The Wolf's Call

by Anthony Ryan

  “What . . .” I staggered again as a fresh wave of sickness swept through me. “What waits? What are the Unseen?”

  “Endless hunger and depthless malice. We fed them, all these years, we gathered the Divine Blood into the priesthood and we fed them, thinking it would keep them sated. It drains us, bleeds our gifts from us and turns us into these wasted souls you see now. Sometimes I wonder if we were the ones being lied to, a lie we told ourselves. We imagined the Unseen would be satisfied with morsels when, beyond their prison, there was a whole world to eat. Some years ago something changed, their hunger grew. It was as if they had woken from a torpor. However much we fed them it wasn’t enough. They always wanted more than we could give, our gifts diminishing with every feeding so that when your brother failed to meet his appointed end, we had not the power to oppose him. More than that, we could feel them reaching out, into the realm where the shadows of lost souls linger, and there they found servants. Somehow, what lurks beyond the door found a way to engineer its release.”

  As he spoke his voice grew dull, the words still audible but faint, as if heard from far away. My gaze was locked on the stone now, eyes tracking continually over its red-gold veins. The pulses of power were more frequent, beating in time with my heart and birthing an upswell of sickness each time. It was the pain that saved me, cutting through the fog clouding my mind to reveal the sight of my hand, lowering slowly towards the stone.

  Gasping, I snatched it back and began to turn away, but the priest, despite his age and the sticklike emaciation of his form, possessed enough strength and swiftness to reach out and snare my wrist. I tried to pull it free but another series of pulses from the stone sent me to my knees, retching in agony.

  “Eresa!” I rasped, turning to find both Varij and Eresa standing immobile, faces slack and void of consciousness.

  “Withered it may be,” the priest said, pulling me closer, breath rank on my face, “but my gift lingers, child. I have just enough left to give them one last meal.”

  I snatched the dagger from my belt and sought to drive it between the stark bones of his chest, but the sickness made it a feeble attempt. The blade scored his skin down to the ribs before he batted it away with an angry grunt.

  “Your gift is great,” he said, dragging me towards the stone. “Perhaps great enough to sate them for years.”

  I fought him as best I could, scratching at his eyes, trying to thrash as his bony arm encircled my waist, but I felt like an infant struggling in the grip of an adult.

  “Know that I take no pleasure in this,” he said, his hand like a vise on my wrist as he forced it closer to the stone. “But it must be done. It will buy time, send them back to their torpor. We can gather strength to oppose him . . .”

  His words were interrupted by a hard wet thud from behind us. Jerking me around, the priest let out a plaintive whimper at the sight that confronted us. The tall lesser priest who had summoned me slid slowly down the rough rock of the chamber wall, entrails spilling from a wound that had sundered him from shoulder to groin. By some whim of chance he was still alive, sunken eyes bright now as he stared at the Mestra-Dirhmar with abject contrition, a dying man begging for forgiveness.

  “Best let her go, you old fuck,” Obvar said, stepping from the shadows, his outsize sabre dripping blood as he twirled it with casual skill. “It’s going to get ugly enough for you as it is. It’ll get uglier still if he notices any bruises on his sister.”

  Behind him more figures resolved from the shadows, Stahlhast of the Cova Skeld dragging priests across the floor, each one bound and gagged. Some wept, some pleaded, but most were silent, kneeling with heads bowed as Kehlbrand strode from the stairwell. The Mestra-Dirhmar’s grip slipped away as my brother came fully into the torchlight. The old man staggered back, his features a curious mix of defiance and terror, bony chest heaving as he dragged in one ragged breath after another.

  I went quickly to Eresa and Varij, both crouched on their knees and blinking in confusion. Checking their eyes I saw whatever control the priest had exerted gone, though they both remained pale and trembling.

  “Before we get started,” Kehlbrand said to the Mestra-Dirhmar, “I believe you have a question for me.”

  The old man’s features twitched as he fought to master himself, resolve eventually winning the struggle against fear as he set his jaw and stared back at Kehlbrand in silence.

