The Wolf's Call

by Anthony Ryan

  “General Nishun, if I’m not mistaken,” the Jade Princess said, reining her pony to a halt to peer at the corpse. Her tone was light and not entirely respectful, as if she were greeting a casual acquaintance of little regard.

  “You knew this man?” Vaelin asked.

  “He came to hear my song some years ago. It’s long been customary for newly appointed luminaries to come to the High Temple. I suppose they think they might glean some favour from Heaven if they hear me sing.” Her small nose wrinkled a little. “This man just stood there without the slightest change to his craggy old face. Then he bowed and left. Plainly the man had no ear for music.”

  “Or much in the way of good sense,” Vaelin said, raising his gaze to scan the surrounding carnage. He found he could track the course of the battle from the position of the bodies. About half were arranged in an untidy line facing north, the rest scattered over the space of half a mile with more concentrated on the western and eastern flanks. It was clear this had all happened very quickly.

  The main line broken in several places whilst cavalry assaulted both flanks, he concluded. Then a slaughter. They had no time to run. The amount of burning was a puzzle, however. As was the condition of the bodies, some of which appeared to have been dismembered, although when he dismounted for a closer look he saw no sign of cutting on the flesh or bones. Blasted apart, he decided. So, the Stahlhast have Gifted in their ranks.

  “Is there a point to lingering here?” Sherin enquired, watching from the saddle as he continued his examination of the site.

  “I would know my enemy,” Vaelin said, plucking an arrow from between the ribs of a fallen soldier. It had a head of good if blackened steel rather than base iron, and had been fashioned with no small amount of skill, the twin barbs near perfectly symmetrical and the edges still sharp to the touch. “They didn’t bother gathering their arrows,” he murmured.

  “Does that mean something?”

  “This is well made and still useful,” he said, holding up the arrow. “But they were happy to leave it behind, along with all this armour and these weapons. A rich people by most measures, yet still greedy for more.”

  “It’s not greed that drives them,” the Princess said. “It’s love.”

  “Love?” Vaelin asked, gesturing at their grim surroundings. “Love of slaughter?”

  “Love for their god. Or terror. I’ve often found they’re much the same thing.”

  “Whatever drives them,” Sherin said, “it will end soon. We will end it.”

  “By what means?” Vaelin enquired, turning to the Jade Princess. “I know your gift is powerful, but I doubt even you have a song that will put their entire horde to sleep.”

  “I have many songs,” she laughed. “There is great power in music. The power to seduce, to enrage, to bring sorrow, and also rest. But I have spent many years perfecting one in particular, and it doesn’t bring sleep. When their faux god hears it . . .” She cast a sorrowful glance around the field. “This will all be over.”

  “That’s your mission?” Vaelin’s gaze veered between them, incredulity loud in his voice. “You will sing a song to their leader? Will it kill him?”

  “Certainly not!” The Princess stiffened. “I do not take life.”

  “Then what? It will . . . transform his soul somehow? Turn an evil man into a good one?”

  “No one is truly good. But it will change him.” The Princess paused and raised an eyebrow. “As it will change you, Vaelin Al Sorna.”

  “Look at this.” He pointed the arrow at the disassembled corpse nearby. “I imagine you have lived long enough to know what this means. This man, this Darkblade, has enrolled Gifted into his army. They will know what you are. They will sense your gift and kill you before you can voice a note.”

  “I don’t think so. I have a sense the Darkblade has a curious mind, not to mention a towering arrogance. He will hear me.”

  “Sherin.” Vaelin moved to her, striving to keep any note of anger from his tone, knowing it would only stir her own. “You have to see this is madness. It’s not too late to turn back . . .”

  “Oh,” the princess interrupted, shielding her eyes to gaze off to the east. “I’m afraid it is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Vaelin estimated their numbers at around two hundred riders, all armed and armoured though they refrained from drawing blades or levelling lances as they closed in. He resumed his mount and sat with his hands clamped on the pommel of his saddle. “Do nothing,” Sherin had instructed as the dust cloud rose to the east.

