The Wolf's Call

by Anthony Ryan

  Various answers flitted through his head. I had no choice . . . The Ally had to be stopped . . . Prophecy . . . Duty . . . Destiny . . . All lies. The pain diminished as he summoned the resolve to give a truthful answer.

  Fear, he told the song of the Jade Princess. She would never have known peace with me. However far we travelled, whatever corner of the world we hid in, war would always find me, and in time she would hate me for it. I feared her hate.

  The pain dwindled away then, leaving him staggering. The fog had dissipated to reveal the Darkblade’s followers, all still captured by the Princess’s song. From the stricken look on every face it seemed the effect was universal. All their lies were being stripped away, leaving only truth. Truth is the enemy of faith. She didn’t come to sing to him. She came to sing to them. A god without worshippers is nothing.

  His gaze snapped to Kehlbrand. Having been driven to his knees by the song’s effect, the Mestra-Skeltir now rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was a continually changing mask of black rage and unalloyed fear. Spittle flew from his lips as he gabbled, a hand going to the sabre at his belt.

  “No!” Vaelin started forward, the lingering confusion causing him to stumble and fall. He gathered his strength and surged upright, head lowered as he barrelled towards Kehlbrand. But the distance was too great, and the Darkblade’s sabre too swift. It came free of the scabbard in a blur of silver that birthed a blossom of red as it sliced open the throat of the Jade Princess, blood arcing from the wound in a crimson torrent as she collapsed.

  Kehlbrand stood staring at the spectacle in apparent shock, oblivious to Vaelin’s charge. He swung a fist as he closed, aiming for the temple, a stunning blow to send the Stahlhast to the ground whereupon Vaelin would claim his sabre and take great satisfaction from driving it deep into his guts.

  His fist juddered to a halt less than an inch from Kehlbrand’s temple, Vaelin’s arm jarring with shock as if he had punched a solid wall. He began to raise his other arm but found it rigid and unresponsive, his feet no longer able to gain traction on the ground. It was a sensation he had felt before, back in the tunnels beneath Varinshold and again in the arena at Volar when the Ally revealed his gift. This was the binding touch of a Gifted.

  “Don’t kill him!” Kehlbrand said, raising a hand to the artisan who stepped from the crowd. He was portly and middle-aged, otherwise undistinguished but for the rage that dominated his quivering features. Vaelin’s eyes, unconstrained by the binding, roved over the other devotees, finding each face set in the same fury. Her song wasn’t finished, he realised. She tried to take their god away, and failed.

  “Such a waste,” Kehlbrand went on, gaze lowered to the Princess’s body. The mingled rage and fear had gone now and he appeared merely sorrowful, his voice possessed of a reflective tone. “It would all have been so much easier with her at my side, for who amongst the Merchant Realms would question the word of one who makes the Jade Princess his queen? Still.” He turned to Vaelin with a half grin. “At least I still have my villain. Obvar!”

  The hulking Stahlhast stepped forward, face grave and speaking in a formal tone. “Mestra-Skeltir.”

  “This”—Kehlbrand waved a hand at Vaelin’s frozen form—“wretch evidently seduced the Jade Princess with some evil magic and forced her to attack me. He has come here to strike down the Darkblade in accordance with the wicked design of his dread Fire Queen. He is her champion. You are mine. Will you answer this insult?”

  Obvar’s gaze settled on Vaelin. Alone amongst the devotees, his features were untouched by rage, his complexion paler than before and eyes possessed of an almost wild cast that made Vaelin ponder what questions the Princess’s song had asked of him. Blinking, he turned back to Kehlbrand and sank to one knee. “I will, Mestra-Skeltir.”

  Kehlbrand inclined his head in solemn gratitude before moving closer to Vaelin. The Stahlhast’s fingers stroked his cheek as he whispered, “I told you to touch the stone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In the Unified Realm, duelling was typically a semi-ritualised business. Seconds were appointed and the precise location, time and nature of the contest agreed. Great care was taken to ensure both parties were identically armed and enjoyed no unfair advantages, although negotiations over the precise terms were known to drag on for days or weeks. On occasion such discussions could become so protracted that one or both of the parties either forgot the suffered insult or decided extracting just retribution wasn’t worth risking their life after all. The Stahlhast, it transpired, had a much less prolonged and elaborate approach to such things.

