Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  But it was too late. The Fjerdan soldiers lifted huge mallets and struck the dishes. A strange thrum filled the air. The drugged Squallers arced their arms and people began to scream.

  The sound was overwhelming. Nikolai clapped his hands to his ears and all over the field he saw soldiers doing the same, dropping their weapons, collapsing to their knees. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before, rattling his mind, his bones, filling his skull. It was impossible to think.

  The Fjerdan troops, protected by those strange helmets, surged forward, opening fire, picking off helpless Ravkan soldiers and Grisha. The helmets had been created to protect them from this horrifying, paralyzing sound.

  Blood leaked from Tolya’s ears. Nikolai felt wetness on his neck and realized the same thing must be happening to him. The vibration felt like it was pulling him apart. Ravka’s missiles seemed like toys.

  He’d thought he could give his country a fighting chance. He’d thought that despite their numbers and their resources, he could think his way out of this for his people. Hopeless, foolish pride. This was how it would all end. With Ravka brought to its knees.

  At least he’d fought to the end as their king.

  But maybe Ravka didn’t need a king. Or even an adventurer.

  Maybe his country needed a monster.

  He had one last gambit left, a final trick for the fox to play, a bit of hope dressed in shadow—his demon. But once the troops saw what he was, once his enemies knew the truth, the crown would be forever out of his grasp. So be it.

  Go, he commanded. Stop them. Help keep my country free.

  The demon hesitated. The thing inside him was him, and it knew what freedom meant this time. There would be no secrets anymore.

  Good. Let Vadik Demidov have the throne. Ravka would survive.

  With a roar, the demon launched itself from his body.

  He was soaring over the battlefield, straight toward those horrible bells. He saw soldiers look up, faces cast in horror at the sight of the demon. They pointed and screamed, eyes wide with terror.

  But the sound from the bells was too much. The vibration moved through his shadow body, fracturing it, dragging it apart. He fought to pull himself back together, but the closer he got to the Fjerdans, the harder it became. His wings, his body, unspooled around him.

  Another mistake. It would be his last. The demon was going to shatter and Nikolai knew he would die with it.

  Ravka would fall. After thousands of years of Lantsov kings. His people, his country, the Grisha. All lost.

  Pain tore through Nikolai. The demon was breaking, flying apart. On his knees in the dirt, his mortal body screamed at the sky overhead. This was all that was left. His last chance to fight for his country before he fell into darkness forever.

  He gritted his teeth, felt fangs in his mouth.

  We die together.

  The demon shrieked its response, full of pain, and anger, and iron will. They hurtled toward the bells.

  38

  THE MONK

  SO THE BOY WAS GOING TO DIE. Maybe they were all going to die.

  If his skull hadn’t been ringing like a church bell, Aleksander might have laughed. Instead he knelt on the ground with the rest of the Starless, hands clamped to his ears, trying to find a way out of this. The spectacles he’d used as a prop had fallen from his face and lay broken in the dirt. Wait for a sign, he’d told them. The Starless One will show us the way.

  He’d intended to conjure a great blot of shadow, block out the sun, fill them with awe.

  There would be no sign. He hadn’t anticipated a weapon like this one.

  Again, he tried to summon his nichevo’ya, but they couldn’t take shape. Fjerda’s drugged Squallers were amplifying the vibrations from those bells in some way, preventing his shadows from finding their form.

  He couldn’t hear the screams of the Starless around him, but he could see their mouths open and wailing, their eyes wide with misery and confusion. On the Fjerdan line, he saw the emaciated Squallers forced into Fjerda’s service, their bodies frail and trembling, their faces hollow and haunted. This was parem. He’d never seen its effects before, hadn’t understood what it could do to his people. Grisha weaponized against Grisha. Fjerda had at last realized their dream of domination. And they just might realize their dream of conquest too.

  He had to get out of this place and away from that sound.

  Aleksander lurched to his feet, stumbling through the ranks of the Starless, all of them too lost to pain to pay him any mind.

