Jaium was a nightmare to behold; had his dark fur not been flecked with flakes of salt, he might have convinced every last one that he was taken by the tainted blood. As he set eyes on those nearest to the door, he growled low with irritation until his eyes set on Razien and Greshalin. Without so much as a word, the Baylen shoved past Orathone, struck Litheiuss in the stomach, and catapulted himself at the elk on Razien’s right. There wasn’t a need for further talk. Razien twisted and jabbed the other elk in the chest with a sharp knee before sweeping his legs and stomping between the man’s horns once. The other two had forgone their hold on the lynx, but it did little good. Jaium handled one of the elk on his own while Razien and Greshalin bombarded the other with a cadence of crushing blows.
As Jaium finished with his unwilling sparring partner, he reached a paw out for Razien. At first, he had thought the old wolf was about to impart on him the necessity that they act quickly; however, by the pull exerted, it was clear what he intended. Despite all he had known of this man, a legend among the wolves and coyotes and foxes, Jaium was trying to run. Aware the man was no coward, pragmatic to the point of understanding when to fall and when to stand, Razien was conflicted. There was no clear indication of what had happened or why he should run, but the insistence of Jaium said enough. Something had gone on and try as he might, the Baylen could not handle it. Yet, between Orathone and Gresh, Razien was confident they still might settle the issue.
Razien shook off Jaium, but the man was not quickly rebuffed, “Nothing we can do, lad. We’ve got to go.”
“We didn’t come here just for you, Baylen. We can still help the Wyse. It’s not too late.”
“Atlai is dead, now come on!”
“Razi, I think we should go. If he’s already,” Greshalin wasn’t given a chance to finish as Orathone bolted into the room with Litheiuss short behind and Razien bringing up the rear. Knowing the wolf, knowing he would stick his fool head into the most obvious of traps, would kick a hornet’s nest, or try to break a wild myter, Greshalin had no choice but to follow. Jaium stood in the empty antechamber, the elks he had attacked looking no worse for wear than he. Seeing his exit congested with bodies, the huddled masses of Westerners who watched on but did not dare strike out against the wolf, Jaium let his body succumb and collapsed.
The crown of the tower was a small room, octagonal with various compartments and sliding doors built into the sides. At the heart of the room lay an occupied bedroll surrounded by lanterns. The dull gray of the Wyse was apparent enough from afar but nearing the body made it all too clear, the man had expired. Yet in this room, without exit, they could not find the Yerra or any other companion to the scene. There was no evidence of a struggle or splatters of blood to indicate they had been attacked by a devil. All that remained was the dead flesh of the Royan leader.
As the men looked about, Greshalin quietly went to work. She opened the case and began first with the blessed salt, sealing away any chance at mingling with the Goredrinker. Litheiuss and Orathone started pushing and pulling sliding wall tiles to see if there was an alternate means of egress. Secondly, she dipped her fingers in a dense resin from a golden pine that grew along the northern coast. She marked symbols of protection from her own clan, those of the Serans, and finally, the sigil that had become synonymous with the sun goddess. One of the panels slid wide with a weak jerk by Razien, revealing a room alight with inorganic hues of green and blue and gray.
Razien climbed into the compartment, nearly directly overhead, with Litheiuss coming up behind, leaving Orathone and Greshalin to remain with the body. Dripping the salt brine of Escat Sea onto his brow, Greshalin then dipped her fingers in the ash jar containing sacrificial remains from two priestesses, one who suffered a lethal wound in battling a feral. The other had burnt herself to prevent herself from being another of the Goredrinker’s slaves. Within the compartment were signs that the struggle Jaium had gone through was genuine. There was blood, each pool of more than a few ounces speckled with salt, especially that puddle wherein sat a dagger. It was an uncommon design, something Razien hadn’t seen any of his people use nor that of any tribe of the west by Litheiuss’ guess.
Melding it between her paws, using the warmth of her body instead of the cold she so often called to, Greshalin pressed the adipocere globules to the eyes and mouth to seal them shut. The grave wax would take a few moments to harden, giving Gresh time to finish preparing the corpse. There was little more room to continue in the chamber, but atop one of the curves, where a hallway would be if the structure stood upright, they found their query. Imfay lay still, arm dangling freely from the lip of the wall. Litheiuss examined and found the Yerra breathing but unresponsive.
Looking through the satchel of jems, Greshalin drew out the highest-value crystal, an amber bold enough to border on gold. She pressed it between Atlai’s lifeless paws and wrapped them from digits to wrist with a thin cream ribbon, once a favorite of Gresh’s late aunt. Together, Litheiuss and Razien drug the elk out of the compartment. Razien had thought to take the dagger and run it across the man’s throat, perhaps even Litheiuss’ if he didn’t comply, but there wasn’t sense in it. He wanted to hear that arrogant elk spout his virtues and virulent filth about the tribes before he put an end to him.