  “No rules,” Luralyn explained. “You get a horse and a blade. So does he. You fight. One dies.”

  They stood alongside Sherin on the edge of the encampment of the Cova Skeld, watching the flames consume the body of the Jade Princess. Kehlbrand had given permission for a brief ritual observance of her passing before the duel commenced. Sherin advised that cremation was common amongst the people of the Far West and asserted a pronounced distaste for having the Princess’s remains buried in this place. So Luralyn had her artisans gather wood into a tall pyre atop which the small, still-youthful body of an ancient woman was placed, doused with oil and set aflame.

  “She lied to me,” Sherin said, frowning as she watched the rising smoke shroud the silk-covered corpse. “But I find I can’t hate her.”

  “I’m not sure she did lie,” Vaelin said, turning to Luralyn. “His followers were supposed to turn on him, I assume, once they heard her song.”

  Luralyn stared at the flames and nodded. “We shared a True Dream over a year ago. How she found me, I do not know. But she offered hope, a hope that we could end this before it began. A hope that lived in her song.”

  “True Dream?”

  “A . . . vision, you would call it. I prefer to think of them as dreams that hold truth, about the past, or the future. Sometimes . . .” She lowered her gaze, eyes closed. “Sometimes they are nightmares.”

  “That’s why you conspired against your brother. You saw his future.”

  “Yes, and it was worse than any of my fears made real. Of course, when I awoke the next day he knew something had changed. So I told him of the Jade Princess and her desire to sing for him, a dutiful sister warning her brother of danger. And I told him of the healer, and her connection to you. The Jade Princess would bring her to us and you would follow. The Thief of Names within his grasp. As for her song, ‘Let her come,’ he said. ‘I like music.’ Godhood has made him arrogant, made him imagine he can withstand all threats.” She closed her eyes, adding in a bitter sigh, “Perhaps he’s right.”

  Vaelin looked around at the sound of an impatient grunt. Their hosts’ previous indifference had abruptly transformed into close and careful scrutiny. They were encircled by a dozen Stahlhast guards, the portly artisan with the binding gift also standing close by. The veteran Stahlhast with the scars marring his beard had charge of the escort and stepped forward to heft Vaelin’s sword with a raised eyebrow. Kehlbrand evidently had no intention of forsaking the chance to enhance his legend.

  “Don’t,” Sherin said, reaching out to clasp Vaelin’s arm. He saw how she forced herself to meet his gaze, shame bright in her eyes. She began to say something else, then faltered.

  “The Princess’s song was hard to hear,” Vaelin said.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “This is all because of me. My pride, my stupidity, my anger . . .”

  She trailed off as Vaelin raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I think I have enough of those for both of us,” he said before turning to Luralyn. “All eyes will be on the duel. Take her and ride south for Keshin-Kho. You’ll find refuge there.”

  Luralyn let out a hopeless, mirthless laugh. “There is no refuge to be had now. Not from him.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  A large patch of ground beyond the encampment had been roped off to provide a sit
e for the duel. It lay in a shallow depression in the otherwise featureless Steppe, providing the mass of spectators a decent view of the proceedings. The veteran Stahlhast led Vaelin through a dense throng of onlookers, the guards forcing a path with ungentle insistence. Judging by the hungry malice on every face, word had clearly spread of Vaelin’s supposed perfidy. Many muttered as he passed by, presumably curses, obscenities or wards against his heretical evil. It soon built into an ugly growl, the crowd becoming more agitated, one woman lunging forward to hurl her spit into Vaelin’s face. The veteran Stahlhast swiftly drew his sabre and cut her down with a stroke that sundered her from shoulder to breastbone.

  He barked something at the suddenly quiet throng, Vaelin hearing the words “Mestra-Skeltir” amongst the angry torrent as the veteran levelled his bloodied blade at them in warning. The other guards all drew their sabres, and the gap between Vaelin and the crowd widened by several yards. Given their numbers he doubted it was fear of the guards that kept them at bay; the Darkblade’s word bound them all, and his legend would hardly be enhanced should the villain of the story be torn apart by an angry mob.

  Once clear of the onlookers he found Derka waiting, stamping his hooves and tossing his head in irritation. The artisan holding his reins stood as far from the stallion as he could, a fresh bruise on his cheek. He quickly scurried off when Vaelin took the reins.

