When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, hedid so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and clean, the predator ignoring thered blood that warmed his jaws, that should have inflamed his hunger andpassion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf raised his ownhead, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seenby the mighty stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader wasjoined by the rest of his pack in a song of joy and worship, in music thathailed their mother and their maker.
When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood ofthe stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers. Though the wolves numberedan uncountable throng, there was meat for them all. With a sense of powerfulsatiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters ofthe pool.
The feasting went on for more than a day, and at lastthe brightness of the full moon rose above the glimmering waters. Pups wereborn under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a mightygathering.
The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell,and the goddess saw and celebrated with her children. The bold sacrifice ofthe stag was, to her, a thing of beauty-and with the mighty animal's blood wasthe water of her Moonwell consecrated.
And the balance of her living children maintained.
THE GREATEST HERO WHO EVER DIED
J. Robert King
The stormy winds that swept up from the Great Ice Sea often brought unwanted things to lofty Capel Curig. Tonight, in addition topelting snow and driving gales, the wind brought a hideously evil man.
None knew him as such when he tossed open the battereddoor of the Howling Reed. They saw only a huge, dark-hooded stranger haloed inswirling snow. Those nearest the door drew back from the wind and the vast formprecipitating out of it, drew back as the door slammed behind the drippingfigure, slammed, and shuddered in its frame. Without discharging the ice fromhis boots, the stranger limped across the foot-polished planks of the Reed to atrembling hearth fire. There he bent low, flung a few more logs on the flames,and stood, eclipsing the warmth and casting a giant shadow over the room.
The rumble of conversation in the Reed diminished asall eyes in the tiny pub turned furtively toward the ruined figure.
Silhouetted on the hearth, the stranger looked likesome huge and ill-formed marionette. He lacked an arm, for his right sleeve waspinned to the shoulder and his left hand did all the adjusting of his fetidform. Deliberately, that widowed hand drew back some of his robes, but thesodden figure beneath looked no less shapeless. For all his shifting, he didnot remove the hood from his head, a head that appeared two sizes too small forhis body. Beneath the hood, the man's face was old and lightless, withcold-stiffened lips, a narrow black beard, and a hooked nose. In all, his formlooked as though a large man hid within those robes, holding some poorlyproportioned puppet head to serve as his face.
He spoke then, and his hollow voice and rasping tonguemade the patrons jump a bit.
"Can any of you spare a silver for a bowl ofblood soup and a quaff of ale?"
None responded except by blank, refusing stares. Noteven Horace behind the bar would offer the stranger a glass of water.Apparently, all would rather dare his wrath than know their charities hadprovided sustenance to him.
The man was apparently all too acquainted with thisresponse, for he shook his head slowly and laughed a dry, dead-leaf laugh. Afew staggering steps brought him to a chair, vacated upon his arrival and stillwarm from its former occupant. There he collapsed with a wheeze like apunctured bellows.
"In the lands of Sossal, whence I hail, a man canearn his blood and barley by telling a good tale. And I happen to have such atale, for my land gave birth to the greatest hero who ever lived. Perhaps hisstory will earn me something warm."
Those who had hoped to dismiss him with bald glaresand cruel silence tried turning away and speaking among themselves. Horace, forhis part, retreated through a swinging door to the kitchen, to the graydishwater and the piles of pots.
Unaffected, the shabby wanderer began the telling ofhis tale with a snap of his rigid blue fingers. Green sparks ignited in air,swirled about him, and spread outward like a lambent palm in the heavydarkness. The sparking tracers lighted on all those seated in the taproom, andeach tiny star extinguished itself in the oily folds of flesh between apatron's knotted brows.
The faint crackling of magic gave way to a single,hushed sigh. In moments, the place fell silent again, and the tale began.
"The lands of Sossal were once guarded by a nobleknight, Sir Paramore, the greatest hero who ever lived…"
Golden haired, with eyes like platinum, Sir Paramorestrode in full armor through the throne room of King Caen. Any other knightwould have been stripped of arms and armaments upon crossing the threshold, butnot noble Paramore. He marched forward, brandishing his spell-slaying longsword Kneuma and dragging a bag behind him as he approached the royal dais.There the king and princess and a nervous retinue of nobles ceased theirconference and looked to him. Only when within a sword swipe of His Majesty didParamore finally halt, drop to one armored knee, and bow his fealty.
The king, his face ringed with early white locks,spoke.
"And have you apprehended the kidnappers?"
"Better, milord," replied Paramore, risingwith a haste that in anyone else would have been arrogance.
He reached into the bag and drew out in one great andhideous clump the five heads of the kidnappers he had slain.
The king's daughter recoiled in shock. Only then didKing Caen himself see the wide, slick line of red that Sir Paramore's bag haddragged across the cold flagstones behind him.
"You gaze, my liege, on the faces of the hoodlumsyou sought," the knight explained.
In the throat-clenched silence that followed, thewizard Dorsoom moved from behind the great throne, where his black-beardedlips had grown accustomed to plying the king's ears.
"You were to bring them here for questioning,Paramore," said the wizard, "not lop off their heads."
"Peace, Dorsoom," chided the king with anoff-putting gesture. "Let our knight tell his tale."
"The tale is simple, milord," repliedParamore. "I questioned the abductors myself and, when I found themwanting of answers, removed their empty heads."
"This is nonsense," Dorsoom said. "Youmight have simply cut the heads off the first five peasants you saw, then broughtthem here and claimed them the culprits. There should have been a trial. Andeven if these five were guilty-which we can never know now-we do not know whoassigned these ruffians their heinous task."
"They were kidnappers who had stolen away thechildren of these noble folk gathered around us," Paramore replied witheven steel in his voice. "If anything, I was too lenient."
"You prevented their trial-"
"Still the wagging tongue of this worm,"Paramore demanded of the king, leveling his mighty sword against the meddlingmage. "Or perhaps these warriors of mine shall do the task first!"
The great doors of the throne room suddenly swungwide, and a clamor of stomping feet answered. . small feet, the feet ofchildren, running happily up the aisle behind their rescuer. Their shrillvoices were raised in an unseemly psalm of praise to Sir Paramore as they ran.
Seeing their children, the nobles emptied from thedais and rushed to embrace their sons and daughters, held captive those longtendays. The ebullient weeping and cooing that followed drowned the protests ofDorsoom, who retreated to his spot of quiet counsel behind the throne. It wasas though the sounds of joy themselves had driven him back into the darkness.