Part 5
Red blinked awake, well aware that she currently lay in a large pool of mud. She could feel it sticking to her skin, coating her side. For a moment, she couldn't recall why she had chosen to lay down and rest in the middle of the forest instead of finding somewhere safe and protected, nor what exactly happened to her just before she passed out. Her muscles ached from laying against the unyielding, rocky surface for so long, and from her fight with the burly shepherd, Marc. How she wanted so badly to stand and stretch!
A whining yelp reached her ears, and
Red raised her head as a wolf with white fur traipsed into view--the
same one that attacked the sheep! Seeing him now evoked the memories
of the villain charging heedless through the streets of Queston, and Red felt
the strength she needed building in her limbs to stand and confront
him
She only made it halfway to her full
height, though. Red looked down at where her hands should have been,
seeing only muddy paws in front of her. She could feel the clumps of
mud clinging to her wolf's fur--why did she not shift?
The white wolf had picked
up the bundle of cloth she had seen him carrying earlier--and now he
dropped it at her feet, laying his ears back and giving a subservient
whine. She noted how he kept his head below hers, not quite showing
abject submission, but at least acknowledging her superiority, in
spite of the fact that he did have the advantage of size over her.
Red turned the thing
over with her paw, and saw a face amid the scraps. A doll! Not just
any doll; Red bent down and sniffed. It matched the girl's scent from
earlier--had it been that day? Or had she lain there all night? She
lifted her head to scent the time of day. Early morning--so it was
the following day, after the celebration at Queston, after
discovering Henny and her errant shepherd... Red sensed the white
wolf inching too close to her and jerked back with a snarl. She
attempted to place a paw on the doll--she could still bring it back
to the village, after dispatching the wolf--but he had already hooked
the fabric with his teeth and now doubled back with the doll dangling
from his mouth. Red swung her ears forward and flattened her tail,
growling sharply to let him know that she wanted it back, but the
white wolf simply shook his head back and forth, sending the doll
flapping and flailing as he gave a playful grunt. He leaned forward
with his forepaws outstretched, his tail curled upward in a curious
plume. This time, he wanted to
be chased.
Red geared up to give him what he
needed, but the moment she stepped with her left forepaw, it gave way
and sent her stumbling awkwardly sideways. Searing pain radiated from
the joint all the way up to her shoulder, and Red knew she had a
problem. While it wasn't anything that a bit of Mrs. Garrity's
ointment couldn't solve, she wouldn't be able to retrieve the jar
while in her wolf form.
A shrill whistle caught her ear.
"Rascal!" Called a voice.
"Where'd you get to?"
The white wolf turned his head and
inclined his ears toward the sound.
Red fell absolutely still and did her
best to try and melt into the undergrowth as the crunch of human
footsteps grew closer. This wolf was a tame beast? The white
wolf made a wide arc to sweep past Red and head straight toward
something in the distance. Red smelled woodsmoke on the air. Rascal
let out a small yelp, and she heard the person respond.
"Here, boy! What took you so
long?"
Rascal trotted toward a break in the
bushes, but once again, he came back around to Red. She watched him
approach, his head held low, ears pressed back against his head. He
padded slowly, almost melting into the dirt at her feet. She growled
a warning at him, curling her lip to show her teeth, to which the
white wolf responded by rolling over and leaning his head up to
expose his neck. There would be no more fighting between him. He was
ready to give in to her.
Too late, Red's attention returned to
the man who seemed to be Rascal's master. He had already approached
the rise just ahead of them, and he spotted Rascal at once, sprawled
as he was in the dark dirt, his clean white underbelly exposed.
"Rascal! Are you hurt, boy?"
The white wolf scrambled to his feet
with a small yip, trotting over to the figure whose shape looked
familiar to Red. She hadn't even known there was a camp this far out
of Queston--where could she have seen this man?
The man reached out and rubbed the top
of Rascal's fluffy head. Red didn't so much as twitch a muscle. She
still clung to the belief that there might be a chance he hadn't
actually spotted her.
"No," he murmured, "it
looks like you're all right. Well then, who did--"
Rascal left off rubbing against the
man's legs to gaze in Red's direction and whine. She never wanted to
just melt into the shadows so much!
"Who's that?" he murmured. "A
friend?" He crouched down in a non-threatening posture. "Don't
be afraid; I'm not going to hurt you."
That voice! She knew that voice! Red
staggered forward, itching to get a clearer view of the dark man in
the cloak. He smelled familiar--she detected hints of bread flour,
sugar, and of the crimson hoods that only grew in the crags around
Queston. The question became: who from Queston would be camping out
in the mountains, so far from town?
His hands reached her side, and Red
shrank away with a snarl at the sudden pain. He backed up.
"I'm sorry," he murmured
softly. "Something messed you up good, darling." He turned
and regarded the white pup at her side. "You wouldn't know
anything about that, would you, Rascal?"
Rascal dipped his head and trotted away
toward the man's camp, like he didn't understand the things this
human said to him.
Red watched as the hand dipped below
her face, letting her get more of his scent--she smelled a whole host
of spices, and still a natural scent below it all that she recognized
as well as she had known his voice. Who was he?
"Come here, lovely," he
crooned. "We'll have you fixed up in no time. I have food, too.
Come on, there's no need to fear."
Slowly, struggling to keep her balance,
Red limped after the man, puzzled at knowing him but not being able
to identify him, even in the dark.
They arrived at the camp just over the
rise, where a cheery fire crackled and hissed. Just beyond the
dancing golden light, Red could distinguish a massive shape looming
in the shadows, but her bleary eyes refused to focus on it. There
were other things attracting her senses. Resting on a spit over the
flame was a small, quadruped body, neatly flayed.
The man sat before the fire and took
out his knife, carving off a piece of the roasted animal. "Now,
then," he said, "how would you like a nice piece of roasted
lamb?"
Red stood at the edge of the fire,
feeling its heat on her face. Hearing the word "lamb"
reminded her of the fight where she had received most of her
injuries: the morning she had to chase away the white wolf from among
Queston's flock. A lamb had gone missing, and Rascal had torn the
bellwether ram to shreds. Seeing it now, offered to her at the end of
a stick, Red felt all that fury return, and she looked up into the
face of the man who offered her food and protection.
Merry eyes twinkled back at her. Every
hair along Red's spine stood straight up. She knew every crack and
crevice of this face, every wrinkle, every hair from the crown of his
head to the carefully-manicured mustaches on his lip and chin. She knew it
because this same person visited Queston every time the roads
cleared, as often as he could. Rascal's master was none other than
Justin the Peddler!
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