quick about it, as it is the last chance you will have for a long while to sate your lust."

He snapped his fingers, which made the cowering young female cringe, and then pointed toward the stairs. Chane slipped aside to let them pass.

Only the curly-headed man paused to look him up and down with a sniff, checking to see if he was something to feed upon. When they were gone, Chane crept toward the last door on the passage's right. It had been left ajar. He reached out and pushed it wide with his fingertips.

The boy lying on the cell's floor had red hair and freckled pale skin. He was younger than any of the others Chane remembered locking in these rooms, but his memory of that first night was hazy. The neckline and sleeve ends of his wool robe were torn and smeared with blood, as were his throat and wrists. One slender hand had a slight callus on the index finger from holding a quill or stylus for long hours.

His eyelids flickered. Shallow breaths escaped his diminutive mouth.

Chane crouched over the boy and gripped the back of his skull. Longing-that false hunger-came again.

Left as he was, the boy would bleed to death-a wasted life. But that life had been gone the moment Chane came to this place. He leaned his face close to the boy's own as his canine teeth begin to ache and elongate. He hung there silently, close enough to feel the weak breaths rush over his face.

"What did you study here?" he asked.

No answer came but a brief flutter of the boy's drooping eyelids.

What might he have become? Perhaps something better than another head in the vast herd of human cattle.

Chane closed his other hand across the boy's jaw and pulled it upward. The wounds in that mangled slender throat leaked a fresh trail of blood. He gripped the small head tightly between both hands.

And wrenched it sharply to the side.

With a crack of vertebrae, the boy's rattling breaths ceased.

Chane dropped the body on the stone floor and turned away on his hands and knees.

He clawed up the door frame and lurched out. Halfway down the stairs, he pressed his face into the wall's cold stone, grinding his jaws shut against his elongated teeth.

The boy was lost… all here were lost, one way or another. Only what they had accomplished remained, and even that would fade, forgotten by the world in this hidden place.

Chane's fingernails grated down the wall.

An impatient Welstiel was waiting outside, but Chane's mind was elsewhere. He ran down the stairs and raced for the back study and its library. Then he froze in the doorway, panic overwhelming his senses.

His gaze ran along the shelves, over and over, and he shook his head. All the books and scrolls, volumes and sheaves-he could not just leave them. And he could not carry them all away. How could he choose what to take with so much to leave behind?

Time would not work in his favor.

He snatched one book, and then another. He chose texts he had seen before, their titles vaguely familiar, and some so thick with fine script that they seemed to hold the greatest content. He shoved as many as he could into a canvas sack scavenged from the outer study. Even when the sack was full, he looked wildly about at all that was left. He finally turned to run out of this lifeless place.

Outside, Welstiel stood watchfully over his six children as they scrubbed their naked bodies with snow. He then dressed them in fresh robes and armed them with utility and kitchen knives tucked in their belts. The curly-headed man took up an iron bar as a cudgel.

"Take the baggage," Welstiel ordered them, and like puppets jerked by their strings, the obedient ferals twitched into motion.

Chane winced at this, for he knew what it felt like. His own maker, Toret, had used such a voice on him when he grew reluctant to obey. When a Noble Dead created another of its kind, that newborn was forever doomed to abide by any willfull order from its maker.

Unless-until-that maker was destroyed.

Chane eyed Welstiel as the elderly undead headed for the switchback trail, glancing once at the sack bundled in Chane's arms.

"Soon enough, you will have all the books you could want," Welstiel said, and stepped down the first leg of the narrow path.

Chane waited as the ferals ambled after their master. About to follow, he looked back once more to the monastery carved from the gorge wall. The door was still open.

He grabbed the handle and pulled, making certain the door was soundly closed. If only he could so easily shut away all memories of this place-as if he had never come here.

"In time, you will have your own place among your beloved sages as well," Welstiel called out from below.

The beast inside of Chane lunged excitedly against its chains, as if clutching at some offered and coveted morsel.

"Fulfill your obligation," Welstiel added, his words seeming to rise from the dark, "and then I will fulfill mine."

At those last words, something snapped sharply inside of Chane.

The beast inside him backed warily into a corner. It saw no choice joint of meat in its master's hand. It smelled nothing for its longing hunger. It only heard a spoken promise.

That twinge made Chane whip about and stare at the top of the switchback path.

He had never felt this before. It left him startled, even panicked.

