The Pool of Two Moons by Kate Forsyth Page A

across the loch's frozen surface. Renshaw heard the clamor of the wolves behind him and, looking over his shoulder, saw they were racing after him. Then the other pack broke from the shelter of the wood and angled across, threatening to cut him off from the shore. He whipped the laboring mare on.
    He was only a few yards from the opposite shore, the two packs of wolves converging on him, when there was a great crack as the ice broke. With a scream, the mare was flung forward into the icy blackness. For a moment the seeker was swallowing water, then his head broke free and he grasped the stirrup. The mare was trying desperately to climb out onto the ice, but he dragged her back, using her height to climb out himself. Then he was running, for the castle was looming up ahead, and the wolves had reached the crack in the ice. He fully expected them to feast on his mare, who was still struggling desperately to be free of the icy water. To his horror, they bounded over her head and raced after him, the black she-wolf howling in triumph.
    Renshaw ran as he had never run before, hampered by the weight of his drenched clothes, now freezing to stiffness on him. He saw the drawbridge ahead. Thankfully it was lowered, and he pounded up the road, trying to shout. He felt hot breath on his neck and then a great weight took him down, pain searing through him.
    Anghus MacRuraich, Prionnsa of Rurach and Siantan, was brooding over a dram of whiskey, the firelight warming his boots, when there was an outbreak of noise and activity below. He raised his chestnut-brown head, but did not move. Soon the castle's chamberlain came, bowing respectfully.
    "There is a seeker below, my laird," he said.
    Instantly Anghus stiffened. "Here in the castle?"
    "Aye, my laird. He was attacked by wolves and barely -made it here alive." Pity, Anghus thought bitterly. He rose to his feet, wrapped his black-woven plaid around him more securely and followed the chamberlain down the long and draughty stairs to the lower hall. There his gillie Donald was waiting, and some of the guards from the drawbridge. All speculating and explaining at once, they led him into the inner bailey, through the bitterly cold courtyards and gardens, the snow-swirled outer bailey, and so to the gatehouse. On one of the guards' beds lay a seeker, blood oozing from a wound to his temple. The back of his crimson tunic was torn, and Anghus could see he had been savagely bitten. He could hear howling and went to the narrow window to look outside. It was fully dark now, but he could see a great pack of wolves churning up the snow on the drawbridge. They were sniffing and growling at the scent of the wounded seeker.
    One, a large she-wolf with a black upstanding ruff, was sitting calmly in the very center of the drawbridge, gazing up at the gatehouse with yellow eyes. He could see her clearly in the smoky light of the torches. It seemed as if she looked straight at him.
    He knew the wolf. She was the matriarch of the pack that hunted the lands around Castle Rurach. He often saw her when he was riding in the forests. She would step out of the undergrowth and sit where she could watch him, her yellow eyes compelling. The MacRuraich Clan had a long affinity with wolves, their crest a sable wolf rampant, and many in Anghus's family had had wolves as their familiars. So although the pack around Castle Rurach had grown increasingly bold over the past few years, Anghus allowed no-one to harm them. It seemed his protection had been recognized, for although the wolves had attacked and harassed many a company of soldiers or merchant caravans, anyone wearing the device of the MacRuraich clan was never harmed.
    "What shall we do with the seeker, my laird?" the gillie Donald asked. "Shall we throw him back to the wolves? We did no' realize he was a seeker until we'd driven off the wolves and brought him in." Anghus was severely tempted. He had no great love of the Awl, and neither did any of his people. It would