The Wolf's Call

by Anthony Ryan

  “They lay far across the ocean. What threat could they pose here?”

  “Any ocean can be crossed, as our queen demonstrated and the Volarians discovered to their cost. They imagined themselves safe from us. They were wrong.”

  “The lands of the Merchant Kings are not the Realm. Nor are they Alpira or Volaria. In the Far West they were printing books and plotting the course of the stars whilst we were still working out which end of a spear to poke a deer with. There you have no legend. There you will be no more than a barbarian foreigner, little more than a savage in their eyes.”

  Vaelin grimaced and nodded at the kettle. “It’s boiling.”

  Erlin let out a sigh and lifted the kettle from the hob. “Always the same with you. Never content. Never able to settle, not when there’s another calamity to embroil yourself in. Haven’t you travelled far enough? Haven’t you seen enough blood?”

  “I have, and if fortune smiles, I’ll see no more however far I travel. But I am resolved on this, Erlin. And I need your help. I need to know all you can tell me about the Far West. And I need a map to guide me to the High Temple and the Jade Princess.”

  “I can’t teach you what you need to know in mere days.” Erlin’s shoulders sagged a little as he sprinkled fresh leaves into his teapot, his next words emerging in a weary sigh. “I’ll have to come with you. You’ve always been a bit lost without me, anyway.”

  “No.” Vaelin’s voice was firm. “I’ll not ask this of you.”

  “Why not? Because I’m old now, and getting older by the day?” Erlin’s gaze took on an amused twinkle. “Rest assured, I’m spry as ever when I need to be. And a map won’t be of any use to you without me to guide you clear of the Merchant King’s soldiers.” He stirred the leaves with a long-handled spoon and placed the lid on the teapot. “So, when do we leave?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  So, his cousin spoke the true word after all, Vaelin mused, watching Alum ascend the gangplank to the deck of the Sea Wasp. The ship sat low in the waters of the North Tower harbour, her holds filled with a mixed cargo of Cumbraelin wine, Asraelin iron ore and Alpiran spices. She had been built during the Liberation War and her martial heritage was clear in the clean lines of her hull and the old scars marring the timber of her rails and masts.

  “The fastest vessel owned by the Honoured Trading House of Al Verin,” Kerran assured Vaelin as they stood together on the quayside. “Every year I award a bonus to any ship that makes the fastest crossing of the Arathean. The Sea Wasp has won for the last four years in a row.”

  At Lord Orven’s insistence, two dozen North Guard were arrayed in ranks nearby as a farewell honour guard, adding a sense of ceremony to this occasion that Vaelin could well have done without. The morning had already provided a sufficient trial in the form of Ellese’s violent reaction to being told she had to stay behind.

  “I’ll go wherever I bloody well want!”

  The plate she hurled at him missed his head by less than an inch, shattering on the wall of the meal hall where they had, up until this moment, shared a fairly convivial breakfast.

  “By order of your mother and, I might add, our queen,” Vaelin told her in a shout that brooked no argument, “you are under my command, Lady Ellese! And you will follow your instructions or I’ll have you bound and gagged!”

  She blanched a little in the face of his anger but stood her ground, hands twitching as she presumably resisted the urge to reach for another projectile. Amidst the fury, he detected an additional sting of rejection. It hadn’t occurred to him she might react this way, and he reminded himself once more how much the wounded child she remained. Reva packed her off to the Reaches; now I abandon her for months.

  “Lord Orven will see to your lessons in my absence,” he said. “You will also study healing with Brother Kehlan. Come winter you will journey to stay with the Eorhil until the turn of the year, after which you will spend a month with the Seordah. There will be plenty to occupy you.”

  “You heard what that thing said,” she replied, her voice calmer now but still betraying a harsh quaver. “It wanted to kill me, after hurting me all over again. I know you’re going to the Far West to find whoever sent it here. You promised me a reckoning, Uncle, and I didn’t get it.”

