Don't Call the Wolf

by Aleksandra Ross

  “What?”

  Czarn’s voice was sharp.

  Ren finally looked up. He was not looking at her with anger or disappointment, but—maybe she was imagining it—hope?

  “You said his horse had antlers,” said Czarn slowly. “Are you sure? On its bridle?”

  Ren thought back to the horse on the riverbank, before it had bolted into the trees.

  “Yes,” said Ren, trying to remember the details. “One pair on its bridle. More on the saddle. There must have been hundreds of them.”

  Czarn exhaled through his fangs. It brought up a rumbling growl. When he spoke again, his voice was low and heavy, and it hummed in Ren’s heart.

  “What did he look like? This human?”

  Ren shrugged.

  “Black hair.”

  “He may have been wearing a fur vest?” asked Czarn. “And a belt! Wide, made of leather.”

  “No.” Ren shook her head. “He wore all black.”

  “Long hair? A beard?”

  Ren shook her head.

  Czarn searched her face.

  “Ren, did he have blue eyes?”

  “Czarn, I don’t know. I was kind of busy killing rusalki,” said Ren exasperatedly. “Why does it matter?”

  Czarn stood abruptly and leapt down from the alcove. He paced in front of the window, eyes on the floor. His tail twitched, swishing back and forth across the floor, scattering dust. His limp was worse, and guiltily, Ren wondered if he’d hurt himself fighting the strzygi.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was deeper than usual, cooler: as if forged by the Mountains in which he had been born.

  “We used to say that to enter our Mountains was to die in them,” he began. “The cliffs move in tides every night, and never to the same place twice. If you don’t get lost in them, then you will be crushed between them. And the dragons. The Mountains were once filled with them. Dragons and wolves. That’s all there was, for a very long time. Dragons and wolves.”

  In that moment, he seemed much older than her. An ancient sort of quality had entered his voice, for he was telling the oldest stories of his world.

  “But then came the Wolf-Lords,” he whispered. “They were not like other men. They were fearless. They carved out their home up there in the cold, and they killed the dragons. Decorated their lodges with their bones, wore their fur, mounted their antlers on the heads of their horses. And they understood those Mountains.”

  Ren had never been to the Mountains. They lay well outside the forest boundaries, and she’d only ever seen their low purple shadow against the sky. Sometimes she heard their murmur on the quietest nights. They had always seemed, to her, to carry secrets. Held close to blue-rock chests, whispered in one another’s ears.

  “I think,” continued Czarn, as if reading her thoughts, “it’s easier for us animals, being closer to the earth, to understand the Mountains. But the Wolf-Lords . . . they were different.”

  Czarn’s voice had changed again. He paused by the window, glancing out to the Mountains where he’d been born.

  “We were brothers,” he murmured. “We swore to protect one another from the dragons and the danger, up there in the cold. And for a thousand years, we did. The Wolf-Lords never came down from their wooden lodges. They preferred the cold blue air, preferred the cliffs that moved every night, preferred the dragons.”

  In that moment, he was far away. Not in a ruined castle of long-dead humans. Not even in her presence. He was in the cold blue Mountains of his birth, shale underfoot and his father still living, keeping watch over the humans they had clearly loved so well.

  “The Wolf-Lords preferred us.”

  These brothers of wolves. These enemies of dragons. These humans with the tides of the Mountains written in their blood.

  “They sound animal,” murmured Ren.

  “They were,” said Czarn, and his voice was heavy. “And in the best of ways.”

  He misses them, Ren realized.

  “What happened to them?” she asked.

  “They died.” He continued: “Like we all did. They went after the Golden Dragon. They were dragon slayers. It was, in a sense, only natural. But . . .”

  Czarn fell silent, taken away by the memory of days long over. She could imagine the scene. Rows of men and heavy mountain horses picking their way through the Mountains, while Czarn’s wolves watched them from afar.

  “Czarn,” Ren whispered. “What are you saying?”

  Czarn looked back at her.

  “He is a Wolf-Lord, Ren,” he said. His ruff lifted on the draft. “The Mountains have called him home.”

