by Tim Stead
Narak stood, still gripping the stone in one hand. He held it out in front of him, like an offering to the dragons.
“Today the world ends,” he said. “Today the world is born again.”
He changed. Pascha was familiar with Narak’s aspect, his god form, but this was quite different. His skin grew scaled armour, his eyes changed to dragon yellow, his pupils slitted like theirs. He became a man shaped dragon. Here was the source of the power she had sensed earlier, and it frightened her. This she could neither kill nor control.
“I made a promise,” he said. “I am the promise. Adelir. Redemption. Freedom.”
Kirrith roared. Pascha had not guessed that a dragon could move so quickly. The giant creature hurled itself at Narak, swifter than an arrow, as the others set up a roaring that shook the ground, but for all his speed, Kirrith was too slow.
The Pity Stone shattered in Narak’s hand.
It seemed to Pascha that the world stopped. Kirrith loomed over them, the dragons fell silent, and the only sound she could hear was the thin music of the shattered bits of gemstone as they fell from Narak’s fingers onto the ground.
“What have you done?” she whispered the question.
“They are free,” Narak replied, his voice strong and full of certainty.
“Free? Narak, they are dragons. You have freed the dragons.” Truly it was the end of the world as he had said. Even she could not fight against these. She looked up into Kirrith’s great yellow eyes, twin suns in the darkening sky, but the dragon seemed stunned.
“They never understood,” Narak said. “And it was the simplest thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The stone. Didn’t you feel it?”
“It changed me,” she replied. She was ready to go in a moment. If the dragons attacked she could be elsewhere with Narak in the blink of an eye. If she could not fight them, then at least she could escape.
“And then nothing,” Narak said. “The stone changes you only once, and the change is in you, not the stone. For two thousand years they have dwelt in fear, afraid that they would become again what they had been. They thought their virtue, their guilt, resided in the stone, but it was never so.”
“Truly?” Pascha felt the beginnings of hope.
“Truly. They did not know it – they who know everything were blind to this because they needed some sort of penance. It was never about the stone. They needed to be able to forgive themselves, and so they made the legend of Adelir, the Awaited. When the time was right they made me the vessel of their forgiveness. Now they are free. The burden of their guilt is lifted. They can once more dwell in the world.”
She looked up at the dragon. “Kirrith, is it so?”
The dragon dropped its head until it lay close to them. “It may be. I seem unchanged by the stone’s demise. Narak, how did you know this?”
“You gave me the gift,” Narak replied. “You made me dragon kin, and eventually I knew, as dragons know, without reason.”
“You could have mentioned it,” Kirrith said. “Before you destroyed the stone.”
“You would not have believed me,” Narak replied. “You would have tried to prevent it.”
The dragon bared its teeth, a smile perhaps. “You are probably correct,” it said. “And now you have freed us, but what are we to be? How are we to live? We are built to pillage and slaughter, but that is closed to us.”
“It is not for me to say,” Narak replied. “But you know the truth when you hear it, and that is a talent that men will pay for, and one that they do not possess.”
It was over. Pascha looked around her as though waking from a dream. The dragons were safe. The Bren were driven back below the ground, and the war was finished. She wondered what the future held for her, and for Narak.
“I have to go,” Narak said.
Pascha didn’t understand. They were together now. They had won.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You saw. When the stone failed against the Bren, you saw what I did.”
“You did nothing.”
“I would have killed them,” he said. “I have not changed since Afael. It was the same.”
“It was not the same,” Pascha protested. “Millions of lives stood in the balance.”
“And yet…” he did not complete the thought.
“This is foolish,” she said. “We won. We can do what we wish.”
Narak shook his head. He turned to her, and his eyes were sad.
“The dragons have done their penance,” he said. “Now it is my turn. I must be alone. I know this as I knew the pity stone. I have no choice.” He took her hands in his. “You know that I long to be with you,” he said. “We have been apart too long, and yet we have the time. We have all the time there is if we so choose. We were born to be together, and it will be so, but not yet.”
“The Dragons spent two thousand years this way.” she said. “Must it be so long?”
“Less,” he replied. “Far less, but I cannot say what span it may be. I will come back to you, Pascha. Be true. Be honest.” He turned and began to walk north. She watched him go, unable to find the words to express what she felt.
“We shall watch over you, Wolf Narak,” Kirrith called. Narak raised a hand but did not turn. Pascha watched his figure diminish as he trudged into the failing light. Somewhere behind her there was a beating of dragon wings and Torgaris flew past, circling as he gained height. His presence in the sky marked Narak’s trail long after the Wolf himself was out of sight.