  “Disembowel one of these,” Kehlbrand told Obvar, waving a hand at the bound lesser priests. “Doesn’t matter which.”

  “Stop!” the Mestra-Dirhmar said as Obvar hefted his sabre. The priest took a shuddering breath and straightened, speaking to Kehlbrand in the formal tones of ancient ritual. “Kehlbrand Reyerik, called the Darkblade, do you wish to gain the blessing of the Unseen and be named Mestra-Skeltir of the Stahlhast?”

  “Mmmmm.” Kehlbrand rubbed his chin in mock contemplation that drew a deep-throated chuckle from Obvar. “After due consideration,” my brother said, “I believe I do.”

  “Then touch the stone,” the old man said, a sneer creeping into his tone and defiance still shining in his gaze. His finger stabbed at the stone, shrill and desperate triumph in his voice as he spoke on. “You were born to one of the Divine Blood, but you have no gift. There is no power in your veins. You are merely mortal, and throughout all the ages any mortal who touched the stone has received only a swift death. That is the purpose of the third question, the question that, even if one who pretended to lead the Stahlhast had a chance to answer it, ensures there will never be a Mestra-Skeltir.”

  “You’re a fool,” I told the priest, rising to my feet and advancing towards him. “You and these others will die here. As far as our people will ever know, my brother answered the third question, for who would ever claim otherwise?”

  I allowed myself a laugh at the abject frustration on his face and turned to Kehlbrand. “I’d prefer you make it quick. Have done and let’s be gone from here.”

  He wasn’t looking at me, his gaze instead focused on the stone. The faux calculation from moments before was gone now, replaced by deep and grave consideration.

  “You can’t be thinking it,” I said, laying a hand on his arm when he failed to answer, gaze still locked on the stone. “Kehlbrand. You heard what he said . . .”

  “Yes.” He clasped my hand and smiled before stepping away. “I heard him. Obvar, take my sister and her companions away from this place. I wish to commune with the Unseen alone for a time. Oh, and leave me your knife.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  So we come at last, honoured reader, to the decisive event that would in time earn me my most famous soubriquet as the Darkblade’s Betrayer. Were I a less honest soul I would ascribe my change of heart to Kehlbrand’s bloody vengeance upon the priests. It is true that the screams emanating from the Sepulchre were terrible, and prolonged, conjuring all manner of unwelcome conjecture as to my brother’s actions below. It is also true that the sight of Kehlbrand when he eventually emerged from the building birthed a chill in my heart that has never truly faded. But it wasn’t the blood that slicked his arms from wrist to shoulder, nor the gore-covered knife he tossed to Obvar that began my journey from sister to traitor, it was my brother’s eyes.

  He had always possessed the piercing gaze of one granted both intelligence and insight, not to mention cunning. Consequently, becoming the object of his scrutiny was often an unsettling experience for those not so blessed. But that night it was different. Now there was a knowledge that accompanied the scrutiny, a sense that he already possessed the answer to any question he might ask.

  So, when I asked him if he had touched the stone, the reply was no surprise. “Of course I did, little colt.” He laughed and drew me into his blood-soaked arms. “And here I stand, hale and whole. It was just another lie from a best forgotten corpse.”

  “What happened? What did you . . . ?”

/>   I fell silent as he drew back and put a finger to my lips. His smile was as warm as ever, but his knowing gaze also possessed a glint of warning I hadn’t seen before. “I entered into communion with the Unseen,” he said. “As would be expected of the Mestra-Skeltir. They gave me such gifts, dearest sister. The stone is a source of power—that is what the priests were guarding for so long, festering away in their greed and privilege. Ask of the Unseen with an honest heart and they shall reward you.”

  I wanted to believe him as much as I had wanted to disbelieve the Mestra-Dirhmar, but found I couldn’t. It was there in his eyes when he released me and turned to Obvar, the sense of knowing, birthing a certainty in me that my brother had emerged from the Sepulchre changed, and it was a change in the core of his being for, in addition to his altered gaze, there was the power I now sensed in him. Kehlbrand had received a gift.