  Huddled under damp sheets in the topmost tower of the castle, Ren couldn’t sleep.

  She changed to a lynx, then to a human, and back again. Nothing felt comfortable. Human, and the sheets were damp. Lynx, and she thought of that human . . .

  She should not have saved him. She knew that. She should have left him to the rusalki, like countless other souls had been doomed. She should not have hauled him up onto the riverbank; she should not have caused Wodnik the trouble. She should not have put her hands on his face, and she should never have allowed him to do the same.

  His eyes had been blue, she remembered suddenly.

  A Wolf-Lord, she thought, concentrating on the tiny flowers painted along the white walls of the room. Surely if the wolves called them brothers, they could not be terrible? After all, Czarn had more reason than any to hate the humans. And yet he’d spoken of these mountain people with such fondness, even admiration.

  Dragon slayers. Could someone really be that terrible, if their mission was to kill terrible monsters?

  Ren got up abruptly and crossed the tower floor. It was blackened, one wall completely torn away. It was the highest tower of the castle, the same tower that the Dragon had first attacked, seventeen years ago. Ren knew the stories; she’d chosen this place on purpose. For it was in this tower that the first queen of this forest had been killed.

  And it was in this tower that the second queen reigned.

  There had once been a balcony, but it had been torn away in the attack. Now Ren stood at the very edge of the floor with a shoulder against sharp stonework. She edged forward until her toes hung over oblivion, and she looked out at the forest she loved. The forest she would die defending.

  The forest she might lose.

  Every day she saw the change: dark patches of burned branches and rotting trees. Over the river, black smoke still rose from the burning trees. The village was in there, hidden among the trees, its tired spirals of smoke lost in the black sky.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt a pang of sympathy for the villagers.

  She blamed the Dragon. Every time it came, it made everything worse. It sent the world up in golden flames, laying open huge gashes in the forest floor. Hidden in the underbrush, Ren had once watched how, in the Dragon’s wake, a crater had erupted in the forest floor. It had sizzled red at the edges, tree roots writhing down into the expanse.

  And then came the strzygi. Climbing out, licking their scorched limbs. Sloughing off their blistered gray skins. Hungry.

  How dare it?

  How dare the Dragon come like this, letting these monsters into her world. How dare it set fires and open these pits and scar her forest. It was bad enough that it was always there, always hovering over her shoulder, always threatening to burn her world down. But the fact that it brought the others in . . .

  Ren’s throat burned. She was the queen. It was her duty to protect her animals, and she couldn’t even do that.

  Ren sighed and crossed her arms.

  They needed to kill that Dragon. She needed to kill that Dragon.

  She turned away from the window. As she walked toward the door, she passed the old armoire. Clothes spilled out onto the floor, and she caught sight of pale lace and blue embroidery. That stupid human, she thought viciously.

  That stupid, blind, selfish creature.

  If she’d put on a nice skirt and a shirt,
if she’d worn clothes and not fur, if she’d tried half as hard as that rusalka had—

  He’d never have known the difference. He’d have kissed her, just like he’d kissed that rusalka. He wouldn’t have had that fire, he wouldn’t have reached for his sword, he wouldn’t have—

  Ren stopped, hand on the door.

  Slowly, she turned back to the long-forgotten clothes.

  “YOU WANT TO DO WHAT?”

  Spit sprayed from Ryś’s lips, and on the other side of the library, cozily ensconced in armchairs, three vila began to giggle.

  “Keep your voice down,” said Czarn mildly. “I don’t think the whole castle needs to hear about this.”

  Ryś rounded on the wolf.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Czarn delicately.

  Ryś sputtered, too overcome to even form words. Ren stood in front of him, arms still crossed. She wore a white lace blouse, decorated with flowers embroidered in pale blue and gold, along with a long navy skirt. Both items were very uncomfortable, and she’d struggled more with the buttons than she cared to admit.

  “It’s insane,” added Czarn after a moment. “And brilliant. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it.”