  Then he felt it, like a hook in his gut. He turned and saw the young king’s demon racing through the skies, that embodiment of his own power Aleksander had last glimpsed during the obisbaya, when he’d sought to claim the demon for himself.

  The boy had set it free. It would cost him the throne. It would cost him everything. Why? So he could die heroically for a country that would turn its back on him? Would the boy never learn?

  Sacrifice. The whisper of Yuri’s voice, full of reverence.

  He is a fool. Your reverence belongs to me.

  What good would this grand gesture do the king? Aleksander could feel the demon breaking apart just as his nichevo’ya had. It was stronger than they were, maybe because it had emerged whole from Nikolai instead of being pieced together from the shadows around them, maybe because it was linked to the king’s consciousness. Even so, it would be no match for the bells.

  But it might be. With your help.

  Of course, Yuri would like nothing better than for Aleksander to sacrifice himself to this cause. They followed you. They believed in you.

  Aleksander needed to run. He would save himself as he always had, regroup and make another plan. The Fjerdans were plowing their way through the Ravkan ranks, and once they reached the Starless, Aleksander would be as good as helpless. He had to get out of here. He had eternity to launch a new strategy, to retake Ravka from the Fjerdans, to build his following and forge a new path to victory. He’d fought too hard to return to this life to endanger it now.

  Yet he couldn’t deny what would happen to the Grisha if the Fjerdans won the day. And there would be no miracle, no grand resurrection for him, if there was no one there to see it.

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late to salvage this moment. Aleksander planted his feet and opened his hands, calling out to the shadows. This time he didn’t attempt to form them into soldiers. Instead he sent them skittering over the field, fragile tendrils of darkness, blindly seeking the power they recognized. Like calls to like.

  He released a shout as the shadows met the demon. They clung to its form.

  More. Aleksander’s body shook as he fought to keep his sanity, that deafening, maddening vibration traveling through his skull. His threads of shadow wrapped around the demon’s body, giving strength to its limbs, banding together and binding its form.

  The creature shrieked. Aleksander felt the demon’s mind, Nikolai’s mind.

  The monster is me …

  The ghost of a thought.

  The demon’s wings beat against the winter sky and it hurtled toward the bells. It slammed into one, then another, sending them crashing to the ground in a heap of metal and glass. A soldier tried to fire on the creature, but it tore the helmet from his head and slashed its claws across the soldier’s face, silencing him, hot blood like a balm.

  The Fjerdans scattered, terrified by the monster come to life before them. The drugged Grisha looked on without interest, their minds full of nothing except parem.

  With a roar of triumph, the demon king smashed through the final bell. The wall of sound collapsed in blessed silence. Shouts rose from the Ravkan troops as they stumbled to their feet. They were bleeding. They were broken. But they were not done. They took up their guns, Ravka’s Grisha raised their hands, and they all threw themselves into battle once more.

  “What happened?” cried Brother Chernov.

  Aleksander could barely hear him. His ears were still ringing with that violent sound, and he
lping to forge the demon had taken a toll. He watched the monster slide back to the king, a dark blot skating over the field to return to its true master. The Starless hadn’t seen what he’d done or hadn’t understood it. They’d been on the ground, subjugated to the bells.

  “What do we do?” said Brother Chernov.

  Aleksander wasn’t sure. The bells were gone, but Fjerda had seized the advantage. Their troops were recovering, driving forward, and the king was surrounded.

  “There are demons in the sky!”

  At first he thought the monk meant Nikolai’s shadow creature, but he was pointing southeast.

  “Who has a long glass?” he demanded, and Brother Chernov placed one in his hands.

  There was something moving toward the battlefield, though he couldn’t tell what. He only knew it meant more trouble for the king. Nikolai had no allies to the south.

  “Where is the sign?” pleaded Brother Chernov. “Why has the Starless One forsaken us? What do we do?”

  Aleksander watched as the Fjerdans circled the king and his troops. The bells had given them the chance to cut off Nikolai’s path of retreat. Aleksander supposed he could send the nichevo’ya to help. He could attempt to rescue Ravka’s king a second time.

