The Tiger and the Wolf

by kindle@netgalley. com

  He could scent the camp as he drifted closely, just a little sculling with his tail aiding the flow of the water. His eyes, halfclosed so as not to reflect the firelight, marked the presence of sentries along the bank. Old Crocodile brought the news of them to him with a rumble of hunger: any warm, living shape by the water’s edge spoke to the animal within him. He fought that instinct down.

  And if the wolves looked into the river, even in the full lambent paleness of the moon, they would see only a log drifting . . .

  He left himself glide a little further, well past the ring of sentries that Stone River had posted in case the Tiger was stalking. There was a grand fire ahead that the camp was built around, and with a structure of stones and wood set before it. There were some tents pitched – neat little things that spoke to him of economy and warmth – and there was a larger and more untidy shelter strung about one of the trees. That must be Stone River’s domain, surely? And yet it seemed a rough piece of work, with gaps where the cold would creep in, and no sign of a fire inside.

  He slowed himself and his long form drifted towards the riverbank, where he clawed into the mud for anchorage. The cold of the water had begun creeping into him, and he would have to get out soon, to return to his human shape and restore some heat.

  His nose was telling him a lot, but he did not have any memory of the girl’s scent. The big tent looked too flimsy to be a prison but, still, where else to keep a prisoner? There was also a big pit up where the ground rose away from the river, but that stank strongly of pigs. Would they put the girl in such a place? Asmander realized he had no idea if such a thing might be done in the Crown of the World.

  He had been hoping they would just have her out in the open, tied to a tree or similar. But then this was a test, after all, and the world expected him to exert himself. Nothing was supposed to be easy.

  Except . . .

  Except, looking towards the treeline, surely there was something there? Old Crocodile was not so good at seeing distances in the dark, so Asmander let himself slide back into the water. With a sinuous ripple of his spine, he let himself ease closer, passing invisibly through the heart of the camp before beaching himself once again. The cold was beginning to slow him now. He must make a plan and act on it.

  There was a prisoner tied there. It was almost as if he had dreamt it, and the dream had become real. There, from the nearest tree, was a captive hung by the wrists. And yet it was not the girl. Within his barrel body, Asmander’s heart stuttered.

  A man: Broken Axe.

  ‘You have him?’ Maniye demanded.

  ‘He crept into our camp, but we were waiting for him,’ Kala

  meshli confirmed. ‘He will say nothing, but I know he came for

  you.’ The moon caught the old man’s raised eyebrow. ‘Is it for

  your mother that he would save you?’

  ‘My mother cannot live with the fact of me,’ Maniye said

  bitterly. ‘And Broken Axe . . .’

  ‘If you have grown an affection for him, you should have

  become his mate when your father offered the match,’ Takes

  Iron observed with that mocking tone she was used to from him.

  ‘He will surely die now. Amiyen demands to wield the blade, for

  she claims a right of vengeance against him.’

  ‘Amiyen and her son would have killed me, once they found

  me,’ Maniye told him flatly. ‘If not for Broken Axe they would

  have done so. She is no loyal hunter of Stone River.’ The old priest nodded slowly. She could still not believe that

  he was just sitting here speaking with her. Where had the savage

  tormentor of her childhood gone? Why did the man care? ‘So Stone River believes that the Wolf will welcome Broken

  Axe’s soul as a gift?’ she enquired.

  ‘Broken Axe will die – as all who turn against the Wolf must

  die,’ Kalameshli replied equably. ‘But because of that—’ ‘Broken Axe is the Wolf,’ Maniye hissed fiercely. ‘He is the

  Wolf that walks alone. He is a man unto himself, not a creature

  that needs the crutches of others, like my father does. You think

  the Wolf will be glad when Broken Axe’s blood is shed? The Wolf

  will curse Akrit Stone River seven ways.’

