(no subject)
Written as I go.
The hunter cursed--Inakka heard the growl of sound and did not know what it meant, but only scrabbled at his blackened-steel breastplate and sank her sharp teeth into his shoulder. All around her, men and wolves were fighting men; naked human skin flashed as a wolf changed shape, blood flew--scream--blood flew--the human was a wolf again, and snarling--
Someone had set the bank on fire. Someone who knew that too many bodies with the marks of wolves' teeth would be clear evidence to the city what had happened when that torch-wielding mob had come pouring through the streets at night--
She wrenched her teeth from the human's shoulder and tore his throat out.
All around her was the scent of death and fear and storms. All around her were men and wolves, huddled in pools of blood or struggling into their clothing. Or lying in their own blood, watching themselves die, too close now to the last breath and the last heartbeat to remember the other shape that would save them. Or dead already.
How useless. How useless this slaughter.
Someone had set the bank on fire, when the survivors had pulled their clothes on with fatigue-shaking hands and picked up their weapons, and Inakka's dress had been stained with blood at the hem and across the bodice as though she'd actually used the sharp hoe in her hand to hack the wolf-hunters to pieces--
She turned to the next human-who-smelled-only-of-human, growled her intent and leapt as a massive, dark wolf met her quarry with enormous paws and jaws like a vise. The hunter cried high and cold to the ceiling as he fell.
Someone had set the bank on fire, and as Inakka trudged through the streets with her hoe heavy in her exhausted arms, she felt the first drops of rain on her upturned face.
The old world and all of its rules were dead. And the rest of the city would come to watch, come to try to put out the blaze, but they would save neither the building nor the bodies inside it; they would pick over the wet ash in the morning, and the constables would prod the corpses like ravens in search of sustenance.
The old world was burning behind her.
She hoped it would never rebuild.
+ + + + +
The policeman tapped at the door again, this time a powerful knock like the strike of a hammer. Inakka had no time to regret that their door had no lock before the caped and helmeted constable pushed the door open; she had no time to think that this was madness before she had stood and barred the constable's way with her own body.
"What do you want in our home?" she asked, as gently as a serpent swaying. With the same feeling of fangs beneath.
She had expected a condemnation in reply, a finger quivering with suppressed rage pointing at their guests . . . she had expected at least a cool statement of purpose. The silence that answered instead, though, chilled the air; the rain poured in behind the policeman's long cape, and new puddles on the stone floor flashed silver in the lightning.
His eyes were in shadow, and he did not smell of fear as he closed the door.
At last, when the silence inside grew so great that she could hear the drip of rainwater from the officer's soaked black uniform, Inakka asked, "Would you like some tea?"
The constable nodded once, pulled off his rain-heavy cape, and hung it next to Takka's cap at the door. He paused with his hand to his helmet and studied the Haaparis' croft from beneath its brim; whatever he saw in the gathered men, though, he left the helmet on as he took a seat on the red wolf's milking stool.
Inakka thought she heard a low growl, and she could not know if it was her guests', her brothers' . . . her own. It might only have been thunder--who was to say which of them was angriest tonight?
Riiri poured a measure of tea into a cup. His hands shook on the kettle, even though his face was stone; he looked everywhere but at Hashu and the red wolf, and that somehow drew Inakka's attention to them still more.
Neither one was afraid. But of course they're not afraid--if they kill him, they leave in the morning and leave this behind. If they kill him here . . . we have his blood in our house. Of course they're not afraid.
The constable sipped at the stout clay mug that Riiri offered, drinking in silence that would have felt companionable if Hashu had not kept his hand on the hilt of his broadsword, and if Takka had not been pretending to read a book while he darted worried glances at the constable.
Inakka found herself tapping her fingers lightly on her arm as she stood by the door; she willed her fingers still and took a deep breath as though savoring the autumn night and the smell of the fire.
The stranger smelled of wet wool, and that alone covered any unique scent that she might have noticed as a human. He did not smell of fear or unease; he did not smell of the predator before the kill; most importantly of all, though, he did not hold himself as though he were waiting for more policemen.
He did not smell quite human.
When he had finished his tea, the constable stood; he took a few hard steps to shake the last rainwater from his boots before going back out into the storm, and he pulled his cloak on last of all.
"Thank you for the tea," he whispered as he swung the door open onto the wide expanse of lightning-wracked farmland.