  Or he could let him die and seize control of Ravka’s forces, then lead the charge himself.

  The boy had been brave; he’d smashed the bells and risked his life and his country’s loyalty for it. But that did not mean he was meant to win this day.

  Apologies, Nikolai. A man can hardly hope for two miracles in one morning.

  “What do we do?” repeated Chernov desperately.

  Aleksander turned his back on the last Lantsov king. Let him die a martyr.

  “All we can do,” he said, addressing his flock. “We pray.”

  39

  ZOYA

  ZOYA KNEW SHE WAS BEING IMPRUDENT, indulging in the same recklessness she’d scolded Nina for again and again, but she wasn’t going to let one of her soldiers be used as a pawn. The Apparat had a game to play, and he would play it. Zoya intended to dictate the rules.

  At the edge of the beach, she pulled down cloud cover slowly to avoid drawing attention, then wreathed herself in sea mist. She summoned the wind, letting it carry her low over the waves as she skated across the water. This was the power that the amplifiers at her wrists, Juris’ scales, had given her. It was not quite flight and it required every bit of her focus, but the Apparat would be anticipating a disguised flyer or raft. She had a better chance of getting Nina out if she caught the priest and his men off guard.

  And if Nina is dead?

  Zoya had lost as many allies as she’d sent enemies to the grave. Nina wasn’t even a friend. She was a subordinate, an upstart student with a gift for languages who could always be counted on to make trouble if she couldn’t find some to get into. But Zoya had been her commander and her teacher, and that meant she was under Zoya’s protection.

  Juris’ laugh rumbled through her. Zoya of the garden, when will you cease your lies?

  As she approached the monstrous Fjerdan base, a chill swept through her. It was even bigger than it had seemed from the beach. She circled it slowly, peering through the mist she’d summoned, trying to get her bearings. The eastern tower was obvious enough, but it had to be twenty stories tall. Where was the Apparat keeping Nina? He’d said the cells and … there, nearly at the top of the structure, an expanse of smooth wall, its surface unbroken by windows. Those must be the holding cells.

  But how was she meant to get up there? She could vault herself on the currents of the air, but not without being seen, and a sudden thunderstorm would be more than a little suspicious. She circled the base slowly and spotted a series of piers on its lower level, where small craft could dock. On one of them, two Fjerdan soldiers were repairing the battered hull of an armed boat.

  Zoya stepped onto the dock and lifted her hands, clenching her fists. The soldiers gasped and clawed at their throats as the air left their lungs. She let them drop unconscious to the deck and set about stripping one of his uniform. She bound and gagged them both, then rolled them out of sight. She was grateful for the soldier’s heavy coat and hat. Women didn’t serve in Fjerda’s military.

  She crept up the dock and climbed a metal staircase onto the main deck. She kept her head down and tried to make her walk determined. Zoya was not an actress and had no gift for subterfuge, but she only needed to make it to the tower. The naval base was moving through the waves, picking up speed, heading north, she was sure, to lend support to the rest of Fjerda’s forces.

  Zoya reached the eastern observation tower and slipped inside. It didn’t seem safe to take the elevator, but when she ducked her head inside the stairwell, she heard the clamor of footsteps coming from above. She couldn’t speak Fjerdan. She didn’t want to risk meeting fellow soldiers. The elevator it would have to be.

  She entered and jabbed the number for the floor just below the observation deck, unsure of what she would find there. On the tenth floor, the elevator jolted to a stop. Zoya kept her eyes on the ground as a pair of shiny black boots entered. Whoever it was pushed a button and they were moving upward again. He said something in Fjerdan.

  She grunted a reply, her heart racing.

  Now his voice was angry. He grabbed Zoya’s chin and shoved her head up.

  Grizzled face. Black uniform emblazoned with the white wolf. Drüskelle.

  He drew his sidearm, but Zoya’s hands were faster. Her gust struck his chest and he slammed against the elevator wall with a clang, then fell in a lifeless heap to the floor.

  All Saints. Now she had a body on her hands.

  Frantically, Zoya smacked the buttons of the high floors, praying that no one would be waiting when the doors opened.

