When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  All the anger flooded out of Aethren, leaving them cold. They hugged their knees up to their chest, unable to think of anything to say. But Isha wasn’t done.

  “So, I thought I’d go the other way – be softer, be kinder.” Disgust curled Isha’s top lip. Aethren suspected that the disgust was directed inwards at himself just as much as it was at his pa. “If you think that makes me a . . . rug, as you say, then fine. At least I’m not a prickly bastard.”

  “Isha—”

  “Don’t.” Isha pushed his blankets off and started to rise.

  “Wait. Listen—” Aethren grabbed Isha’s hand before he could stand up, then released him at once. They took a deep breath. “I’m not going to pretend I understand what you went through, because I don’t. But . . . you can’t say you’re a good person just because you’re not like your brother or your pa. There’s more to it than that.”

  Isha was silent. Aethren worried he might bolt out of the hut and not come back; his body was humming with tension like a trapped bird.

  “Do you know why I shave my hair?” he asked instead. Aethren blinked at him.

  “. . . No?”

  “It’s what we K’anakhi do when we’re away from home. Because we believe home is a people, and after Pa and Faren failed me, I assumed I’d never have a people again.” Isha touched the newly-grown stubble on his dark head with his fingertips. It had gotten longer over the last few weeks, and now resembled a soft, fluffy down of half-formed curls. “I was wrong, and I never knew it ‘til I lost most of them. Maybe it’s too late, but perhaps if I grow it again – well, it’s for them. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  Aethren gulped. They had assumed Isha was letting himself go in his grief. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . it’s not my place.”

  “No, no.” Isha waved a noncommittal hand. “You’re right. As Mati said, I fucked up. And I’ve got to fix it. I know that.” He rubbed his eyes as if checking for tears. “I’ll take first watch.”

  “No. You look like shit,” Aethren said. “I’ll do it.”

  Isha offered a tentatively grateful smile. “Wake me at Caerost’s rise?”

  Aethren nodded. They made sure Isha was tucked away at the back of the hut, asleep, and then settled by the door. Neither they nor Kristan had ever thought about keeping watch when staying in Eahalr. Eery as it was, the town had always felt safe to Aethren.

  But that was before. Things were different now.

  The next day was much the same as the last, except their march was slowed to a slog by the wet ground. The two of them had breakfast and lunch the on the move, not wanting to lose the daylight while it lingered. Their rest was brief and uneasy that night, and neither had much energy for conversation as they went into the third day of their journey.

  Aethren had never minded silence before, but it felt . . . different, somehow, with Isha. Guilt squeezed their heart with icy fingers whenever they looked at him, and their thoughts kept wandering back to their conversation in Eahalr. This arrangement would be easier if Aethren could remain neutral; if they could cut away their emotions like dead flesh under a healer’s knife. They needed to be clear, logical, level-headed. Stronger.

  Ahead, Isha had stumbled into another horde of bloodflies. He slapped at the little terrors as they landed on him, and Aethren seized the opportunity to break the silence.

  “You’ll need this,” Aethren said, unhooking a cork-stoppered pouch from their belt. Isha stopped swatting at the flies and turned around as if he had forgotten Aethren was there. He frowned, hesitating with his hand in mid-reach.

  “What is it?”

  “Uh . . .” Aethren popped the cork with their thumb and took a tentative sniff. “Mint balm and lavender, maybe? Probably some other stuff. You’d have to ask Kristan.”

  “Maybe I will, when we—” but Isha couldn’t finish his sentence. He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “What?”

  “‘When’ hardly feels appropriate, not with where we’re going.”

  Aethren stared at the cork as they rolled it between finger and thumb. Their breath caught in their throat.

  “We’ll be fine,” Aethren said after a too-long pause, remembering to add a smile on the end. “Now put this on, unless you want the bloodflies to eat you alive.”

  Isha didn’t look reassured, but he lathered on the bloodfly repellent and kept walking. Aethren took a moment longer to collect themself. A tracker, Isha had said. That was why he had come to them for help. But there was nothing to track in this sodden wasteland, and Aethren didn’t know what lay ahead.

