The Heart of the Lone Wolf (10 page)

Then all was black until the bag opened again and the Wanderer saw his face peering inside.

The last image faded slowly. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he couldn’t move, the last vestiges of his hatred dissolving. The Wanderer listened to the heart beating on the table, his hollow aching with tenderness for Ella Bandita and the girl she had once been.

He came back to his senses from the soft flakes falling on his head and shoulders, the intricate patterns melting when they touched him. The Wanderer looked up the tunnel, the lights sparkling against the snowfall that had finally come. He was surprised so much time had passed; even through the clouds he could see that night had become day. He shook his head and peered around the Caverns, marveling the heart had survived here for so long. The desolation made him bone weary and he wanted nothing more than to get out. Keeping his touch gentle, he gathered the heart and climbed the spiral, becoming lighter with each step. He came out of the tunnel where the chill refreshed him, inhaling deeply to expel the dank air of the Caverns.

He flinched when he heard a gasp, the burst of warm air on his left shoulder made him shudder. Pressing the velvet bag to his chest and determined to protect his charge, the Wanderer turned, almost expecting the Sorcerer of the Caverns. But he found the Shepherd instead.

“Shepherd!” the Wanderer called. “What are you doing here?”

The Wanderer noticed the handsome face was drained of color and the clear green eyes had gone dark, and remembered the Shepherd only knew him as the Wolf. He realized that he must appear like the Sorcerer, resurrected and transformed. Then the Shepherd recognized him, looking him over slowly.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said. “How did this happen?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well if you’re hungry enough, I’ll make breakfast and you can tell me.”

The Wanderer accepted, glad to have their friendship restored. The two men made their way through the trees to the flock scattered along the river, grazing before the grass was covered with snow. They stayed under the forest canopy, where they’d be sheltered.

They sat before the place where the Wanderer found Ella Bandita the day before. He noticed the Shepherd looked there as well.

The Wanderer was reminded of the first time he’d met him, talking as the other prepared the bread and cheese for their meal. But the Shepherd’s attention didn’t waver until the Wanderer finished his tale and opened the bag. Then his eyes widened when he saw the heart beating inside. The Shepherd said nothing, packing his pipe and taking a long pull. Then he passed it to Wanderer, his gaze fixed on that place near the river.

The Wanderer held the sweet cloy in his mouth for as long as he could, savoring the taste more than the meal. He fell over from the rush of giddiness when he exhaled, for a long time had passed since he last enjoyed tobacco. When he sat up, he saw the Shepherd staring into the bag, his features contorted and a thin blue vein bulging at his temple. His hollow ached for the Shepherd, but he kept quiet until his friend regained his composure.

“By the way,” he murmured, “you never told me what you’re doing here. This is nowhere near the route you take this time of year.”

“To be honest with you,” the Shepherd said. “I don’t know. Yesterday I was heading south. But that morning, I woke up knowing I had to come back here.”

He stared again at the heart before looking back at the Wanderer. He smiled, but there was no hiding the sorrow in his eyes.

“You have lived an incredible story, my friend.”

“Yes,” the Wanderer agreed. “That is certainly true, but for how much longer?

She’ll make good on her word, you know.”

The Shepherd opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself and nodded.

“I could be dead by tonight,” the Wanderer mused. “But I doubt she’s in a rush. I don’t think she can resist tormenting me one last time.”

He chuckled and shook his head.

“Remarkable,” the Shepherd muttered. “I never thought I’d witness anything like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t sound bitter at all.”

“Strangely enough, I’m not. I couldn’t bear a grudge against her now if I tried to.”

“You don’t have to accept doom,” the Shepherd said, nodding towards the bag.

“You could keep the heart you have now.”

“No, I can’t.”

“She gave it up years ago.”

“Yes, she did. But not to me.”

“You brought it back to life. That gives you a claim on it.”

The Wanderer didn’t answer immediately, gazing as far across the Abandoned Valley as the thick snowfall would allow. He could imagine how beautiful it must have been during that summer when a young girl and another wanderer rushed across the grasses to the northwest border, where they could ride and nobody would see them.