  Kalameshli sighed, exasperated. ‘Girl—’

  ‘My name is Many Tracks. Broken Axe gave it to me.’ He slapped her. In the dark, she barely saw his hand move

  before the hard boniness of it exploded against her cheek. In the startled silence that followed, Kalameshli spoke slowly

  and patiently. ‘Broken Axe will die. If he is weak and a traitor, he

  will die for that reason. If he is strong and a rival to Stone River’s power, then it is fit he will die for that. Let the Wolf decide

  what taste his soul has. But, with that sacrifice, it may be Stone

  River will be satisfied.’

  But this time Maniye felt that she had wisdom, and it was the

  priest who indulged in foolish fantasies. ‘If he finds more to

  barter, then he will trade it all, and get whatever value he can.

  He would cut a thousand throats if he thought the Wolf would

  place a great sign on him to make him known as High Chief.

  You know this, Takes Iron.’

  And he did know it. She could see it from the defeated slump

  of his shoulders. Still he tried to argue: ‘He has listened to my

  counsel for many years. He has heeded me since before you

  were born. He will heed me now when I tell him you must be

  spared.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked simply, and then to clarify, ‘Why would you

  even try? You say you have tried to make me strong? Old man,

  you have tried to break me all my life.’

  ‘That is how it is with iron as with men,’ came his

  almost-whisper. ‘They must be taken to the point of breaking, beaten, hardened, tempered. Only then can they be strong enough to take an edge and not to shatter. With iron and men both, that is how it is. I have always tried to make you strong, stronger than the rest. I have tried to make you such a thing as

  the Wolf might be proud of.’

  And the word, Why? was on her lips again, but then there

  came to her some words of her mother’s, when the woman had

  been least able to stand the sight of her own daughter, because

  of the captivity and the treatment that had ushered Maniye into

  the world. I cannot forget them, Stone River and that loathsome

  creature his priest.And here was the priest, cursed by her mother

  for exactly the same deeds as Akrit himself.

  And she understood: staring on Kalameshli, she saw it all, the

  secret that even her father – that her father most of all – could

  not know.

  Broken Axe had been ill used. The moonlight touched the bruises the Wolves had laid on him in capturing him, and there was a noose drawn tight about his neck. He was strung up by his thumbs to a branch, high enough that he was on his toes trying to keep his own weight from tearing at his arms.

  He was guarded, but the woman standing before him had no eyes for Asmander. Instead her venom was turned entirely on her captive. Words drifted on the air, hissed in an ugly mutter: she was telling Broken Axe how he would suffer. They would give his soul to the Wolf and to the fire, yes, but she would bring him plenty of pain before then.

  Asmander was still creeping along, belly to the earth, just a long low shape that took one slow step at a time as he neared. He would have to find his human feet soon enough: even the ground was chilling his innards like ice.

  And then he was as close as he dared, and he Stepped so that he was still lying low to the ground, arms splayed out, hands still in the mud, thick clothes all dry as if he had never been in the river at all.


  He understood the woman: from her words, she had a right of vengeance for a dead son. It was a debt that would be understood over all the world. In the Sun River Nation a parent’s grief might be bought off, but here in the Crown of the World they were more true to themselves.

  To interfere with a right of vengeance was the wrong thing to do, but Asmander felt he had the curious luxury of already having placed himself beyond honour. And he could not leave Broken Axe.

  He shifted closer, crouching low on all fours. There were plenty of Wolves in earshot but none watching: this woman’s vengeance was personal and private. When she struck out at Axe, marking him with her knife, that was a matter between the pair of them, and Asmander was an unwelcome eavesdropper.

  But he would have to kill her instantly and noiselessly. One cry or shout of warning would set the whole camp on him.

  He saw Broken Axe notice him, as he rose up behind the woman: just a flicker in the man’s eyes, hurriedly masked.

  A blow from his maccan would not suffice, he reckoned, and he had no expectation that he might creep close enough to gag the woman and cut her throat. She was a warrior, and likely she would manage to shout or wrestle herself away from him.

  This left him one option: not sure by any means, but it might serve. This was a trick he had been taught by the Serpent priests: something that was common practice amongst them, but came far harder to all other people.

