Wolf Kill

En route to the village of Dinas Crag Rheged, in northern Britain Spring, in the year of our Lord 493

The wind whipped past Merlin's ears as his horse galloped down the barely lit forest path. Too late, he realized he should have heeded the wild cawing of the crows around him: his horse reared up before a dozen wolves, who looked up from their fallen prey. A massive buck, slain and gutted, lay in their midst, and all around the greedy, black-feathered sentinels looked on in anticipation.

His mission had gone from urgent to life or death.

Merlin wheeled his horse to the left and kicked her onward, off the path and between two trees. The mask that Merlin wore to cover his scars shifted upward on his face momentarily, obscuring his vision. He righted it just before a branch lashed him across the face, nearly cutting his lip through the black cloth.

The wolves howled behind him, but Merlin didn't look back—couldn't look back. Terror sought to master him, but he pushed it down. He had to direct his horse farther before he could cut back to the path. But the woods were too thick to ride fast, and he'd be caught. Fear, like a cloak of thistles, clung to his legs and back. A wolf could rip his flesh away at any moment.

The beasts snarled from behind as a massive branch loomed toward him from the front. Merlin hung low to the right, but it still banged him hard in the shoulder. The saddle began to slip. He grabbed the horse's sweat-dampened mane and pulled himself back up. The horse snorted as it jumped through the brush—and then screamed.

Merlin whipped his gaze around.

A wolf had torn into her left hindquarter. Blood poured from the wound, slick and red in the morning light.

The wolf lunged again, and Merlin kicked its black snout, yelling while he pulled the horse to the right. She quickened her pace, jumped a bush, and Merlin found himself on the path again.

Three wolves leapt just behind.

Faster now, Merlin kicked the horse's side. Having hardly seen a wolf in the sixteen years since leaving Bosventor, he'd become careless, and now he'd interrupted an entire pack at their meal. Panic sank into his stomach like rotten meat, churning his innards. He had to get away; he had to!

But the wolves were faster, and his horse began to wheeze from the effort. Merlin had been anxious to get back to Dinas Crag with the news he carried and had ridden the horse hard for hours. Its strength was almost gone.

Another wolf snapped at the horse's right side, ripping her leg open. The horse kicked, screaming in terror, and then staggered forward again.

Merlin panicked. He wouldn't get away. His horse was going to die. He was going to die. He could kill one wolf, maybe two, but never a whole pack. An image of his body, mangled and gutted like the buck, flashed before his eyes.

A wolf latched onto his boot, its teeth slicing into his foot like small daggers. He tried to draw his sword, but the horse reared up, forcing the wolf to drop off. The hackles of the wolf's neck twitched, and its yellow eyes lusted for Merlin's blood as it prepared to leap.

A wolf on his left gashed the horse's belly.

Merlin turned to face the beast, but a large branch blocked his view. He reached, clamped his hands onto the smooth bark, pulled free from his horse, and wrapped his legs around the branch. He didn't want to abandon his horse, whom he'd raised from a filly, but he also knew the only chance she had of getting away was without his weight.

The horse shot forward into the brush, with all three wolves slashing it with their bloody jaws. Unfortunately, the end came quickly, with the wolves pulling it down about fifty paces away.

Merlin climbed up and listened painfully to her last screams.

When the poor creature's silence came, and only the wolves' gory feast could be heard, he took in some deep breaths and tried to discern his position on the path. He'd been traveling south from Luguvalium, the capital of Rheged, and was on his way back home to Dinas Crag. There awaited his wife, Natalenya, and their two children: Tingada, their little daughter, and Taliesin, their growing boy. And their adopted Arthur, now eighteen winters old.

Surely Merlin had passed the long lake already ... or had he?

Ahead of him he could hear a stream burbling in the dark, so the path must have swung closer to it again. But was this the stream—the Derwent—as he had thought? If so, then he was close to home with the crossroad just beyond.

A faint splash. Maybe a fish. Then another. Full splashing, now. Then clopping. A rider, coming his way, heading toward the wolves.

Merlin had to warn him. "Who's there?" he called. "Take care! Wolves just killed my horse, and more are just beyond."

The rider cantered forward, slowing just below Merlin. A man with a broad face and a gray beard looked up at him.

"And what am I to do about such a dilemma? I must get through."

"They'll scatter if you give them enough time—"

"No. I've an urgent and vital message that must get through."

Howling sounded far down the path, and soon the three who had just killed the horse answered. "Maybe it would be best to turn back for now. Is there a village nearby?"

"Dinas Crag. I'll take you there."

"Not on my horse. You'll walk, you will."

A wolf howled. The man wheeled his horse around.

Merlin swung down and dropped onto its back, just behind the man.

"Get off!"

"Go!" Merlin drove his heels into the horse's flanks, sending it flying down the path and splashing through the stream thinned by the long spring drought.

When they were a good distance away and no pursuit could be heard, the man pulled his horse to a stop. He turned and growled. "Get off."

"I saved your life."

The man shoved Merlin off the back of the horse.

But Merlin landed on his feet, dashed to the left, lifted the man's boot, and threw him from the horse.

The man scrambled to his feet, spitting dry grass, and glared at Merlin from the other side of the saddle. His face was red. "Take off your mask!"

"No."

"Who are you?"

"Ambrosius."

The man stared at Merlin, as if expecting more. "What is your parentage, dishonorable knucklebone, and your purpose in these woods?"

Merlin grabbed the reins of the horse, lest the man get away. "What's your name, your parentage, and your mission?"

The man wrinkled up his nose and scowled back.

A distant howl split the air, and Merlin jerked.

Both men leapt onto the horse, and Merlin clutched the back of the ornate saddle as they raced away.

"Which way?" the man asked.

There was only one place that promised safety, though it was clear this stranger would not consent to being blindfolded to reach it. "Can I trust you?"

"On my honor."

"Before who?"

"Before God, you fool. What, do I look like a druid?"

The wolves howled once more, cementing the decision. Merlin pointed. "Go straight when you come to the crossroads and follow the path along the stream."

"Hardly wide enough for a one-legged deer."

"Trust me."

They raced along the path until they encountered the northern shore of a large lake, from which the overflow of the stream ran. The path curved to follow its western shore for half a league, where the lake ended and the stream, which now...