The Second Empire Read Free

yet—not just yet, anyway.”
    The great wolf bared its fangs in what might have been a grin. “Well, we must be thankful.”
    “How much longer will you be like this?”
    “I don’t know. I am beginning to control it. This morning—was it morning? One cannot tell down here—I stayed human for almost half a watch. Two hours.” A low growl came out of the beast’s mouth, something like a moan. “In the name of God, why do you not let Murad kill me?”
    “Murad is mad. You are not, despite this—this thing that has happened to you. We were friends, Bardolin. You saved my life. When we get back to Hebrion I will take you to your master, Golophin. He will cure you.” Even to himself Hawkwood’s words felt hollow. He had repeated them too many times.
    “I do not think so. There is no cure for the black change.”
    “We’ll see,” Hawkwood said stubbornly. He noticed the lumps of salt meat which bobbed in the filthy water of the bilge. “Can’t you eat?”
    “I crave fresher meat. The beast wants blood. There is nothing I can do about it.”
    “Are you thirsty?”
    “God, yes.”
    “All right.” Hawkwood unslung the wineskin he had about his neck, tugged out the stopper, and hung the lantern on a hook in the hull. He half crawled forward, trying not to retch at the stench which rose up about him. The heat the animal gave off was unearthly, unnatural. He had to force himself close to it and when the head tilted up he tipped the neck of the wineskin against its maw and let it drink, a black tongue licking every drop of moisture away.
    “Thank you, Hawkwood,” the wolf said. “Now let me try something.”
    There was a shimmer in the air, and something happened that Hawkwood’s eyes could not quite follow. The black fur of the beast withered away and in seconds it was Bardolin the Mage who crouched there, naked and bearded, his body covered in saltwater sores.
    “Good to have you back,” Hawkwood said with a weak smile.
    “It feels worse this way. I am weaker. In the name of God, Hawkwood, get some iron down here. One nick, and I am at peace.”
    “No.” The chains that held Bardolin fast were of bronze, forged from the metal of one of the ship’s falconets. They were roughly cast, and their edges had scored his flesh into bloody meat at the wrists and ankles, but every time he shifted in and out of beast form, the wounds healed somewhat. It was an interminable form of torture, Hawkwood knew, but there was no other way to secure the wolf when it returned.
    “I’m sorry, Bardolin… Has he been back?”
    “Yes. He appears in the night-watches and sits where you are now. He says I am his—I will be his right hand one day. And Hawkwood, I find myself listening to him, believing him.”
    “Fight it. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let the bastard win.”
    “How much longer? How far is there to go?”
    “Not so far now. Another week or ten days perhaps. Less if the wind backs. This is only a passing squall—it’ll soon blow itself out.”
    “I don’t know if I can survive. It eats into my mind like a maggot… stay back, it comes again. Oh sweet Lord God—”
    Bardolin screamed, and his body bucked and thrashed against the chains which held him down. His face seemed to explode outwards. The scream turned into an animal roar of rage and pain. As Hawkwood watched, horrified, his body bent and grew and cracked sickeningly. His skin sprouted fur and two horn-like ears thrust up from his skull. The wolf had returned. It howled in anguish and wrenched at its confining chains. Hawkwood backed away, shaken.
    “Kill me—kill me and give me peace!” the wolf shrieked, and then the words dissolved into a manic bellowing. Hawkwood retrieved the storm-lantern and retreated through the muck of the bilge, leaving Bardolin alone to fight the battle for his soul in the darkness of the ship’s belly.
    What God would allow the practise of such abominations upon the world he had made? What manner of man