The Princess and the Wolf (The Princess and the Hound) Page 6

  Henry bowed, then called the guards after him.

  King George remained where he was. It was several minutes before he realized that Lord Morlieb and Dagmar were there with him.

  “Dagmar,” he said gently. “I did not know you had seen all this. And heard—I wish you had not. You should go back to your room in the palace where it is safe. I will deal with this later.”

  “Father—your animal magic—could it be used to do something like this?” asked Dagmar.

  King George opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took a deep breath. “I hope that it is not possible. I cannot imagine anyone who can speak to animals wishing to do this to them.”

  “But you are not saying it is impossible.”

  Another hesitation. “No,” said King George at last.

  “Then perhaps this was why animal magic has been banned for so long.” Dagmar had heard the old stories, though she was the king’s daughter. The old superstitions against the animal magic could not be stopped with a simple declaration by her father, even if he was the king. And the fact that Dagmar was not in the school for animal magic meant that she had had more time to hear lessons from those who were like her, without magic.

  There were reasons for killing the ones with animal magic, reasons that the king had always refused to hear. There might be some who had good intentions, but the power itself was a dangerous one. Humans and animals were never meant to be able to speak to one another, to be so known to each other. Animals and humans should remain separate, always. To be like animals was dirty for humans.

  “Good,” said Lord Morlieb, and when Dagmar looked at him, he nodded to her encouragingly. He put a hand on her arm, and she felt again the rush of his blood, the heat that came with it. He was the man she could trust, not her father.

  “It could be one of the people you brought to school,” said Dagmar.

  “You cannot trust anyone in the palace, Your Majesty,” said Lord Morlieb. “Any of them may have betrayed you.”

  “The people at the school have been trusted allies of mine for years,” said King George.

  “Yes, but now you must reconsider, I think. This must have something to do with animal magic and where else is it most concentrated but here? Perhaps it is someone who has always planned to betray you.”

  “Perhaps,” said King George.

  He remained in the stables all night, while Lord Morlieb took Dagmar back to her maid and her bedroom. She slept uneasily there and woke in the morning to the sight of the dead villagers lain out in front of the stable.

  Dagmar did not know if this was meant as some kind of honor, or if it was a reminder to her father that the villagers considered him personally responsible. Dagmar looked down and saw her father’s face go gray when he stepped out of the stables for the first time since the night before. He looked as if he had been the one kicked by the horses gone wild.

  Henry met King George and gave him a report, but Dagmar did not hear of it. She remained by Lord Morlieb in the castle until the bodies of three of the horses who had killed were brought in and laid aside the villagers who were dead. There was one missing, however. Warrior, her father’s favorite, was not here.

  Nonetheless, her father knelt beside the horses and wept as much for them as for the humans who had died. He whispered something in the ear of each animal, then stood. With that, he stood and made a motion, and the animals were taken away to be burned. The villagers were to be buried on the castle grounds with the most honored dead of the kingdom. But even so, Dagmar heard the whispers inside the castle.

  “What of the last horse?”

  “The king knows that his own horse is still missing.”

  “He does nothing to find the most dangerous horse of all.”

  “The king cares more about the horses dead than he does about any of the villagers who died.”

  “The king does not even bother to look for the animal magic in this. He wants to ignore what happened and protect his own magic.”

  And one of the cooks who brought Dagmar a special baked treat said, and Dagmar was quite sure she was meant to hear, “It is just as well that we have a true Kendel woman as our princess. We will not need to worry when the king is dead at last that there will be another one with animal magic on our throne.”

  Queen Marit came into the castle late that afternoon, and she looked as exhausted as her husband was, and far dirtier. Where she had been, she did not say. This was not uncommon with the queen, who was used to doing what she pleased and did not always enjoy the company of other humans.

  But she passed by Dagmar and said, “I think we must look more carefully at those who are new to the kingdom. This evil is newly come, and I think has nothing to do with our own magic.”

  The king’s own horse was not found that week, nor the next. Instead, two of those who were at the magic school from outlying towns were found dead in the castle, and more than a dozen students fled the school entirely.

  King George did nothing to call them back, and he did not even seek for the murderers. He said instead that the whole kingdom must practice “forgiveness and understanding.”

  “Forgiveness and understanding is what humans are least able to practice,” said Lord Morlieb. “And your father with his years of experience should know that. Better to give the kingdom to the animals.”

  “You truly think so?” asked Dagmar, trying to imagine what that would mean.

  “They could hardly do worse, I think. But it will not happen. What is better is if the humans go north and the animals are called south. There can be no place where they belong together.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” said Dagmar. It would be safer for both groups. And Lord Morlieb was, so far as she could tell, never wrong.

  Chapter Seven: Hans

  Hans had smelled the darkness and followed it to a horse in a small village two days from the Order. There was no Sieg this time to tell him what to do or why. He could return to the Order if he wished, but by leaving without a warning, he had declared himself grown and in search of the Olde Wolf. If he came back, he would be the first one who had admitted failure. He would rather be known as one of many who had died in pursuit of the darkness of the Olde Wolf than be known as the one who had returned.

