first 11 pages
Aug. 31st, 2008 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrAnd now I go shortly to play cards and drink beer. Mwahaha. Will write more if I am able, but probably won't get much done 'til tomorrow.
Ulrich's nose twitched.
Something wasn't right about the forest, but he could not place his nose upon whatever was off. There were no strange smells; everything was what he would expect of a forest. Trees, water, animals, there were some sweet berry patches not too far off. A deer had died and was rotting several yards away. Smoke, every so faintly.
Ah. That was it. He could smell smoke, but no humans. Or any other species, for that matter, but usually where there was smoke, it was humans. Why could he not smell them?
His nose twitched again as he tried to pick out any sign of them past the smoke, absently stroking the black leather collar around his throat, hardly aware he was doing it.
The wind picked up, disheveling his neatly trimmed black hair, playing with his dark gray cape. Autumn leaves rustled beneath his boots as he finally walked on, falling around him as the breeze knocked the few remainders from their branches.
There was a distinct chill in the air, but he liked the bite. He was from a mountain pack, where heavy snow and bitter cold was a way of life. These lowlands only thought they knew what the words snow and cold meant; they would not last a day in his homelands.
He felt a twist in his gut, thinking of home. Everyone had told him the homesickness would ease, but it hadn't. Four and a half years in the lowlands and all he wanted was to return home. Unconsciously, he reached up to touch is collar again.
When he realized what he was doing, he dropped his hand with a sigh and made himself focus on his work.
A member of the King's Special Guard had died here, and it was his duty to figure out why and how. It was mostly a formality, really. He had been told to try, but not too hard, for the dead soldier in question was no great loss. That he was dead was more of a relief, really. His family was pitching a fit though, and it never paid to ignore the fits of the wealthy and powerful.
Money and a desire to repay troublesome debts had put the man in the Special Guard, and those very same reasons had seen him sent off to solve the mystery.
Though his instinct had been to refuse, and foist the assignment on one of the men under his command, Ulrich had not been able to let go of his own curiosity. They had known of the bastard's death only because someone had returned his wolf skin and collar to the man's family.
He had never known anyone in the lowlands to hold to such an old-fashioned tradition of returning the skin of a dead wolf to its pack. These days, most just returned the collar. It was far easier, and less barbaric, according to the soft and lazy folk of the lowlands.
His nose twitched as he caught a hint of…something for the span of a heartbeat. So quickly gone again, he half-figured he'd imagined it. Six weeks of hard travel and exhausting investigation had led him this far, to the dark, black woods where folks had last seen 'the unpleasant black wolf' headed.
Ulrich sighed, and wondered irritably why the bastard could not have simply gotten himself killed by a bear or some such. No, no, he had to get himself killed by someone who seemed to have honor, which meant he'd probably died in a fight or doing something he damn well knew he shouldn't be doing.
Realizing he was stroking his collar again, Ulrich snatched his hand away and glowered at his surroundings. He could smell the faintest hints of the bastard, so he had definitely been here…but he still could not smell humans, for all the scent of smoke was getting stronger.
Sighing, he continued walking, enjoying the cold and the forest itself even if he resented his reasons for being here. Four and a half more months, he reminded himself, and he could return home. Then he begin working on his poor, neglected house, resume his studies, maybe finally start looking for someone with whom he could settle down. He'd slogged through four and a half years of duty to his King, he could make it a few more months.
Walking on, he kept alert for any sign that he was not simply wasting his time here – or the slightest indication that he had tried hard enough, could call it a wash and return to the city. So far, he could see no sign of either. Damn it.
Then the sound of childish laughter caught his ears. He froze, wondering if it was simply wishful thinking, but then it came again.
Following the sound as best he could in the forest, he abruptly found himself on a well-worn footpath he had not seen before. Taking it, he continued to follow the sound of laughter, and as he drew ever closer to it, he began to hear voices as well. There were three in total – the laughing child, an old woman, and a man of modest years.
A few minutes later, the path dipped down a sharp hill, which in turn spilled into a small valley. At the center of it was a tidy little cottage. He could smell the smoke coming from the chimney, the wildflowers sprinkled through the lush grass, the brook running near the house…but not the people.
They saw him, and the laughter stopped.
Ulrich drew a halt as the old woman and little girl suddenly fled into the house. The man, who seemed to be right around his own twenty five, retrieved a bow and arrow he'd left near the front of the cottage. He nocked an arrow, and stood waiting.
Horribly confused, for he was no threat and had not thought he was giving an impression of threat, Ulrich slowed his steps and drew cautiously forward. "I am sorry if I have caused some offense," he said as he drew close enough to speak without shouting. "I did not intend such; I am merely searching for something. Please, there is no reason to be alarmed. I am of the King's—"
"Yes, I know," the man replied, not lowering his bow. "You were the same damn uniform."
Ulrich would have responded to that, but he was too jarred for a moment even to think. The man's accent was pure highland. Thick and rolling, a hint of husky melody. Beautiful. He'd not heard another speak in the sounds of his home for months, not since the others had either gone home or elsewhere to serve out the remainder of their duty. Few highlanders bestirred themselves to do their duty to the King so deep into the lowlands, and he was the only one who had elected to serve it at the castle proper.
The man was not a wolf, however. He did not wear a collar, and he did not smell li…
He realized with a jolt he could not smell any of the humans at all.
In the next moment, he finally saw why—around the man's neck was a silver chain, from which hung a talisman. He would know that sort of talisman anywhere, for they often were used to prey upon his kind. It's why despite their usefulness for many things, the talisman was called a Wolfsbane Charm. No one and nothing, not even the great wolves, could smell any person or thing to which the talisman was attached.
Only a very talented mage could make them, however.
Like falling dominos, another realization fell in his mind. "You're a wild mage."
The man tensed, but did not quite let fly the arrow he still held nocked.
Eagerness caused Ulrich to move forward despite the danger. "You are from the highlands," he said, breaking into a smile, feeling the strangeness of an expression he had not felt like using in a long time.