  Ryś only managed to make a hissing sound.

  The three of them were standing on the topmost balcony, overlooking the rest of the library. Even in the moonlight, the library was alive. Birds hopped among the tooth-marked shelves, collecting shredded pages and gold leaf for their nests. Bats hung, snuggled together, from the chandeliers overhead.

  On the opposite side of the library, on a matching balcony, the vila continued to pick at their nails and chatter in voices better left unheard.

  “Czarn says he’s a Wolf-Lord, Ryś,” said Ren. “That means he’s a dragon slayer. He could do it—”

  “We’re not asking a human to slay the Dragon for us,” growled Ryś. “End of story.”

  “Oh my,” murmured Czarn. “I believe the bears have gotten into the Unnatural history section.”

  Ren glanced to where three bear cubs were happily shredding their way through the shelves of the east corner.

  “And Ren,” said Ryś in a very dangerous voice, “how did you meet this human?”

  The timbre of his voice was enough to make a herd of deer glance up, several of whom delicately exited the library.

  “I—” Ren unfolded her arms, then refolded them. “I helped him. The rusalki were going to get him.”

  “WHAT?”

  The rest of the deer bolted.

  “Don’t what me,” retorted Ren. “I’m the queen!”

  “No!” shouted Ryś. “You’re my little sister!”

  Czarn crossed the balcony to stand next to Ren. Then he settled back with his tail wrapped neatly around his feet.

  “Trust me, Ryś,” said Czarn. “The Wolf-Lords are reasonable men. They are not like other humans. And besides, this one owes a debt to Ren. She pulled him out of the water.”

  Ryś puffed himself up like a sphynx and blinked.

  “Reasonable?” he repeated. “Reasonable? I’m surprised, Czarn, after what they did to you.”

  Ren didn’t mean to, but her eye flickered down to his paw.

  “Perhaps,” said Czarn, in a low voice that warded off further questions, “my past might indicate my enthusiasm for this plan has been carefully considered.”

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic,” pointed out Ryś hotly.

  Czarn lowered himself onto his belly and crossed his paws before responding levelly: “This is just my voice.”

  Ryś leapt off the pedestal. Two hundred pounds of fur and muscle hit hardwood. He stretched, claws cutting scars in the floor. Then he said quietly, “I worry you’re asking for trouble, Malutka.”

  Ren met his eyes.

  “You were happy to make me strzygi bait this morning,” she said. “Why is this any different?”

  He blinked.

  “You know this is different, Ren. Strzygi are one thing. Humans are another.”

  “What about the Dragon?” Ren could hear the edge in her voice. “It’s the worst of them all. And this human—this Wolf-Lord—he could kill it, Ryś. He could kill the worst monster this forest has ever seen.”

  At that moment, a white eagle swooped through the open window and settled on one of the chandeliers. They were solid gold, the chandeliers, and molded into circles of animals that chased each other’s tails. Its swinging shadow fell over the three of them, sent smaller shadows of animals dancing over the hardwood.

  Ren loved those chandeliers. They reminded her of what her forest had once been. She held on to that dream; she knew, because she couldn’t let go of knowing, that one day, her forest would look like that again. One day, she’d stop it. One day they’d drive the evil out.

  One day, even the burns would fade.

  Ryś looked sad.

  “Ren,” he said quietly, “don’t you see? Of all the monsters to set foot in your forest, by far the most evil has been man.”

  6

  THOUGH THE RAIN HAD LIFTED, it had spoiled the twilight that remained. Lukasz emerged from the trees to find the remaining houses of the village leaning upon one another. Evergreens encroached, glistening and damp. A cat, as gray as the sky, sat in a dim window and watched him with narrow eyes. The streets were empty.

  Lukasz would never forget riding through Kamieńa’s village as a boy. It had seemed bigger back then. Had terror made it loom larger? Maybe he just had less to fear these days. Less to lose.

  Król’s halting steps carried them over the soaked, crumbling streets. The houses watched their advance. Lukasz’s leg had been aching more than usual since the river.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hadn’t all those years of fighting dragons taught him anything?

