Children of the Wolves Read Free

mauling — it was the trader, he was her friend — she must find the physician. Her thoughts tumbled together and she forced herself to focus on one thought to the exclusion of all others. She must find the physician.
    Her boots skidded in the hard-packed dirt as she flung open the door to the infirmary that abutted the main hall. He was there, where she had expected to find him. Peter, a little trueborn boy, was suffering slowly and painfully of lockjaw fever and it tormented the physician that he didn’t have the medicines to give the child ease, so he sat by the boy’s bedside, hour after hour, more vigilant than the child’s own parents.
    She grabbed the physician’s hand, her own hands shaking, and she must have communicated her horror because he clasped her shoulder, then headed toward the courtyard to see what he could do. Heart pounding, she raced after him, arriving in the courtyard steps behind him. Michael and the sentry gently lifted the trader from his saddle, placing him on the ground and stepping back to let the physician do his work.
    Jelena caught another glimpse of the torn body and turned away, pressing one palm against the tightness in her chest and one against the nausea in her belly. The trader had charmed her and told her lies about his pastself and accepted her. He had liked her just as she was, not caring what she might have been or what she might become. To have met a death like this —
    â€œWolves,” the sentry said again. “We heard them sneaking around tonight.” The other sentry nodded in agreement. He gave Jelena a glance; he had heard her welcoming howl. Then he met Michael’s steady gaze and refrained from accusing her.
    â€œNot wolves,” Jelena said, struggling for breath. “They didn’t do this.” She wrapped her arms around her trembling body. The wolves would never do this … would they? What did she really know about the creatures on the other side of the fence? She had never been on the other side of the fence. Her instinct told her the wolves would not harm the people. Not the trader, anyway, who had sense enough not to threaten or provoke a wild animal. But instinct wasn’t knowledge, and as she glanced at the faces of the people surrounding her, her shoulders slumped and she knew they would never listen to her.
    Michael crouched near the trader’s body, his arms crossed over one bent knee. He reached forward and moved one of the man’s arms, as if to make sure he saw the entire graphic spectacle, the gaping wounds, the flesh torn away, as if he must commit it to memory. Jelena turned away and closed her eyes. The image of the trader’s suffering was already seared into her mind’s eye. She would never forget it.
    The physician knelt next to Michael, who stood to make way for him. Jelena knew the trader was dead but somehow she had hoped that the physician would prove her wrong. She had never seen a miracle but she wasn’t unwilling to believe in them. She watched, eyes stinging. The physician conducted a brief examination. That he didn’t even try to revive the trader or bind his wounds made the grief tear at her throat.
    Within a few minutes, a silent crowd had gathered, staring aghast at the dead man on the ground. All laughter and merriment fled. The people kept a respectful distance, and they had pain, not curiosity, in their eyes. It was their pain Michael addressed when the physician got to his feet and shook his head.
    â€œThis is the Way,” Michael said. “Death follows life. The cycle of celebration and sorrow. Today we weep over the loss of a loved one who has gone beyond self to the world we may not know.”
    The assembled villagers bowed their heads at his words. Then curiosity overcame pain and someone asked, “What happened?”
    â€œWolves,” Michael said.
    Someone made a shocked sound of dismay, but none seemed to question what Michael said. Jelena