"Back off, soldier of the King," the man snarled. "Being from the mountains won't keep me from killing you."
Reality returned like a slap to the face, and his momentary joy went out like a snuffed candle. He backed up again. "My apologies," he said, frowning again. "Might I ask why you're being so hostile? I promise you, I intend no harm. I'm of the King's Special Guard, my honor is my life."
The man let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Just like the other one? I know enough about men in uniforms to know not a one of you has honor – even a highlander. Or maybe especially a highlander. Has the Pack Schwarzenberg gotten so soft and pathetic they would dance to the King's tune?
Ulrich snarled in immediate rage that he would be so unfairly maligned. He lunged forward to meet the insult as he should—and howled in pain as he met with a barrier he had neither smelled nor sensed.
He sat up slowly, gasping in pain, vision blurry for a few moments. "Damn it," he said. "That was uncalled for. What have I done to give the indication I would hurt you?"
"Didn't you just try to hurt me?" The man asked coolly.
"You insulted me," Ulrich snarled. "I have done nothing to you, save draw close to ask for assistance. You accuse me of lacking honor, but clearly you possess none yourself. I am sorry that I attempted to ask for assistance, and will trouble you no further."
Turning away, he slowly limped his way back up the hill, stumbling twice, not certain he would regain his feet the second time. He did, however, and stubbornly did not look back to see what the three humans were up to below.
Let them shoot him in the back if they were so inclined; maybe that's what had become of the poor bastard whose skin had been returned to the castle. If so, then even a bastard such as that warranted justice.
Ignoring the hurt that had come from being so callously treated by someone who should have called him brother—the man had even known his pack by his collar—he focused on overcoming the physical pain of meeting a magic ward at full force, slowly dragging himself to where he felt safe enough to camp for the night.
Then he finally allowed himself to pass out.
He woke sometime later with a groan, his entire body a great, throbbing ache. His head especially hurt something fierce, and he wondered who or what had convinced him to drink like a pup. And just what had he drunk to wind up in a forest…
Oh, right.
There hadn't been any drinking, and mores the pity. He was in the Great Forest. It extended from the south half of the lowlands, stretching nearly all the way across it, then spilled down into the neighboring kingdom, where the natives called it something weird. The Giggling Forest, or something.
Ugh, if not for the fact he knew he'd taken a nasty hit from a barrier, he would have thought his wandering thoughts indicative of a concussion. Moving slowly, pausing several times to let the pain recede a bit, he finally regained his feet.
He looked up to take in the sunlight through the trees. Far too bright to be remotely close to when he had collapsed. It was a fair bet to say he had been unconscious for a day and a half—not too bad, considering he'd been hit with barriers nasty enough to put him out for the better part of three days.
What should he do now? Whoever the hell those people had been, they did not like royal guards. Especially that highland wild mage…
Ulrich frowned, turning over the encounter in his mind. Though it was not expected that one highlander would immediately regard another as friend, it was typical to give a brother the benefit of the doubt. He reached up to touch his collar, remembering the way the man had immediately known he was of the Pack Schwarzenberg.
The collar was warm and supple beneath his fingers, the embossed marks comfortingly familiar. Marks for his Pack, for his family, even his own name for those who knew how to read them. A wolf's pride and joy was his collar, and though they tried time and again to make the wolves remove them while in uniform, no wolf ever listened. Wolves removed their collars for one reason, and one reason only.
He whipped around as the back of his neck prickled, pain inconsequential as he sensed danger—
Then a figure came through the trees, and drew him up short, and Ulrich positively hated that he could not smell the man.
"What have you done with her?" the man snarled, and let fly an arrow.
Ulrich barely dodged it, and anger drove him to shift and throw himself at the infuriating human, knocking them both the ground to struggle and fight, snarl and rage. The man tried to throw him off, but he was having none of that.
He shifted again as they scrambled, resuming a human shape at just the right moment, pinning the bastard to the ground. "What are you talking about?" he snarled, still trembling with rage. "I try to ask for help, and you threaten me. I lay here unconscious from your damn magic spells and you attempt to shoot me, accusing me of—what? Damn it, human, what is the matter with you? I have done nothing, I have hurt no one. You are the one attempting to shoot an innocent man."
"No king's man is innocent," the man hissed. "Where is the girl? The child?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ulrich snapped. "I have only recently woken from the affects of your nasty little barrier. If you do not cease with this nonsense, human, I will tear your throat out."
The snarled back just as angrily. "Who else would hurt the child but another lowland wolf?"
Ulrich saw red, but managed to just barely hold on to what was left of his temper. He bent his head until they were close enough to kiss. "Human, I am a highland wolf, and will be the day I die. I do my duty here, nothing more. Very soon I will be home again, and good riddance to the weak and pathetic lowlands." He drew back slightly. "What of you? You are highland, your accent marks you plain as anything, and here you skulk in the lowlands, defending lowland children."
For a moment, it almost looked as thought he man were in pain, but it was gone so quickly, Ulrich wasn't certain that's what he'd seen.
"You did not take the child?"
"I have no use for children," Ulrich snapped. "You could have more faith in a brother, human."
"You could let me go, wolf."
Ulrich did no such thing. "Are you going to try and shoot me again?" he demanded.
"No," the man snapped. "Not unless I discover you have lied to me."
Deciding it was the best he was going to get, Ulrich let him go and rolled away, regaining his feet and shaking himself—and promptly dropped to his knees as the pain returned full force with the abating of danger.
The world spun beneath him, and his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. Damn it, he really hated magic. He pressed the back of one gloved hand to his mouth, willing away the urge to heave up his empty stomach, wishing the bloody pain would ease. It had been a long time since he'd stupidly run straight into a barrier; long enough he'd forgotten just how agonizing it could be.
A hand settled on his shoulder, making him tense, because if the damnable man wanted to kill him now then he likely could – Ulrich had used the last of his strength to fight him only moments ago.
"Drink this," the man said, voice gone oddly gentle.
Ulrich jerked his head up, though the move cost him, and looked mistrustfully into eyes that were the color of autumn—not quite brown, or gold, or red, but a combination of all three.