  “We’ll take a tour of the camp,” he told Obvar. “The priests were never loved but there are still those who harbour unwise loyalties to the old ways.”

  “True,” Obvar conceded. “But, after this they’re hardly likely to say as much out loud.”

  Kehlbrand started towards the gate with a purposeful stride, his tone one of brisk cheerfulness. “They won’t have to. Little colt, I’ll find you in the morning. See if you can come up with a ceremony of sorts to mark the occasion. Some form of ritual will be expected.” He turned back for a moment, arms wide and voice exultant. “For tomorrow the great march to the Golden Sea begins!”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The commencement of the great march, in truth, proved something of a misnomer for what was in effect a series of campaigns and alliances conducted over the course of the next two years. Although we had achieved dominance over the Iron Steppe, the Stahlhast were not the only people to ride across its vastness. Many tribes to the south and east had been driven off to face annihilation in the southlands generations before, but those that remained were still substantial in number even if they couldn’t hope to match us in battle. Kehlbrand, however, desired no battle with other Steppe folk, considering them far too valuable as warriors.

  Therefore, he was swift in rejecting Obvar’s suggestion that the first act of the great march should be to destroy the Tuhla, a confederation of tribes who ranged across the western Steppe as far as the coastal mountains.

  “The Skin Riders?” Obvar said in disdain when Kehlbrand gave voice to his intentions, an appellation referring to the Tuhla custom of cladding themselves in armour of hardened oxhide.

  “I have a sense,” Kehlbrand replied, “there is one amongst their elder chiefs with a keen eye for opportunity, and a deep hatred of his rivals. After all, they look to the Merchant Realms with just as much envy as we do.”

  He refused to engage in the traditional practice of sending emissaries on the grounds that “they’ll just come back tied to a saddle and headless. I’ll go myself.” And so he went, alone with no escort into the heart of the Tuhla dominion despite voluble protestations from both Obvar and myself. The exact details of his journey and negotiations remain unknown to me, but I have little doubt his newly acquired gift was the principal reason why he returned three months later with thirty thousand Tuhla warriors at his back.

  Their chief was a wiry man of middling years named Heralka, which he insisted meant Grey Falcon in the Tuhla tongue, although I heard his warriors use it as an insult on numerous occasions. He rode with four part-rotted heads tied to his saddle and a permanent smirk of triumph on his lean features. The heads had belonged to his rivals for dominance over the Tuhla confederation, slain as a result of some convoluted scheme of subterfuge and betrayal I never fully understood, except to note that Kehlbrand was key in orchestrating it. Despite his evident triumph, as the subsequent campaigns unfolded, I often witnessed Heralka sitting alone at a campfire, the four heads arranged around it in a circle as he engaged them in animated, sometimes jocular conversation. As the night wore on, and his consumption of ale grew, his humour would eventually subside into tears and shouted accusations before he finally passed out.

  At Kehlbrand’s behest, and with Heralka’s permission, I sought out others with the Divine Blood amongst the ranks of the Tuhla, finding two. One was a foul-tempered old man with a facility for summoning rain, the other a sturdy woman of forty summers who could bend and mould metal with her bare hands as easily as if it were clay. Both agreed to join my coterie only at Heralka’s insistence and accepted my authority with a stern resentment that never faded. Consequently, I didn’t name them, nor any of the others discovered in the aftermath of our first victories. I had my family now, and it would grow no larger.

  With the Tuhla alliance firmly secured, Kehlbrand launched the first of his campaigns into the border country, breaking with tradition by choosing to fight in the wet season. This was a deliberately restricted series of raids against trading caravans and small-scale harassment of Merchant Realm soldiery, designed to gauge the strength of the enemy whilst confusing them as to our intentions.

  Having destroyed our foe’s most northerly stronghold years before, the Stahlhast now enjoyed unfettered reign over the southern reaches of the Iron Steppe, enabling us to raid almost at will. The varied garrisons of the Merchant Kings responded with increased patrols and some punitive expeditions consisting of a few thousand mounted soldiers. These were left alone at Kehlbrand’s command and would spend days or weeks riding across an empty Steppe before lack of supplies forced them to return to their strongholds, whereupon the raids would resume at a yet greater tempo.