  The horse reminded him very little of the tapir, though there were certain physical similarities. Both animals ran on four legs, both had a long face. Both had mouths with blunt teeth for chewing grass, not meant to be used for killing. But the horse was black and as big as a bear. It towered over the villagers who had gathered together to attack it. It was not afraid of death or the smell of blood and Hans thought that it was too used to battle. This was what came of bringing animals to war. They turned to darkness instead, to their own kind, to the Olde Wolf

  Four men lay dead already. The great, black horse stood like a general on a field of battle, viewing the enemy and sending out orders from the front rather than behind. It raised its head at the sight of Hans and met his eyes, and for a moment, Hans shivered at the thought of such evil intent there. It was unnatural. It was too human.

  Hans shuddered and turned away, and in that moment, the horse attacked and two more humans lay dead.

  There was no time for Hans to hesitate. He moved in.

  He had brought several weapons with him. A dagger to be used in close quarters, a spear for distance work, and a scythe for in between. He should have thrown the spear from a distance. He had practiced with it often enough that he might have landed it directly in the horse’s eye, with some luck. But he was shouting for the villagers to get out of his way, and he was afraid that he would hurt them.

  He ended up so close to the horse that he could only get out his dagger and slash at the animal’s neck. Hans could feel the horse tense at the first parting of flesh. The weapons were specially made to drain the darkness. Hans smelled the acrid smoke as it dripped from the neck wound, and the horse screamed as the Olde Wolf’s anger slipped out of it.

  The horse looked
back at the others behind it and they let out a stream of angry grunts. Then the horse turned back to Hans and reached for the dagger with its teeth.

  Hans ducked to one side, holding his dagger close to his chest, and then, breathing hard, faced the horse once more.

  He felt no thrill, and no sense of coming triumph. If he won, he would best an animal, a horse that had been dear to some human somewhere, that had once known other tame animals and lived in peace with them. If he lost, then the horse would go on to do its work without being stopped, and more humans would die.

  This was not the real battle, and it could not end with any real triumph. Not until it was the Olde Wolf he faced. But it was what Hans had to do now, to live in to face the Olde Wolf, and perhaps to find a track that would lead to him.

  The horse reared up and knocked Hans backward with its front hooves. Then it fell forward and nearly landed on Hans.

  He had to scramble away, and then reminded himself that he must focus always on each moment, not on the future or the past. Not the larger battle, but this smaller one.

  His right hand was hot and slick with sweat against the dagger. He switched hands, then lunged at the horse. He caught it this time with a slice just below its withers. It was deeper than it had been before, and he could feel more of the darkness flow out of the horse.

  It swirled around him, and tempted him. If he took it into himself, he would be stronger, more powerful in battle, more feral. But Hans brushed it aside. Let it return to the Olde Wolf. He wanted nothing to do with it, no matter its promise.

  He could smell the horse now, as well as the Olde Wolf. The animal was afraid. He could see that in the whites of the eyes and the skittish way the horse reacted to every movement.

  He made no sound, but waited for the horse to attempt another surge. It leaped and snarled at Hans, more like a wolf than a horse. Hans almost expected it to begin to howl at the moon.

  Hans kept his wits about him and cut the underside of the horse.

  It was a long cut, but not a painful one. Little of the darkness came out this time. It had been a dangerous move, to go in so close.

  But Hans would have to take more such chances to end this.

  Hans could hear the villagers behind him, mustering more men. He did not have the time or energy to tell them to hold off until he was finished. They did not know who he was, and they did not think the chances of a single man were good against a single horse who had killed many.

  Hans feinted at the horse’s left side, then gripped instead to its mane and pulled himself atop it.

  The horse went wild with attempts to shake him off, but he put his neck close to the horse’s own, and kept his body tightly coiled so that he was like a second skin.

  The horse tried to nip at him. Hans let it.

  He had never ridden a horse before. As a peasant, he had been too poor to own one himself or to even know anyone who owned one. The Order did not own any animals, because of the danger of them being turned by the Olde Wolf.

  But it was a glorious feeling. Hans could understand why it was that humans did not care about the danger, not in the moment that they could feel a great beast like this one, its muscles flexed, its sounds reverberating through the muscles and skin and blood and bones. Tame or wild, Hans could think of nothing as beautiful as a horse.

  It bucked, but Hans was not fooled into letting go. He imagined himself part of the horse, no longer a human. He felt a little of the darkness seep into him, just for a moment. He had been trained not to allow this, for fear of the taint that would come with it, but he felt as if he understood the horse better now. He even understood the Olde Wolf to a degree.

  The horse flailed, losing all grace in its movements. Hans saw the moment before it came. All he had to do was to put his dagger into the horse’s flank. Not deep, but just enough to unbalance it.

  It was all about the balance.

  The horse reared up and Hans slipped off.

  The sudden change of weight unbalanced the horse and it fell backward suddenly, breaking one of its hind legs and its neck.

