Now Vucji Pastir’s eyes blazed. He opened his mouth wide, showing his own fierce teeth. A great laugh burst from him. “Are you deaf, foolish priest? You have not the strength to make me do your will. I shall not leave if you tell me once, if you tell me three times, or if you tell me three hundred. Flee now, I tell you in the name of great Vucji Pastir--flee or be my meat.”
As had been true when George came down to Thessalonica with Perseus’ cap on his head, the shepherd of the wolves could not tell he was there. If anything, Vucji Pastir was less concerned now than he had been before, for George’s presence on the way down had troubled him. Now, intent on making Father Luke his victim, he heeded nothing less.
The priest stood his ground, defiant but weak. George wondered what he thought he could do against an angry demigod his spiritual force had proved unable to rout. Whatever it was, Father Luke never got the chance to try it. Vucji Pastir had come within a couple of paces of the priest when George drove his sword into the small of the Slavic demigod’s back.
Vucji Pastir screamed, a great bellow of mingled astonishment and anguish. George pulled out the sword and stabbed the demigod again, this time in the side. He said nothing, not wanting to give the shepherd of the wolves any clue about where or what he was beyond the wounds themselves.
He stabbed Vucji Pastir for a third time. He tried for the demigod’s throat, but succeeded only in striking his shoulder. “Murder!” Vucji Pastir cried, to whom or what the shoemaker did not know. “This vile priest does murder!”
“Depart, in the name of God,” Father Luke said again.
And Vucji Pastir ran, screaming still. Maybe the holy name had more effect on him once he was hurt, as had been true with the wolf-demon. Maybe he was simply afraid of the holy man who had hurt him so horribly without moving from where he stood. George did not think Vucji Pastir slain, despite his shrieks. Had he struck off the demigod’s head, then--perhaps. But perhaps not, too.
Father Luke said, “He would have done better had he hearkened when I bade him leave. I would have left him in peace, other than having him gone. As it was, he suffered for his stupidity.”
“What would you have done if I weren’t along?” George asked.
“I don’t know,” Father Luke answered. “I expect I would have managed, one way or another. God provides. How He provides will differ according to the circumstances, I am sure. He is not wasteful, but uses whatever He has handy.”
George thought about that. To his way of looking at the world, it was taking a long chance. Irene would have said--Irene had said--he lived too much in the world of the ordinary senses and not enough in the world of the spirit. Most of his experience with the world of the spirit since the Slavs and Avars laid siege to Thessalonica had frightened the whey out of him.
Lessons came from the world of the ordinary senses, too. He drew one now: “We’d better get going, before something else dreadful happens to us here.”
“That makes excellent sense,” Father Luke said. He and George moved deeper into the hills. The quiet struck at George. All the wolf-demons had left off their terrifying howling after their shepherd was hurt. Maybe that meant they’d all fled back to their lairs. But maybe not, too. George did not want to find out the hard way.
When dawn began making the hillsides go from black to gray, a large bush by the side of the path quivered. At first George, who by then was so tired he had trouble putting one foot in front of the other, thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then he realized another of Vucji Pastir’s wolves might have found Father Luke and him after all. But from behind the bush stepped not a wolf-demon but Ampelus and Ithys.
Quickly, George spoke to Father Luke: “Don’t frighten them off, Your Reverence. They’re the people, uh, powers we’re looking for.”
“I see a mortal here.” Ampelus pointed to Father Luke, who was staring back at him with frank fascination. The satyr turned and pointed in the direction from which George’s voice had come. “I hear a mortal there. These are the mortals we seek, then.”
If the satyrs had dared come so far down in the hills, George thought he could safely take off Perseus’ cap. “Ha!” Ithys said. “Is--are--two mortals, for true.” As Ampelus had done, he pointed to Father Luke and George in turn, but he used phallus rather than forefinger. George had seen enough of satyrs’ ways not to be surprised or offended. He wondered what Father Luke thought.
Whatever it was, the priest kept it to himself. To the satyrs, he said, “Take us on to your friends, so we can all talk about how we are going to fight against the Slavs and the Avars and the powers they’ve brought into this country.”
Ithys pointed to George again, this time with a hand: perhaps a gesture of respect. “He does what he says he does,” the satyr said to Ampelus. “Not many mortals like that.”
“Truth--not many,” Ampelus agreed.
That made George proud. He yawned, then nodded toward Father Luke. “Here is a truly good man whose word is truly good.” He introduced Father Luke and the satyrs.
“If I say a thing, I will try to do it,” the priest said. “If I do not think I can do it, or if I do not think I should do it, I will not say it.” He had humility in him, but no false modesty. Being around him had helped educate George to the difference.
“We go, then,” Ampelus said. “Talk with centaurs.” He rolled his eyes. “Centaurs like talk. Centaurs like lots of talk. Maybe, good mortal who does and not says, you make centaurs do more, not say so much.”
“Redeeming a centaur, even if only from loquaciousness, would be a deed worth trying,” Father Luke said with a smile. “Whether I can or not, though, remains to be seen.” He waved ahead. “Lead us, and I’ll find out.”
Together, the satyrs and the men went deeper into the hills above Thessalonica. Ithys and Ampelus walked warily, stealing glances at Father Luke and every now and then, when they got so close it made them nervous, skipping back from him. They knew the power he held, and did not quite trust him not to loose it against them.
George could not tell whether they took a shortcut through the hills that lay beyond those he knew. For one thing, he was so tired, even a shortcut would have seemed dreadfully long. For another, having come so far in the night, he could not be sure where he and Father Luke were when the satyrs found them. Since that point was unfamiliar, everything after it seemed strange, too.
Then, without any warning, almost as if a wolf-demon, Nephele stepped out into the path in front of them. The female centaur nodded to George and asked, “This is the cleric of whom you spoke?”
“Yes,” he answered. Having introduced priest and satyrs, he introduced priest and centaur without a qualm.
Father Luke bowed as if Nephele were a lady high in the court at Constantinople. “I am honored to meet you,” he said. “I am honored you would let me meet you.” In an aside to George, he murmured, “I have, every once in a while, regretted my vows of celibacy. I never expected to do that quite like this, though.”
However quietly he spoke, Nephele heard him. The female centaur threw back its head and laughed. Listening to that laugh with his eyes closed, George might have thought it came from a drinking companion in a tavern. Looking at Nephele, he did not want to close his eyes-- on the contrary. To Father Luke, the centaur said, “I take’t as a compliment, being sure ‘twas meant so.”
“Er--yes,” the priest said. George could not recall having seen him flustered before. He did now.
“Onward, then.” Nephele turned to lead them. Seen from behind, the centaur seemed less human than when viewed straight on.
They came to the encampment bare moments after George realized they were on the path leading to it. Stusippus spotted them first, and made a sound more like a birdcall than any speech George had ever heard. The centaurs in the camp came out of their lean-tos. Demetrius cantered up to Father Luke, who stared at him in delight. “I never thought of there being young centaurs,” he said to George.