Meet ArctosA shape-shifter enslaved to a
sorcerer of Frost Clime, Sent into the heart of the Enclave to kill Wizards
Arctos knew he had not many words, but the few he had angered
the pack’s Prime. For all their truth, the Prime would view any report as a
challenge from a wyre he had not picked for this dangerous mission into the
heart of wizardry.
He must give the report. He would not flinch from it. Nor
would he flinch from the Prime’s anger. He was Secunde, second male of this
cobbled together pack. And if the sorcerer Sanglier was present when he
reported, all to the good. The sorcerer would not let an unjust punishment happen.
If punishment were deserved—Arctos shivered. He had seen the results. He had
tended the wounds, helped to speed the healing. But he would not avoid his job.
He was not afraid, not of the Prime. Of Sanglier, sometimes, but the sorcerer
would not risk the wyre pack assigned to him for his protection as they infiltrated
the Enclave.
Arctos sniffed a wizard and veered a little away. Active
wizardry made his hair stand on end. Instinct demanded that he shift and rend
and kill, but the sorcerer’s first command to the pack had been to attract no
attention. Blazing afternoon was no time for exposing the wyre. Here in the
Enclave, only secret kills of Fae and wizards were allowed. Arctos had growled
at that edict. Killing was not attracting attention; it was destroying an enemy.
He would obey, though. He had earned his position for this mission. Since he
represented his home pack, he would not dishonor his blood.
Last night should have been time for sweet deaths, but another
opportunity was missed. Arctos could not comment on that either. His own blood
Prime accepted criticism. Since leaving his pack, he had had to swallow words
aplenty. Now in the Enclave, in the city of three, Tres Lucerna, he still could
not kill enemies.
The house taken by the pack looked like others on the street:
a peeling door, windows curtained on the living floors and boarded up on the
attic and street and cellar floors. He bounded up the steps and tried not to
hesitate as he entered. The ward-spells were wizard-worked, and they jolted
every time he crossed them. Hibissi, least of the wyre, would not cross the
wards. She had not left the house since they’d arrived just before last
Moon-Bright.
Sanglier worked both wizardry and sorcery. Once again, as he
did once a day, Arctos wished he were back assaulting the border at Iscleft. Those
battles were clearer; their purpose, purer. Stalking wizardry on its own hearth
entailed subterfuge his wolf rebelled against.
“Been where?” the Septimus guarding the door snapped.
Arctos drew up and flexed his claws. Seventh brother did not
deserve an answer. “Am I missed?”
“Not yet,” he grudged.
Sanglier had taken the largest of the first floor rooms as
his own. There the pack gathered when they’d finished their duties and chores. This
late in the morning, the wyre would have finished training and would now act
like human servants. The master sorcerer, would only now be waking up. Arctos
paused, considering his news, then nodded and entered without knocking.
The curtains over the dingy windows were flung back,
evidence that Sanglier was awake. He sat propped on pillows, sipping the
steaming tea that he claimed was necessity but which had every wyre twitching
his nose. The prime Martel stood by the bed. A flick of his eyes acknowledged
Arctos’ entrance. Terce and Quintus waited at the foot of the four-posted bed. Last
night’s failure belonged to the Terce. Arctos decided his report should be
after, and he padded to a station beside the windows.
Only then did he see the two females kneeling beside the bed.
They were bent forward, hands extended toward Martel’s feet. Their foreheads
were pressed to the planks, their rumps in the air. Terce and the females were
the reasons that last night’s attack on a Fae had failed. Only the females,
though, were bound. Was Terce not to take his punishment?
Then Arctos saw the entwined black and red ropes. He hid his
wince. Punishment was coming.
He wanted to leave, but the rules of this house were to
honor the punishment with presence. Only Prime or Sanglier could dismiss a pack
member from watching a punishment. Arctos must not turn his head and look out
the grimy window. He kept a grimace from twisting his features, but he knew
anger burned in his eyes. Last night would not have failed if the Prime had
done his duty instead of wooing that flighty powerless Naught.
Sanglier set aside his tea.
Martel flinched. Ah, words had already been spoken. And the
Prime had taken the brunt. Arctos regretted not hearing that.
“The two at the bottom can decide it by pack law. The Elders
entrusted me with fifteen wyre, Martel. Fifteen. A female sickened and nearly died
on the journey. The first Decimus died in a lone attack not sanctioned by me. Now
we have lost another male. Thirteen left, of fifteen, and we have barely begun
our mission. I am not pleased, Martel.”
“My lord Sanglier—.”
He waved his hand. The Prime’s muzzle snapped shut. The
sorcerer looked at Arctos. “Secunde, you wanted to protest last evening. I saw
you bite back the words when Martel was appointing those who would go out. You
said nothing.”
“I question not the Prime, my lord Sanglier.”
“Wisdom. And not the first wisdom you should have spoken but
did not. What would you have done differently?”