  It made a terrible sound of disbelief combined with terror and frustration.

  Hans stood over it and put a hand to its head. He held the dagger, but he did not need it to cut with. He pulled the darkness out at first, but he felt sick with the taste of it. He had not known that it would be like this, either. There was no real darkness in the Order, no way to practice how it would make him wish he could clean himself until his skin was raw, or wash in water so cold that it would turn him numb.

  The other horses did not dare to come closer either to Hans or to the fallen horse.

  When Hans was finished, then the fallen horse looked up into his eyes. It whispered a word to him, in the language of humans, at least as much as any horse can say a word in the language of humans. “George.”

  The name of its owner, its human, Hans realized. It remembered him in the end, and died as the darkness bled out of him.

  The villagers behind him were ready to attack. Hans called out to them to stop, that the horse was already dead. But he did not wait for the villagers to come forward and help him. He dripped blood and gore, but he ran from the village into the forest.

  He had no wish to be celebrated. The Olde Wolf was still out there, and besides, there was no triumph in killing an animal that had once been a tame friend of a human. The poor creature had been tainted by the Olde Wolf and the villagers would now be angry at all animals, readier to kill them. That, too, was the Olde Wolf’s fault, setting animals and humans against each other.

  Here in the forest, Hans thought he could scent strong darkness. Perhaps the Olde Wolf himself was here. Hans had only to wait for him, and he would have his chance.

  Chapter Eight: True

  “What is wrong?” Fierce asked True in her direct way. “You have not been eating. But I smell no illness on your breath.”

  “It is nothing,” said True.

  “It is a female, isn’t it? Which one? Beautiful? Vain? Or Tail High?”

  These were his mother’s private names for the three younger adult females in the pack. They called themselves Dancer, Pure White, and Full Moon. In the past, True would have laughed with his mother over the personalities of the three females, but he was in no humor for jokes now.

  “No,” said True. “None of those.”

  “Not one of the older females in the pack, is it?” asked Fierce.

  True shook his head, embarrassed. Why must his mother speak of this at all? Could she not leave him alone?

  “Then who?”

  “It makes no difference,” said True. “I cannot have her.”

  “Why not? Is she from a different pack, then? You have spent days away from us here. I had not thought you would leave the forest, but did you see her passing by and followed after her scent?”

  “It is not a hound in another pack,” said True.

  “Is it one of the male hounds, then?” asked Fierce, her head tilted to the side, as if seeing him from a new angle. “There are hounds who are born with other inclinations. You might not even know of them yourself, except that you are not interested in mating with a female.”

  True cringed. “Please,” he said. He would have done almost anything to stop his mother from going on in this way.

  “You would tell me if it were? You would not lie to me? When I named you, I thought it was your nature and I hoped that you would always keep it as part of you. But sometimes children age and change and they take another name because they have never grown into the one their parents expected. If that is so—”

  “Mother, I am not in love with any hound, male or female.”

  “Not a hound,” his mother echoed. “Then—is it a human woman?” Her eyes were wide and True knew that she and his father had met as humans first, then had chosen to remain hounds, for that was their true form.

  “I had always wondered if you would feel a special affinity for humans. When you were conceived, your father and I we
re given the gift of being human for the day, by the princess with the great, wild magic. I did not think you would remember, for she changed you fully to a hound when we returned. But—”

  “No!” howled True immediately. Then he whispered, “No. A wolf, if you must know. A she-wolf.” His mother was able to make him talk about things he did not wish to, only by saying things that were horrible herself.

  “A wolf,” said his mother. “I see.”

  “You don’t. She is golden and so perfect. It is not only the color of her coat. It is the way she holds her head. It is the way she breathes. Her hind legs are sleek and powerful. The muscles along her back and in her forelegs—” he stopped.

  “Wolves and hounds are not so different,” said Fierce.

  “She is different,” said True. “I am sure that she would never look at me.”

  “I see. But you have looked at her.”

  “Secretly,” said True. He was a little ashamed of this. “I could not help myself. But it was only once. I will not seek her out again.”

  “Does she have a pack? I have seen no wolf packs here recently. Perhaps she is lost. You could help her find her way north to the wolf packs there and she would be grateful.”

  Grateful? How would that help True? To see her for a little while, and then say goodbye to her forever? “She is not alone. She does not seem lost at all. There is another wolf with her. A blue wolf. Her father, I think.”

  Fierce nipped at his shoulder. “He is why you do nothing. You are afraid of him.”

  “I am not afraid. She is no ordinary wolf. She has magic. Of her own.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I saw her change shape,” said True.

  “A magical wolf. And you have never used magic. Is it because you do not think that you can?”

  “How would I use magic? I am a hound,” said True.

  “But your grandmother was a special hound. She discovered her own magic. She told me of it, once. She said that all animals have magic, if only we look for it inside of ourselves. She said that we sometimes think it is only for humans, but it is not so. Magic is the same for animals and humans. It is the heart of life for all.”