Epilogue – The Great Forest
I have been fortunate to spend a lifetime among the great and powerful in a time of change, to have lived history. I have been honoured to advise many. Eran Pascha knows my name, Duke Quinnial is a friend, and I count King Skal, my blood kin, the same. Some of this good fortune comes from what little reputation I have garnered as a scholar, but most, I believe, is because I wed Lord Tilian Henn, hero of the second Great War, the Ghost himself.
In all my years I met the Wolf only once. It was indeed a remarkable encounter. This is especially so when you consider that no other verified sighting has been recorded since the end of the war. So I shall describe it because its very rarity gives it some intrinsic value.
We were travelling the Gods’ Walk in Telas, Tilian and I, with a carter and a couple of men from Tilian’s household. We were on the way to visit King Skal and Hestia, his Queen, when we were accosted by bandits.
In the decades after the war there were still a few reavers in the north. They were desperate, hunted men, and in that time they banded together in ever greater numbers. I did not count our assailants, but they numbered more than twenty.
It was an unpleasant confrontation. I could see that Tilian wanted to fight. The Great Forest was only a few paces away and his bow was on the pommel of his saddle. I believe he could have done it, had we not been with him.
These men were not generous with mercy. You could see it in their eyes. They neither dispensed it nor expected it in return. I thought them malnourished, weak, and all the more dangerous for that.
The leader, or I assumed he was such, demanded that we surrender our wealth. We had no choice, and it did not matter anyway. We were carrying no more than twenty gold guineas, and we would not feel the loss. But everything changed when the bandit pointed to me.
“And her,” he said. “We will have her.”
Then I knew we were all going to die.
The silence after his words stretched on, and the bandit leader smiled. He knew that he had demanded the impossible. He expected to have the pleasure of killing us all, but at that moment, just as the silence was about to break, Narak appeared.
It sounds plain and every-day to say that he stepped out from behind a tree, and it was not that. It was like the sun coming out. His presence was overwhelming. He walked between the bandits and the wagon, and nobody moved to prevent him. It was impossible not to know who he was. Even if he had not worn twin bl
ades on his back he was different, somehow more than anyone else.
“Leave this place,” he said. The bandit leader did not demur. He knew that he was outmatched, and that this was a rare show of mercy. He waved his men back and retreated rapidly down the road, reluctant, for once I think, to seek the cover of Narak’s forest.
When they were gone the Wolf turned to us. He nodded to Tilian. They had met before, I knew. He turned to me.
“I thank you for the book you sent,” he said. “It was a most useful gift.”
“I am glad,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. He nodded again, as though accepting what I had said. He was not a particularly tall man, and not especially handsome; compact, lithe, with a sureness in his movements that I have seen in no other man, though Skal approaches it at times.
“I consider the debt repaid,” he said.
I did not reply, and Tilian did not speak. Narak turned and stepped once more into the Great Forest, and was gone. It was all over, from start to finish, in three minutes, perhaps as many as five. But it changed my life. I knew that Narak watched over us. How else could he have been there at the exact moment of our direst need, to step out and stand between our small party and its inevitable extinction?
That winter I tied ribbons at Eltaraya for the first time in ten years and have done so every year since. I hold that the Wolf is different from other gods. He may not be seen, he may never speak, but always he stands just behind us, watching, waiting until he is needed once more.
Extract from ‘A Life’
By Lady Sara Henn
Learned Scholar Visitant of the Royal College of Historians at Golt.
* * * *
There were no paths in the forest. Beneath the canopy of trees it was fairly open, but hard going on the soft leaf litter. Every now and then it slipped beneath his boots, not often, but often enough that he did not trust his footing.
He sought out high ground, climbing every tree covered hill, working his way steadily north and west. When he was high he could look out across the forest through the trunks of the vast trees and scan the sky for any sign of the dragon.
He caught sight of it on the seventh day. It was Bane, circling high above the canopy. He adjusted his course, and by the time he made camp that night he knew he must be close.
Each night in the great forest had been unnerving. It was still a sacred place, forbidden to men, but he had not been challenged. Night was difficult though. In daylight he walked and saw nothing. There was no sign of wolves or bears, only the distant call of birds and once a deer had crossed his path and bolted away, gone in moments. At night there were eyes.
Every night he built a fire and its light was reflected back from the darkness by many pairs of eyes. He did not know what they were, but they seemed to belong to larger creatures, and they watched him. When he approached them they retreated beyond the light.
This night was no different, but he had schooled himself to ignore them. He had decided there was no harm in them.
He built his fire and suspended a small pot over it. He assembled his evening meal and waited for it to cook, crouched beside the flames. When he looked up from his work he almost fell over backwards.