  “That thing is dead, in any way that matters. There is no reckoning to be had and I will not take the heir to the Fiefdom of Cumbrael into unknown dangers. You will remain here and I’ll hear no more on the subject.”

  There had been further angry words, and a few inventively profane insults, before she stormed off to her rooms. He had decided it was best to leave her there, hoping she might have calmed herself come the late morning tide. However, she remained conspicuously absent from the throng on the quayside.

  “Are you sure this is an altogether good idea?” Kerran asked him, her gaze fixed on the trio of North Guard carrying an unconscious figure aboard the ship.

  “He was always a better man when he had a task to perform,” Vaelin replied. “Although, I’ll admit the voyage is likely to be a trial.”

  He held out his arms to Lohren and Artis. The girl came to embrace him immediately, Artis after a moment’s sulky hesitation. “Take care of your aunt,” he told the boy, drawing back. “I’ve appointed Captain Embi to take over your lessons with the sword. He’s a fine teacher, but not so forgiving as I so don’t forget to duck.”

  Artis blinked and lowered his gaze. “I won’t, my lord.”

  “Will Father be all right?” Lohren asked him, eyes bright with tears. “Will you?”

  Vaelin resisted the impulse to lie, knowing such kindnesses were wasted on her. “The road is long and the future ever uncertain,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Even for you, I suspect. Any . . . special insights to offer your uncle?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “It went away again, much to Auntie’s relief.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was lying. Kerran’s fear of the Dark had always been palpable, and consequently it had taken her years to form a true bond with her niece. Vaelin pulled Lohren close once again, whispering into her ear. “If it comes back and you happen to learn something of importance, go straight to Lord Orven. He has instructions to hear you out and act accordingly.”

  Releasing her he exchanged a brief bow with Kerran—an embrace would have been unseemly—and moved to the gangplank where Orven waited to offer a salute. “I wish you would reconsider, my lord,” he said. “Just a small escort of North Guard . . .”

  “You have need of them all,” Vaelin broke in. “Besides, stepping ashore in the Venerable Kingdom with soldiers in service to a foreign crown would be certain to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  “There is . . .” Orven hesitated, shifting in discomfort. “A small matter of law, my lord?”

  “Law?”

  “The original charter set down by King Janus authorising the settlement of the Northern Reaches stipulated that the Tower Lord is forbidden from absenting himself from these lands without express royal consent.”

  “I see. And the penalty for transgression?”

  Orven did some more shifting. “Death, my lord.”

  “A serious matter then. I suggest you write to the queen with all urgency. I’m sure she will be swift in sending a response. It may even arrive here before I return.”

  Orven sighed and gave a weary nod. “I will, my lord.”

  Vaelin glanced back at the assembled folk who had come to see him off, mostly faces he knew mixed with a few gawpers. Apart from that unfortunate business in the Outer Isles four years ago, he hadn’t been beyond the confines of the Reaches since the end of the war.

  “I have a sense of trouble ahead,” he told Orven. “I think it best if you recall the militia early for training this year. Also, increase the pay by another few coppers a day. See if we can’t persuade some more recruits to join the ranks.”

  “
As you wish, my lord. And as for petitions?”

  Vaelin gave a small grin. Orven had no more liking for the ritual than he did. “I’ve asked Lady Kerran to attend, in an advisory capacity only, of course. I strongly urge you to listen to her counsel.”

  “I’m sure it will be most welcome.”

  Vaelin held out his hand and the guardsman clasped it, his grip strong. “Much as I cherish my family, I’d give almost anything to come with you. It seems such a long time since our last foray.”

  “Miss it, do you?”

  “Sometimes. As a boy I dreamt one day I would join the King’s Guard and do great deeds in a just cause. It’s hard to believe it all came true. For all we lost, all the horrors we witnessed, things were simpler then.”

  “Battles are simple. It’s what comes before and after that’s complicated.”

  Vaelin gave his hand a final shake before starting up the gangplank.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “You poxed bastard!”

  Nortah’s punch was a testament to his diminished faculties. Vaelin ducked easily under his flailing arm and stood back to watch him spin into an untidy heap on the deck. He lay there, eyes glaring out from unwashed and bearded features.