At dawn, half a moon into the voyage, Avranvard held back near the bow. She watched Sgailsheilleache standing with the dark-haired human woman.

He leaned on the port-side rail-wall and pointed ahead, speaking some ugly guttural language Avranvard could not understand. She did not need to in order to know what he was saying. They had reached the peninsula and would now turn south along the eastern coast.

Relief flooded the woman's pale features. Sgailsheilleache nodded, as if glad to offer her such welcome news.

His reputation among the an'Croan was so pure. Not as revered as Brot'an'duive or the great Eillean, he had still traveled foreign lands and faced humans to protect all the an'Croan. Now he stood with one of the savages, and Avranvard swallowed hard in revulsion.

Perhaps his attempt to appease this woman was pretense, for Sgailsheilleache must have a good reason. When Avranvard joined the Anmaglahk, then maybe she would understand.

Predawn's first yellow streaks glowed at the base of the horizon. Avranvard looked to the hkomas standing behind the helm, busy directing the crew to change sail for the southern run. She slipped quietly into the near stairwell beneath the forecastle, and climbed below to find a private place among the cargo. Her oversized boots caught once on the bottom rung, but she righted herself before stumbling.

Most of the crew was on deck, along with some of the "passengers." She hesitated in the passage, staring at the door where the humans and the half-blood lodged. But it was too risky to nose about in there, so she headed along the starboard passage toward the cargo bay. Once there, Avranvard crouched behind the barrels of drinking water and pressed her word-wood against the ship's hull.

"Are you there?" she whispered.

Report.

The voice in her head was cold, emotionless. She did not even know his name, only that he was a Greimasg'ah and deserved her obedience. Still, he treated her like a necessity and no more-not like a comrade.

"We have reached the peninsula and turn south. The crew changes sails as we speak."

When is your next stop?

"Four days at most-we exchange cargo at enwiroilhe."

What have you learned of this artifact the humans seek?

The question surprised her, as he had not asked this before. "I should be listening? I cannot speak their language."

Do not risk suspicion, but anything of use you overhear, report to me.

She hesitated. "Sgailsheilleache is too protective… it seems as if he cares for them."

The Greimasg'ah was silent for too long, and Avranvard began to wonder whether he was still listening. His voice came again, far colder than before.

You will not speak of him with disrespect. Unless the unexpected occurs, report in four days.

Avranvard waited, reluctant to answer after this rebuke. Her silence drew out until she knew he was gone.

She had angered him, and it was the last thing she wanted. A Greimasg'ah's discontent would not sit well when it came time to present herself to Most Aged Father. She stood up, taking a deep breath.

Most Aged Father had given his word. If she succeeded, she would be an initiate, and this eased her worry. After all, she had been given a purpose for the Anmaglahk. She reported directly to a Greimasg'ah, one of their greatest. As far as she knew, no initiate had ever done this before.

Avranvard hurried out before the hkomas missed her. As she emerged below the forecastle, half the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, dusting the ocean with sparks of light. When she stepped farther out and glanced upward, Sgailsheilleache stood gazing down at her with unblinking eyes.

For an instant, Avranvard could not take her eyes from his. Then she scurried off toward the stern, where her hkomas waited beside the helm. But Avranvard could not shake the sight of Sgailsheilleache's steady gaze.

Twelve more days past their southward turn, Magiere paced the deck, wearing her new coat and avoiding the rail-walls.

She should've felt grateful to be traveling by sea instead of land. But surrounded by this living ship, her thoughts wandered too often to the dead marks her hands had left upon an elven birch tree. Awareness made the vibration inside her sharpen to a shudder. She laced her fingers together, smoothing the lambskin gloves over her hands.

The season had passed into late winter, but at sea and just beyond the shore of the Elven Territories, it seemed colder.

Wynn sat on the deck talking softly to Chap-something they did more often these days. Leesil and Osha were still below, though Leesil was much improved. He ate almost normally, and as Sgaile had suggested, he was acquiring his 'sea legs'. Not that Leesil didn't still grumble and whine now and then.

Yes, Magiere should've been grateful. The Blade Range separating Belaski and Droevinka from the continent's eastern coast was impassable. She would've had to trek all the way down through Droevinka amid its civil war, then crossed the Everfen's vast swamplands into the Pock Peaks to reach the eastern coast. The journey would've taken another season, more likely two.

