Taziar climbed to his feet. He seemed intent and agitated, as if the conversation had become too familiar. "Find jobs? Allerum, these people are children, elderly, ill, crippled, blind, or crazy. They steal, Allerum. They steal whatever they can from whoever they can. They steal, or they starve. Believe me, I know. I was orphaned at twelve. And, yes, I stole, too. When I got good enough at it to feed myself and my friends, I chose my victims more carefully. I targeted men and institutions who could afford to nourish the hungry. And it didn't stop there. You see, Allerum, the more I took, the more empty bellies I could fill."
Now Larson snorted. "Right. Sure. Sort of a… miniature, German Robin Hood. I always pictured Errol Flynn taller.''
Taziar cocked his head. His eyes widened with confusion. "What language are you speaking?"
"Never mind." Larson cajoled Taziar, his voice heavy with mockery. "Go on. Tell me more about your…" He chose his words with care, "… astounding altruism."
Taziar's shoulders rose and fell; apparently Larson's sarcasm went unrecognized. "There's not much left to tell. For years, my father loyally led the baron's troops through a senseless war. When my father died, the baron's politics condemned me to the streets. The baron owed a chance at life to the orphans and cripples his stupid battles created, and I simply took it for them. I'd be there still if I hadn't been betrayed and nearly executed. Perhaps, in a few years, I'll go back."
Larson smiled, amused. Though he doubted every word of Taziar's story, the simple, amiable exchange of conversation had dispelled his aggravation. "That was a pretty good yarn. I'm impressed." He tipped his head to meet Taziar's face which wore a look of solemn innocence. "I'm still going to keep my wallet in my jock strap, but I am impressed." He considered. Taziar reminded him of a certain high school senior who was a great asset at a fight or any athletic event but who could never be trusted near a sister or girlfriend. The climber had a smooth, friendly confidence which made him likable though not reliable. "And you know something, Shadow? Even though you just spent half an hour spouting bald-faced lies…"
Taziar opened his mouth to protest, but Larson waved him silent.
"Even though you just wasted half an hour of my sleeping time with fiction," Larson nodded repeatedly to emphasize his point, "I think you're all right."
Taziar chewed his lip in contemplation. " 'All right,' huh?" He knelt, imitating Larson's head bobbing. "That, my friend, is what I've been trying to tell you."
"Wolf!"
Larson was asleep only a few minutes when Taziar's shout jarred him awake. Instinctively, he leaped to his feet, clawing at his belt for a weapon. The instant he rose, Fenrir slammed into him with express train force. Impact sprawled him. Something gashed his scalp, and he heard the snap of teeth as the wolf's bite fell short.
Fenrir! Larson struggled for breath. The pain which plowed through his body lost meaning in the battle for air. Through vision blurred by darkness and anguish, he glimpsed the giant form of the wolf towering over him. Jaws wide, Fenrir loosed a harsh bellow of contempt. Its neck went taut, and it lunged again.
Larson tensed; his sinews shrieked in complaint. Chest heaving with effort, he forced himself to roll. Fenrir's canines slashed his collar like a razor. The cloth tore away, revealing a grim line of scarlet. He tried to scream for help, but his air-starved lungs resisted.
Gaelinar! God, Gaelinar, where are you? Larson's breaths came in tortured moans he could not suppress. He threw up his arms to guard his throat. It was a feeble gesture at best; he knew the wolf's next attack would claim his life.
Again, Fenrir's gaping mouth plunged toward Larson. He winced, gathering his failing strength to twist away. Rows of sword-sharp teeth the color of old ivory filled his vision. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure dive at the wolf's face. Fenrir yowled and staggered back, Taziar clinging to the beast's great neck. Moonlight glinted from the dagger in his fist, and it struck through Fenrir's fur again and again.
The Fenris wolf bellowed in rage. It reared, forelegs pawing for Taziar, tossing its head in chaotic circles. Blood splashed Larson. The knife tore from Taziar's fist and flew between the huddled pines. The thief clung, ashen-faced, arms wrapped around the wolf's neck until a final buck dislodged him. Taziar soared in an ungainly arc, struck a tree trunk, and crumpled in an awkward, motionless heap.
Larson cringed in sympathy, breathing more easily now. He wallowed through agony to his sword hilt. The blade rattled free with maddening slowness.
Fenrir whirled back to Larson. Blood speckled the dark fur between its ears. It wore a broad grimace of triumph; malice darkened its eyes.
"My turn, wolf." Beyond Fenrir, Gaelinar adopted a perfect fighting stance. Still and coiled, he appeared like a statue carved in gold. His swords remained in their sheaths.
Fenrir spun toward Gaelinar. A ridge of hair rose along its spine. Its plumed tail went low with threat. "Your turn, Kensei? Your turn to die! "It charged Gaelinar with the same wild rush which had toppled Larson.
Larson straggled to a sitting position, ignoring the warning ache of his hip.
In a single motion, Gaelinar dodged, drew, and cut. The wolf swerved with him; its movement dulled the impact of their clash. Gaelinar bounced to the ground, but his strike opened Fenrir's shoulder. With a snarl of pain, the wolf overran Gaelinar, then whirled to face the Kensei again.
Fenrir staggered slightly. Its bloodied head swung from Taziar's broken form; to Larson, clumsily attempting to stand; to Gaelinar braced for another attack. The wolf's tongue lolled. "One dead. Two left. Next time, you won't hear me coming." With that warning, Fenrir turned and bounded into the forest.
With some satisfaction, Larson noted Fenrir was limp-ing. At least we hurt it, too. He accepted Gaelinar's extended hand and stood. Trying to hide his own lameness, he tottered unsteadily to a nearby pine and leaned against its trunk. The pain localized to his left arm and hip. His vision swirled.
Gently, Gaelinar knelt over Taziar and pressed two fingers to the smaller man's throat.
"Is he?" Larson asked, fairly certain Fenrir's assessment was correct. Taziar seemed too still to be breathing, and dark blood trickled from one ear.
"He's alive, but he needs our help." Gaelinar twisted to face Larson as he sat beside the fallen man. "I suppose he's earned it." He looked pensive. "Allerum, I'm not often wrong, but this time I may have judged too quickly. He's…"
"All right," Larson finished hoarsely. "I know." Dizzy and aching, he fought a wave of nausea. "That's what he kept trying to tell us."
A careful assessment revealed Larson's wounds less severe than they might have been. From the sharp pains he suffered with every breath, he knew he had strained the cartilage between his ribs and sternum. Irregular, tender patches of red on his hip, chest, and forearm warned of coming bruises. Though the gash from Fenrir's teeth ached, he doubted it would cause a problem as long as it did not become infected.
Larson found Taziar's injuries more difficult to evaluate. A brief inspection confirmed all the damage Taziar had taken was internal. And Larson knew from experience there was nothing less predictable or more dangerous than a blow to the head.
Gaelinar hefted Taziar's limp form. "Let's find some other place to finish our sleep. I don't think Fenrir will return tonight. But if it does, I'd rather it had to hunt for us."
Larson nodded, feeling battered and exhausted. "Let's go" Gaelinar and Larson wandered to a sheltered grove a short distance farther into the woods. The Kensei placed Taziar on a soft pile of shed needles, and the two conscious men cleared ground for their own beds. Provisions and weapons within easy reach, Larson listened to the purr of insects and strained his hearing for the crackle of wolf paws through brush.