  Goddamnit, Lukasz, you should know better. He could practically hear Franciszek’s voice. We’ve been at this for long enough. But no, along comes someone pretty and you forget everything—

  Lukasz shook off the imagined lecture. No, he decided. Franciszek had no right to scold him. He’d already done the stupidest thing a man could do, coming back here alone. Besides, he didn’t want to linger on what had dragged him underwater.

  And he didn’t want to linger on what had dragged him out again.

  A few shutters creaked as he passed. Shadows moved within, and bizarrely, Lukasz found himself hoping they were human. This damn forest was playing tricks on him. Washing draped like wet wraiths over the clotheslines. The eaves sank, and a few streets ahead, mist wreathed a lonely church steeple. He unhitched his rifle and laid it across his knees, but no one challenged him.

  Maybe he was being paranoid. But after the river . . .

  As he rode, faces drifted up to the windows, foggy and pale. People stepped out of the shadows. Mothers wore folksy skirts with black vests over billowing white blouses. They balanced their toddlers on the windowsills, pointing at his horse. Or maybe at the Faustian fur on his jacket. Or maybe at the dragon antlers.

  Lukasz dismounted, wincing as his bad leg pivoted on the slippery street. A public fountain stood in the middle of what had once been the town square. A scummy angel poured a dribbling stream of water from an even scummier urn. Król turned up his nose.

  “Snob,” muttered Lukasz.

  He took off his gloves and pushed his damp hair off his forehead, tucking it under his cap. He still hadn’t dried off properly from the river. He looked around while Król drank, acutely aware of the rifle’s weight on his shoulder. It wasn’t his imagination; the village was definitely smaller. Evergreens loomed darkly on every side, swallowing the outermost dwellings.

  Between the church and an ornate stuccoed building three men were working in the graveyard. Two dug steadily, while a third presided over them, rifle resting on his shoulders and a curved pipe in his mouth. All three had black hats and sandy mustaches.

  Lukasz let Król’s reins drop and drifted toward the gate.

  They wore green-and
-orange-striped trousers, long coats, and pointed black boots. Compared with the city, their clothes seemed a hundred years out of date.

  For some reason, he remembered Bieleć’s comment.

  I have a special interest in historical peoples.

  Lukasz rested his forearms on the fence. They were digging graves. Three bodies, wrapped in white sheets, were piled next to mounds of dirt. The men paused every now and again to climb out and lean against the tombstones, smoking and chatting.

  Lukasz watched, running his good fingers along the burns of his left hand. He hated that hand. Hated how it looked, hated the fact that it trembled if he didn’t pay attention, hated that the fingers didn’t bend all the way down, hated that he couldn’t hold a sword—

  He was never going to get used to it. And honestly, he didn’t want to.

  “A Wolf-Lord in sheep’s clothing,” said a cool, smooth voice. “An honor indeed.”

  Lukasz jerked around. On the other side of the fence, the three gravediggers glanced up, then went back to their work.

  “Major Koszmar Styczeń,” said the newcomer. “Light calvary. Call me Koszmar.”

  Lukasz wasn’t sure if it was an invitation or a command.

  Koszmar Styczeń was around his age and wore a formal black tailcoat dripping with gold braid and topped with golden epaulets. He had a shiny black cavalry helmet clasped to his side. Even his appearance was annoying.

  Lukasz inclined his head.

  “Lukasz Smoków. Brygada Smoka.”

  The other man clicked his heels together and bowed.

  They must have looked ridiculous, standing on the street of a ghost town. And this perfectly polished and turned-out officer, bowing to a soaking-wet, completely disheveled, sorry excuse for a dragon slayer.

  “I know a lot about you, Lieutenant,” said Koszmar Styczeń.

  Lukasz raised an eyebrow. “How exciting for you.”

  Uninvited, Major Styczeń leaned an elbow on the fence. Lukasz noticed that he wore a seal around his neck: a cast-gold stork and serpent, symbolizing high-ranking officers. He continued, obliviously: