Rise of the Death Dealer by James Silke, Frank Frazetta

returned these courtesies of the wild, sniffed the she-wolf’s muzzle, touched the animal’s nose with her own nose. The animal licked her eye then stepped back, whimpered slightly.
    The girl sat up slowly, took more chicken from her pouch and fed the wolf from a sitting position, face-to-face. Intermittently she offered the animal water from her waterskin. Before long, the wolf was chewing and swallowing at a reasonable pace and she was petting it at will.
    Gath had watched with the corner of one eye, as if it were unsafe, or unholy, to watch with both. Now he kept one eye averted as he and Sharn crept down to a dark shadow at the base of a boulder not seven strides from the thorn tree.
    When the she-wolf finished feeding and lay docilely beside her, the girl drew her knife and held the animal’s broken leg in her left hand. She trimmed the bloody fur away, doused the wounds with water, and gently licked the wounds until they reopened and bled cleanly. She then massaged the bones until they were loose and pliable within the body of the foreleg. As she did all this, she continued to murmur softly.
    She tore lengths of cloth from the hem of her tunic, and broke two straight sticks off the tree. They were slightly longer than the broken portion of the leg. She removed a tiny jar from her shoulder pouch, and poured its pastelike contents over the open wounds. Then, with a sudden, precise jerk, she pulled on the foreleg, reset the bones. The she-wolf shrieked and started to bolt upright. The girl, petting her, held her down. She bound the medicated wounds with cloth, then positioned the sticks as splints and tied them to the foreleg. The animal tried to get up, but she gently pressed her down whispering, “Not yet.”
    For a long time she leaned over the wolf, kissing the animal repeatedly about her whiskered face and whispering into her ear.
    Suddenly the animal bolted upright, and the girl sat back smiling with warm pleasure. The she-wolf tottered off, stopped, sensing something, then trotted haltingly off into the night.
    The girl watched the animal until it was gone. Humming to herself, she put her things away and stirred the fire to life. She sat down, drawing her covers around her, then stared dreamily into the fire.
    The distant bay of a wolf rode through the night’s silence. It was strange and beautiful as it mixed with the wind’s song in the trees. The girl lay down contentedly. A moment later the savage lullaby had rocked her to sleep.
    In the concealment of the nearby rocks, Sharn stared with a profound intensity at the sleeping girl. Beside him, Gath uncorked his waterskin, took a long drink, pouring some over his flushed face, then whispered, “Sorcery.”

Fifteen
    A TOAST
     
    T he same star-spattered night sky which roofed The Shades also cast its faint light on a narrow trail through the cataracts miles to the east. There mounted soldiers moved north down the pass, an undulating blackness glittering metallically where starlight touched it.
    A Kitzakk regiment. Filthy. Deadly. Nearing the end of a three-day march from Bahaara. It consisted of sixty-six men; two companies of light-horse Skull soldiers armed with crossbows and scimitars. Their faces were painted black to resemble skulls. They were raiders, not invaders, equipped to spread terror and take revenge.
    Two commanders, mounted on heavy black stallions, led the regiment. Working soldiers. Metal clad. Cluttered with the totems of dead enemies. Wearing enough grime and sweat between them to fill a wine pitcher.
    Two wagons followed the commanders. The first was lacquered black and had a cagelike carriage on which rode three hollow-cheeked, black-robed guards of the Temple of Dreams. The second was a supply wagon heaped with spare weapons, saddles, and food.
    The first dim light of day tinted the night sky as the raiders reached the bend in the trail where their two scouts waited for them. Up ahead, still a half-day’s march away, the regiment could