"Goodnight, Inakka."
The hunter cursed--Inakka heard the growl of sound and did not know what it meant, but only scrabbled at his blackened-steel breastplate and sank her sharp teeth into his shoulder. All around her, men and wolves were fighting men; naked human skin flashed as a wolf changed shape, blood flew--scream--blood flew--the human was a wolf again, and snarling--
Someone had set the bank on fire. Someone who knew that too many bodies with the marks of wolves' teeth would be clear evidence to the city what had happened when that torch-wielding mob had come pouring through the streets at night--
She wrenched her teeth from the human's shoulder and tore his throat out.
All around her was the scent of death and fear and storms. All around her were men and wolves, huddled in pools of blood or struggling into their clothing. Or lying in their own blood, watching themselves die, too close now to the last breath and the last heartbeat to remember the other shape that would save them. Or dead already.
How useless. How useless this slaughter.
Someone had set the bank on fire, when the survivors had pulled their clothes on with fatigue-shaking hands and picked up their weapons, and Inakka's dress had been stained with blood at the hem and across the bodice as though she'd actually used the sharp hoe in her hand to hack the wolf-hunters to pieces--
She turned to the next human-who-smelled-only-of-human, growled her intent and leapt as a massive, dark wolf met her quarry with enormous paws and jaws like a vise. The hunter cried high and cold to the ceiling as he fell.
Someone had set the bank on fire, and as Inakka trudged through the streets with her hoe heavy in her exhausted arms, she felt the first drops of rain on her upturned face.
The old world and all of its rules were dead. And the rest of the city would come to watch, come to try to put out the blaze, but they would save neither the building nor the bodies inside it; they would pick over the wet ash in the morning, and the constables would prod the corpses like ravens in search of sustenance.
The old world was burning behind her.
She hoped it would never rebuild.
+ + + + +
The policeman tapped at the door again, this time a powerful knock like the strike of a hammer. Inakka had no time to regret that their door had no lock before the caped and helmeted constable pushed the door open; she had no time to think that this was madness before she had stood and barred the constable's way with her own body.
"What do you want in our home?" she asked, as gently as a serpent swaying. With the same feeling of fangs beneath.
She had expected a condemnation in reply, a finger quivering with suppressed rage pointing at their guests . . . she had expected at least a cool statement of purpose. The silence that answered instead, though, chilled the air; the rain poured in behind the policeman's long cape, and new puddles on the stone floor flashed silver in the lightning.
His eyes were in shadow, and he did not smell of fear as he closed the door.
At last, when the silence inside grew so great that she could hear the drip of rainwater from the officer's soaked black uniform, Inakka asked, "Would you like some tea?"
The constable nodded once, pulled off his rain-heavy cape, and hung it next to Takka's cap at the door. He paused with his hand to his helmet and studied the Haaparis' croft from beneath its brim; whatever he saw in the gathered men, though, he left the helmet on as he took a seat on the red wolf's milking stool.
Inakka thought she heard a low growl, and she could not know if it was her guests', her brothers' . . . her own. It might only have been thunder--who was to say which of them was angriest tonight?
Riiri poured a measure of tea into a cup. His hands shook on the kettle, even though his face was stone; he looked everywhere but at Hashu and the red wolf, and that somehow drew Inakka's attention to them still more.
Neither one was afraid. But of course they're not afraid--if they kill him, they leave in the morning and leave this behind. If they kill him here . . . we have his blood in our house. Of course they're not afraid.
The constable sipped at the stout clay mug that Riiri offered, drinking in silence that would have felt companionable if Hashu had not kept his hand on the hilt of his broadsword, and if Takka had not been pretending to read a book while he darted worried glances at the constable.
Inakka found herself tapping her fingers lightly on her arm as she stood by the door; she willed her fingers still and took a deep breath as though savoring the autumn night and the smell of the fire.
The stranger smelled of wet wool, and that alone covered any unique scent that she might have noticed as a human. He did not smell of fear or unease; he did not smell of the predator before the kill; most importantly of all, though, he did not hold himself as though he were waiting for more policemen.
He did not smell quite human.
When he had finished his tea, the constable stood; he took a few hard steps to shake the last rainwater from his boots before going back out into the storm, and he pulled his cloak on last of all.
"Thank you for the tea," he whispered as he swung the door open onto the wide expanse of lightning-wracked farmland.
"Goodnight, Inakka."