“You’re very persuasive, Shepherd. But this is hers and I think she’d want it back.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

The Shepherd spoke quietly, but something in his voice made the Wanderer

glance his way, hoping he would elaborate. When he didn’t, the Wanderer shrugged.

“Then I’ll take the risk. The choice is hers and I can’t deny her the chance to make it.”

The Shepherd nodded and stood up, reaching a hand out to pull the Wanderer to his feet.

“I passed a stable on my way here,” he said. “The patron offered me his fastest horse for ten of my sheep. If he has one such animal, I’m sure he’ll have two.”

The Shepherd’s instincts were right. Within an hour, they were mounted on two restless brown steeds. The patron also agreed to contain the flock in exchange for one sheep for every day. They were more satis fied with the bargain after they started to ride.

The horses ran as if the ground was made of air, needing only short stops for food and water.

They traveled without rest all day and night, following the path set by the Wanderer’s heart. He listened to it beating from the lair of its thief, and trusted his heart to guide them well. He knew they were close when he recognized the long stretch of woods, the No Man’s Land where he had met Ella Bandita more than five years ago. He remembered the day he had tried to venture north when she came out of nowhere and blocked his way.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Her lair is north of the border patrol. But I’m sure we’ll get around them if we start early in the morning.”

“In the morning? We could get there ahead of her if we go on.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” the Wanderer muttered. “Besides, I haven’t slept in more than two nights and we’re going to need our strength for tomorrow.”

He heard his pulse easily. His heart was so close he could almost feel it pounding inside him. He also sensed her presence through his skin, and wondered if Ella Bandita knew he was near. Then exhaustion took him into a sleep that went deeper than the land of dreams. Yet the Wanderer woke up before dawn, relieved when he heard the Shepherd was already awake.

The sky was clear and the blanket of snow served them well in the darkest hour, the white guiding them through the trees. They slowed down when they came to the border patrol, stealthy as they passed the solitary lawman keeping watch over two countries.

His pulse grew louder as they went, its resonance stronger in his hollow. The Wanderer was impatient, yearning for his heart to beat inside him again. Several miles north of the border, he knew they had arrived. He could almost smell the honey musk of Ella Bandita, and the echo inside him was the strongest pulse he’d enjoyed in years. But he was confused. Somehow his heartbeat was drowned in a chaos of noise. The Wanderer was suddenly assaulted with the pounding of foreign rhythms against him.

He held the heart in the bag close to him and a vision of Ella Bandita came to mind. He saw her walking down a narrow passage, the riot of sound more violent with each step. It was so bad he couldn’t get his bearings until the Shepherd found the path.

He pulled on the Wanderer’s arm, pointing to the deep tracks through snow that could only come from a massive horse. They found her stallion where the trees came to an end and the pounding was much worse. The Shepherd groaned and put his hands over his ears. Their horses were also agitated, whinnying and resisting the pull of the reins.

Then the Wanderer saw the tower. The structure glistened earthen rose in the sunrise. It was peculiar, a mound rising from nowhere and naked of snow and frost. After a moment, he realized there was too much heat from the hearts beating inside, and sensed his in the grasp of Ella Bandita. The Wanderer leaped from his saddle and rushed to the tower, finding the entry at its face. He held his breath and ran blind through the passage.

His pulse trilled inside his bones, yet the roaring continued its assault on him. Keeping Ella Bandita’s heart close, he fought to remain calm.

She had just come off the last step when he burst into the chamber. But he scarcely noticed. The sight of hearts spiraling up the walls to the apex was more than his mind could handle. The stench made his stomach curdle and he had to resist the urge to vomit. But the sound was the worst of all. The disharmonious heartbeats ricocheted off each other, echoing from the walls in a collective scream.

The Wanderer couldn’t move. The onslaught of stolen hearts nearly brought him to his knees, but he refused to pass out. One glance at Ella Bandita and he knew he was doomed if he gave in. The fierce desperation in her face took his breath away. Her eyes were as hard and cold as ever, yet her mouth trembled. She clutched her belly with one hand, while in the other she held his heart. She had to feed. The Wanderer felt her craving as much as he felt the gentle beat of her heart against his chest. There were tears in his eyes when he opened his mouth to appeal to her. Yet the words wouldn’t come.