  “Chek,” the veteran said, tossing Vaelin’s sword onto the ground at his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at the mounted warrior some fifty yards away and spared Vaelin a thin smile before stomping away.

  “Eager are you?” Vaelin asked Derka and received a snorted spatter of mucous in response. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint.” Vaelin dropped the reins and stepped away. “I always fought better on foot.”

  He strode forward several paces, drawing his sword and casting away the scabbard. He scanned the crowd until he found Kehlbrand, standing amongst his ardent coterie of disparate followers on a raised platform at the edge of the makeshift arena. Vaelin had expected more speeches, more righteous condemnation of the Fire Queen’s assassin. But none came, the Mestra-Skeltir standing with his arms crossed and watching Vaelin with an expression of solemn rectitude.

  Coming to a halt, Vaelin rested the sword’s blade on his shoulder and stood regarding the mounted warrior in expectant silence. Obvar remained immobile for a time, a frown of consternation drawing his heavy brows together. He wore no armour, only a loose jerkin of black cotton, a large, broad-bladed sabre in hand. With a grunt he kicked his tall stallion into a trot, coming to a halt a dozen yards away.

  “You think I won’t ride you down?” he asked Vaelin. “You think I have any interest in giving these worthless fucks a show?” He jerked his head at the crowd. “The sooner I kill you the sooner we march for the Merchant Realms, the one thing I wanted all my life . . .”

  “What did the song show you?” Vaelin broke in.

  Obvar’s mouth clamped shut, throat swelling as he choked down fresh words. Vaelin suspected this may have been the first time in his life he had tasted true fear, but not of combat.

  “It told me many truths,” Vaelin went on. “Truths I didn’t want to hear . . .”

  “Shut up,” Obvar murmured, his bemusement rapidly turning to anger.

  “That was her gift,” Vaelin said. “She came all this way knowing it would cost her life, just to reveal the truth to your people.”

  Obvar’s fingers flexed on the hilt of his sabre, his horse letting out a shrill whinny of anticipation. “Shut up,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

  “He is not a god.” Vaelin’s finger stabbed towards Kehlbrand. “You are not part of a divine mission. All the slaughter you have done is worthless. You are a killer in service to a liar . . .”

  “Shut up!”

  Obvar scraped his heels against his stallion’s ribs, spurring him into a gallop. Earth rose in clods as he closed in, leaning low in the saddle, teeth bared and sabre drawn back for an upward sweep. He was a skilled rider and swordsman, but his rage made him incautious, his charge too fast to allow for a change of course as Vaelin dived to the side, rolled to his knees and brought his sword round to slash the stallion’s rear leg. The animal managed to veer away a little before the blade connected, so it failed to sever the limb, but still left a wound severe enough to send the beast into a panicked stumble. It whirled, screaming and legs flailing, before collapsing several yards away. Vaelin sprinted towards the thrashing animal, leaping over it with sword raised high, bringing it down with enough force to tear open Obvar’s rib cage.

  The sword’s star-silver edge sparked and gave forth a near-musical ring as it met Obvar’s sabre. He was on one knee, having rolled clear of his struggling mount, staring up at Vaelin through the crossed blades.

  “Nice trick,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  He moved with a swiftness that should have been beyond a man of his size, jerking Vaelin’s sword free of his own, then twisting and lashing out with his boot. It caught Vaelin full in the chest, sending him into the midst of the stallion’s still-flailing hooves. He suffered two glancing blows before scrambling clear, dragging air into winded lungs. Obvar leapt over the horse, sabre held level with his head in a two-handed grip. He lunged as his feet met the ground, the sabre aimed at Vaelin’s neck. The thrust was strong and Vaelin grunted with the effort of forcing it aside, feeling the sting of the edge as it scraped over his shoulder. He ducked as Obvar whirled, the sabre slicing air, then flicked his sword point at the Stahlhast’s eyes. He dodged in time to avoid a blinding wound, though not without suffering a deep cut above his jaw.

  Cursing, Obvar jerked to the side, avoiding the follow-up slash Vaelin aimed at his shoulder. Blood sprayed from the face wound as Obvar cursed again, although the rage-fuelled clumsiness Vaelin hoped for proved unfounded when the Stahlhast’s obscenities transformed into a laugh.

