Ali - Seven For a Secret

Wendell sat waiting with the door to the Royal Stagecoach open. Brock sat back tiredly on the seat opposite him. The king tried to ignore a nagging sense of guilt as he watched Wolf and Virginia say goodbye in front of another coach facing the opposite way. A shining team of matched chestnut horses harnessed to it with scarlet traces stamped their feet and tossed their heads, the red feather crests on their headpieces nodding, brilliant against the grey wintry sky.

I‘ve done everything I could, Wendell thought defensively. It’s not my fault. I provided them with transport and food and I’m not the one who said they had to travel to different places, the oracle insisted. He sneaked a look at poor Tony, dapper in a long brown velvet coat, standing by his daughter. Dejection showed in every fold of his mobile face and in the slump of his shoulders. For someone as talkative as Tony, it was torture for him to be scared to open his mouth. A simple ‘pass the salt’ could result in the doom-saying of the whole Fourth Kingdom. I suppose he feels bad about splitting up Wolf and Virginia too. Wendell watched with growing impatience as Wolf hugged his mate again. The king could see Virginia was trying not to cry.

Brock said urgently, quietly, “Your Majesty, every delay causes more deaths.”

Wendell nodded uncertainly, not really wanting to interrupt Wolf and Virginia’s goodbyes, but he understood the truth of Brock’s words.

“Come along, Wolf,” Wendell said, tapping his fingers on the coach door. He saw Wolf tense up in annoyance.

“Now you be careful, my creamy sweetheart,” Wolf said earnestly to Virginia, “You know what happened last time you went to the Deadly Swamp,“ his tone sharpened, “and I won’t be there to save you this time.” He frowned at Tony. Tony looked guiltily at his feet before climbing into the coach.

Virginia bit her lip, one hand protectively on her husband’s arm and the other on her belly. “You be careful too. I won’t be there to save you either.”

“Wolf,” Wendell called impatiently, “While you’re saying goodbye people may be being burned to cinders on the borders of my kingdom. Do you think we might possibly get along yet?”

Wolf snarled and embraced his wife again. Then he handed her carefully up to her father. The coachman snapped his whip above the horses’ heads and they cantered out of the long driveway of the palace. Wendell could see Virginia’s face as she leaned out the window for as long as she could to keep her husband in sight. Wolf stood motionless and watched till the carriage was a tiny dot in the distance. Wendell tapped his fingernails against the coach door again, in response to Brock’s insistent, “Your Majesty!”

“Wolf!” He understood how Wolf felt but Wendell had a kingly duty to his subjects, too, and the half-wolf was delaying everything with his puppyish devotion.

Wolf turned on his heel, the skirts of his greatcoat flapping, and strode to the royal stagecoach. He climbed in and carefully shut the door. Wendell froze when the half-wolf stared across at him. Wolf’s eyes were glowing amber.

“I let her go without me, Wendell,” he said softly. “Don’t push me any further.”

Wendell swallowed and tapped the roof of the coach with his fist. It set off with a jerk and he noticed Wolf’s knuckles were white where he still held onto the coach door.

They sat in silence for the first hour; even Brock seemed satisfied with the speed they made for he drifted into an exhausted sleep. Wendell watched apprehensively as Wolf frowned at the landscape hurtling by. The silence was, to Wendell’s surprise, oppressive. He didn’t think he’d ever before gone five minutes in Wolf’s company without hearing him babble or whine or snarl or howl.

Finally he said, “Are you hungry?” and tugged out a loaded hamper from under his seat. “I’m surprised you hadn’t scented this out before now, Wolf.”

“Hmmm?” Wolf didn’t move, but the amber glow had faded from his eyes, so Wendell tried again.

“Food.” He flipped the hamper open and now even he could smell chicken, potted beef, fresh bread and other good things.

Wolf seemed to focus on Wendell from a long way off, but to the king’s relief, the crease between the other man’s eyes had smoothed out.

“Oh, I did,” Wolf replied, “I just wasn’t hungry.”

Wendell nearly dropped his potted beef sandwich in astonishment. “Not hungry! Are you feeling all right?”

Wolf slapped his palm against the door and yelled, “Why does everyone always ask me that?”

Wendell tried not to shrink back in his seat. Kingly dignity, he reminded himself. “Well. Please forgive me,” he said formally. There was a moment’s stiff silence. Brock stirred but didn’t wake up.

“Oh huff-puff,” Wolf growled, “Pass me that chicken, will you?”

Wendell tried not to look as Wolf ate but it wasn’t easy. He devoured two chickens and a round of sandwiches in the time it took Wendell to eat a chicken leg.

“So Wendy...” The king watched Wolf wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and burp. “Watchya gonna do in Kissingtown?”