  He was standing behind the Wolf woman now, watching as she slammed a fist in under Broken Axe’s ribs, raising nothing but a stubborn grunt from her victim.

  Gingerly, Asmander extended a hand, until he could have touched her shoulder. In his mind he was trying to think through that exacting set of translations he would need: something closer to mathematics than mere Stepping. And again he was putting things off, despite the danger should any of the Wolves happen to glance this way.

  The woman made his mind up for him. She caught sight of his hand in the corner of her eye and began turning, her mouth open.

  He Stepped, throwing his shape forwards along the line of his extended arm. For Serpents this was easy: their legless nature divorced them from the human shape almost entirely. A crocodile was closer to a man, but still different enough that, if Asmander fought hard, he could twist himself so that his outstretched arm exploded out into the gaping jaws, his head merging into his shoulder, his body whipping out into the long, saw-scaled tail, even as he lunged forwards.

  His jaws snapped down across the Wolf woman’s head and arm with all the force he could give them, and the falling weight of his body – more than human – took her off her feet. He wrenched her savagely about by the grip of his myriad teeth that were hard and sharp as onyx flakes. He felt her neck break, her skull crush inwards. Her blood was warm and maddening in his throat, awaking Old Crocodile’s hunger savagely. He was hard pressed not to give in to it and simply feed.

  She had died in her human shape, he knew. Her flesh was a prison for her ghost, and to eat of it would be to invite madness. He shook his head until the mangled body fell clear of his jaws. He could feel her ghost stuck between his teeth, caught there like a fragment of meat.

  Then he was human again, and cutting Broken Axe down. The renegade Wolf had no words for him, but there was understanding in his eyes. That was all the reward Asmander needed just then.

  He could have Stepped to the Champion’s shape then, for he felt he had regained enough of his honour to do so. He could have called out all the Wolves and seen how many it would take to bring him down. He wanted to finish what he had come for, though: retrieve the girl and get her away. Moreover, he wanted to live.

  He shared a moment’s silent communication with Broken Axe, and the Wolf nodded towards that big, haphazard tent. There.

  The two of them crept about the periphery of the camp, whilst nearby there were plenty of Wolf eyes turned outwards, watching for the wrong enemy. Axe had stepped to his wolf shape, slinking like a grey shadow, crouching in stillness when the pale stripes of the moon passed over him.

  Then he had frozen, one warning look cast backwards to warn his follower to do the same, and now someone was emerging from the tent. Asmander recognized the Wolf priest, in his coat of bones, and guessed that he had been conducting some ritual to prepare the girl for sacrifice. The old man paused, looking up at the sky, and there seemed something dejected or defeated about him.

  The world is full of stories, Asmander reflected, willing the man to be on his way. Yours does not concern me.

  And then the priest was gone, hurrying off towards the main fire, his face crossed with lines of worry. Asmander made to go forwards, but another look from Broken Axe stopped him. As the wolf slunk into the tent, Asmander crouched in the shadow of its entrance, hand on his maccan.

  He heard a gasp from within, and then murmured words. He hoped that, in rescuing Broken Axe, he had gained an ambassador to Maniye, to speak for him.

  Then Axe was at the flap again, a hand stretched out, and Asmander passed over the flint edge of his knife, without needing to be asked.

  That was when the woman’s body was found. That was when the Wolves discovered the absence of Broken Axe.

  41

  She had not wanted to believe it at first. As soon as she thought of the secret, she had tried to rid her brain of it, as though it was yet another soul jostling for room there. But the idea refused to go and, looking into the shadowed eyes of Kalameshli Takes Iron, she saw the confirmation. She knew, and he saw the knowledge in her.

  She could destroy him, or at least she could try. If she convinced Akrit of what she had intuited, then he would turn on his own priest. What price angering the Wolf then? If he killed Takes Iron, the other tribes might even abandon him altogether. Killing priests was as bad as killing kin.