  The Stahlhast fanned out to encircle them as they drew nearer, closing in on all sides and drawing to a halt at a remove of only a few yards. Vaelin’s gaze slid from one face to another, seeing either the tension of imminent violence or the part-lustful grin of those who enjoy the taste of anticipation.

  “Which one is the healer?” one of the Stahlhast asked in accented but passable Chu-Shin. She kicked her horse forward as she spoke. Like the woman Vaelin had seen fall to Nortah’s arrow the day before, she had red hair that swirled like copper threads in the stiff winds of the Steppe.

  “I am,” Sherin replied.

  The woman’s eyes scanned her from head to toe before moving on to the Jade Princess. “So you would be her, then? The Blessing of Heaven.”

  “I suppose I would,” the Princess replied with a small laugh.

  The Stahlhast woman grunted and turned her gaze on Vaelin. “We were told there would be only two of you,” she said. Vaelin noted how her eyes snapped from his face to the sword hilt jutting over his shoulder and then back again.

  “This man is our escort,” the Princess told her. “A fine and trusty sword to guard two defenceless ladies on their travels.”

  “Is that right?” The woman’s features hardened further as she guided her horse closer, eyes still locked on Vaelin’s. “He guard you from the riders sent to fetch you, did he? We found them last night, all cut down and not by the hand of one man.”

  “An unfortunate misunderstanding,” the Princess insisted.

  “Misunderstanding.” The red-haired woman’s lip curled. “Found my own sister with an arrow through her. Not the kind of arrow used by the Merchant King’s soldiers either. An arrow from far away, I’d say.” She leaned closer, Vaelin maintaining a blank expression as she bared her teeth. “You’re not from the southlands,” she hissed. “And you’re not Stahlhast either. Do they make arrows where you’re from? I’d bet they fucking do.”

  The knife appeared in her hand as she lunged closer, Vaelin’s hand gripping the sword hilt and half drawing the blade clear before Sherin’s voice stopped the Stahlhast woman cold. “Kill him and your Skeltir’s son dies!”

  The woman’s fingers twitched on the knife handle as she drew in a few ragged breaths before turning her enraged gaze on Sherin. “On the Iron Steppe, bitch,” she grated, “threats are not forgiven.”

  “I threaten nothing,” Sherin replied. She swallowed hard but refused to look away as the woman continued to stare. “I merely state the truth. Kill this man and I will not heal your Skeltir’s son.”

  The woman straightened, head tilted back as she dragged more air into her lungs. Once a modicum of calm had been recovered, she slid her knife back into its sheath and barked out a short series of what were unmistakably commands to the surrounding Stahlhast in their own language. The entire group immediately turned their mounts towards the south-west and spurred to a gallop.

  “They’ll find your friends,” the woman promised Vaelin. “I told them to keep any archers alive. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you say goodbye before I flay them.” Tugging her reins, she pointed her stallion’s nose north. “We ride for the tor. And you,” she added, casting a baleful glance over her shoulder at Sherin, “had better pray your skills match your legend.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The tor ro
se from the plain into the late evening sky, resembling the long-rotted stump of a great tree. The Stahlhast woman had maintained a rigid silence throughout the three-day journey north, ignoring Sherin’s cautious attempts at conversation and spending the evenings sitting at a separate fire. Vaelin could read the depth of the woman’s bloodlust in every glance she shot his way, causing him to ponder the wisdom of allowing himself to sleep. However, after the first night passed without incident, he concluded she was as bound by duty as Sho Tsai or any other soldier. Despite their supposed barbarism, it seemed the Stahlhast didn’t lack discipline.

  “So, this is where they get their iron,” he said, eyeing the flanks of the tor, scraped raw and pale by what must have been the labour of generations.

  “Metal from the tors, meat from great herds of deer and musk oxen,” the Jade Princess confirmed. “As you said, they want for little and yet strive for more.”