Wendell drew himself up and announced, “I shall slay the dragon.”

Wolf’s left eyebrow quirked up. “Oh.”

Wendell waited but he said nothing more. “What? Is that all you have to say? I’m going to be a hero!”

Wolf leaned back in his seat and glanced at the sleeping figure of the vintner, who seemed to be in the middle of a nightmare. He made small noises and movements in his sleep. Snow had begun to fall outside in fat white flakes. Wolf sighed and said, “Well, y’see Wendy, if I’ve learned anything, it’s to be very, very literal about magic.”

Wendell folded his arms, annoyed by Wolf’s low-key reaction. “What on earth does that mean?” He suspected the half-wolf was secretly laughing at him. It had seemed a much more heroic declaration when he’d practised it that morning in the mirror. But Wolf’s expression was serious.

“What did the oracle say? When Virginia and I came through the mirror?”

“That Virginia and Tony must go to the Swamp and that you and I must go to Kissingtown to slay the dragon.”

Wolf frowned and scratched his temple. “Did it? Is that exactly what Tony said?” Wendell paused and the other man went on, “Because, y’see, I don’t remember any ‘slaying’ coming into the conversation at all. So I would be very cautious on the slaying front, Wendy, very cautious indeed. And what are you going to slay it with?” The half-wolf’s gaze swept up and down, assessing Wendell’s carefully considered choice for dragon slaying, his most heroic and dashing scarlet uniform.

“I’ve got my armour and a spear in the baggage!” Wendell retorted, stung.

Now Wolf did smile. “Wendy, Wendy, take some advice from a predator. Lay off on the slaying. Now what I remember about our instructions is being told to go to Kissingtown with you. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. And then I’m going to turn right around and follow Virginia.”

Wendell said, shocked, “You can’t do that, you’ll be cursed!”

Wolf shook his head grimly, “I don’t think so. I won’t have disobeyed. But a wolf shouldn’t be separated from his family, oh no.” He growled and scratched his head.

Wendell felt oddly bereft. He and Wolf had never been close (in fact I still don’t really like him) but he’d expected to have Wolf’s support in the dragon slaying endeavour. Having seen what Wolf had achieved, Wendell didn’t underestimate the other man’s intelligence and cunning.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. He drew in a breath, trying to regain his dignity. The light had taken on a louring, purple cast and the snow was falling steadily now. As Wendell looked out, he caught a flash of black and white fringed wings, and then another. He stuck his head out of the window eagerly trying to get another glimpse.

“Waddya see?” Wolf asked.

“Two magpies, I think.”

The coach came to a sudden stop and Brock came awake with a shout and wiped his wet brow with one hand. “I - ah - Your Majesty...” He eyed Wolf with a dark suspicion which seemed to leave the half-wolf unperturbed.

“What were you dreaming about?” Wendell asked curiously.

A shudder passed though the vintner’s stocky frame; his dark eyes were glassy.

“Whenever I sleep, I see the burning of Kissingtown again, hear the screams and the sound the dragon makes as it flies. Smell the fires, the scorched earth and wood, the burnt meat smell...”

Wendell felt his jaw go slack with horror and hastily closed his mouth. Wolf stirred uncomfortably in his seat. The coachman rapped politely on the door. His face was red, except where it was blue with cold, and his hat and cape were sodden. He bowed.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “the light is almost gone and the weather is too bad to continue in the dark. I recommend we stay at the local inn. If the mountains are still passable tomorrow, we can go on safely.”

“No delays,” Brock said hoarsely, “People are dying.”

Wendell thought for a minute. “What good will I be to the people of Kissingtown if I fall off a precipice in an ice-storm?” he replied, frowning. “I promise you, Brock, we will get there.”

Brock inclined his head, but Wendell thought he saw the whites of the man’s eyes as he did so, and the king shivered uneasily.

Wolf said as much to him later, as they sat by the parlour fire of the hastily scrubbed inn. Brock had gone immediately to bed. The owners had been astonished to see their king take refuge in their inn, and had wanted to clear the whole building for him. Wendell had graciously insisted it was unnecessary, and so everyone remained but there was a muted feel to what he suspected was usually a rather rough place. He was glad that as well as Wolf, he had his coachman and footmen with him, who all sat playing dice with the locals at another table.

“Watch that Brock guy, Wendy,” Wolf advised, taking a swig of cider and wincing. “He’s hanging onto his mind by a thread. I can tell and I’m the expert around here on that kind of thing. He smells wrong.”

Wendell, already nervy and irritated with Wolf’s selfish agenda, snapped, “You should address me as ‘Your Majesty.’”

Wolf shrugged and put down his tankard. He got up, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Your Majesty,” he said and walked to the door.

“Where are you going now?”

