"I'm sorry," Jonmarc murmured to the wolf-Yestin. He looked up at Gabriel. "How bad?" Gabriel's expression was somber. "Five of ours. Ten of theirs. But either Uri lied about the number of vayash moru Malesh made, or-and I think this is more likely-he's been joined by others. Malesh is less than a hundred years old. The vayash moru he made himself should be much weaker than all of those who fought for Dark Haven. It should have been a rout. It wasn't. I'm afraid the war has already begun." He frowned as he looked at Jonmarc, and ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt as a makeshift bandage. "You're hurt." Jonmarc stood. He winced as the movement jostled broken ribs. "I'm still alive. That's more than I expected." Blood was running down his forearm. He let Gabriel bandage the wound to stop the bleeding. "Malesh didn't show up."
"He was here," Gabriel said tightly. "I saw him in the woods at a distance-but I was busy fighting two vayash moru that definitely weren't new fledges."
Laisren joined them. "I sent scouts into the village. Malesh broke his word. They're all dead, just like Westormere. Probably since sunset."
"Damn." Jonmarc looked from Laisren to Gabriel. "What now? We can't let Malesh keep slaughtering villagers."
Gabriel nodded, looking out along the dark horizon. "Agreed. He's trying to provoke a war and he wants to make a statement by killing you."
"The vayash moru I fought were definitely looking for me. They said they had their orders."
Laisren looked from Gabriel to Jonmarc. "There's another village half a candlemark's ride
from here. It's the only settlement nearby that would be large enough for anyone to notice.
We could set a trap for Malesh there-be waiting for him just after sunset."
"Assuming that Malesh chooses to strike there next," Jonmarc countered.
"Malesh is arrogant," Gabriel replied. "This win will make him even more sure of his abilities.
Laisren's right; it's a logical next move. The question is, how many vayash moru does
Malesh have on his side-and how many of the elders have joined him?"
"Riqua's sent all of her brood she can spare-everyone who's not needed to guard the
manor house," Laisren replied. "We don't dare pull anyone from there-it would make it too
easy for Malesh to double back and strike."
Gabriel pursed his lips, thinking. "My brood is small. Mikhail is in Margolan, and those who aren't with us tonight are at Dark Haven. There isn't time to find Rafe and Astasia and beg them
for help-assuming they'd side with us. We're on our own."
"What about Uri?" Jonmarc asked. "Wasn't he supposed to bring Malesh back under his control?"
Laisren snorted. "If I know Uri, he's fled Principality and he's holed up in a nice, comfortable crypt on the far side of Isencroft by now."
"Malesh isn't going to listen to Uri," Gabriel replied. "It's too late for that. We've got to finish this." He glanced up at the sky. "We need to clean up here and get to safety before dawn. It's less than a candlemark's ride to Wolvenskorn through the forest from here-but we need to hurry."
Jonmarc nodded and turned, reaching down to pick up one of the discarded cloaks from a dead vayash moru. He walked over to Eiria's body, and exchanged that cloak for his own, carefully wrapping her in the makeshift shroud. The vyrkin still sat guard, and even by moonlight, Jonmarc could see that they also had received injuries in the fight. He lifted Eiria's body into his arms and gasped as it strained his ribs.
"We can bury her in the crypts beneath Wolvenskorn," Gabriel said quietly as Laisren brought up their horses. "Generations of the vyrkin rest there." He glanced from Jonmarc to the vyrkin. "And we'll see about patching you up."
Laisren swung up to his saddle and reached down to carry Eiria's body. Jonmarc gritted his teeth as he mounted and the movement jolted his ribs. The group set off, leaving the moonlight behind them as the shadows made it too dark for mortal sight. Jonmarc kept his sword in hand. After a long trek, they saw the hulking form of Wolvenskorn outlined in the moonlight.
Wolvenskorn's tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky, topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the next, rose from the snow. Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The building was capped by a tall cupola ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.
Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were both decoration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlapping shingles. An ancient circle of stone pillars circled the manor, placed there, Gabriel once told him, over a thousand years ago. Jonmarc hoped that their magic was as strong as Gabriel believed it to be.
Despite the time, servants ran to meet them, taking their horses. Jonmarc entered Wolvenskorn surrounded by the vayash moru fighters whose torn clothing told the tale of battle even if their wounds had already healed. The vyrkin followed them, some limping, some bleeding from their battle wounds. Two of the vayash moru carried dead vyrkin, shifted back to human form. A servant motioned to the vyrkin and they turned down a corridor. At Gabriel's nod, Jonmarc followed.
A fire blazed in one of the three huge fireplaces, and Jonmarc guessed it was a courtesy to him and to the vyrkin, as the vayash moru had no need of it. Piles of clothing lay in rows near the fireplace, and the vyrkin who were not too badly wounded padded over to them. The air seemed to shimmer and fold onto itself as the wolves shifted shape, their outlines blurring as they became men and women. Servants helped them dress, or wrapped blankets around those too wounded to dress themselves. Eiria's body lay covered with a cloak near the door, and Yestin, now in human form, sat beside the corpse and rested his head in his hands. Jonmarc walked slowly toward his friend and sat down wordlessly beside him.
There's nothing I can say that will help, Jonmarc thought. And I know too well what he's feeling.
One of the vyrkin, an older man with a trim, gray beard and deep-set eyes, took a large cloth bag from the shadows and laid it on a table. He lifted his hands over the bag and spoke in the language of the vyrkin, a clipped, tonal language that seemed to Jonmarc to be the speech of wolves adapted for humans. The man lifted his hands in turn to the four corners, and bowed to the north before carefully loosening the knots which bound the bag. A vyrkin shaman, Jonmarc guessed.
From the bag, the shaman withdrew a stole made of woven hair, set with pieces of bone. Chanting under his breath, the man smudged a dark kohl mark on his forehead, chin and cheekbones. His eyes seemed to glow as he took a scepter set with a carved head of a raging wolf whose eyes were rubies. Two mortal servants came to assist him, bringing clean cloth for bandages and water to mix poultices. The shaman slowly moved through the vyrkin, beginning with the most badly injured. As servants prepared the bandages, the medicine man chanted over the injured vyrkin, and sprinkled powders or dark liquids into their wounds, taking what he needed from the pouches and vials that hung from his belt. Over those worst injured, the shaman laid his hand on their forehead as he chanted, letting the scepter rise and fall in his other hand. The music
was strange to Jonmarc, ancient and decidedly not human. Jonmarc could see the badly injured vyrkin relax under the shaman's touch, and saw their breathing come more smoothly.
Finally, the shaman stood in front of Jonmarc. "Will you accept my healing, wolf-brother?" Jonmarc nodded. The shaman indicated for him to stretch out on the floor, and Jonmarc did so, grimacing as his broken ribs protested. The medicine man put his hand on Jonmarc's forehead, resting thumb and forefingers on his temples, and Jonmarc felt the pain lessen. The shaman frowned, and pulled the throat of Jonmarc's tunic to the side, exposing the mark of the Lady. A shadow crossed the shaman's face.