Guarinn hopped the wall. But when his feet hit the ground he found
himself on the wrong side of the border between reason and nightmare,
caught in the trap the Spoiler had laid for any wolfhunter who ventured
out of the ruin.
*****
The wall walked. And the dead with him.
They crawled, and shambled, and dragged themselves staggering
through a foul and freezing fog, each trying desperately to reach
Guarinn as the damned would grasp at one last hope. He could not move,
stood rooted like an oak in the ice-toothed mist, helpless as decaying
hands plucked at him, clung to him, shoulder and wrist and arm. And
this was no silent place, this nightmare-realm. It was filled up with
the mad shrieking and frenzied grieving of people he’d known in life,
and some he’d never seen until they were dead.
A hunter who’d died to feed the wolf’s hunger.
An old peddler night-caught in the forest, hardly recognizable as
human when he’d been found.
A child, a little boy screaming now as it had when, three years ago,
the wolf had torn him from his bed. Or was that Guarinn’s own voice
screaming, his own throat torn with the violence of terror as the child’s
had been by the wolf’s fangs?
Then came a howling, a long, aching sound of abandonment. The
wolf. Or a friend forsaken. Or an innocent dying.
GUARINN, YOU’VE FAILED ME, FAILED THEM ALL! Hands clawed at his
face, dug and tore at his throat, leaving bits of their own flesh and
grave-mold behind to foul his beard and hair.
FAITHLESS FRIEND! YOU STINK OF THEIR BLOOD, GUARINN HAMMERFELL!
Guarinn cried out in terror, couldn’t tell his own voice
from theirs, no longer knew who accused – they or him.
The ice-mist filled up his lungs, stopped his breath,
suffocating him.
MURDERER! GUARINN CHILD-KILLER! GUARINN –
*****
“Guarinn! Breathe! Come on, breathe!”
Roulant shook his friend till his teeth rattled, shook
him harder still, but to no effect. Roulant’d heard but one
choking gasp of terror, just as he was entering the forest,
and he’d known that whatever chance-found charm was
keeping him safe and sane outside the ruin wasn’t working
for Guarinn. The dwarf was trapped, unable to move, even
to breathe, while mind and soul were adrift in the cold
country of nightmare.
“Guarinn,” Roulant shouted, fearful. Perhaps Una was
safe because the Spoiler’s trap was meant to harm no one
but those who bound by the curse. Perhaps Roulant was
safe because he left the ruin to find Una, not to end the
curse. But Guarinn must have left the ruin with plans to
kill the wolf. That’s what sprung the Spoiler’s trap,
Roulant thought.
“Guarinn!” he cried again, gathering his friend close,
holding him. “We’ve got to find Una! I need you to help
me. Please, Guarinn! Come back and help me . . .”
A breath, just a small one.
“Guarinn – help me find Una. We must find Una!”
The dwarf drew another breath, no steadier, but
deeper. Roulant held him hard, forced him to look
nowhere but into his eyes. “Listen – LISTEN! Don’t think
about anything else but this: We have to find Una. Don’t
even think about why. We’re here for no reason but to find
Una. Do you understand?”
Guarinn swallowed hard.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes,” Guarinn said hoarsely. “What next?”
Roulant thought as he helped his friend to his feet.
*****
The wolf woke to pain and hunger. He was not
frightened by the pain, knowing he could transcend it. He
was afraid of hunger. Wolves worship only one god, and
the god’s name is Hunger.
He’d found shelter quickly after he’d fled his attackers,
a soft nest of old leaves beneath a rock outcropping.
There, downwind of his enemies so he could smell them if
they pursued, he’d licked clean the shallow cuts on his
belly and legs, the deeper one on his shoulder. He’d
gnawed off the trailing end of the rope, for that frightened
him nearly as much as hunger. It had more than once
snagged in bushes to choke him as he’d fled. He’d gotten
most of it, wearing only the noose now, a foul-smelling