  “Are you quite finished?” Vaelin enquired.

  “I am a Sword of the Realm!” Nortah climbed unsteadily to his feet, raising his voice to address the crew of the Sea Wasp. “I will pay gold to any man who rows me to shore.”

  Most of the crew paused to regard him with either bafflement or amused contempt before returning to their duties.

  “Take a look, brother,” Vaelin said, moving to the rail and gesturing to the ocean stretching away to the misted horizon on all sides. “We’ve been at sea for three days,” he explained. “Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught is evidently quite something. I don’t think trying to row home is a particularly good idea, not that the captain will be willing to part with a boat in any case. You’re welcome to try swimming though.”

  Nortah closed his eyes and let out a groan, head slumped as he subsided against the rail. “I assume the crew have been ordered not to supply me with grog,” he muttered.

  “In fact they’ve been paid not to do so,” Vaelin assured him. “You have to admit, it’s preferable to a cell.”

  “How long?” Nortah opened his eyes, favouring Vaelin with a gaze deeper in resentment than any he had shown before. “Until we reach the Far West. How long?”

  “Three weeks with a fair wind, four or more without.”

  “I hear they have a wine there made from fermented rice. I assure you, brother, the first thing I do upon landing will be to seek it out. I shall also, from that moment on, consider whatever brotherhood exists between us to be at an end.”

  “That will be your choice. Although, how you’ll make your way with no coin and no knowledge of the language will be interesting to see.” He clapped Nortah on the shoulder and moved towards the ladder to the hold. “I dine with the captain at the seventh bell. Please feel free to join us.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Sehmon was quick and lithe with a keen eye for both risk and opportunity. He nimbly evaded the first two thrusts of Vaelin’s wooden sword before delivering a slashing reply with his own. It was here that his lack of expertise with a long blade became obvious, the blow delivered with a stiff arm and his wrist at too sharp an angle. Vaelin’s parry caught the outlaw’s wooden blade close to the hilt and sent it spinning out of his grasp.

  “Nicely done, my lord,” he said with a rueful grin that promptly disappeared when Vaelin slapped the flat of his sword against the side of the youth’s head.

  “A fight doesn’t end when you lose your weapon,” he said, drawing the ash blade back for a second blow. Sehmon reacted swiftly, dipping into a forward roll that brought his hand in range of his fallen sword. He snatched it up in time to deflect the thrust Vaelin jabbed at his midriff.

  “You seem to think this a game, Master Sehmon,” Vaelin said, advancing on the now-back-pedalling outlaw. “I assure you it is not.”

  Sehmon leapt as Vaelin slashed at his legs, landing atop the starboard rail, then leapt again to avoid another blow that would have sent him into the sea. He caught hold of some rigging and swung, bringing his body round in a wide arc to deliver a two-footed kick to Vaelin’s hip. He managed to keep his feet but the force of the impact sent him to his knees.

  Three ways, he thought as Sehmon landed close by. Three ways in which a skilled adversary could kill me now. Unfortunately for Sehmon, he chose the wrong way. His sword came down in a hefty vertical swing that thudded into the deck as Vaelin moved his head aside. Sehmon let out a groan of mingled pain and defeat as Vaelin’s lunge took him in the belly, leaving him gasping on the deck on all fours.

  “Deep breaths,” Vaelin told the youth. “Remember, a kneeling man turns slower than a standing man. Best to come at him from the side.”

  Sehmon fought down a retch. “My thanks for the lesson, my lord.”

  Helping the outlaw to his feet, Vaelin heard Alum let out a low chuckle. “The dance of the long blades, my people called it,” he said, smiling at them from his perch atop a dense coil of rope. “We always found the attachment of others to such things strange. This,” he said, reaching for the spear propped close by, “is all a man needs in a fight, or a hunt. Here.” He tossed the spear to Sehmon. “Put that twig down and learn the true art of combat.”