  “Aethren!” Isha shouted. He had dropped to his knees in front of something that Aethren couldn’t see through the tall grasses. The image of a tiny bug-eaten corpse flashed through Aethren’s mind. “Aethren, you need to look at this!” Isha called back, beckoning impatiently.

  It took all Aethren’s mental capacity to remember how to walk forwards.

  There was no small child’s corpse, but there were dead bodies. A ptarmigan hen and her unfledged chicks lay in a row, their bodies ravaged and splayed out like gory party ribbons. Aethren pressed their sleeve against their nose to muffle the stench of blood, but it pushed its way down their throat regardless.

  “We need to leave,” they muttered, yanking the back of Isha’s coat to make him stand up. “These are pretty fresh.”

  Isha didn’t seem to have heard. He was too busy shoving the corpses aside.

  “Isha, what are you—” the words lodged in Aethren’s throat. They exhaled shakily. “Oh, Nys.”

  Beneath the carcasses was a cloak. A child’s cloak. Aethren recognised it at once.

  “We have to move,” Aethren said again, gentler this time. Isha shuddered.

  “But that’s—”

  “I know.” Aethren had to fight to keep their breaths even. That cloak had been theirs once, and then Marken had given it to Mati, who’d altered it for Arketh.

  A movement at the corner of Aethren’s eye made them jump. They spun around and saw the ptarmigan’s mate was still alive, if only barely. It wandered aimlessly from side to side, one wing half torn off.

  With a grim sinking sensation in their gut, Aethren drew an arrow and gave the bird a merciful death. It was all they could do.

  In the hushed horror that followed, Isha voiced what Aethren had been too afraid to say. “We were meant to find this.”

  Aethren tightened their grip around their bow, unable to bring themself to let go. “Whatever did it knows we’re out here. And it—” they glanced at the cloak, their next words coming out strangled. “It knows who we are.”

  “What sort of animal could know that?” Isha asked, but Aethren saw the answer strike him a beat later. Neither needed to say anything – the same thought hung suspended between them, crisp as frozen rain.

  Wolves.

  Aethren stepped back and surveyed the scene again. The ground was too waterlogged to hold prints, but they could pick out a path of broken grass stems where the wolf had dragged the cloak and carcasses. A shiver walked Aethren’s spine. This whole this was too deliberate; too carefully placed. The wolf had to know the path Aethren and Isha were taking, and that meant it was close. Perhaps it was watching them now.

  Instinct told Aethren to find somewhere to stop and make a shelter for the night. Fear told them to keep on moving. And out in the Wyccmarshes, it was all too easy to let fear win.

  “We’ll stop when we reach that knoll and camp there for a few hours, then move with Sylvrast’s light.” Aethren pointed to a cluster of rocks that rose out of the marshland. “At least we’ll be able to see anything coming before it gets us.”

  Isha gripped Arketh’s cloak and allowed Aethren to pull him to his feet. He stumbled at their side in a daze all the way to the knoll, and sat listlessly by the fire as soon as camp was set. Aethren had to get the last of their supplies out of his pack themself.

  “You need to eat, Isha,” Aethren said as they huddled ove
r the tiny, smokeless fire. Isha was tearing his ration of dried whale into shreds, his eyes fixed listlessly on the flames. The uneaten bits of meat fell onto Arketh’s bloodied and filth-encrusted cloak, which now lay across his lap.

  “How are you so calm?” Isha’s head snapped up, and in that moment, he could have been Faren’s twin. His eyes shone and the firelight cast his lean features in deep shadow. “You lecture me about caring and doing the right thing, but you’re so calm! Either your soul’s hard as stone or you don’t give a fuck about what this—” He shook the tattered cloak at them, sending bits of dirt and food flying, “means.”

  Aethren held their breath as if that might keep down their own anger, digging their nails into their palms. “What do you think it means, Isha?” They asked when they dared draw a shallow breath.