Realizing he was staring, he tore his gaze away and looked instead at the small, dark glass bottle the man held out. He frowned. "What is that?"
"A tonic," the man said quietly. "It should take away the pain, and restore at least some of your strength."
Ulrich's lip curled, and he looked up again to glare. "Right. You drove me away yesterday, without even bothering to listen to me, then you come today to shoot first and ask questions later—now you are trying to help me? Do I look like a pup still suckling at his mother's teat?"
"It's nothing personal," the man said patiently. "Wolves aren't well-regarded around these parts. You'd understand why if you knew all they'd done. Especially the last one in a uniform like yours. Just drink the damn thing, Schwarzenberg wolf. I have to find that girl, and the sooner you're dealt with, the sooner I can get to work."
Shuddering as the pain racked his body anew, Ulrich decided he really didn't care if the bastard was attempting to poison him. Accepting the bottle, he pulled the stopper and downed the contents.
Cold flooded him, then a rush of warmth. The tonic tasted faintly of blueberries and honey. He licked his lips as the strange warmth slowly faded—leaving him with nothing more than a negligible headache. In fact, he felt well-rested and ready for most anything.
He grunted and stood as the man did the same. "Thank you," he said stiffly.
The man shrugged, tucked the empty bottle away in the pack he wore, and turned away.
"What did you mean, the girl is gone? That little girl I saw briefly yesterday? Where would she go? These woods are dangerous enough for grown men, surely."
"Yes," the man said, shoulders tight with tension. He turned back to Ulrich, eyes blazing with fury though he otherwise seemed calm. "She knows better than to wander off, or talk to anyone, especially since a wolf in the garb of a King's Special Guard tried to steal her away—to eat."
Ulrich drew a sharp breath, dismay crashing through him. "He went feral? Why? How?"
"You think I know?" the man demanded. "I barley came across her in time to save her. Now she is gone again! Damn it, every time I meet a wolf, there is nothing but trouble!" He turned away and stalked off, barely making a sound despite the dead, dry leaves littering the forest floor.
"Wait!" Ulrich said, and chased after him. "Let me help."
The minute he said the words, he wondered what the hell he was thinking. His part was done—obviously this man had killed the wolf, because that wolf had gone feral. Mystery solved, and no one would even think to blame a man for killing a feral wolf.
"Help me?" the man asked contemptuously. "I've had enough wolves to last me a lifetime—I'm not putting up with another longer than necessary. If you want to help me, you can do it by leaving."
Ulrich rolled his eyes. "Not all wolves are bad. You're from the highlands, why are you acting like a dense lowlander?"
The man's eyes flashed. "I'm not in the mood to trade insults, wolf. Go away."
He really wanted to throttle the man. Or maybe just shake him, like a pup with a toy. Where that image had come from, he didn't know, but it pleased. "I'm a wolf, as you have obviously noticed—I can track the child far better than anyone."
"Even if she's wearing a Wolfsbane charm?" the man asked with an amused smirk.
Ulrich frowned, then made a face. "All right, fine. I can still help, and would like to help. One bad wolf in uniform does mean we're all bad. You’re one of the most obnoxious humans I've ever met, but that doesn't mean I'm going to hate all humans."
The man let out a sharp bark of laughter. "One bad wolf? Try three. I'm not eager to see if number four is the exception to the rule. Go away, wolf, or I'll nock an arrow you won't soon forget."
"I have done nothing to warrant this behavior!" Ulrich bellowed, stalking close and grabbing the man up, shaking him hard. "I am a good wolf. I serve my Pack, I serve my King, and had you told me that you killed that wolf for turning feral, I would have commended you and gone on my merry way. Instead you threaten me, shoot at me, then promise to do it again when all I have done is attempt to ask for help, and then offer to find a child. You would rather reject for being a wolf, than accept my offer of help? She could be dead, or dying, and you don't want my help?"
They glared at each other in silence after that, but Ulrich found it hard to hold on to his anger looking into those strange, autumn-colored eyes. He really hated that he could not smell the man. Sound and sight were not nearly as useful as smell and taste.
Finally the man dropped his eyes. Ulrich took it as a victory, but still waited.
"All right," the man finally said, an unhappy edge to his husky voice. "Let us find her, and then you can get the hell out of my sight."
"Fine," Ulrich snapped, and let him go, wishing he could bite the bastard just because. "My name is Ulrich Schwarz, of Pack Schwarzenberg."
The man nodded stiffly at him, and slowly held out a hand in greeting. "I am Grosvenor Allaway."
"You're a wild mage of the highlands," Ulrich said, and stripped off his glove to shake Grosvenor's hand, liking the strength in it the calluses and scars that said this was no idler. No soft lowlander afraid to get his hands dirty.
"I was a wild mage of the highlands," Grosvenor said. "Now, I am just a wild mage." He said nothing more, but pulled his hand away and continued walking. "Unfortunately, I am not quite certain where she may have gone. The trail ended abruptly, and I could find no trace of anyone or anything. Given the size of this forest, and it's reputation for strange goings on…"
"She could be anywhere," Ulrich finished grimly, "or nowhere. Best to go where the trail ends and take it from there, now that we have established I did not take her."
"Have we?" Grosvenor asked.
Ulrich growled.
Grosvenor smirked, clearly amused. "You've a remarkably short temper for a wolf."
"Only when my honor is questioned," Ulrich replied. "You're remarkably dense for a highlander."
"Yes," Grosvenor replied, his brief levity vanishing like the sun behind a bank of storm clouds. "So I was often told."
Ulrich rolled his eyes. "I meant no offense. We need not be at odds, human. If you would just be pleasant for a few minutes, I would not even hold a grudge for the arrow this morning." He wrinkled his nose. "Though I do wish you would remove that damn talisman. It's damned awkward talking to someone half my senses say does not exist."
"No," Grosvenor said flatly.
"If the girl was not wearing one," Ulrich snapped, "I could already sniff her out. What if something were to happen to you, in the course of our search? We are partners, you and I, until the girl if found." Damn it, was the man really so thick and stupid? "Why are you set against anyone getting your scent?"