  Sehmon cast a questioning glance at Vaelin. “Your master’s commands take precedence in this,” he said, moving aside.

  He spent an hour or so watching Alum tutor his servant in the basics of the spear, gaining a true appreciation for the Moreska’s skills in the process. He had already assessed him as a skilled hunter with the strength and resolve to kill a man with only a set of chains. Now, seeing the fluid economy of his movements and the way the spear blurred and seemed to change shape in his hands, he was forced to judge Alum as a man he hoped he would never have to fight. It raised the question of how it had been possible for him to be captured.

  I was captured once, he reminded himself. The notion inevitably led to reminiscences about his time in the Emperor’s dungeons, and the visions of Sherin brought to him by the blood-song. They had just been brief glimpses at first, growing in detail and duration as he honed his ability with the song. Always he saw her healing; a sailor with a broken arm, a sickly child in a hovel, a woman in an opulent mansion suffering through a difficult birth. In time the glimpses began to fade as he felt her drawing beyond his reach, but the final vision remained clearest of all. She had been happy, he remembered, recalling the deep regard of the man she had been greeting. Who is he? Friend? Lover? Husband?

  A loud commotion from belowdecks broke through his rumination, Alum and Sehmon’s practice coming to a halt at the volume of the disturbance.

  “It’ll just be a brawl, my lord,” Sehmon said as a chorus of upraised voices continued to emerge from a nearby hatchway. “Never met a sailor that couldn’t find something to fight about.”

  The babble of conflict seemed louder than any mere brawl and, as it continued, Vaelin detected an odd note, one voice pitched higher than the others. A female voice.

  Muttering a curse, he ran for the hatchway and quickly scaled the ladder into the hold. The source of the commotion wasn’t hard to find, a dense knot of men near the stern, repeatedly closing on and then retreating from something in their midst. One of them reared back with a shout of pain, Vaelin glimpsing blood on his face. The other sailors, six in all, closed in again, kicking and punching at a struggling figure on the deck.

  “Stand fast!” Vaelin barked, pushing his way through the knot of men. All but one responded immediately, moving back, heads lowered in the face of the Tower Lord’s ire. The man with the bloodied face, however, continued to drive his boot into the belly of the figure on the deck
. Vaelin stepped forward to pull him away, then halted as a swift shape emerged from the shadows beyond the prone man to drive a punch into the face of his assailant. The sailor staggered from the blow, remaining upright and licking at the blood streaming from his nose until the figure from the shadows delivered another blow to his temple that left him senseless on the boards.

  “That’s enough!” Vaelin met Ellese’s gaze as she moved towards the man she had knocked to the deck, knife in hand.

  “Filthy bastard put his hands on me,” she hissed, drawing the knife back for a thrust. Vaelin stepped between her and the fallen sailor, snaring her arm in a tight grip.

  “I said, that’s enough.”

  “I’m fine, incidentally,” Nortah groaned from the deck, wincing and holding his stomach as he sat up.

  “He tried to keep them off me,” Ellese said. “This lot”—her voice took on a snarl as she regarded the other sailors—“thought they could have their way.”

  “She’s a stowaway, my lord,” one of the sailors said. Vaelin found he didn’t like the resentful defensiveness in the man’s bearing as he shot Ellese a dark glare. “Stowaways got no rights. It’s tradition . . .”

  His words died as Vaelin delivered a hard backhand cuff to his jaw, sending him reeling. “Get yourselves up top,” he told the sailors, jabbing the toe of his boot against the skull of their unconscious shipmate. “And take this one with you.”

  They possessed enough wisdom to mute any grumbling as they gathered up the fallen man and climbed the steps to the upper deck. “Can you stand?” Vaelin asked, stooping to take hold of Nortah’s arm. He jerked it away and got slowly to his feet.

  “Had to hide in the rum store, didn’t you?” he asked Ellese before shaking his head and stumbling off into the gloomy recesses of the hold.

  Vaelin turned to Ellese. Her body seemed to thrum with frustrated anger and she met his gaze with an unrepentant stare. “How?” he asked simply.