The Rebel Prince

AN UNLIKELY EVENT



AS SOON as they left camp, Wynter pulled Razi aside and anxiously told him about the necklace and its possible effect on the Wolves. He swung to Christopher, appalled, and Christopher, shameless and defiant, simply sucked his teeth, pulled his horse onto the trail and kept going. Razi was left staring after him, speechless. After a moment, Sólmundr edged his horse past and fell into place by his young friend’s side, and they forged on.

Razi and Christopher barely spoke to each other for three days.

The trail brought them higher and then higher still: up beyond the majestic pines into hard-country woodland; above that again into wind-twisted scrub; and then, finally, up into the shale-strewn wastelands and rock that would be their landscape until they reached the other side.

This high into the mountains, the wind was tremendously strong. Slicing across loose beds of shale and rubble, and blasting down the black faces of cliffs, it cut through Wynter’s many layers of clothes and ripped the heat from her body. She took to travelling with her cloak and blankets wrapped around her, her head ducked against the incessant gale. For the first time since she’d met him, Sólmundr covered his arms. Eventually he gave in completely and shrugged his wiry body into a heavy, felt-lined jacket and wrapped his head in a scarf. Only Boro didn’t seem to feel the cold, and he ranged the barren landscape with cheerful, snuffling enthusiasm, his tongue lolling, his fur flattened in the wind.

On the third night, they plundered a copse of straggling furze bushes for wood and lit a guttering fire in the shelter of a rock. Sólmundr drew his covers around him and lay back, his eyes shut. He was quiet, as usual, content to let the others set the tone. Wynter huddled by his side, Boro stretched between them, his head resting warm in her lap. She scratched the hound’s bristly ears and watched her men as they stewed in their silence.

Christopher, swaddled in his cloak and blanket, sat cross-legged by the fire, gnawing a strip of dried venison. His blanket was pulled, cowl-like, over his head, and only his mouth and chin were visible as he doggedly chewed the last of the meat. Razi sat with his shoulders hunched against the cold, his eyes fixed on the flames. The wind gusted through a narrow gap in the rocks, flinging his curls across his face, and he shoved them back, pulling his scarf tight and binding it hard under his chin.

Behind them, the mountains rose black and featureless against the dusky sky. It would be dark soon. There would be no moon. Wynter scanned the sharp outline of the cliff edges for movement. The wind shushed slyly in the rocks around her and skittered through the loose shale.

‘What can you possibly have been thinking?’ cried Razi suddenly.

Christopher’s jaw stopped moving for a fraction of a second; then he recommenced chewing.

‘Úlfnaor told you he would protect the boy! Did you honestly think you’d help matters by exposing my intentions to the Wolves?’

Christopher swallowed his chunk of meat. He said nothing.

‘You are an unruly chard, Garron!’ said Razi, kicking a stone into the fire. ‘You have no more sense than a child!’ He tucked his hands into his armpits and huddled deep into his cloak, his eyes roaming the uneasy shadows. ‘You are enough to kill me with exasperation.’

‘What done is done,’ murmured Sólmundr. ‘If they come for us, we fight. That all it is.’

‘I cannot help but feel that, had the Wolves been intent on harming us, they would have attacked by now,’ ventured Wynter. ‘No doubt David was loath to risk everything Alberon has offered him on so vague a threat as a finger pointed to a necklace.’ She glanced at Christopher, hoping he would agree, but he stayed silent, his face still obscured by his hood of blankets. ‘I should think that after all this time we are safe,’ she said.

Sólmundr slit his eyes and looked at her. ‘They sick anyways,’ he reassured her. ‘I not see them able to follow us. Even as Wolfs, they be too ill to journey this trail.’

Razi huffed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘David is certainly no fool. And I suppose Wyn is right, he would be unlikely to jeopardise his future based on a story brought to him by Jean.’ He settled back against his saddle. ‘Perhaps you are both right,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps all will be well. But I still should have you pilloried, Christopher Garron. I am beyond words with anger.’

Wynter smiled. She found it unlikely that any emotion could put Razi beyond words for long, and, to tell the truth, he didn’t sound particularly angry now that he’d actually had his say. She looked to Christopher again, glad it was out in the open, hoping for a smile.

‘The truth is,’ said Christopher softly, ‘I didn’t even think about it. If I had, even just for a second, I wouldn’t have done it.’ He looked up at Razi, the firelight finally illuminating his face. ‘I’m sorry.’