Grosvenor shrugged irritably. "None of your business, wolf."
Ulrich rolled his eyes again. Honestly, if not for the grouchiness, Grosvenor would not be a bad person. He was handsome enough, certainly. Obviously he lived in the woods—he had an edge to him, a rough look despite the surprising cleanliness of his appearance, that only came from living in the wilderness. His hair was sort of blonde that turned to gold when it soaked up sunlight. He had the sort of broad, well-muscled build that Ulrich loved in a man. His own build was much more slender, something that more than one lowland idiot had taken to mean he was weak.
Too bad the man was so damnably grouchy, Ulrich might have grown to like him. They were both highlanders, after all. Brothers stuck in the detestable lowlands. "Are you ever in a good mood?" he asked.
"When wolves aren't around," Grosvenor retorted.
Ulrich sighed, and gave up talking. He wondered why he had even volunteered to do this—the way Grosvenor moved and behaved, he was as comfortable in the woods as most men only were in their own homes. Ulrich probably was not needed.
Well, too bad. He was going to prove he wasn't a bad wolf no matter what. If he had no clue why it mattered, well, that little detail was negligible.
His stomach abruptly growled, and he was abruptly reminded he had not eaten since midday yesterday.
Grosvenor stopped, and turned back to look at him, pretty mouth curved in another of those damnably annoying smirks.
Pretty mouth?
Ulrich scowled at himself, and then at Grosvenor. "Are we almost where the trail grows cold?"
"Yes," Grosvenor replied, but swung his pack down and dug something out, tossing Ulrich a small packet. "Jerky. That should keep you, wolf. What's one of your marvelous and wonderful kind doing in the woods without food?"
Oh, yes, at some point he was going to shake the annoying man until his teeth fell out. Still, he unwrapped the jerky and ate voraciously. "I figured if I was here long enough to need food, I could hunt it. Easier to travel light." He swallowed a bite of jerky. "Thanks, especially since I know you'd rather let me starve."
"If I get sick of you, there are better ways to kill you than starvation," Grosvenor replied.
Ulrich only shook his head, and felt a smile twitch at his lips. He realized with annoyance that the grouchiness was growing on him. He bit off another bit of jerky and chewed. It was venison, and remarkably good for jerky. The army issued stuff always tasted more like dried wood, on the rare occasions he had to eat it.
He shoved a last bit into his mouth as they reached the clearing where the cottage lay – but rather than head toward it, they circled around it, and eventually headed back into the forest, where the brook vanished into the trees again.
"Here," Grosvenor said. "I followed her trail from where they draw water close to the house, to here. Then nothing."
Ulrich nodded, listening absently, for his attention was already on the anomaly his nose had picked out. He could barely smell it…something…sticky and sweet… With a thought, he shifted, and put his nose to the ground, absorbing too many smells to count, each one a fascinating story all its own…but that sticky sweet smell, that was no forest scent. That was man.
He barked as he found it, and shifted back, shoving his fingers into the grass along the bank until he at last pulled free something no bigger than a tiny pebble. A bit of cookie—gingerbread, into which was pressed a small bit of bright pink hard candy. It looked like it had fallen off of a larger cookie, maybe while being eaten.
He heard and sensed Grosvenor come up behind him, annoyed all over again that he could not attach so much as a single scent to the man. "Looks like she was eating a cookie," he said with a shrug. "Not very helpful…"
Grosvenor's face had gone pale.
"What?" he asked. "Is there something dangerous about a cookie?"
"I hope not," Grosvenor said, and took the bit from him, holding it to his own nose. "But Gretel—the old woman—hates gingerbread. She would never make it. She's scared of gingerbread."
Ulrich frowned. "What in the world is there to be scared about in gingerbread?"
Grosvenor looked at the bit of cookie. "She told me the story only a couple of years ago," he said quietly. "As a child, she and her brother were abandoned in the forest by their father and stepmother. Poor, unable to feed them…it was not an uncommon practice back then, here in the lowlands, or so I was told."
"That is disgusting," Urlich said, though he had heard much the same himself. In many of the smaller, more remote villages, they still did it. In the leaner, poorer times, children were always the first to go. After all, the explanation went, more could be made when times got better.
"Yes," Grosvenor agreed, "but that's what was done to Gretel. She and her brother were abandoned in the woods. They tried to find their way home, but only wound up lost. Then the stumbled across a house made of gingerbread. Gretel said it was like something from a dream – gingerbread with candy for the shutters, the shingles, the door…" He shook his head. "A kind old woman invited them inside, fed them and cared for them…"
He fell silent, and Ulrich suddenly had a terrible feeling in his gut, and wished had not eaten the jerky.
"She was kind and sweet, far nicer than their parents had ever been. Good food, sweets, and she lived in that magical house…"
"Come to the end of the tale," Ulrich said harshly, unable to bear the waiting.
"She was going to eat them," Grosvenor replied. "The food she fed them was drugged, to keep them meek and compliant while she plumped them up. The house was made with magic, and the woman was a powerful witch. Gretel said she discovered the truth only by mistake, when she was taking the slop out one day and stumbled across an animal playing with some bones it had dug up—human bones, but tiny. Children's bones. She said taken with other things, and the constant dreamy state in which she existed, it was not hard to figure it out. She ran inside and shoved the old woman into the oven she had been in the process of heating. She and Hansel fled, and eventually came to a village. That is as far as she told the tale to me."
Ulrich glanced at the bit of gingerbread cookie. "Surely you do not think…"
"I don't know," Grosvenor replied, "but I do know that no one else besides Gretel, Annie, and I live here. I do not bake, and Gretel would never make gingerbread. Where, then, did it come from?" He crushed the cookie in his fist, then threw the crumbs into the brook. "We must find her, and hope that I am wrong, or that we are not too late."
At least he was saying 'we' Ulrich thought. "Now I've a scent to follow," he said, "I'll see what I can do." Shifting back to his wolf form, he put his nose to the ground and hunted for the smell of gingerbread.