And yet Magiere was helpless to speed up their current pace.

She had suffered two more dreams of the six-towered castle on its snow-blanketed plain, and being blown through the night sky. With each dream, the pull south grew stronger. The only thing missing from those recent night journeys was the black-scaled coils circling about her.

The hkomas called for a stop at each harbor settlement, and Sgaile kept recounting the importance of this vessel. Dockhands unloaded supplies onto large skiffs, which were transferred onto inland-bound barges. The stops always took a day or more.

Several times, Magiere asked to go ashore. Any short reprieve away from the ship would've been welcome, though it meant walking on elven land again. Sgaile refused each time, claiming their presence would cause discord in any an'Croan settlement. Magiere knew he was right, but it didn't help.

She forgot herself in frustration and almost grabbed the rail-wall. Even with gloves on, she panicked and jerked her hand back at the last instant. The unnerving sensation she felt aboard this strange living vessel was less severe than what she'd suffered inside the elven tree dwellings. But this time she knew what her touch could do. The last thing Magiere wanted was to inadvertently draw life from the ship or injure it in any way.

At times, Magiere had to bite down to keep from shouting at the hkomas to sail more quickly.

"Yes, it is," Wynn said loudly. "Why do you always argue with me? I can clearly see mats starting on your haunches."

Magiere turned her troubled gaze on Chap and Wynn. The sage fished a brush from her pack, but Chap rumbled, swinging his rear out of reach.

"There is plenty of rope about to tie you up," Wynn warned, "like any other dog."

Chap wheeled and made a run for it.

"Get back here!"

Wynn snatched hold of his tail as her brush clattered upon the deck. With a yelp more indignant than pained, Chap swung his head over his shoulder and bared his teeth.

"As if you would dare," Wynn growled back.

With a lick of his nose, Chap dug in with all fours and lunged away.

"No… wait!" Wynn squealed.

She flopped forward on her belly, refusing to let go, and Chap's paws scrabbled on the deck as he gained momentum. Wynn's eyes popped wide as she slid along behind him.

Magiere sighed, starting after them. "Stop it-both of you!"

Then Chap rounded the back side of the cargo hold's grate.

Wynn flipped onto her back, still hanging on. Her little body whipped around the corner behind the dog and then rolled, swinging sideways toward the stern. Chap's paws scrabbled wildly as her weight suddenly threw him off balance. He flattened hard on his belly with a grunt, his legs splayed in all directions.

Both sage and dog spun across the deck. With a last yelp from Chap, they tumbled askew toward the aftcastle's wall. Magiere panicked as the two collided into a stack of coiled rigging rope and spare sailcloth.

Wynn sat up quickly, thrashing about as she tried to untangle herself. Chap rose on three legs, attempting to shake the fourth free of a knotted loop of rope.

"You two…," Magiere called out. "Stop acting like a couple of-"

"He started it!" Wynn yelled.

Chap shot a yip and snarl straight into her round face.

"Yes, you did!" Wynn growled back through clenched teeth. "And I have not brushed you since we left, you… you pig!"

She grabbed Chap's tangled leg and began jerking on the knotted rope to get him free.

An elven crewman leaned over the aftcastle above them.

Magiere caught sight of him just as he vaulted the rail-wall. His booted feet hit the main deck as he dropped directly in front of Wynn. The sage stiffened with a sharp inhale. Before she could move, the man snatched her by one wrist.

His amber eyes filled with anger as he jerked her up, until she almost stood on her toes. He hissed one quick string of Elvish at her. The only word Magiere caught was "majay-hi."

Chap twisted around and snapped at the man's shin, but the rope cinched tight around his leg and pulled him up short.

Magiere vaulted the hold's grate, shouting, "Get off of her!"

The tall crewman's hard and lined face turned toward her as she swung.

The back of Magiere's right knuckles caught his face, and she bored her left fist into his gut. He buckled, and one foot slipped from the deck as he careened back into the ship's rail-wall.

His grip on Wynn tore loose but jerked her against Magiere's shoulder. Magiere tucked her arm around the sage to catch her. Sunlight intensified all around Magiere.

The world turned searingly bright. Her eyes began to tear as her irises expanded to full black.

"Magiere!"

Sgaile appeared beside her with Osha right behind, holding off the angry sailor. The hkomas slid down the handrails from the aftcastle.