There was a wolf sitting opposite him, watching.
He stared back for a few moments, but the wolf seemed calm. There was no apparent danger. It was not a large beast, and wore white marking on its lower jaw and chest. It sat with its head slightly tilted, like a curious dog. He went back to his task, stirring the contents of the pot with his knife, watching the wolf out of the corner of his eye. He tasted the blade. Not bad.
What does it taste like?
He looked up, startled, but there was only the wolf sitting there.
“Did you speak to me?” he asked.
In a manner of speaking, the wolf replied, a smile hidden among the words. He could not hear its voice, and it did not speak, but he heard words none the less, as though they came directly to his mind. What does it taste like?
He dipped his knife into the pot and came up with a piece of meat impaled in its tip.
“Here,” he said.
Throw it.
He hesitated for a moment, and then flicked the knife so that the morsel flew towards the wolf. The animal caught it deftly and chewed for a moment.
Strange. Do you cook all your meat?
“Yes. Who are you?”
I am Swift Foot of the first pack, and you are Cain One Hand, the philosopher general, friend of the dragon mage. You are expected.
Cain was a little taken aback.
“I am Cain Arbak, minor lord and innkeeper,” he replied. “And who is the dragon mage?”
The one who woke me. You call him Narak, The Wolf.
Dragon mage. It was an appropriate title, Cain supposed. He had been in these woods six times in the fifty years since the signing of the treaty of Fal Verdan which had ended the war; each time at Eran Pascha’s behest. Each time he had found the dragon circling in the sky, and each time he had failed to speak to Narak.
Yet every time it had been apparent that there was a power growing here. He had felt it, been misled by it, tricked by it. He had sought Wolfguard twice and failed to find it, though he was sure that he knew the way. The Wolf’s home had simply declined to show itself.
“Will he speak to me?” Cain asked.
I cannot say, but he comes now. The wolf turned and trotted into the darkness.
Cain waited. The forest seemed unnaturally still around him. He noticed that the eyes had gone from the shadows beyond the firelight. He turned around, but the light of his fire showed him nothing but the trunks of trees, the scrubby undergrowth.
A wolf stepped out of the night in front of him. It was huge, at least twice the size of the first wolf. It stopped, and as he watched it transformed into a man, stretching upwards, adopting its new shape smoothly. It became Narak, just as Cain remembered him, clothed in black boots and white cotton. The swords were there, too. This was something new. He had never been able to emerge from the wolf state fully armed and clothed before.
“Cain,” he said.
Cain bowed. “My Lord,” he replied.
Narak smiled. He crouched by the fire and warmed his hands. “Did you bring wine?” he asked.
“Telan,” Cain replied. He produced two cups and a bottle, offered a cup to Narak, who took it and sipped appreciatively.
“Fifty years have not dulled their art,” he said.
Cain summoned up his tact. “You know why I am here,” he said.
Narak nodded, sipped the wine again. “Pascha,” he said.
“She awaits your return, my lord.”
Narak leaned against a tree trunk, pushed his legs out in front of him.
“Tell me other news,” he said.
Cain thought back over fifty years. There was a lot to say. He decided to stick with recent events.
“Duke Aidon is doing well,” he said. “His reforms to the property laws are popular.”
“Duke Aidon?”
“Quinnial died five years ago,” Cain said. “Aidon is Quinnial’s eldest, named for his brother. The dragons didn’t tell you?”
Narak looked troubled. “No,” he said. “They don’t often speak to me.” He glanced up into the night sky.
“The Lady Maryal is still there, and her sons look to her for advice, but not for much longer, I suppose. She’ll be seventy next year. And Tilian Henn died last year. You remember Tilian?”
“I remember,” Narak said.
“His wife, the Lady Sara. She sent you a book once. She died ten years ago, but then she was older than Tilian. He hadn’t really been the same since that.”
“Tell me something that doesn’t involve death, Cain.”
“As you wish,” he paused, gathering his thoughts again. Most of the news he had was death, death and aging. That was all the change he saw these days.
“Sheyani is well?” Narak asked.
“She is. We divide our days between
Waterhill and Col Boran. Eran Pascha is a generous mistress. We see a lot of Skal and Hestia. They married years ago, of course, and their son has ruled in Telas Alt for a decade or two. They still argue a lot.” He smiled.
“Where is Col Boran?”
“Eran Pascha’s home, built on the Dragon’s Back twenty miles south of Hellaree. It’s fast becoming a town. You really know none of this?”
“None of it.”
“Jidian and Sithmaree married, too. I never expected that. I didn’t think Benetheon gods married, but they have children, Boras and Wulla - Pascha has granted them long life, so no grief there yet.”