The Huntsman
Ulrich's nose twitched.
Something wasn't right about the forest, but he could not place his nose upon whatever was off. There were no strange smells; everything was what he would expect of a forest. Trees, water, animals, there were some sweet berry patches not too far off. A deer had died and was rotting several yards away. Smoke, every so faintly.
Ah. That was it. He could smell smoke, but no humans. Or any other species, for that matter, but usually where there was smoke, it was humans. Why could he not smell them?
His nose twitched again as he tried to pick out any sign of them past the smoke, absently stroking the black leather collar around his throat, hardly aware he was doing it.
The wind picked up, disheveling his neatly trimmed black hair, playing with his dark gray cape. Autumn leaves rustled beneath his boots as he finally walked on, falling around him as the breeze knocked the few remainders from their branches.
There was a distinct chill in the air, but he liked the bite. He was from a mountain pack, where heavy snow and bitter cold was a way of life. These lowlands only thought they knew what the words snow and cold meant; they would not last a day in his homelands.
He felt a twist in his gut, thinking of home. Everyone had told him the homesickness would ease, but it hadn't. Four and a half years in the lowlands and all he wanted was to return home. Unconsciously, he reached up to touch is collar again.
When he realized what he was doing, he dropped his hand with a sigh and made himself focus on his work.
A member of the King's Special Guard had died here, and it was his duty to figure out why and how. It was mostly a formality, really. He had been told to try, but not too hard, for the dead soldier in question was no great loss. That he was dead was more of a relief, really. His family was pitching a fit though, and it never paid to ignore the fits of the wealthy and powerful.
Money and a desire to repay troublesome debts had put the man in the Special Guard, and those very same reasons had seen him sent off to solve the mystery.
Though his instinct had been to refuse, and foist the assignment on one of the men under his command, Ulrich had not been able to let go of his own curiosity. They had known of the bastard's death only because someone had returned his wolf skin and collar to the man's family.
He had never known anyone in the lowlands to hold to such an old-fashioned tradition of returning the skin of a dead wolf to its pack. These days, most just returned the collar. It was far easier, and less barbaric, according to the soft and lazy folk of the lowlands.
His nose twitched as he caught a hint of…something for the span of a heartbeat. So quickly gone again, he half-figured he'd imagined it. Six weeks of hard travel and exhausting investigation had led him this far, to the dark, black woods where folks had last seen 'the unpleasant black wolf' headed.
Ulrich sighed, and wondered irritably why the bastard could not have simply gotten himself killed by a bear or some such. No, no, he had to get himself killed by someone who seemed to have honor, which meant he'd probably died in a fight or doing something he damn well knew he shouldn't be doing.
Realizing he was stroking his collar again, Ulrich snatched his hand away and glowered at his surroundings. He could smell the faintest hints of the bastard, so he had definitely been here…but he still could not smell humans, for all the scent of smoke was getting stronger.
Sighing, he continued walking, enjoying the cold and the forest itself even if he resented his reasons for being here. Four and a half more months, he reminded himself, and he could return home. Then he begin working on his poor, neglected house, resume his studies, maybe finally start looking for someone with whom he could settle down. He'd slogged through four and a half years of duty to his King, he could make it a few more months.
Walking on, he kept alert for any sign that he was not simply wasting his time here – or the slightest indication that he had tried hard enough, could call it a wash and return to the city. So far, he could see no sign of either. Damn it.
Then the sound of childish laughter caught his ears. He froze, wondering if it was simply wishful thinking, but then it came again.
Following the sound as best he could in the forest, he abruptly found himself on a well-worn footpath he had not seen before. Taking it, he continued to follow the sound of laughter, and as he drew ever closer to it, he began to hear voices as well. There were three in total – the laughing child, an old woman, and a man of modest years.
A few minutes later, the path dipped down a sharp hill, which in turn spilled into a small valley. At the center of it was a tidy little cottage. He could smell the smoke coming from the chimney, the wildflowers sprinkled through the lush grass, the brook running near the house…but not the people.
They saw him, and the laughter stopped.
Ulrich drew a halt as the old woman and little girl suddenly fled into the house. The man, who seemed to be right around his own twenty five, retrieved a bow and arrow he'd left near the front of the cottage. He nocked an arrow, and stood waiting.
Horribly confused, for he was no threat and had not thought he was giving an impression of threat, Ulrich slowed his steps and drew cautiously forward. "I am sorry if I have caused some offense," he said as he drew close enough to speak without shouting. "I did not intend such; I am merely searching for something. Please, there is no reason to be alarmed. I am of the King's—"
"Yes, I know," the man replied, not lowering his bow. "You were the same damn uniform."
Ulrich would have responded to that, but he was too jarred for a moment even to think. The man's accent was pure highland. Thick and rolling, a hint of husky melody. Beautiful. He'd not heard another speak in the sounds of his home for months, not since the others had either gone home or elsewhere to serve out the remainder of their duty. Few highlanders bestirred themselves to do their duty to the King so deep into the lowlands, and he was the only one who had elected to serve it at the castle proper.
The man was not a wolf, however. He did not wear a collar, and he did not smell li…
He realized with a jolt he could not smell any of the humans at all.
In the next moment, he finally saw why—around the man's neck was a silver chain, from which hung a talisman. He would know that sort of talisman anywhere, for they often were used to prey upon his kind. It's why despite their usefulness for many things, the talisman was called a Wolfsbane Charm. No one and nothing, not even the great wolves, could smell any person or thing to which the talisman was attached.
Only a very talented mage could make them, however.
Like falling dominos, another realization fell in his mind. "You're a wild mage."
The man tensed, but did not quite let fly the arrow he still held nocked.
Eagerness caused Ulrich to move forward despite the danger. "You are from the highlands," he said, breaking into a smile, feeling the strangeness of an expression he had not felt like using in a long time.
"Back off, soldier of the King," the man snarled. "Being from the mountains won't keep me from killing you."
