He awoke slowly, to a faint burning ache over his whole body, and a strange dim cold feeling. Gradually he came to realize he was on the table again, wrapped in a heavy blanket. The moment he remembered it, his hand went to his throat, groping for the collar, but he couldn't feel it. A larger, stronger, much warmer hand caught his own.
"Please, try not to move quickly," he heard Oleth say. "I've removed the collar."
"It didn't work..." Sulos murmured.
"No. You ... you've had a heart attack. I've had to slow your metabolism to try to lessen the damage, to prevent another one, but you'll be better off if you can keep from moving... I'm very sorry."
Sulos opened his eyes. Half-healed burns stung faintly on his face, and his canines were still not yet entirely human.
"What happened?"
Oleth explained the unfortunate findings as best he could. "The important thing now is for you to eat and rest. I think we should hold off on the experiments for the next month, to let you recover," he added.
Sulos sighed.
I've got to get out. I've got to get out. Quietly in the beginning, but more noticeably with time, the phrase pulsed and resonated in the back of his mind, even as Diran waited on him hand and foot. He was permitted his ledger and research materials on the condition that he eat every waking moment. It wasn't difficult; the only dishes he sent back were those accidentally containing meat or lard.
During the first week, while he was under "physician's orders" not to stand or exert himself, Sulor noted a single telling change in laboratory procedure: Diran no longer needed Oleth's presence to open the cage.
I've got to get out. I've got to get out. Suddenly, instead of stretching out behind him, time seemed to pile on top of him all at once. Gods, I've been in here two months! Two months with no sun! His research turned toward the study of magic places; healing springs, sacred caves, and so on. Oleth visited every day, seemingly anxious to see him putting on weight, and he tried not to let the extra attention bother him.
The plan came to him subtly and fully-formed; he could never afterwards remember when. It was laughably simple, and all he had to do was what he was told.
I've got to get out. I can't stay here. He spent the new moon dreaming of the outside world and everything he'd relish about it, once he returned to it. The small fantasies made it easier to bide his time, somehow.
I've had some time to figure this out.
There are thirteen full moons in a year. If each one spends an average of twelve hours in the sky (adjusting for seasonal variation), then werewolves spend less than two percent of their time as actual beasts. Yet our heads are still worth fifty gold each -- that's five cows, or ten sheep! Never have I met a werewolf who had caused that much damage.
And nearly every human killed by a werewolf has been a werewolf hunter.
That month the beast was lean, but apparently healthy. It didn't pace, whine, or howl, but simply sat watching the unnerved researchers quietly.
"What's this mean?" Oleth muttered. "You don't suppose it's thinking -- ?" The black wolf sank into a reclining position and lay there briefly before rolling about on its back like a pet dog.
"Maybe it's just tired?" Diran ventured, and took a few cautious steps in the direction of the cage. He froze when the beast speedily righted itself to regard him. After four or five tense heartbeats, it snorted at him, and went to play chew-tug with Sulos' pants.
The healer-priest recorded his observations carefully.
Sulos let himself be put back to bed with a new pair of pants. He felt utterly spent, but made an effort not to go back to sleep. Oleth, for a change, was sweeping out the cage. He could not have asked for a better opportunity.
"Where's Diran?" he inquired.
"He's upstairs making you a breakfast," the priest answered. "You still look a little thin, to me." He stooped to pick up a dustpan of hair, left the cage to empty it, and returned to continue sweeping. "Plus, I'm afraid I can't cook to save my life," he admitted.
"I see," Sulos murmured, gathering his nerve. He winced behind Oleth's back as he bit down on his inner cheek as hard as he could stand. "Ah -- I should give you a hand with that," he offered lamely, coppery blood beginning to flow over his tongue as he pulled himself to his feet (the silver stung him). He gritted his teeth against anticipated nausea, and swallowed.
"No, that's all right; I'm nearly done," Oleth responded. "You need your rest."