Wolf paused at the door, “Well, I was going out but I think someone’s coming...” the door burst open and a crowd of people swept through, talking and shouting, “...in,” he finished.

One of the noisy group, a huge red-haired man, carried something in his arms, a limp bundle in a blanket. He hurried over to the fire and laid it carefully down, not seeing Wendell at all.

“Innkeeper!” he roared, “Bring hot wine!”

Wendell politely held out his own cup. “Will this help?”

The man grabbed it without even looking at him and pulled aside a corner of the blanket. Silver hair spilled out, a tangled damp knot around a woman’s pale, narrow face. Despite the colour of her hair, she was not an old woman; her bones were angular and strong, her eyes were closed. The man held the cup to her lips and the contents ran down her chin. Some must have gone into her mouth because she choked.

“We found her on the mountain pass half-buried in a snow drift, naked as the day she was born,” The man explained, holding her up gently. The woman opened her eyes, and they were pale too. She seemed made from white stone, or ice, and she clutched the cup to her lips as if it were the last solid object on the earth.

Wendell couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was beautiful in an odd way; not the soft pleasing beauty of the court ladies, nor the buxom come-hither prettiness of women like Sally Peep. She was mysterious, with a strength in her face that made him think of the blade of a sword, and even in her extremity, she did not look helpless. She held the blanket to her, put down the cup and opened her mouth. She looked astonished when all that came from her mouth was a breathless hiss.

“My dear lady,” Wendell was hardly aware he had moved, but he found himself kneeling beside her, “You have had the most dreadful experience. You must not be alarmed if your body cannot recover so quickly as you would like.”

She stared at him intently, and nodded.

“Innkeeper!” Wendell shouted, not taking his eyes off the woman. The fat innkeeper hurried up, bowing and huffing. Wendell said, “Take this lady to the best chamber in the house and find her the best clothing that can be had in the village. I will make good your expenditure.”

The innkeeper nodded, huffing some more and motioned his wife forward. The goodwife helped the silver-haired woman up and led her away.

The red-haired rescuer, who seemed to be the leader of the group, looked more closely at Wendell, then gasped and bowed his head respectfully.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

Wendell, still staring at the door the goodwife had taken the mysterious woman through, said, “Hmmmmmmmm?” He heard Wolf groan, “Oh no,” but he paid no attention, seeing only a narrow, intelligent face surrounded by silver hair.

“Your Majesty,” someone was saying insistently in his ear.

“That’s me,” he murmured, spellbound.

In the grey light of early morning, Wendell stood by the carriage, an unaccountable flutter in his chest. The sky held promise of more snow, but as yet none had fallen. There was a biting chill that stuck in his throat and made his eyes water. Wolf and Brock had already retired to the comparative shelter of the carriage, and Wolf growled, “Come on Wendy...er, Your Majesty.”

Brock said urgently, “If it snows again...” There was a noticeable tremor to his hands, where they twitched at the front of his coat. Wolf, with his unerring instincts, eyed the vintner sidelong and edged away from him. But Wendell stood there still, not knowing what he was waiting for until the silver-haired woman appeared at the inn door. She was dressed in a white shawl and gaudily striped countrywoman’s dress that fit her badly. Something flipped over under his breastbone and he was taking her hand and bowing over it before he even knew he’d moved.

“Dear lady, how are you this morning?”

She opened her mouth, then arched one pale brow, paused and shrugged. Her gaze slid past his to the scarlet and gold carriage and some strong emotion passed over her angular features. She took a handful of quick steps, crunching through the ice-crusted snow in boots also too big for her. She laid a hand on the carriage door and looked back at Wendell for permission, the wind blowing her remarkable hair across her face.

“Is there someone back at Kissingtown you need to find?” he asked gently, “Your... husband perhaps?” He struggled to say the word.

She looked distressed, making a series of hissing noises. She shook her head I don’t know.

“You are such a mystery.” Wendell came up to her tentatively, as he would have approached a nervous animal. “What’s your name?”

She gave another frustrated shrug.

“Silver,” he said, not quite touching her hair. “Do you need to come back with us?” She nodded, smiling relief at his comprehension. He handed Silver up to the carriage and climbed in behind her, ignoring the attentive footman in his greatcoat, who closed the door after them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing Wendy,” Wolf muttered. Wendell didn’t bother to correct him. He watched Silver settle herself beside the half-wolf.

Though last night’s snowfall had been heavy, the passes were open enough to admit them. Brock predicted the next snowfall would close them. He seemed to cower under the weight of the snow-dark sky and the closer they came to Kissingtown the more agitated he became. Silver dozed, leaning against a corner and Wolf ... Wendell had never seen Wolf behave so oddly. First he made Brock sit next to Silver; then he made Wendell sit across from her. As far as Wendell was concerned that was fine, but Wolf kept scratching his temple and whining and sniffing and muttering till eventually Wendell asked, exasperated, “What’s wrong?”