Reality returned like a slap to the face, and his momentary joy went out like a snuffed candle. He backed up again. "My apologies," he said, frowning again. "Might I ask why you're being so hostile? I promise you, I intend no harm. I'm of the King's Special Guard, my honor is my life."
The man let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Just like the other one? I know enough about men in uniforms to know not a one of you has honor – even a highlander. Or maybe especially a highlander. Has the Pack Schwarzenberg gotten so soft and pathetic they would dance to the King's tune?
Ulrich snarled in immediate rage that he would be so unfairly maligned. He lunged forward to meet the insult as he should—and howled in pain as he met with a barrier he had neither smelled nor sensed.
He sat up slowly, gasping in pain, vision blurry for a few moments. "Damn it," he said. "That was uncalled for. What have I done to give the indication I would hurt you?"
"Didn't you just try to hurt me?" The man asked coolly.
"You insulted me," Ulrich snarled. "I have done nothing to you, save draw close to ask for assistance. You accuse me of lacking honor, but clearly you possess none yourself. I am sorry that I attempted to ask for assistance, and will trouble you no further."
Turning away, he slowly limped his way back up the hill, stumbling twice, not certain he would regain his feet the second time. He did, however, and stubbornly did not look back to see what the three humans were up to below.
Let them shoot him in the back if they were so inclined; maybe that's what had become of the poor bastard whose skin had been returned to the castle. If so, then even a bastard such as that warranted justice.
Ignoring the hurt that had come from being so callously treated by someone who should have called him brother—the man had even known his pack by his collar—he focused on overcoming the physical pain of meeting a magic ward at full force, slowly dragging himself to where he felt safe enough to camp for the night.
Then he finally allowed himself to pass out.
He woke sometime later with a groan, his entire body a great, throbbing ache. His head especially hurt something fierce, and he wondered who or what had convinced him to drink like a pup. And just what had he drunk to wind up in a forest…
Oh, right.
There hadn't been any drinking, and mores the pity. He was in the Great Forest. It extended from the south half of the lowlands, stretching nearly all the way across it, then spilled down into the neighboring kingdom, where the natives called it something weird. The Giggling Forest, or something.
Ugh, if not for the fact he knew he'd taken a nasty hit from a barrier, he would have thought his wandering thoughts indicative of a concussion. Moving slowly, pausing several times to let the pain recede a bit, he finally regained his feet.
He looked up to take in the sunlight through the trees. Far too bright to be remotely close to when he had collapsed. It was a fair bet to say he had been unconscious for a day and a half—not too bad, considering he'd been hit with barriers nasty enough to put him out for the better part of three days.
What should he do now? Whoever the hell those people had been, they did not like royal guards. Especially that highland wild mage…
Ulrich frowned, turning over the encounter in his mind. Though it was not expected that one highlander would immediately regard another as friend, it was typical to give a brother the benefit of the doubt. He reached up to touch his collar, remembering the way the man had immediately known he was of the Pack Schwarzenberg.
The collar was warm and supple beneath his fingers, the embossed marks comfortingly familiar. Marks for his Pack, for his family, even his own name for those who knew how to read them. A wolf's pride and joy was his collar, and though they tried time and again to make the wolves remove them while in uniform, no wolf ever listened. Wolves removed their collars for one reason, and one reason only.
He whipped around as the back of his neck prickled, pain inconsequential as he sensed danger—
Then a figure came through the trees, and drew him up short, and Ulrich positively hated that he could not smell the man.
"What have you done with her?" the man snarled, and let fly an arrow.
Ulrich barely dodged it, and anger drove him to shift and throw himself at the infuriating human, knocking them both the ground to struggle and fight, snarl and rage. The man tried to throw him off, but he was having none of that.
He shifted again as they scrambled, resuming a human shape at just the right moment, pinning the bastard to the ground. "What are you talking about?" he snarled, still trembling with rage. "I try to ask for help, and you threaten me. I lay here unconscious from your damn magic spells and you attempt to shoot me, accusing me of—what? Damn it, human, what is the matter with you? I have done nothing, I have hurt no one. You are the one attempting to shoot an innocent man."
"No king's man is innocent," the man hissed. "Where is the girl? The child?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ulrich snapped. "I have only recently woken from the affects of your nasty little barrier. If you do not cease with this nonsense, human, I will tear your throat out."
The snarled back just as angrily. "Who else would hurt the child but another lowland wolf?"
Ulrich saw red, but managed to just barely hold on to what was left of his temper. He bent his head until they were close enough to kiss. "Human, I am a highland wolf, and will be the day I die. I do my duty here, nothing more. Very soon I will be home again, and good riddance to the weak and pathetic lowlands." He drew back slightly. "What of you? You are highland, your accent marks you plain as anything, and here you skulk in the lowlands, defending lowland children."
For a moment, it almost looked as thought he man were in pain, but it was gone so quickly, Ulrich wasn't certain that's what he'd seen.
"You did not take the child?"
"I have no use for children," Ulrich snapped. "You could have more faith in a brother, human."
"You could let me go, wolf."
Ulrich did no such thing. "Are you going to try and shoot me again?" he demanded.
"No," the man snapped. "Not unless I discover you have lied to me."
Deciding it was the best he was going to get, Ulrich let him go and rolled away, regaining his feet and shaking himself—and promptly dropped to his knees as the pain returned full force with the abating of danger.
The world spun beneath him, and his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. Damn it, he really hated magic. He pressed the back of one gloved hand to his mouth, willing away the urge to heave up his empty stomach, wishing the bloody pain would ease. It had been a long time since he'd stupidly run straight into a barrier; long enough he'd forgotten just how agonizing it could be.
A hand settled on his shoulder, making him tense, because if the damnable man wanted to kill him now then he likely could – Ulrich had used the last of his strength to fight him only moments ago.
"Drink this," the man said, voice gone oddly gentle.
Ulrich jerked his head up, though the move cost him, and looked mistrustfully into eyes that were the color of autumn—not quite brown, or gold, or red, but a combination of all three.
Realizing he was staring, he tore his gaze away and looked instead at the small, dark glass bottle the man held out. He frowned. "What is that?"