“So, Wanderer,” she growled, “did you come simply to watch?”

Before he could answer, her gaze shifted and looked beyond him. He turned around and saw the Shepherd behind him at his left shoulder. The Shepherd averted his gaze and the Wanderer turned to see Ella Bandita had her crystal stargaze in hand. The morning light beamed through the windows and set the colors in a swirl around her. She frowned, dropping her stargaze and pulling her pistol from the holster.

“Leave now, Wanderer,” she said. “Or I’ll kill him too.”

In the midst of the stolen hearts beating all around her, the calm in her voice was eerie. Although she glared at the Wanderer with the contempt he knew so well, all he could see in Ella Bandita was pain.

“Please wait,” he said. “I have something for you.”

The Wanderer was flooded with tenderness as he gazed at her. Ella Bandita faltered for a moment, confusion flickering across her face. Then she scowled and stepped away. She cocked the hammer, staring at the Wanderer while pointing her gun at the Shepherd.

“Do you really think I’m in jest?”

But the Shepherd had already come around him.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Woman,” he said. “So put down your gun.”

Ella Bandita peered at the Shepherd making his way to her, his pace unhurried and his posture erect. The shock of recognition made her eyes wide. The Wanderer had never seen Ella Bandita dispossessed before, but she was thoroughly unnerved from the Shepherd’s presence. Her cheeks flushed when she slipped the pistol back in its sheath.

“You really have stayed young,” he said. “You look exactly the same.”

She nodded, but said nothing. The Shepherd and Ella Bandita were locked inside a stare until he broke away, drawn to the hearts climbing the walls. His vivid green eyes took in each one until he reached the pinnacle of the tower. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, his features quivering. When the Shepherd looked at her again, Ella Bandita glared back at him with de fiance in the tilt of her chin. Then he glimpsed the crystal stargaze resting above her breasts and the thin vein pulsed in his temple.

The Shepherd gripped the charm and twisted the chain to her neck. Ella Bandita didn’t resist, gazing at him coolly, even as the silver links dug into her flesh. When he tore the stargaze from her throat, she cried out and the cacophony of hearts reached a crescendo.

The pitch was enough to drive any man out of his senses. The Wanderer didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. The raging pulses urged him to howl, pull his hair out from the roots, and tear at his flesh. The Shepherd still gripped the stargaze in his fist and swept his arm in an arc, the stolen hearts howling even louder.

“How could you?” he shouted. “How could you want this?”

The Shepherd grabbed Ella Bandita by the arms and pulled her with him to the passage. Both stunned and relieved, the Wanderer followed them outside where the raucous pulsing was tolerable. The Shepherd kept his hold on Ella Bandita and nodded to the Wanderer.

“This is your last chance,” he said, and let her go.

The Wanderer was already pulling the gathers of the black velvet bag open. Ella Bandita glanced inside and blood drained from her face.

“Where did you get that?”

“The Caverns,” he said. “I’m here to offer you a trade.”

Warmth suffused her cheeks as she stared into the cradled palms of the Wanderer.

He had to restrain himself from rushing to Ella Bandita. He was overjoyed to watch her face grow radiant, knowing the change was from seeing her heart beat again. But she looked back to the tower, and her features hardened, her expression savage once again.

The throbbing started again, but the sensation was of dull uneasiness that made him aware of the stolen hearts pounding at his back, their dissonance ringing in his ears.

“If I take my heart back,” she said. “Then my pact with the Sorcerer is no more.”

“That’s hardly a misfortune. You have the chance to redeem yourself.”

The Wanderer wished he’d taken a moment before he spoke, immediately

regretting his words. Ella Bandita threw her head back and exploded in laughter.

“Redeem myself? Surely, you must be joking.”

The Wanderer glanced at the Shepherd, but he’d already closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he glanced back at Ella Bandita, he was filled with sorrow.