Once they were back in the main chamber, the ritual was done, and Atlai was prepared in full for his placement in a burial ground. Razien exchanged his burden with Orathone and, with Greshalin’s help, began to remove the Wyse. His mind was far from the task as they backed into the anteroom where they had scrapped with the elk. Razien couldn’t imagine Roya not led by Atlai. His lineage was short, but his reign had served the wolf from birth to now. There was no exact successor either, something Razien’s father had griped about in private. However, those private concerns would now be public outcries.
They settled beside the beaten and bloodied elk momentarily, allowing everyone to catch their breath. As they did, Jaium cracked open an eye and grumbled, “At least he rests easy now.”
The others did not concern for the Baylen. It was apparent injury was not the most marring issue now, but his own failings. Orathone scouted for a window as he watched the milling masses drain slowly from the foremost level of the spire to the shadows of the night. He held still, seeing only black shade where once had been the safety of light. Taking up a lantern, Orathone searched more diligently for an opening, if for nothing else than a means of defense should a lurking shade come along.
Greshalin came to the first lip of stairs and gazed into the dark shaft. Her night vision wasn’t perfect, and usually better with fewer lanterns nearby, but she could discern few of the remaining Westerners anywhere but at the base of the spire. Lifting herself over the ledge, she took charge of the moisture lingering in the Summer air. With little more than a flick of the wrist, a path between the gaps of stairs was formed with a thin sheen of ice. It wasn’t much and wouldn’t last more than a few minutes, but she hardly had her half of the Wyse’s weight on taking him from the chamber.
Together, with Jaium tired and reluctant, they lifted the Wyse and the Yerra over the ridge and slid them down the next level. They continued on like this until the limp body of the elk rolled across the mossy earth at the base of the tower. The Wyse was spared the indignity of being tossed by his own momentum as the two wolves worked to slow his passage and then lift him onto a clear bed of grass and weeds.
The deer attended their burden as the two wolves deliberated on what would be done next. Neither wanted to admit that hauling the Wyse back to Roya still that night was a terrible idea. Had they Derius to confer with, they might have found it easy enough to place him in the grave ground just outside of camp. The biggest question, between honor and decorum, was if the man’s flesh would keep through the night and the journey north. Moreover, would they make that much of a trek in the face of a coming conflict just to be told they need not have brought the body back?
After a time, Greshalin cut in, “Was there something more you wanted done with him? I think I’ve covered all the steps unless your Wyse requires something less typical.”
“No… Priestess, would you be able to keep him cold? I don’t mean you seal him in ice, but keep the flesh from getting hot, filled with bugs and the like?” the Baylen asked half absently.
Gresh puzzled on this a moment but nodded, “I don’t think it should be a problem, but how long do you need him cold? I can’t keep it up forever in the Summer.”
“Just long enough to consult with someone who’d know more about this than I would.”
“I’ll keep him cool, but we’ll have to put him in a cabin or wagon. The shade will keep the chill more, so you’ll have longer.”
As they discussed a plan of action for the Wyse, Razien watched the two bucks deliberating on their own course. There was little concern in the wolf for what would come of Imfay then. With how Jaium ended up, not to mention Atlai, he’d be lucky to see the spy they caught let alone the Legion. Instead, as Razien stared, he became acutely aware of the looming darkness and the proposition put to him.
Though he might have felt some kinship with the man from those far-flung western lands, Razien couldn’t be sure of him anymore. The elk that had stopped them didn’t bother about the bucks for a second, allowing Orathone to get all the way to the door and still only making him a concern when pressed about them. It was clear someone was plotting, but if it included all or just a few of the Western folk, it was impossible to say. The offer of aid from that powerful shade became more reasonable but something other than what Razien could sink his teeth into. They had yet to meet the Legion in a full-on battle, and by the measure he took of their spies, they hardly seemed a substantial force. If the difficulties came, if the buck turned tail when things were at their worst, Razien might see need for such an option.
“Razien, let’s get the Wyse to the wagons,” Jaium ordered as he finished with the lynx. Greshalin ran ahead to prepare for the royal corpse, but the bucks were not so quick to vanish into the night.
Orathone tugged at Razien’s sleeve and whispered, “What about the scout? Shouldn’t one of the higher command know?”
“Yes,” Razien answered before directing focus to the Baylen, “We have something more to handle when we get back to camp.”
“That’s right, but where we string that sick stag up isn’t an issue until we get the Wyse where he needs to be.”
“String him up!” Litheiuss exploded, “Now I have had my troubles with Yerra Imfay in my time, but hardly does he deserve to be strung up, one way or the other. Just what do you think he needs to be punished for? He looked as thrashed as you where we found him.”
“It’s not up for debate. If you want your people, women and children, housed in my camp, if you want my warriors to protect you when your enemy comes, if you think I’ll keep forking over every last thing I worked my lifetime for, you’ll tie that loathsome creature up, and leave him in whichever cabin he’s claimed until I see fit. Do we understand, or do you wash down the Camora before dawn?”
Trazor 
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