"A tonic," the man said quietly. "It should take away the pain, and restore at least some of your strength."
Ulrich's lip curled, and he looked up again to glare. "Right. You drove me away yesterday, without even bothering to listen to me, then you come today to shoot first and ask questions later—now you are trying to help me? Do I look like a pup still suckling at his mother's teat?"
"It's nothing personal," the man said patiently. "Wolves aren't well-regarded around these parts. You'd understand why if you knew all they'd done. Especially the last one in a uniform like yours. Just drink the damn thing, Schwarzenberg wolf. I have to find that girl, and the sooner you're dealt with, the sooner I can get to work."
Shuddering as the pain racked his body anew, Ulrich decided he really didn't care if the bastard was attempting to poison him. Accepting the bottle, he pulled the stopper and downed the contents.
Cold flooded him, then a rush of warmth. The tonic tasted faintly of blueberries and honey. He licked his lips as the strange warmth slowly faded—leaving him with nothing more than a negligible headache. In fact, he felt well-rested and ready for most anything.
He grunted and stood as the man did the same. "Thank you," he said stiffly.
The man shrugged, tucked the empty bottle away in the pack he wore, and turned away.
"What did you mean, the girl is gone? That little girl I saw briefly yesterday? Where would she go? These woods are dangerous enough for grown men, surely."
"Yes," the man said, shoulders tight with tension. He turned back to Ulrich, eyes blazing with fury though he otherwise seemed calm. "She knows better than to wander off, or talk to anyone, especially since a wolf in the garb of a King's Special Guard tried to steal her away—to eat."
Ulrich drew a sharp breath, dismay crashing through him. "He went feral? Why? How?"
"You think I know?" the man demanded. "I barley came across her in time to save her. Now she is gone again! Damn it, every time I meet a wolf, there is nothing but trouble!" He turned away and stalked off, barely making a sound despite the dead, dry leaves littering the forest floor.
"Wait!" Ulrich said, and chased after him. "Let me help."
The minute he said the words, he wondered what the hell he was thinking. His part was done—obviously this man had killed the wolf, because that wolf had gone feral. Mystery solved, and no one would even think to blame a man for killing a feral wolf.
"Help me?" the man asked contemptuously. "I've had enough wolves to last me a lifetime—I'm not putting up with another longer than necessary. If you want to help me, you can do it by leaving."
Ulrich rolled his eyes. "Not all wolves are bad. You're from the highlands, why are you acting like a dense lowlander?"
The man's eyes flashed. "I'm not in the mood to trade insults, wolf. Go away."
He really wanted to throttle the man. Or maybe just shake him, like a pup with a toy. Where that image had come from, he didn't know, but it pleased. "I'm a wolf, as you have obviously noticed—I can track the child far better than anyone."
"Even if she's wearing a Wolfsbane charm?" the man asked with an amused smirk.
Ulrich frowned, then made a face. "All right, fine. I can still help, and would like to help. One bad wolf in uniform does mean we're all bad. You’re one of the most obnoxious humans I've ever met, but that doesn't mean I'm going to hate all humans."
The man let out a sharp bark of laughter. "One bad wolf? Try three. I'm not eager to see if number four is the exception to the rule. Go away, wolf, or I'll nock an arrow you won't soon forget."
"I have done nothing to warrant this behavior!" Ulrich bellowed, stalking close and grabbing the man up, shaking him hard. "I am a good wolf. I serve my Pack, I serve my King, and had you told me that you killed that wolf for turning feral, I would have commended you and gone on my merry way. Instead you threaten me, shoot at me, then promise to do it again when all I have done is attempt to ask for help, and then offer to find a child. You would rather reject for being a wolf, than accept my offer of help? She could be dead, or dying, and you don't want my help?"
They glared at each other in silence after that, but Ulrich found it hard to hold on to his anger looking into those strange, autumn-colored eyes. He really hated that he could not smell the man. Sound and sight were not nearly as useful as smell and taste.
Finally the man dropped his eyes. Ulrich took it as a victory, but still waited.
"All right," the man finally said, an unhappy edge to his husky voice. "Let us find her, and then you can get the hell out of my sight."
"Fine," Ulrich snapped, and let him go, wishing he could bite the bastard just because. "My name is Ulrich Schwarz, of Pack Schwarzenberg."
The man nodded stiffly at him, and slowly held out a hand in greeting. "I am Grosvenor Allaway."
"You're a wild mage of the highlands," Ulrich said, and stripped off his glove to shake Grosvenor's hand, liking the strength in it the calluses and scars that said this was no idler. No soft lowlander afraid to get his hands dirty.
"I was a wild mage of the highlands," Grosvenor said. "Now, I am just a wild mage." He said nothing more, but pulled his hand away and continued walking. "Unfortunately, I am not quite certain where she may have gone. The trail ended abruptly, and I could find no trace of anyone or anything. Given the size of this forest, and it's reputation for strange goings on…"
"She could be anywhere," Ulrich finished grimly, "or nowhere. Best to go where the trail ends and take it from there, now that we have established I did not take her."
"Have we?" Grosvenor asked.
Ulrich growled.
Grosvenor smirked, clearly amused. "You've a remarkably short temper for a wolf."
"Only when my honor is questioned," Ulrich replied. "You're remarkably dense for a highlander."
"Yes," Grosvenor replied, his brief levity vanishing like the sun behind a bank of storm clouds. "So I was often told."
Ulrich rolled his eyes. "I meant no offense. We need not be at odds, human. If you would just be pleasant for a few minutes, I would not even hold a grudge for the arrow this morning." He wrinkled his nose. "Though I do wish you would remove that damn talisman. It's damned awkward talking to someone half my senses say does not exist."
"No," Grosvenor said flatly.
"If the girl was not wearing one," Ulrich snapped, "I could already sniff her out. What if something were to happen to you, in the course of our search? We are partners, you and I, until the girl if found." Damn it, was the man really so thick and stupid? "Why are you set against anyone getting your scent?"
Grosvenor shrugged irritably. "None of your business, wolf."