  “That she’s—” Isha choked. “. . . dead.”

  “No.” Aethren’s voice was quiet, strained for lack of air, but it carried conviction all the same. “I don’t believe that. I can’t. Rostfar believed she was alive.”

  “A month ago,” Isha snapped. Aethren didn’t like how his voice carried through the night, but they hadn’t the heart to tell him to be quiet. “Maybe it was true then, and maybe Rost could’ve made it out here alone, but Ket – she’s so young, Aethren, and so small and it’s so cold out here, and I don’t – there’s no way—”

  “Think about it,” Aethren said, surprised at the gentleness of their own voice. Isha stared up at them, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. “Even if they’d – they’d eaten . . . well, whatever they might’ve done to her, there’d be remains. But those wolves left dead birds as a warning instead. I don’t think there’s a body or any remains for them to leave – and that means there’s hope.”

  “I know what you’re doing, and I’m grateful – but there’s no use.” He tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth were trembling too hard. “I’m sorry I shouted.”

  “You’re giving up?” Aethren had to ask. Isha opened his mouth as if to argue – then all the energy seemed to rush out of him like water from a punctured water-skin. He deflated into his cloak as if he wanted it to swallow him.

  “Good night, Aethren,” he said in a soft, hollow voice, and lay down on his sleeping roll with his back to them.

  “Isha?” Aethren asked tentatively. There was no reply, save for the soft, almost-imperceptible sound of a stifled sob. Deciding they’d done enough damage, Aethren dragged themself a short distance away and settled in for a long and lonely watch.

  Chapter 34

  Aethren and Isha were almost out of the Wyccmarshes when hope came to them in a bright, unexpected blaze. The sign was so small that Aethren almost missed it – a circle of stones, sheltered in the cleft of a large boulder. They skidded off the long stone tendril the two of them had been walking on, splashed through knee-deep mud, and almost flung themself down by the remains of the campfire. It was old, half-covered in mud and debris, but the boulder had prevented the storms from washing it away entirely.

  “Aethren,” Isha said softly as he joined them. Then, louder, excited: “Aethren! It’s a fire!”

  “I can see that,” Aethren said, but they were smiling. The relief was so strong they had to sit down and put their head in their hands. They squeezed their eyes shut, counted to ten, then opened them again. The campfire was still there.

  “It’s hers, right? It has to be. Nobody else would be out here. How old is it? Can you tell?”

  “I – I don’t know.” Dreamily, Aethren reached out and touched the nearest stone. Rostfar must have built the fire up on a bed of stones and flat slabs of rock because the ground was too wet. Had she sat here, cold and alone, drawn towards Deothwicc by her grief? Had the familiar crackle of flames brought her comfort in this wild and unforgiving place? Aethren hoped so.

  “Can you tell where she went?” Isha asked.

  Aethren roused themself, blinking, and looked around. A month of snow, winds and storms had obliterated whatever tracks might have been here. Their only sign that they were on the right path was this little lonely campfire, sheltered by chance.

  “If she came this far, she was definitely heading for Deothwicc – I can’t think where else she’d have been going otherwise. We’re on the right path, Isha.” Aethren shielded their eyes and gazed north. The changes to the landscape told them that they were almost out of the Wyccmarshes now. Another day of travelling, and they would likely be able to see Deothwicc. The thought made their stomach churn with equal parts anticipation and dread. Were they equipped to handle whatever awaited them there? Had Rostfar been?

  “Then let’s keep moving,” Isha said. His face was alight from within, and he paced back and forth with a slight spring to his step. The deep hurt was still in his eyes, but hope had found a place there, too.

  “Yeah,” they said stiffly. “Good idea.” They had hardly gotten to their feet, however, when Isha let out a soft cry of joy or surprise. He leapt into the mud and started off at a stumbling run, towards . . . something. Something that shone from the thin fog with a warm, fire-like light. “Wait!” Aethren bolted after Isha. Part of them wanted to believe, but it was too convenient. Too inviting.