"He grabbed Wynn!" Magiere snarled and pointed at the sailor, trying to gain control before her dhampir nature spilled out.

"I saw," Sgaile answered quickly, "but you must stop this!"

The sailor struggled up, flailing off Osha's grip with bitter words. He shook his head, blinking rapidly. Blood trickled from the split skin over his cheekbone.

Wynn grabbed Magiere's arm, her small hands gripping tightly.

Chap appeared, lunging to the cargo grate's edge. He snarled and snapped at the elven crewman. The anger washed from the man's face in sudden shock. Even Osha backed away from Chap in wariness as the hkomas cautiously slowed his approach.

"Enough!" Sgaile said, and followed with a long stream of Elvish.

"What's he saying?" Magiere asked Wynn.

The hkomas answered as rapidly. Other crew members drew closer, putting aside their duties as they listened in.

Wynn stepped around to Magiere's side, whispering, "The sailor thought I disrespected a majay-hi. Sgaile is telling them that this is only a game Chap and I play."

"That's how he explains this?" Magiere snipped, anger rising again.

The number of elven voices increased, but Sgaile stood firmly in front of Wynn and Magiere, and Osha remained rooted before Wynn's assailant. Chap watched in silence, but did not back away.

"He also told them no one is to touch us," Wynn added, "and that he would take such as a sign of disrespect to him and his oath of guardianship. It must never happen again."

Magiere eased a little, and when Sgaile glanced her way, she nodded to him.

The hkomas looked frustrated, but he grabbed the angered crewman and pulled him away, shouting at his crew. All began slowly returning to their duties. In spite of Sgaile's declaration, a few cast puzzled glances at Chap-and Magiere caught more hostile ones tossed her way.

She didn't care. Let them come at her, if they wanted.

Sgaile turned to her. "You will leave such problems to me!"

"There won't be any problems," Magiere spit back, "if they keep their hands to themselves."

"How often must I remind you," Sgaile returned, "all of you, that you do not understand our culture and ways. Your ignorance and continued lack of heed for my-"

"They understand us even less!" Wynn cut in.

The sage's sharp tone startled Magiere.

"For all the time you must have spent," Wynn added, "sneaking about human cultures, perhaps it is time you and your people learned some tolerance… before jumping to rash conclusions. Bigotry betrays your ignorance."

Sgaile was stunned voiceless, but resentment surfaced quickly through his stoic features, signaling an incensed reply on its way. Wynn gave him no opportunity and pushed past him.

"Come, Chap," she said. "Let us check on Leesil."

Chap hopped down to follow her, his head swinging as he watched the crew with twitching jowls. But as they passed Osha, Wynn brushed a hand lightly across his forearm and spoke softly.

"Alhtahk ama ar tu."

Osha eased with a soft smile and bowed his head.

It wasn't hard for Magiere to understand Wynn's words as thanks.

Sgaile cast one last hard glare at Magiere as he headed up the aftcastle stairs.

Magiere merely snorted and turned toward the ship's side, not satisfied enough to go below and take her eyes off the crew. But her gaze settled on the open sea ahead-south.

Night after night of pushing his ferals through the mountains left Welstiel weary of the constant vigilance required to control them. But they had to reach the eastern seacoast, hopefully well ahead of Magiere.

He longed for a solitary existence. Dawn approached, and he stood watching as Chane set up tents for the day. The cold rocky range was harsh and held little life, and the sky seemed interminably dismal even at night.

Each time Welstiel scried for Magiere's position, she had moved an impossible distance southward, closing on his own trajectory to the coast. Sometimes she seemed not to move for several days. This confirmed his suspicion that she was traveling by ship, making port calls along the way.

Chane proved useful again, finding rock outcrops or solitary stands of thick trees in which to pitch tents and keep their band safely under cover. He made tea every few nights, and eventually succeeded in getting the ferals to drink it-after setting an example a few times. Welstiel could not get them to do anything unless he gave a direct order. But Chane's sullen demeanor had increased until he barely spoke at all.

Welstiel did not care, so long as his companion helped keep the ferals moving. And they were quickly reaching the point of needing a fresh kill.

The two younger males shifted restlessly on hands and feet, sniffing the air in eager, unfulfilled hope. The elderly woman paced among the massive boulders surrounding their camp, and whispered aimlessly to herself. Her emaciated, silver-haired follower stayed right on her heels.