“I question not the Prime, my lord.”
“I order you to answer, Secunde. Keep them down, Prime,” for
the first female had lifted her head.
Martel growled. Clemayya cringed and dropped her head with a
thunk.
“Secunde?”
His stomach dropped, but he said the words, trying to explain
them for the sorcerer who understood Pack rank and status but had never
bothered to learn how the fifteen loaned to him had worked out their positions
in this patched-up pack. “She did not obey Terce. He had lead, by your word,
but Clemayya will not obey a wyre beneath her, my lord. She and Egil are litter
mates. Egil follows her, not Terce. Prime leads, always, male or female. Prime
Clemayya can fight, yes, but she doesn’t plan. She is rash.”
“That can be good.”
“Not attacking a Fae, my lord Sanglier.”
“You forget, Secunde.” In her anger, the first female
straightened up to glare at the Secunde. “We have killed two wizards here, and
I was on both hunts. You were not.”
“Martel, I told you to keep her head down.”
“Regrets, my lord.” He pushed her back down.
“Stand on it. You heard me,” he snapped. “Put your foot on
her head.”
“My lord, she is the Prime female.”
“Put your foot on her head, Martel, or I will fix her in
place with a spell. She makes me waste power on her, and she will stay in that
position for two days and three nights.”
The Prime cringed but obeyed. His foot rested on her head. She
growled. And Arctos saw that he obeyed in form only. The shift in Martel’s core
betrayed that he rested no weight on that foot.
“Quartos is dead.” Sanglier folded the bedcovers back, as
calm as if he did not speak of death and blood. He plucked at the ties of his
bronze-colored nightshirt. “Octavus is wounded. Healed by me, but he needs a
hand of days before he can fight without ripping open my work. Terce will not
lead again, not in this house.”
“I thank you, my lord Sanglier,” the third whispered. His
gaze remained on the floor.
“Do not thank me yet, Terce. I have not decided your
punishment.” The wyre blanched. “What else, Secunde?”
“My lord, I have said all.”
He snorted. “You’ve not said half of it. Why should they not
have attacked a Fae? They have killed two wizards.”
Arctos slanted his gaze away from the Prime, not wanting to
offer any challenge. The time for that would come, but not with Terce in the
room. Terce had challenged three times; three times he lost. Sanglier might
want to punish him for last night’s failure, but Terce could almost taste pack
leadership. He would challenge again. Arctos would not attack Prime when Terce
would attack his back. If Terce did not attack during the battle, he would
attack, when the winner was exhausted and bleedy. Terce hungered for the pack
leadership.
“Why ask Secunde?” Terce growled. “He’s got no special
knowledge.”
“But he does,” Sanglier said, his voice as silky as his
nightshirt. “He fought at Iscleft for six years before his Prime recalled him
for the in-gathering. He’s fought Fae and wizards trained for battle. Martel
has. Quartos had. So had Decimus. Experience all of you should have had, but
the Elders in their wisdom thought four with experience were enough. The rest
of you must be taught.”
“We killed two wizards here,” Terce argued, and Arctos
remembered that Terce had supported Clemayya’s plan. He smelled of her
sometimes, when Martel had to be with the Enclave-born Naught that Sanglier had
brought in.
“Not two wizards,” the Prime countered. “A wizard in name
only and an adept.”
Clemayya heaved, but Martel shifted to hold her down. Jhennanni
whimpered.
“You lied to us,” Terce snarled.
“Not a lie,” Martel snapped. “I pointed them out as targets.
You obeyed. This is proof you know nothing about fighting wizardry. We will
increase our training. Secunde will teach you specifically, Terce.”
“No,” Sanglier said, reminding them that the human sorcerer
was dominant in this pack. “Prime will teach Terce and Septimus and Nones while
Secunde will teach Quintus, Sextus and Octavus. They in turn will teach the
women. And still I have not decided punishment. It should be ... fitting.” He
looked down at the women. “We are lucky to have heard no hue and cry for wyre
inside the walls. We are lucky no wards have caught you. Did you shift to fight
the Fae?”
Quintus shook his head. “We attacked with swords and
daggers.”
“You should have shifted,” the sorcerer spat.
For the first time, Arctos wanted to snarl. At last night’s
dinner, the Secunde sorcerer had warned them not to shift outside the house. From
the grimaces of the Prime and Terce, they shared his anger. Again he wanted
away from the Enclave. He wanted to return to his homeland. He could shift
there and run for miles. He could hunt at will and howl at the moon and stars. He
was not hemmed about by Fae and wizards. For the first time, he wished he had
not won his place in this pack controlled by a sorcerer, a man who could change
Pack law with a word, and his wyre must obey.
Discover more with the trailer: //youtu.be/jePz27U2Y6U
Fetch Remi Black's Weave a Wizardry Web here.
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