  The light vanished. Aethren sighed in relief. Isha staggered to a halt and stared around, his expression oddly blank.

  “Where’s she gone?” His voice was quiet, musing.

  Aethren splashed up to his side and grabbed his arm. “For Nys’ sake, Isha – if we see weird lights in the marshes, we do not follow them. That’s child’s play.”

  “But I . . .” Isha frowned at Aethren’s hand on his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Me? What are you doing?” Aethren tried to pull Isha back towards the remains of Rostfar’s camp, but he twisted free with surprising strength. No, Aethren reminded themself sternly, not surprising. Isha might have been small in stature and unskilled in survival, but he had spent most of his life working a forge.

  Aethren cautiously stepped in front of him, hands up in a silent ward. “Isha, look at me.”

  Isha didn’t. His eyes were fixed on some point over Aethren’s shoulder. They moved nearer – and Isha struck. His elbow caught Aethren in the chest as he bolted forwards.

  “Don’t!” Aethren tried to shout, but the fog swallowed their voice. More lights appeared and with every step Isha took, the fog coiled tighter around him. “We’re not lost! We don’t need your help, we don’t . . .” their voice died in their throat.

  Isha was gone. And so were the lights.

  “Isha!” Aethren took a few cautious steps in the direction Isha had gone, then stopped. This was not the hungry, slinking fog that had accompanied the wolf in Eahalr, but it made their skin prickle nonetheless.

  “Aethren?”

  Aethren turned. A small, slight figure emerged from the fog, and Aethren felt a surge of relief. They started towards it at a brisk half-run, but stopped the second it was close enough to see properly.

  Whatever – whoever – it was, it wasn’t Isha. A strange black fog twisted around the creature, making them more shadow than human. Hands wreathed in rippling fog lifted towards Aethren, fingers splayed as if in supplication.

  “Listen to me, Aethren,” it said in a quick, low voice.

  Aethren turned and fled. They couldn’t be sure where they were going, only that they had to get away from this place. The mists were suffocating, the marshes cunning; staying there would result in falling into the hands of the hrafmaer, and their kindness was lethal.

  Aethren’s foot slipped. They didn’t even have time to draw breath before the marsh wrapped its arms around them, pulling them into its silty depths.

  Pressure clamped around their midriff. Aethren writhed, but they couldn’t see what had them. Water rushed past their head, their ears, blinding them – and then their head broke the surface. Hands hauled them onto stable ground.

  A face emerged from the gloom. It was broad, high cheekbones, a strong nose. A scar stood out on one grey-skinned cheek
.

  “Who—?” Aethren gasped. Every breath took immense effort. “No. No, I said – I’m not lost.”

  “It’ll be okay,” said the hrafmaer. “Please stop fighting me. You need to—” Her head snapped up and around.

  Aethren staggered back to their feet and stumbled away from the woman, bowed so low they were almost on all fours. Get out of the Wyccmarshes. Reach Deothwicc. Find Rostfar. Aethren was so close now; so near to achieving the first good thing since they’d failed to save Arketh at Whiterift. If only their shaking limbs would cooperate, if only the air didn’t feel like so much ash in their lungs, if only they could be better – then they might still put things right.

  A rope closed around Aethren’s throat. Aethren’s fingers clawed the base of their neck, but there was nothing there – nothing, and yet something continued to drag them back through the slime and mud like a fish on a line. They twisted, thrashed, rasped, and all to no avail.

  “It is time to return home, hrafaïn,” said a cold, lilting voice, and a hand pressed itself over Aethren’s mouth.

  Their world dissolved into darkness.

  ⁂

  Caught between dreaming and surface-sleep, Rostfar thought the bark of the Speaking Tree was swallowing her up. Her mind flitted through a hare, and from there leapt into the skin of a running fox. She spiralled upwards into the wings of a raven, and then down again, through the earth into the bones of something older than life itself. The Tree’s voice bled into Rostfar’s head, urging her to heal, heal – but heal what? Rostfar couldn’t hear the last words. They trickled through her ears like water.