There was something in the way Christopher said ‘I’m sorry’ that sent a blade of fear slicing up Wynter’s back. Sólmundr raised himself onto his elbow and waited solemnly.

‘David may not act,’ said Christopher. ‘But if Jean thinks we threaten his life, he’ll find a way to send the lower pack. They’ll travel as Wolves and attack as pleases them. We can’t outrun them, not even on horses, so when they come we’ll have to fight. There’s six of them, and there’s four of us, plus Boro. If we’re lucky, the animals will smell them before they sneak up on us and we may get the chance to shoot.’

If we’re lucky, thought Wynter.

‘How fast can they travel?’ asked Razi. ‘Will they be here soon?’

Christopher glanced at Wynter and lowered his head without answering. Razi sat back again, his face grave. ‘Shit,’ he said.



The Wolves attacked on the fifth day, in broad daylight, out of nowhere. The wind was gusting steadily in from the top of the pass, howling into their faces, and there was no advance warning from dog or horse. Wynter wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of an attack. It was too cold, the wind too wicked and the trail too narrow for her to be thinking of anything other than just getting by. She was looking up at the scudding grey sky, hoping that it wouldn’t rain, when something darted across the top of the bluff above her. It flew down the slope so fast that she thought it nothing but a cloud shadow. Then it leapt past her, momentarily cutting off the breeze, and Wynter felt heat and smelled a Wolf ’s musty scent as the shadow hit Razi and carried him over the edge of the path.

She registered sky and rock where only moments before there had been man and horse. Then the screams of Razi’s mare cut into her shock and Wynter twisted in the saddle, staring downwards while Razi, Wolf and mare tumbled away from her. Razi was tangled helplessly in his tack, and he appeared and disappeared from view as his horse rolled over and over, all the way down the steep slope to the bottom of the hill.

Christopher yelled: ‘They’re on the ridge! They’re on the ridge!’

Wynter looked up to see a Wolf launch for her, its jaws gaping. A crossbow thwacked. The bolt whined past her ear and the Wolf jerked in mid-flight, as though yanked on a chain. It fell to the ground at Ozkar’s feet, Christopher’s arrow jutting from its chest. But it was not dead and it writhed an agonised circle on the rocky path, screeching and struggling, neither animal nor man in its distress.

Ozkar reared in panic. Wynter almost came unseated as he tried to back away from the creature thrashing at his feet.

‘Corral your horse!’ yelled Christopher. Then he, too, screamed. His cry was cut abruptly short, and there was a heavy thump and the rattle of something big hitting the gravel behind Wynter’s horse.

Sólmundr bellowed in Merron, fury clear in his voice.

Wynter twisted in the saddle, trying to see Christopher. But Ozkar chose that time to turn on the too-narrow path. His hooves slipped on the shale, and Wynter was sent lurching forward as his front legs slid over the edge of the bluff. She grabbed his mane to keep from sliding headfirst down his neck and into the chasm below. For a moment she swung dizzyingly over the drop. There was a brief, distressing glimpse of Razi, his red coat a vivid splash of colour on the rocks below, then Wynter pulled herself upright and leaned back in the saddle, giving Ozkar a chance to gain his feet.

Once turned, the horse dropped his head and lashed out with both hind legs. With a solid whump and a brief howl, the shot Loup-Garou was kicked from the path. It sailed far out into the air before plummeting into the gully below.

Christopher’s riderless horse reared and lunged on the perilous track between Sól and Wynter. Between its trampling hooves, Christopher was locked in furious combat with a third Loup-Garou. Wynter drew her sword. She heaved Ozkar into line, intent on stabbing the Wolf ’s back. But before she could act, Christopher and the Wolf rolled to the edge of the path and plunged down the slope. Wynter caught a glimpse of Christopher, his eyes yellow, his teeth bared, and then he and the Wolf slithered from sight in a rattle of stones and debris.

Sólmundr yelled hoarsely. Wynter spun just in time to see a Loup-Garou land on him, then Sólmundr was hidden beneath the Wolf ’s massive body. His mare threw her head, her eyes wild, as the Wolf ’s hind claws scrabbled great, bloody tracks into her shoulders and neck. The poor horse slid and slipped about on the loose gravel, almost brought to its knees by its struggling burden of rider and Wolf.