  The elevator stopped at what looked like a gunnery. She could see weapons pointing down from every window. And the place seemed to be deserted—for now. She rolled the body into the corridor, then took a moment to send lightning jolting through the guns, melting their long barrels. A small thing. But as long as she was here, she might as well leave some destruction in her wake.

  The elevator doors closed, and at last she arrived at what she hoped was the prison floor. If she’d gotten her count right, this place would be heavily guarded. She raised her hands.

  The doors opened on silence. Zoya saw two long gray hallways curving in either direction. Both walls were lined with doors. Were there Grisha behind them?

  She took the hallway to the right and dropped the pressure, dampening the sound of her steps. But she needn’t have bothered. When she rounded the corner, she saw a thick-waisted woman with silky blond hair seated in a chair at the end of the hall, the Apparat behind her, bracketed by two Priestguards in their brown robes. Nina. Zoya hadn’t seen her since she’d left the Little Palace for her mission, and she’d forgotten the extent of Genya’s tailoring. It was like looking at a stranger—except for the stubborn glint in her eyes. That was pure Zenik.

  The Apparat had a knife to her throat.

  “Easy, General Nazyalensky. You see where you are, don’t you?” He gestured to the windowless walls. “A dead end. I doubt even the inimitable Nina Zenik would survive having her jugular cut.”

  “Will it be so easy to explain a dead girl whom everyone knows to be a good and pious member of Jarl Brum’s household?”

  The Apparat smiled. His gums were black. “When I show him the bone darts we took from her clothing and expose her spies in the Hringsa, I imagine Jarl Brum will give me a medal. We’ve taken Nina’s weapons, and her power is useless against my healthy Priestguards. Shall we see if she’d like to use her twisted gift to call some corpses to do her bidding?”

  Nina said nothing, only pressed her lips together, her gaze focused on Zoya.

  “I don’t think she will,” the Apparat continued. “She can’t call the dead without destroying her cover and putting dear Hanne Brum in danger of being charged with collusion. That would spoil her betrothal to the
crown prince, now wouldn’t it?”

  “What do you want?” Zoya said. “Take me as your prisoner and set Nina free.”

  “No!” Nina cried.

  “You mistake me, Zoya Nazyalensky. I do not want you as my captive, but as my comrade. Though be assured,” he said, “my monks stand at the ready. One step toward me and this whole room will be dosed with parem gas.”

  Zoya’s eyes darted to the cells, the ceiling, the two Priestguards flanking the Apparat. There were vents in the walls, but he might be bluffing. She had antidote in her pocket. Was it worth the risk? She’d have to dose herself with antidote, then fight off the effects and the Priestguards at the same time.

  Zoya shook her head. “Do you have any love for Ravka at all?”

  “Ravka was meant to be ruled by holy men, and your king is not one. He is an abomination. The Saints must be freed from him.”

  “I think you find abomination where it’s convenient. The same way you locate your Saints. What do you want? We’re short on time.”

  “Were you seen?”

  “I killed a man on the way up.”

  “I see,” the Apparat said with some distaste. He nudged one of the monks. “Bring me the boy.”

  The Priestguard moved to obey, opening the nearest cell and leading out an emaciated prisoner.

  “This poor soul was taken from a Fjerdan village by Jarl Brum. He’s a Heartrender. Or maybe a Healer. He was never trained. But now he does whatever the drug parem tells him to.” The Apparat removed a packet from his robes and the Heartrender lifted his head, sniffing the air, a low moan escaping his throat. “You and I are going to leave this place together, Zoya Nazyalensky. You will declare your allegiance to Vadik Demidov, the true Lantsov king. And you will become my Saint, a symbol of the new Ravka.”

  “And if I say no, Nina will be tortured by your monks?”

  “She will be tortured by this Heartrender. One of your own. He will take the skin from her body inch by inch. And when her heart begins to fail, I’ll have him heal her and start all over. Maybe I’ll have Miss Zenik dosed with the drug. I understand she survived one encounter with parem. I doubt she’ll be so lucky again.”