Ulrich rolled his eyes again. Honestly, if not for the grouchiness, Grosvenor would not be a bad person. He was handsome enough, certainly. Obviously he lived in the woods—he had an edge to him, a rough look despite the surprising cleanliness of his appearance, that only came from living in the wilderness. His hair was sort of blonde that turned to gold when it soaked up sunlight. He had the sort of broad, well-muscled build that Ulrich loved in a man. His own build was much more slender, something that more than one lowland idiot had taken to mean he was weak.
Too bad the man was so damnably grouchy, Ulrich might have grown to like him. They were both highlanders, after all. Brothers stuck in the detestable lowlands. "Are you ever in a good mood?" he asked.
"When wolves aren't around," Grosvenor retorted.
Ulrich sighed, and gave up talking. He wondered why he had even volunteered to do this—the way Grosvenor moved and behaved, he was as comfortable in the woods as most men only were in their own homes. Ulrich probably was not needed.
Well, too bad. He was going to prove he wasn't a bad wolf no matter what. If he had no clue why it mattered, well, that little detail was negligible.
His stomach abruptly growled, and he was abruptly reminded he had not eaten since midday yesterday.
Grosvenor stopped, and turned back to look at him, pretty mouth curved in another of those damnably annoying smirks.
Pretty mouth?
Ulrich scowled at himself, and then at Grosvenor. "Are we almost where the trail grows cold?"
"Yes," Grosvenor replied, but swung his pack down and dug something out, tossing Ulrich a small packet. "Jerky. That should keep you, wolf. What's one of your marvelous and wonderful kind doing in the woods without food?"
Oh, yes, at some point he was going to shake the annoying man until his teeth fell out. Still, he unwrapped the jerky and ate voraciously. "I figured if I was here long enough to need food, I could hunt it. Easier to travel light." He swallowed a bite of jerky. "Thanks, especially since I know you'd rather let me starve."
"If I get sick of you, there are better ways to kill you than starvation," Grosvenor replied.
Ulrich only shook his head, and felt a smile twitch at his lips. He realized with annoyance that the grouchiness was growing on him. He bit off another bit of jerky and chewed. It was venison, and remarkably good for jerky. The army issued stuff always tasted more like dried wood, on the rare occasions he had to eat it.
He shoved a last bit into his mouth as they reached the clearing where the cottage lay – but rather than head toward it, they circled around it, and eventually headed back into the forest, where the brook vanished into the trees again.
"Here," Grosvenor said. "I followed her trail from where they draw water close to the house, to here. Then nothing."
Ulrich nodded, listening absently, for his attention was already on the anomaly his nose had picked out. He could barely smell it…something…sticky and sweet… With a thought, he shifted, and put his nose to the ground, absorbing too many smells to count, each one a fascinating story all its own…but that sticky sweet smell, that was no forest scent. That was man.
He barked as he found it, and shifted back, shoving his fingers into the grass along the bank until he at last pulled free something no bigger than a tiny pebble. A bit of cookie—gingerbread, into which was pressed a small bit of bright pink hard candy. It looked like it had fallen off of a larger cookie, maybe while being eaten.
He heard and sensed Grosvenor come up behind him, annoyed all over again that he could not attach so much as a single scent to the man. "Looks like she was eating a cookie," he said with a shrug. "Not very helpful…"
Grosvenor's face had gone pale.
"What?" he asked. "Is there something dangerous about a cookie?"
"I hope not," Grosvenor said, and took the bit from him, holding it to his own nose. "But Gretel—the old woman—hates gingerbread. She would never make it. She's scared of gingerbread."
Ulrich frowned. "What in the world is there to be scared about in gingerbread?"
Grosvenor looked at the bit of cookie. "She told me the story only a couple of years ago," he said quietly. "As a child, she and her brother were abandoned in the forest by their father and stepmother. Poor, unable to feed them…it was not an uncommon practice back then, here in the lowlands, or so I was told."
"That is disgusting," Urlich said, though he had heard much the same himself. In many of the smaller, more remote villages, they still did it. In the leaner, poorer times, children were always the first to go. After all, the explanation went, more could be made when times got better.
"Yes," Grosvenor agreed, "but that's what was done to Gretel. She and her brother were abandoned in the woods. They tried to find their way home, but only wound up lost. Then the stumbled across a house made of gingerbread. Gretel said it was like something from a dream – gingerbread with candy for the shutters, the shingles, the door…" He shook his head. "A kind old woman invited them inside, fed them and cared for them…"
He fell silent, and Ulrich suddenly had a terrible feeling in his gut, and wished had not eaten the jerky.
"She was kind and sweet, far nicer than their parents had ever been. Good food, sweets, and she lived in that magical house…"
"Come to the end of the tale," Ulrich said harshly, unable to bear the waiting.
"She was going to eat them," Grosvenor replied. "The food she fed them was drugged, to keep them meek and compliant while she plumped them up. The house was made with magic, and the woman was a powerful witch. Gretel said she discovered the truth only by mistake, when she was taking the slop out one day and stumbled across an animal playing with some bones it had dug up—human bones, but tiny. Children's bones. She said taken with other things, and the constant dreamy state in which she existed, it was not hard to figure it out. She ran inside and shoved the old woman into the oven she had been in the process of heating. She and Hansel fled, and eventually came to a village. That is as far as she told the tale to me."
Ulrich glanced at the bit of gingerbread cookie. "Surely you do not think…"
"I don't know," Grosvenor replied, "but I do know that no one else besides Gretel, Annie, and I live here. I do not bake, and Gretel would never make gingerbread. Where, then, did it come from?" He crushed the cookie in his fist, then threw the crumbs into the brook. "We must find her, and hope that I am wrong, or that we are not too late."
At least he was saying 'we' Ulrich thought. "Now I've a scent to follow," he said, "I'll see what I can do." Shifting back to his wolf form, he put his nose to the ground and hunted for the smell of gingerbread.
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Date: 2008-08-31 05:23 pm (UTC)On another note, I did purchase Matchmaker and I really, really adored it!