Wynter urged Ozkar forward, trying to pass Christopher’s maddened horse and get to Sól. She saw the warrior’s fist jerk back, and Sól punched the Wolf ’s head away from his throat. His knife flashed and there was a spray of scarlet as he stabbed at the creature’s neck. Boro leapt, snarling, and caught the Loup-Garou’s hind leg in his huge jaws. There was a bright snap of bone and the Wolf arched, screaming. Wolf and hound fell away from Sól. Tumbling to the ground in a growling frenzy of teeth and fur, they engaged each other in battle.

Sólmundr, dazed and painted with blood, slid sideways in his saddle. Wynter cried out to him, certain that he would slip to the ground, but at the last minute he righted himself. He clung blearily to his horse’s blood-drenched neck as Boro and the Wolf tore into each other on the ground at its feet.

In an effort to escape the savagery of Wolf and dog, Christopher’s horse launched itself off the edge of the path. It slid down the loose surface of the hill in a barely controlled panic of flying stones and grit, then tumbled head over heels on the unmanageable slope. Ozkar mindlessly tried to follow, and Wynter yanked him round and yelled, ‘Stay easy!’

Another Wolf breasted the hill, heading for Sólmundr. Wynter opened her mouth to shout a warning to the dazed warrior. A shadow crossed her, and as the fifth Wolf hit Sól, the sixth fell on Wynter from above.

Her sword flew from her hand as a Wolf ’s weight flung her back, and she sprawled, helpless, under the creature’s hot and reeking body. She twisted. The Wolf ’s teeth missed her throat by a fraction, snapping the air by her cheek. Ozkar went down on his haunches under their weight.

Still in the saddle, Wynter felt the Wolf ’s hind claws rake her belly as he tried to gut her. Her many layers of clothes saved her from immediate evisceration, but her jacket fell open with a gasp of torn fabric and she knew that the next raking pass of his feet would expose her guts to the air. She fumbled for her knife with one hand and shoved frantically with the other, trying to push him off. He reared back, half-wolf, half-man, and glared down at her with his not-quite-human eyes. He opened his distorted mouth for the killing bite. Then Ozkar began to struggle to his feet.

Wynter clung to the Wolf and the Wolf clung to her. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, then they slid from the saddle and down Ozkar’s rounded backside in one sudden uncontrollable rush. All at once, Wynter was upside down and dangling, one foot caught in the stirrup, trailing headfirst down the treacherous slope.

The Wolf shot past her with a howl. He grabbed Wynter’s cloak to stop his fall, and swung to the end of it, dragging it tight. Wynter gagged. The fabric cinched closed around her neck, and she found herself completely incapable of drawing another breath. She turned bulging eyes to look back at the Loup-Garou. He grinned up at her and rolled in the gravel to twist the cloak tighter on her throat. Ozkar surged to his feet. Wynter was dragged up with him, her foot still caught in the stirrup. The world grew dark as she was stretched between Wolf and horse.

Wynter kicked and thrashed and scrabbled at her neck. She was horrified to feel her hands grow numb. Her arms grew weak. She was being strangled to death with her own cloak! Then the Wolf ’s weight lifted. The fabric loosened. Her lungs filled with cold air and she was jerked violently onto the rough path as Ozkar heaved her up.

Wynter’s foot fell free of the stirrup. She rolled to her side and lay gasping at the edge of the path. There was a storm of angry snarling on the slope below her; then a flurry of stinging shale blasted her in the face as the Loup-Garou flung himself back over the edge. Wynter groped blindly for her knife. The Wolf ’s weight squashed the air from her as he rolled across her body. Lashing out, she sliced him on his thigh. His weight left her. Then another Wolf scrabbled its way up the slope and lunged after the first.

Wynter swung at this second Loup-Garou, aiming for its eyes. But it dodged her, and to her amazement, it threw itself at its companion, locking its jaws against the other Wolf ’s throat. The creatures twisted away from her, rolled beneath Ozkar’s plunging feet and slammed against the base of the bluff wall. Confused, Wynter jerked to her knees as the new Wolf – small, sleek and jet black – took on the grizzled might of the one who had tried to strangle her.

On the path behind her, Sólmundr staggered to his feet. He had won his fight against the fifth Wolf, but had been dragged to the ground in the process. Boro was still battling the Loup-Garou that had first attacked his master, and the two animals now collided over the headless body of Sól’s opponent, their feet skittering and slipping about in its pooled blood. The wind whipped ribbons of gore from Sól’s arms as he lifted his sword high above his head. He yelled a command to his dog. Boro leapt back, and the warrior brought his sword slicing down, cleaving the Wolf ’s head from its body. The corpse fell at Sólmundr’s feet with two separate thuds.