  The Stahlhast woman led them towards a dense cluster of stone houses guarding the south-facing approach to the tor, passing a few cultivated fields along the way. Vaelin was struck by the fact that the people tending the fields were all of Far Western appearance. He assumed they must be slaves but saw no guards or whip-bearing overseers. Also, the people were all clad in cloth of good quality and went about their labour with an energetic diligence, many singing songs as they worked.

  “Who are they?” he enquired of the Jade Princess.

  “Slaves once,” she said, a line appearing in her usually flawless brow as she surveyed the fields. “But no longer, I fear.”

  “Why fear it? Liberation is always to be celebrated.”

  “A slave in body can still be a slave in mind,” she replied. Her usual flippancy was gone now, her voice possessed of a grave surety that spoke to the vastness of her experience. Sometimes it was easy to forget she had walked this earth for more years than he could imagine. “A slave won’t fight for an owner, but they will fight for a god, especially a god who breaks their chains.”

  They skirted the houses where the close-packed streets were rich in the babble of children at play. The town also lacked the stench typical to a place reserved for the lowest orders. Smiling faces were everywhere as people greeted neighbours or chided their offspring. Vaelin noticed that their happiness was not matched in the caustic gaze the Stahlhast woman afforded them, her lips twisting in open contempt. He also saw how the smiles faded and the townsfolk averted their gaze as she passed by.

  “It must be hard,” he said to her, “having your property stolen by the Darkblade.”

  “Shut your mouth!” she snarled, hand twitching as she resisted the urge to reach for her knife. “His word is not to be questioned by the likes of you.”

  She spurred her horse to a canter, aiming for a large encampment in the eastern lee of the tor. The tents were elaborate constructions of animal hide, all patched with numerous repairs that told of many years’ use. They were arranged in an arc around a large corral where a herd of horses raised dust as they gambolled and grazed. Vaelin estimated the camp must be home to at least a thousand people. One of the riders posted in a loose picket line came galloping to intercept their approach, then reined to a halt as the Stahlhast woman waved him aside.

  She slowed to a walk as they entered the camp and people emerged from their tents to stare at the strangers she had led into their midst. Vaelin saw little of the curiosity that had coloured the faces of those in the Venerable Kingdom when they beheld foreigners, but plenty of the same suspicion. Men and women of fighting age stared at Vaelin with expressions of naked challenge, whilst others leered at Sherin and the Jade Princess and called out no doubt lustful insults in their own language.

  “Calm down,” Sherin told Vaelin as he bridled at the sight of one man holding his crotch as he shouted something at her, much to the hilarity of his fellows. Vaelin quelled his rising temper and dragged his gaze away, keeping it fixed on the Stahlhast woman as she guided them to the largest tent in the encampment. An unusual banner jutted through the tent’s roof, a circle of burnished steel set within a wrought iron frame. The steel circle was engraved with a skillfully executed depiction of a hawk, wings spread and talons extended.

  The man standing in the entrance to the tent was shorter than many of the other Stahlhast that Vaelin had seen so far, and several years older with streaks of grey showing in the untidy black mane of his hair. He held a sheathed sabre in one hand and a flask in the other, taking a long drink from it as the Stahlhast woman dismounted, holding up both hands in what was evidently a gesture of respect.

  “Skeltir,” she said, jerking her head at the three foreigners before continuing in the Stahlhast tongue. The man nodded as she spoke, continuing to drink as his eyes tracked over Vaelin and the Jade Princess before coming to rest on Sherin, where they lingered.

  He halted the woman’s words with a raised hand and murmured something before disappearing into the gloomy confines of the tent. “The Skeltir of the Ostra doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the woman said, gesturing impatiently at the open flap.

  The Jade Princess and Sherin quickly dismounted and proceeded inside, Vaelin following at a more cautious pace and halting a foot or two inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The Skeltir sat alone on a low seat covered in oxhide, sabre resting on his knees and flask still in hand. Before him an iron stove cast a steady stream of smoke up to the opening in the tent roof as coals glowed within. Vaelin’s eyes roved every corner of the tent, finding no one else.

