The Wolf & The Witch

Claire held their cuff against her knee with all her strength, bracing it, and Lestat took the chain and twisted it, but could not break it- if he twisted any harder the cuff would cut into her skin. He tried the lock- he leaned in, twisted, and squeezed, and the lock popped, and the chain slid to the ground.

The witch caught it and lowered it slowly, quietly. So that was the extent of his strength? Still pretty strong, but not like a werewolf.

He lifted the chain and offered it to Claire, to put around her neck and cover herself, and she shook her head no.

“That’s way too heavy for me,” she whispered.

Lestat nodded, and wrapped it around his waist, tying it in a knot, as she had the rope. Then he quietly stomped out an indention in the corner of the clay pit. He stomped until the entire pit sloped to one corner, and water started pooling, leaking from the clay as if it were a sponge. Claire took the rope off her waist and tied a knot in the end, then another, and dunked it in the water. It was dark, and they were shivering, and she didn’t know if this would work or not, but they had to try something. Claire was certain- as soon as the alpha of this destitute, mongrel settlement returned he would march over, kill Lestat, chain her, and drag her to his tent.

Claire soaked the rope and tossed it up to the wooden grate, but it fell back. Again she tossed it, and again the knots didn’t grab, and the rope fell back. The third time she tossed it and the rope bounced off the wall. She handed the rope to Lestat.

“Your p-p-plan needs a little work,” he whispered, shivering. He swung the knots back and forth a few times, then tossed it up and over one limb. The rope caught, leaving about fifteen feet puddled on the ground.

Claire pushed all the rest of the rope in the water, soaked up as much as she could, then pulled it back, away from the corner. “Up, out, coats, b-b-boots, horse, g-gone.”

“It’s those f-f-finer details that I’m having a-a hard time with.”

It was the middle of the night and perhaps forty degrees. But, fortunately, it was slightly warmer in the clay pit- if they were in the wind they would’ve frozen in half an hour. They could hear other women groaning in the cold, shivering, crying, moving from one side of the pit to the other.

“Hold me,” she whispered. He put his left hand on her shoulder, and she looked at him. “Not like that, retard. I’m going to p-p-pass out, and I’d rather not b-bash my head.”

Lestat looked at her a moment, then scooped her up in his left arm. Once again, holding her in his arms forced her left wrist behind her back.

She looked up at him with stern eyes. “Do not look.”

“Ok.”

She paused, looking at him, then he looked up, and away, then she took her right hand off her breasts and leaned out and touched the rope, and leaned more, and he held her forward. Ice ran down to the puddle, and up the rope, and coated the corner of the pit. She focused, and envisioned a ladder, or steps, and ledges wove themselves into the ice- she grimaced, and bit her lip, and spent her life on magic, and hardened the column, compacted the ice around the rope and anchored it into the clay, then passed out in his arms.

He looked down at her. “What a good little witch,” he said, and tossed her over his shoulder. Her round, white ass was within biting distance, but he didn’t bite her, or smack her- he very much appreciated her efforts to save them, and this was still two birds with one stone- every time she used magic. Did all witches incapacitate themselves using magic? He didn’t think so. And she did do a very good job- he climbed up the pillar of ice easily, then he worried- it would break when he slid the wooden grate back. He scooted his body against the grate, shifted and dug his nails into the red clay, then pushed the grate back with his head. It moved and the ice pillar didn’t break. He reminded himself to praise her, then thought better of it. He snuck out and looked around quickly. A soldier was asleep, passed out in his chair in the shack- fire burned in a barrel beside him. Another was standing looking out into the trees, his back turned. Women, in their pits, groaned. The wind hit him sharp and cold, and then he heard a sound that froze his heart colder than the wind- the same one the soldier was turned listening to: horses coming through the woods.

Lestat had perhaps forty seconds to act, maybe a minute, and he used every bit of it- he shifted, muscles hardened, and fur ran down his body, and he shot towards the guard. His feet slapped mud and clay, and the guard turned and was just bringing his sword up when Lestat caught him with a heavy left hook. He crumpled. Lestat knew what was coming next- he grabbed the guard’s sword and fell to the ground with him, dead.

The other soldier woke with a start, and looked around- he saw the two laying on the ground, naked, and his friend on the ground. He shifted and thick fur ran down his body, and his muscles layered one over the other, and he gained a few feet in height. His shirt and coat ripped down the backs and shoulders and he jumped the thirty-foot distance in the span of two seconds. He landed with a thud, indenting the clay, and reached down for Lestat.

And Lestat turned and swiped, and faster than the werewolf’s eyes could follow the blade took his hand. The werewolf howled out, and swiped, and Lestat calmly ducked and removed his right foot and felt his sword chip. Lestat stepped to the right, into the wolf, and kicked his other leg out from under him, then pinned him to the ground at the tip of his sword. Lestat towered over him in the dark, with the naked witch over his shoulder. “Tell me about the other couple. Now.”

The wolf hesitated, and wavered between wolf and man.

Lestat eased the sword into the wolf’s neck, almost to the spine, and purposefully missed his esophagus, and spine, and arteries, and most muscles. He started to turn the blade.

“Please! Please. We didn’t see their faces- they had hoods. They were cuffed. They said they would join the pack, and help, then they stole a horse, food, and the wolf raped the Alpha’s mate. Please- that’s all.”

The night was black and cold, and Lestat worked hard at keeping his voice level, and steady. “Which way did they go?” Then he didn’t care- he twisted the blade and cleaved his jugular and carotid artery from his spine. The wolf gurgled, and spit, and couldn’t breathe, and his blood was the color of obituary inks on the hard red clay. Lestat ripped the coat and shirts off the man he had knocked out while the wolf behind him died. He jerked his boots off his feet, pulled his pants down, grabbed scraps of coat from the dying wolf, bundled the sword up with the clothes, felt Claire wake up, and ran towards the other side of the village- the squatty wooden houses.

The women in the pit called up and yelled, and the old white-haired Alpha, and his black-haired son, heard them as he rode into their village. Prisoners, and two guards dead and dying. He hopped down from his horse, along with his son and their pack, and left their horses standing, stomping, snorting, and walked over. One dead, one knocked out, and they were missing most of their clothes. But no woman here had the physical strength to knock one of his men out. Then the Alpha heard the slap of feet on the ground, and the thump of saddle bags, and the creak that follows a person sitting on a horse. He turned, and heard another sound: fire crackling, and he smelled smoke.

The Alpha had a choice to make- save his home, or go after the thieves. A very hard choice if he had to pick just one, but he didn’t. He sent four human soldiers and two wolves after the thieves, and with the rest of his pack saved his home. The theft didn’t worry the Alpha, and the fire didn’t worry the Alpha. What worried the old wolf was how Beth, the witch of dust, would respond to this threat: two attempts to destroy one of her villages in under a week, by some foreign wolf and witch- odd timing given Beth’s sister had been missing for a month, now.