‘Stay still, Iseult!’ cried Sólmundr. ‘We with you now!’

He attempted to slap Ozkar aside, while Boro, his hackles raised, crowded impatiently at his heels. Wynter rose to her feet, her dagger in her hand, her eyes on the smaller, black Wolf who still had his teeth locked around the throat of the one remaining Loup-Garou.

The black Wolf ’s lips pulled back from bloody fangs, and his eyes met Wynter’s as he dug in and held firm. Wynter nodded, and the black Wolf shook his head, his teeth digging deep. Blood sprayed up. The Loup-Garou howled in pain. Its fierce claws gouged at the black Wolf ’s belly. Its teeth snapped at his shoulders in an effort to break free.

Wynter advanced in a crouch, her dagger out. Sól, still struggling to pass Ozkar, shouted at her to stay back. At the sound of his voice, the Loup-Garou twisted, and Wynter saw terror rise in its eyes as it took in the blood-soaked warrior and his gigantic warhound.

Desperate, the Loup-Garou slammed the black Wolf against the bluff wall and tried to shake him from its throat. The black Wolf clung tenaciously on, but the Loup-Garou was bigger and stronger, and it once again slammed the black Wolf hard against the bluff. Blood scattered in big drops against the rocky walls. The black Wolf ’s frightened eyes met Wynter’s as the Loup-Garou shook him like a rag, and Wynter knew he could not last much longer.

She reared up and plunged her knife between the Loup-Garou’s shoulders. With a howl, it surged abruptly to its hind legs and shook its entire body, dragging the black Wolf and Wynter with it as it rose. The black Wolf fell away, taking a great chunk of his opponent’s throat with him. Wynter, her hands still clenched around the handle of her knife, felt the Loup-Garou’s muscles ripple beneath her. Then she was clinging to a man, tall and broad-shouldered and unbelievably strong. He flung himself backwards and slammed Wynter against the rocks, knocking the air from her. But it was the last desperate act of a dying man. The strength left his legs almost immediately, and he slid to the ground with a sigh, his throat gaping, his torso scarlet with blood.

Finally able to dodge past the horses, Boro flew for the black Wolf, his teeth bared. The Wolf sped past Wynter, yelping and crying in fear, and Wynter lurched from the rock and flung herself after them. Catching a handful of Boro’s fur, she clung on, trying to slow him down, but her weight made not one whit of difference. The warhound swerved beneath her, trying to get a grip on the black Wolf as it dodged and twisted to avoid his snapping teeth.

Behind her, there was a sing of metal on stone as Sólmundr separated the dead Loup-Garou from his head. Boro swerved beneath her again, doubling back on himself as the black Wolf made another attempt to bolt. Wynter screamed, ‘Sól! Call him off! Call him off!’ Boro’s huge jaws closed on flesh and fur, ripping a scarlet gash in the black Wolf ’s leg.

‘Sól!’ screeched Wynter. ‘It’s Christopher! Call Boro off! Call him off!’

‘Frith an Domhain!’ Sól yelled. He called urgently to Boro. ‘Tar anseo!

’ The hound broke off immediately and Wynter fell to her hands and knees, face to face with the black Wolf, who was cowering by the base of the cliff wall. His hackles were raised in a spiky ruff around his snarling face, and his teeth and fur were red with blood. For one moment, staring into his slanting yellow eyes, Wynter was certain that she had made a mistake. Then the Wolf dropped to his belly with a whine, his eyes filled with pain, and he blinked around him in confusion and despair.

‘It’s all right, Christopher,’ she whispered, shuffling forward on her knees. ‘It’s all right.’ She put her arms around him, pulling him in. He trembled against her, and as if in echo to his trembling, Wynter’s entire body started to shake. Sólmundr staggered over, his bloody sword trailing in the dirt, and he sank to his knees by her side, all his strength gone.

Wynter felt the numbing blanket of shock settle down around her as she scanned the headless bodies, the gorespattered path, the quaking horses. In her arms, the black Wolf whined, and she felt his body shudder as his human nature struggled to the fore. As the changes began to take their toll, Sólmundr drew off his bloodstained cloak and laid it across their friend’s shivering body. Wynter held on while Christopher came back to them, and as she waited, her eyes fixed on the slope and the motionless patch of red at its base.