"Young Tenan here says you have a message from Magiere. Has something happened during the journey? She's been gone less than half a day."
Welstiel stepped around Chane. He grabbed the captain's throat before the man could blink. Geza gripped Welstiel's forearm with one hand, reaching for his sword with the other. Before an inch of steel slipped from the sheath, Welstiel snatched his wrist.
Tenan's eyes widened, and the boy turned to run. Chane grasped the back of his neck and pinned his small head against a tree.
"Cry out, and I'll crush your skull," he whispered.
The boy stopped struggling and peered sideways at Geza for help. The captain released Welstiel's arm and struck with his fist.
Welstiel's head barely turned under the blow. He tightened his grip on Geza's throat. As the captain's eyes half closed, Welstiel slapped the man's hand from his sword and pulled the blade himself. He flung Geza into the forest away from the road, and the captain tumbled to the ground, gasping for air.
"Now," Welstiel said, "we need to know where the dhampir has gone and, if she told you, why."
Chane watched the captain lying on the ground, trying to catch his breath in astonishment at being so quickly undone.
"You're after the dhampir?" Geza said between gasps. "She saved this town, and I'll give you nothing to cause her harm."
"Harm?" Welstiel said, and looked to Chane. "Would you please show the good captain what we are capable of?"
Chane snarled. Without hesitation, he lifted the boy from the ground by his neck, so that they both faced Geza. The boy had no time to scream as Chane's teeth wrapped around the slender neck, halfway to the boy's throat. He bit down.
Tenan's legs kicked in the air a few times and fell still.
Chane seldom fed on children. As sweet as their blood could be, they were incapable of putting up a fight. When finished, he tossed the fragile body before Geza, who stared at him in horror.
Welstiel crouched before the captain. "If you think that undead sorcerer was a plague, imagine my companion loose among your people for one night. Or should we start at the manor?"
Geza drew a breath but did not speak. Chane stepped close behind Welstiel, watching the captain with mild interest. The outcome of this conversation was obvious, and all that remained was to see how long it took to play out.
"Without your assistance," Welstiel went on, "we have nowhere else to go. Do you have a son here? A daughter? A wife? I'm sure someone at the manor would cooperate in answering our questions."
Geza's brow furrowed as he rubbed his throat. Chane could tell the man was not accustomed to being helpless.
"What do you want?" the captain whispered.
"I told you," Welstiel responded. "We need to know where the dhampir is going and why."
"And if I tell you, then you and this murdering carrion will go on your way and leave my people be?"
"You have my word," Welstiel said.
"Keonsk," Geza sighed, dropping his gaze. "She heads to the capital."
'To pass through or to stay?"
"It is her destination, to the best of my knowledge."
"Why?"
"Fief records concerning her family. She's looking for information about her father, and that is all I know. Now leave us in peace!"
Chane was surprised how quickly the captain supplied the answers. Even stranger was his sense that the man spoke the truth straight out, and that his ignorance was sincere. But instead of being satisfied, Welstiel gripped the man by the throat again.
"Records of her father?"
Unable to breathe, the captain nodded his confirmation.
Welstiel slammed the palm of his free hand into the side of the captain's jaw. The man's head jerked sideways with an audible snap, and his body went limp. Welstiel stood up as Geza flopped to the ground, eyes open and head tilted at an unnatural angle.
"What is it?" Chane asked, almost alarmed.
Welstiel had never before lost all his composure like this. He stood shifting his weight back and forth.
"Come," he finally said. "Gather the bodies and get the horses."
Chane did as instructed and rode after Welstiel down the road for a half a league. When Welstiel turned aside into the trees and dismounted, Chane followed. The copse Welstiel had entered was so dark that even Chane had trouble seeing clearly. Welstiel stood deep in thought.
"What now?" Chane asked.
"We need to slow Magiere down. You and I must reach Keonsk first."
"Why?"
"Just do it!"
Chane had never seen Welstiel so unsettled. "And what do you suggest?"
His companion paused and pointed to the urn hanging around Chane's neck.
"You are skilled with animal spirits, yes? Send something to stop her without causing her injury. The captain said she had been gone less than half a day, so she is not far ahead."
Chane shook his head. "What you ask is a complex process, and at present, the only familiar I have is a rat. I doubt that will suit your purpose."
"Magiere is my only interest," Welstiel returned. "Anyone with her is no concern of mine. Slow her down or I will have to do it myself. And my methods are not as… precisely controlled as yours."
Chane blinked. Welstiel knew enough of his private interests to use Wynn against him. A flash of anger and resentment brought harsh words to his lips, but he fought them back.
"Do you have wolf speech?" he asked.
"Do I have what?" Welstiel returned.
"It is what I call it," he explained. "My maker, Toret, told me that each of our kind develops different abilities. Toret lived for many years with another Noble Dead who possessed the power to call upon wolves. Do you?"
"Yes, I can do this," Welstiel answered, and he glowered in distaste. "But it is neither speech nor a kinship with wolves. You can abandon such superstitious nonsense. It is an expression of hungering instinct, cast out to catch the attention of any predator within reach. A base and crude ability which most of our kind develop over time."
Chane pondered this for a moment. In his short time as a Noble Dead, he had not manifested abilities beyond what any undead would have-speed, strength, suppression of pain and physical duress, amongst others. It was curious that one such as Welstiel, so repulsed by anything uncultured and raw, would have developed such an ability.
"Setting wolves upon them," Welstiel said, "is not the precise approach I expected from you."
"I only need one," Chane replied. "And it will be more focused than you imply."
He knelt down and pulled a brass urn, a candle, a silver dagger, and a bottle of olive green liquid from his pack.
"We'll clear a space where I can carve my symbols in the earth for the ritual."
Welstiel became immediately agreeable, and this raked Chane more than the man's previous manner. Welstiel was exactly like Toret in some respects. Polite, so long as Chane did as he was told. They picked a clear space in the copse, and Chane prepared for the ritual as Welstiel cleared the forest mulch with his boot.
"Now, call a wolf," Chane ordered.
Magiere sat with Leesil upon the wagon's seat and drove Port and Imp down the road through the night. It took little attention, as the horses were surefooted and never veered from the road.
Wynn and Chap were still awake in the wagon's back, and the sage had unpacked two cold lamps at dusk. Leesil lashed these to either side of the wagon's front footboard. He leaned back and took an apple slice from Wynn.
"So, you destroyed that creature by melting its urn? Clever."
Wynn didn't respond and continued cutting fruit to hand out.
Chap sat before her with his front legs set wide to balance against the wagon's rock. When Magiere glanced back, the dog licked his muzzle with ears straight up, his full attention on the next apple Wynn peeled.