  When the last rains faded and the Steppe grew dry and hot, Kehlbrand, having gained as complete a picture of the enemy’s disposition as he could hope for, chose the fortress town of Leshun-Kho as the target for his first full-scale assault. The assembled host was ordered to encamp beyond range of the garrison’s spyglasses whilst Varij, in company with Obvar, stole forth under cover of darkness to approach the town’s high walls.

  Varij had made careful study of various captured architectural texts and knew just the right places to employ his gift so as not to cause an immediate collapse. Instead, he weakened the foundations in three different places, ensuring they would crumble under their own weight within hours. Consequently, when the town garrison saw the approaching host come the dawn, they rushed to man the battlements in time to watch the breaches appear in their walls. Attempts to improvise barricades met with little success as the Stahlhast and Tuhla streamed through the gaps, cutting down the desperate defenders and galloping on into the streets beyond. The town fell within two hours, despite some suicidally courageous stands by the Merchant King’s soldiers.

  It was the fall of Leshun-Kho that brought the next step on my traitor’s journey. Troubled though I was by the changes in my brother, I did not yet fully understand just how profound his transformation had been. Thinking back on my tour of the conquered town, I wonder now at my own indifference to the destruction and suffering all around. Kehlbrand had forbidden the customary rapine and wanton murder that accompanied the fall of a settlement, but still the slaughter of both soldiers and townsfolk had been considerable. The Tuhla had been particularly savage, this being their first opportunity for many years to fully indulge their love of looting, displaying no hesitation in cutting down any householder who dared to protest the theft of their valuables. So, although most of the population survived the fall of their town, its corpse-strewn, blood-streaked avenues still made for a pitiful sight.

  “Mercy is weakness, compassion is cowardice,” I heard Eresa mutter continually as we passed by successive scenes of tragedy. A young widow sobbing over the corpse of her gutted husband whilst her two children stood by in numb, wide-eyed shock. A brawny man crouched in the shadow of a smithy, face set in a stoic mask against his pain as he wrapped a bandage around the stump of his left hand. A well-dressed woman of striking beauty stood by a fountain, completely unharmed but screaming at the top of he
r lungs. She uttered no words that I could discern, just repeating shrieks of desolate grief.

  “Mercy is weakness . . .” Eresa murmured on, turning away from the screaming woman.

  “Stop that,” I snapped. “It was the priests’ creed. We no longer have need of it.”

  Attempts to quiet the woman proved fruitless so we left her to her screams and moved on, finding a massacre at the turn of the next corner. The Tuhla had herded the remanants of the city’s garrison into their own parade ground, roping them together in a long line. Each man was dragged forward in turn to be beheaded, his bonds cut and the body pulled aside before the next in line was forced to kneel at the feet of a tulwar-wielding warrior of impressive stature. As was their custom, the Tuhla were making sport with the heads, using pincers to pluck out teeth to craft the trophy necklaces they cherished. The still-dripping, slack-jawed heads were then impaled on spears that would be arranged in a circle around their camp for the victory feast that night.

  I was struck by the dumb obedience of these doomed souls, the line shuffling forward in dull-eyed, stooped servility, their faces sagging in utter exhaustion rather than fear. As my eyes traversed the line, I straightened in surprise at seeing a number of civilians amongst the ranks, older men in robes rather than uniforms, some women and youths too. Unlike the soldiers, most were far from compliant, weeping out entreaties to their indifferent captors or assailing them with curses. Others were more stoic; one older, bearded man in a plain brown robe in particular caught my eye in the way he stepped forward in straight-backed, expressionless rectitude, somehow maintaining a dignified air even as he knelt beneath the tulwar’s blade.

  “Scholars and their students mostly,” a Tuhla warrior explained in answer to my query. It was common for captured soldiery to face execution in the aftermath of victory, but the variety of victims here was unusual. “The Darkblade’s order,” he added, grunting as he used iron tongs to lever a tooth loose from a recently severed head.