  “A Skeltir of the Stahlhast doesn’t lure folk into his tent to kill them,” the woman muttered, coming to Vaelin’s side. “If there’s a need for killing, he does it openly in front of the eyes of his Skeld. Now sit.”

  Vaelin made another pointed survey of the tent before moving to take a seat on a pile of furs alongside Sherin and the Princess.

  “Thirus tells me you killed her sister,” the Skeltir began in Chu-Shin. His voice had the quality of a nicked blade grating on a stone. His gaze was steady on Vaelin’s, hard with scrutiny rather than anger. “And more besides. Loyal riders of the Ostra Skeld sent forth on my word.”

  “They drew blades on me and my companions,” Vaelin replied. “So we fought, and so they died.”

  The woman, Thirus, stiffened at this, a thin hiss escaping her lips as she moved to stand at the Skeltir’s shoulder. Dipping her head she spoke rapidly in their shared tongue, her tone beseeching and slightly choked.

  “Eta!” the Skeltir snapped in his dry rasp, cutting her off. Thirus straightened and retreated, head lowered in either shame or concealed fury. “She just offered to trade her life for the chance to kill you,” the Skeltir told Vaelin. “The bond between sisters is always a strong one.”

  “Skeltir Varnko,” the Princess said, “you know our mission and we know your price. Perhaps we should proceed to paying it and we can be on our way.”

  The Skeltir’s eyes shifted from Vaelin to Sherin. “The southlanders call you the Grace of Heaven, do they not?”

  “Yes,” Sherin replied. “Although I’d rather they didn’t.”

  “Why? Do you not enjoy the favour of Heaven? Is your power a lie?”

  “My power amounts to knowledge and skill acquired over many years of study and practice. Heaven had nothing to do with it.”

  A small glimmer of amused satisfaction passed across Varnko’s face before his stern mask reasserted itself. Apparently, he had heard what he wanted to hear. “I wish to ensure our bargain is fully understood,” he said. “You will cure my son. Once I am satisfied he is returned to health, I will take you to the Mestra-Skeltir.”

  “That is what we agreed,” the Princess said with a polite smile.

  “If he is not cured,” Varnko went on, gaze still steady on Sherin and paying no heed to the Princess, “your life and the lives of these two are forfeit. I’ll allow Thirus to do as she wishes with all three of you.”

  S
herin’s features grew hard as she turned to the Princess. “That is not what we . . .”

  “She agrees!” the Princess stated in a bright and casual tone. “And so does her tall friend from across the sea.”

  Vaelin saw Sherin grit her teeth as the Skeltir raised a questioning eyebrow at her. “I agree to your terms.” She sighed, getting to her feet and continuing in a brisk tone Vaelin remembered very well. “Fetch my saddlebags and take me to the boy. From what I’ve heard of his condition, time is against us.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “A bolt in the gut from sixty yards,” Varnko said. “Punched through his mail but didn’t sink in all that deep. He plucked it out and laughed, even kept it as a token. Then this . . .” The Skeltir trailed off and gestured at the youth lying on the furs. The boy had perhaps fifteen years, though his emaciated condition and hollowed cheeks made him appear simultaneously older and younger. He lay with his eyes half-closed, breathing shallow and ragged. A thin film of sweat covered his body, naked but for the bandage on his stomach.

  Sherin crouched and gently removed the bandage, unleashing the sweet, throat-catching stench of corruption. Vaelin thought the boy’s injury the most festered wound he had seen on a living soul, a dark irregular circle an inch across, oozing with pus. Purple tendrils of infection radiated from it, snaking across the lad’s belly and no doubt deep into his innards. Vaelin knew the Fifth Order had many remedies that would ward off infection and, if administered swiftly, might save a limb from the bone saw or a wounded brother from the pyre. But he had never seen a soul so riven with it live more than a few days. The fact that this boy had lingered for weeks seemed miraculous.

  “Filth on the bolt, presumably,” Sherin said, peering close at the wound. “Perhaps some form of poison too.”

  “Our healers tried packing it with maggots,” Varnko said. “Seemed to clear up for a bit, then worsened.”