Wolf glanced at him, hunching his shoulders and gestured Wendell to come closer. “As if it weren’t bad enough sharing a small space with Mr. The-sky-is-falling over there,” he muttered in the king’s ear and jerked his head at the sleeping woman, “She smells funny too.”

“What do you mean?” Wendell retorted loudly, offended.

“Shhhhhh, don’t wake her, she makes me nervous. She smells ... dry. Like snakes.” He nodded emphatically at Wendell.

The king struggled with the urge to strike the half-wolf. “You’re imagining things.”

Wolf edged nearer to the door shaking his head. “Huff-puff, we’d better get to Kissingtown soon, or I’m gonna have to walk.”

They got there before dark. Brock had gone beyond agitation to a kind of stuttering calm. Every so often he would laugh, or sob, then he would go utterly silent and still. Wolf watched both Brock and Silver with predatory wariness. It was not, Wendell felt, an appropriate entourage for a hero.

Except for the beautiful lady in the corner. Even asleep, her face was pale, no dream-flush on her white skin, her hands...

Wendell’s reverie was interrupted as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Wolf practically vaulted out of the door and Brock stumbled after him. Silver woke, uttering a horse croaking noise. Her confusion only lasted a moment before a questioning alertness washed over her narrow features.

“I think we’ve arrived,” Wendell said. They both got out. The king remembered Kissingtown well. He’d travelled there a bare few months ago. It had been neat and quaint and shining. Full of couples, strolling hand in hand down the sunny, cobbled lanes, past pink, chocolate-box houses. He saw it now under winter skies.

They had stopped so suddenly because the road to Kissingtown no longer existed. The cobbles had melted and run into a rutted hole. Heat still radiated out, turning the fallen snow into pools of dirty, simmering water. Smoke rose in grey columns to the grey sky. The houses were blackened shells, and stumbling through the ashes were the citizens, stunned disbelief still apparent on their faces, trying to feed and clothe and shelter themselves in the skeletal, charred remains of their town. The stench of burning filled the air.

Wolf turned to Wendell and the king wondered if he looked as grey and shocked as the half-wolf. “Wendell, this is terrible.”

Then they both saw it. One minute the sky was dark and empty of everything but clouds, and the next it was full of dragon. Wendell looked around wildly for Brock and Silver but he could see neither. The horses went wild. Kicking and screaming, they dragged the coach madly toward the bubbling pool of water. The coachman struggled desperately to cut the traces and was thrown for his pains. The leather traces snapped and the horses bolted. Wolf ran to the man lying frighteningly still in the slushy roadside.

The dragon was immense. It seemed the size of a mountain and the sight of it transfixed Wendell. Its body was shaped like a hunting hound, muscular shoulders, deep chest and elegant, upsweeping arc of waist. It was white and shining. The leading edges of its wings trailed glittering filaments and more crowned its brow. Curving spikes like icicles sprang out of the spine and flexible tail, which ended in another spray of filaments. As the thin winter light washed over it, hidden colours like iridescent rainbows sprang out on its hide. Its eyes were milky pearls. As it flew above him, Wendell could hear a keening vibrating harmony. Its deadly beauty rooted him to the spot.

He watched it execute a turn, a white phantasm against the threatening, snow-filled clouds, and on the down-sweep of its wings the smell of sulphur and a ripple of heat blasted across his face. From between fangs the thickness of his waist, a gout of blue-white flame erupted and struck the teetering remains of the clock tower. He saw the absurd running and shouting that commenced in the ruined streets; he saw a chain form of tired people passing buckets of water.

The dragon rose and turned again, shooting through a cloudbank. It felt as though a part of him rose with it, a yearning joy that shocked him, and suddenly Wendell became aware someone was shaking him and he focused angrily on Wolf’s face, sooty and dirt smudged. He wanted to strike the half-wolf for thoughtlessly destroying the incredible connection.

“Wendell, come on.” Wendell abruptly realised he had been standing without moving for long minutes while Wolf had been helping the citizens pass water in the chain. I should feel something about that, he thought distantly. Then he heard again the high, weird harmony the dragon made as it flew and he turned away from Wolf, tracking the sound till it burst from the cloudbank. It flamed again, idly, it seemed, sending the citizens running in panic as it melted more cobbles in the street. His heart soared longingly toward it.

“Wendy.” Wolf shook him again, roughly, leaving dirty handprints on his crimson uniform. “Dragon-slaying, remember that part? But that’s a really big lizard.” His brow creased worriedly. “I don’t know how you can kill it.”

“Kill it?” Wendell pulled out of Wolf’s hands, horrified. “It’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life.”