The curly-headed man crouched on his haunches, rocking on the balls of his feet at the camp's edge. Sometimes his eyes rolled in his head over a gaping mouth. Once, when Welstiel looked away and then turned back, he found that one watching him intently.

Only the young dark-haired female, whom Chane had insisted was worth saving, retained any hint of reasoning. She never spoke but often assisted Chane in setting camp or building fires when fuel could be found.

Welstiel was exhausted by perpetual vigilance, and he too was feeling the pressing need for life force. Normally, after feeding using his arcane method, he functioned comfortably for nearly a moon. Perhaps the potions with which he drugged himself, or lack of dormancy, or maintaining control over so many, had taken their toll on him. He felt as if he were starving.

Welstiel dug through his pack, searching for the brown glass bottles filled with life force taken from the living monks. When he found them at the bottom, he tensed, reluctant to even touch them.

Aside from his white ceramic container in the box with the brass cup, he found only two bottles. There should have been three. None of the ferals knew his feeding practices-only Chane.

Welstiel rushed to the nearest tent and ripped aside its flap.

Chane sat inside, beside the young female, with a parchment out, and he was showing it to her.

"You have taken something of mine," Welstiel said.

Chane's own pack and canvas sack rested beside him. He reached into the pack without hesitation and pulled out a brown glass bottle.

"Here," he rasped, and tossed it up at Welstiel.

Welstiel caught it. He did not need to pull the stopper. He could tell by the weight that it was empty.

"Did you drink it?" he asked.

"No," Chane answered.

He turned back to pushing the parchment in front of the woman, but she looked at it and then him, as if unsure what he wanted from her.

Welstiel's confusion increased. The ferals knew nothing of his artifacts or the contents of the bottles. Chane finally dropped the parchment.

He pushed past Welstiel out of the tent and stood up, eyes hard as he pointed to the elderly woman and her silver-haired companion.

"I fed them. They needed it."

Welstiel remained still, absorbing those calm words. Chane's past disobediences had normally been restricted to foolish risks involving Wynn Hygeorht. This was more blatant, and a sign that Chane had forgotten his place.

A lesson was required.

Without a word, Welstiel strode across camp with dawn glowing along the eastern horizon. He headed straight for the elderly female.

She saw him coming and backed against the massive stone outcrop rising from the sloped bank above their camp. Her gaunt companion clutched at her leg in fear.

"Be still!" he commanded. "All of you!"

Tendons in the elderly woman's neck protruded as her body went rigid. Her eyes widened as Welstiel jerked his sword from its sheath. The crouching man began squeaking helplessly.

"What are you doing?" Chane demanded.

Welstiel lashed out with his blade.

Its edge collided with the elderly woman's throat. In predawn's half-light, sparks erupted as metal clanged against the stone behind her. The wall of stone turned dark as her black fluids spattered over it.

Welstiel whirled away before her head thumped upon the ground. Her crouching companion began screeching unintelligibly. And there was Chane, his own blade in hand.

"Another step," Welstiel said, calm and clear, "and I will set them all on you."

Chane stood his ground, not moving. He never looked to the other ferals frozen in place around the camp. One of his eyes twitched in rage and open hatred.

Welstiel did not care. Obedience was restored, and he stepped purposefully toward Chane.

"Remember," he said. "When I have what I seek, you will still be waiting for what you desire. Whether I have reason to compensate you for service is all in your hands. Obey me or leave… if you wish."

Rage drained slowly from Chane's eyes, or perhaps it merely crawled into hiding. His gaze shifted above Welstiel as the sky grew lighter.

"Get under cover," Chane rasped.

Not a true answer, but Welstiel was satisfied for the moment. A costly lesson, but one that perhaps even Chane could learn. Welstiel turned his back.

The silver-haired man still howled. Frozen in place by Welstiel's command, his fingers were locked tight about the calf of the elderly woman's corpse.

"Quiet!" Welstiel shouted, and the screeching voice strangled in the man's throat.

Welstiel reached down, snatched the woman's head by its graying hair, and heaved it out into the wilderness. When he turned back, Chane had already ducked into his tent. The young female peeked out, one round eye staring at Welstiel around the tent flap's edge.

With Chane's enraged face still fresh in Welstiel's thoughts, he stared into that one near-colorless pupil and wondered…

Did he indeed now have only five ferals? Or were there still six, the last one not chained to his own will?