Sulos did not sit down. An aspect of the beast was rising through him like red smoke, and when the desperate internal summoning was complete, it seemed to him that he stood in a room full of blood. He smelled it, he tasted it trickling down his throat, he saw it painted as if on a window in front of everything. Everything was blood. He sensed the holy man ws about to leave him and all the scheming and study of the past month -- of the last three months -- seemed to condense on him at once, and the moment became Now.
His awareness dimmed and his teeth ached in the primeval trance, and the next thing he knew the holy man's throat was in his hands. He poured all his strength into them as his last resort. Oleth could not be permitted to speak even one word for a spell, but Sulos could still sense keenly the violent disturbances he was making in the astral continuum, trying to defend himself silently. He could sense them faltering...
"Please don't construe this as a reflection on your hospitality," he muttered into the priest's ear before the larger man finally, finally went limp and senseless.
As swiftly as he could, lest the holy man revive inconveniently early, Sulos took the handle off the broom and stepped out, locking the cage door after he used it. In a frenzy of haste he ran to the cabinets at the other side of the room, seeking his personal effects. His purse was in the leftmost cupboard by the wall, and -- yes, his pin was still inside. He shouldered it and ran up the stairs two at a time with the broomstick.
Above ground, the building resembled a quiet, book-lined residence. It was dark and grey as the predawn, except for the occasional orange sunbeam, which led Sulos to believe he was heading toward the east end of the house. He quickened his pace as he felt the trance receding, and unexpectedly stumbled across the kitchen.
He very nearly collided with Diran. There was an awkward, frozen moment while both men stared in shock and alarm; then Diran set down his tray and cast Diem Wing.
Sulos lay stunned from his impact with the room's far wall only momentarily. His mouth had stopped bleeding not long ago, and the taste of blood was becoming unbearable again. Diran entered his field of vision, preparing an electrical spell just beyond arm's reach.
"Giga B -- ah -- " he cried out as Sulos whipped the broomstick up and across his skull. Then it was Diran's turn to go down. Before he could get to his feet, Sulos dealt him a single sharp jab at the base of his throat with the butt end of the stick, and ran for all he was worth.
He heard a yell behind him after he burst through the front doors; most likely Oleth, he assumed without looking back. He let his teeth graze the wound in his cheek and sucked out a few last drops of blood as he hastened down the front steps, turning inward again.
Give me ... give me my power, he demanded of the sleeping demon. He knew he ran the risk, through this sort of contact, of merging even more closely with it, and becoming permanently a weird lupine monster neither wolf nor human. He spun away quickly when he had what he needed, and looked back over his shoulder at the house from the middle of the empty bricked street. He was certainly being pursued.
I have enough for one spell, he knew; the thought was clear and sharp like an icicle. Oleth's front doors were thrust open a second time --
"Dark Mist!" Sulos cast, and fled into the visual and astral cover of the dense vapor billowing down the streets. He ran until his shirt clung to the sweat on his back, and his body threatened to dump him on his face; he had started out exhausted. Lost in a maze-like and now heavily fogged residential area, his legs gave way when he stopped in the road to catch his breath.
Of course -- I forgot -- He fell on all fours, panting, and his purse slid to the cobblestones. After last night -- I've pushed it to the limit. I won't be good for anything, today. He crawled beneath a roadside hedge to rest, missing his cloak more deeply than Oleth's pillows or Diran's cooking, and after arranging the brush to hide him from sight and wind, Sulos fell asleep quickly and deeply.
It has weighed on me lately that however much attention and honor is granted a great healer or discoverer, no one remembers his first success, or the hundreds who died miserably in the dark to grant him knowledge. However, it is not the lack of notoriety that disturbs me, as you may well discern. I am not enough possessed by this demon to survive in constant, silent darkness like an insect, and by incarcerating me you also prevented yourself from traveling and seeking.
It was not my intent for any to be harmed in my attempt, and I apologize if this was the case. I further hope that this book may offer some clue as to whether it is the Beast or some urge of my own that drives me toward the sky and glen; the craving in me for the sweet, life-scented air of the deep woods is now so strong I can no longer tell the difference.
Regards,
Sulos