  “Not bad,” he said in a wet rasp, Vaelin seeing the gleam of his teeth through the red mess of the wound. “Not bad at all.”

  Moving with the same unnerving swiftness he launched into a series of attacks, lunging and slashing, sabre and sword ringing as Vaelin fended off the blows. Obvar advanced with every stroke, forcing him back, attempting to close the distance and gain the advantage of his greater bulk. Vaelin continued to back away, parrying every blow and watching for an opening. It came when Obvar fractionally overextended a thrust, allowing Vaelin the split second he needed to open a cut on his forearm.

  You can’t fell a tree with a single stroke of the axe was Master Sollis’s advice from Vaelin’s earliest days in the Order. Skill can beat strength, but only when married to patience.

  Obvar grunted in rage and pain before launching another flurry of attacks, this time advancing too fast. Vaelin allowed him to close the distance, tempting Obvar into making a grab for his sword arm. As the fingers closed on his wrist, Vaelin let the blade fall from his right hand, caught it with his left and slashed it across Obvar’s belly.

  The Stahlhast danced back with his typical speed but not before suffering a foot-long cut from abdomen to chest. It wasn’t deep enough to do serious injury, but still bled profusely. Seeing him wince in pain Vaelin slipped under Obvar’s flailing counterstroke and delivered another cut to his upper thigh. He felt the sting of the opposing sabre’s tip score his back as he whirled away, a shallow cut only.

  He began to circle Obvar, sidestepping his repeated blows and administering wound after wound to his limbs. Soon a circle of spattered blood surrounded the Stahlhast, his head beginning to sag as his strength seeped away.

  “Give it up,” Vaelin told him, deflecting another thrust, the slowest so far, and replying with a slash to Obvar’s bicep. “You don’t have to die today, not for him.”

  The Stahlhast staggered back, red vapour leaking through his face wound with every laboured breath. “Die?” he asked, words slurred by blood although Vaelin
heard the bitterness they held. “I already died.” He stumbled and slumped to his knees, propping himself up with his sabre. “When I heard that bitch’s song.”

  “What was it?” Vaelin asked, pausing. Despite Obvar’s growing weakness, he kept a sword’s length between them. He knew this was foolish, that he should finish the Stahlhast now, but the need to know overrode his caution. “What did you hear?”

  Obvar gave a weary jerk of his head at Kehlbrand, who was still watching the contest with his unmoving vigilance. “He . . . has no love for me,” Obvar said. “He never did. Not when we were boys, not now. I was only ever just . . .” He bared crimson teeth in a smile. “Useful.”

  There was no warning before he lunged, no change of expression or renewed tension to his form. It was his swiftest attack yet, the sabre sweeping up from the ground as his legs propelled him forward, the blade angled expertly towards Vaelin’s waist. He saw in the brief instant before the blade bit home that there was no chance of blocking it, but in his haste Obvar had allowed him a killing blow of his own.

  The sword sank into Obvar’s gut just below the rib cage at the same instant the sabre cut deep into Vaelin’s side. But for the shock caused by the sword thrust, Obvar might have cleaved all the way to Vaelin’s spine. Instead, the sabre stalled, having cut deep enough to birth an explosion of agony that sent Vaelin to his knees, sapping all but the last vestige of strength and forcing his hand to slip from the hilt of his sword. But it wasn’t deep enough to kill, at least not immediately.

  “A god . . .” Obvar said, grunting with the effort of tearing the sabre free of Vaelin’s flesh, “is still a god . . . even if he despises you.” He stumbled back a few feet, Vaelin’s sword still skewered through his midriff. “And,” he said, raising the sabre above his head for the killing stroke, “my people need their g—”

  Derka’s hooves raised a thick pall of dust as he rode Obvar down, concealing the subsequent ugly spectacle of the Stahlhast champion’s demise. The stallion reared and stamped amidst the dust for some time, so long in fact that Vaelin found himself lying on his side with darkness encroaching his vision by the time Derka was done. He could feel his life seeping away into the soil of the Steppe, feel the hard-packed earth beneath his cheek as the dust cleared to reveal Obvar’s corpse, a broken bundle of sundered flesh and bone.