  Although she had spent all her years hating him, now that she had that weapon in her hand – the weapon he had handed her, hilt first – she did not know whether she wanted to harm him with it or not.

  He had backed out of the tent, stiff with the knowledge of what she could do to him, and she had turned away from the intruding moonlight and tried to think. This might be her last night before the Wolf took her in his fiery jaws. She wanted to have some of it to herself.

  But no, she heard his tread again, coming back to her, this time padding in the shape of his god. She curled in upon herself, screwing her eyes shut, as if she could simply unmake him and unravel all his history back to the beginning.

  ‘Many Tracks,’ a voice addressed her.

  Her heart jumped within her chest. It was not Kalameshli. She scrambled to sit up, and there he was, impossibly: Broken

  Axe himself. A surge of emotion leapt inside her that she could not anatomize.

  He ducked out for a moment, and came back with a sharp flint, sawing away at her collar with swift strokes. She wanted to question him but, if there was a tale to be told, this was not the time. She could not understand how he had got free and then walked through the camp of his enemies to come to her. She knew only that he had.

  Then she was loose, and she felt both the tiger and the wolf within her leap up, clamouring for her attention. For an instant her own shape slid through her hands, and she felt herself losing control of it, her twin souls about to battle each other there and then. Her Serpent dream had lent her a little control, though, as if its invisible coils were still hobbling them. She took them each by the scruff of the neck and held them apart in her mind.

  Then there was a yell from elsewhere in the camp, and Broken Axe bared his teeth, that grimace becoming a wolf’s snarl as he Stepped. She copied him, finding her wolf feet, and the two of them were out of the tent and into the open air.

  She scented him instantly: the southerner. He was crouching by the tent flap, but Broken Axe stood beside him, and so she understood that somehow the dark man was here as her ally, not her enemy. She would trust Axe’s judgement.

  There were more important matters right now, for the Wolves were coming.
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br />   It was just a couple of them at the moment, but their cries had woken up all the camp. There were vital seconds in which confusion would run from Wolf to Wolf – surely the Tigers were attacking! Then they would look to their prisoners and all would be lost.

  There was one who came as a wolf, and the other as a man. Perhaps hoping she would just flee, Broken Axe threw himself at the first, snarling and snapping out of the shadows, the two of them rolling over and over. The second paused, a hatchet already to hand, eyes flicking from the two fighting animals to Maniye herself. He was a hunter called Thorn Foot, one of Akrit’s cronies since forever.

  He lunged at her, letting his companion trust to his own luck. He was coming in with an open hand though: grabbing rather than attacking, just as if she was still the girl he remembered. She got her teeth into his fingers and shook her head savagely, and he howled with pain. Bones ground between her jaws. Then the axe came up, a swift feint at her that sent her skittering back, his blood in her mouth – and Asmander cut him down.

  The southerner made his rise from the shadows flow into the downward-cleaving arc of his sword: a single fluid motion. The stone teeth of the weapon sheared into Thorn Foot just where his shoulder met his neck, and the man was snuffed out just as swiftly, live meat to dead meat in an eyeblink. The taste in Maniye’s throat was abruptly that of a corpse.

  ‘Go, now!’ Asmander urged. Broken Axe had seen his opponent off, sending the other wolf running with his tail between his legs. The whole warband was converging on them, though. They were in the heart of their enemy’s little domain.

  Maniye had a sudden vision of herself ending up with the altar at her back, the whole escape attempt nothing more than a means to bring her to sacrifice.

  ‘With me!’ The southerner was haring off through the camp. He was still a man, not even in his fighting shape.

  Broken Axe shared a look with her, wolf to wolf, and she saw that neither of them had a better idea.

  She saw a wolf leap at Asmander, enraged beyond all telling by the foreigner’s intrusion. He caught the animal with a smooth upward swing that barely seemed to interrupt his sprint, yet cast his attacker away trailing a spray of dark droplets. Others were massing into a pack, though, and there would be archers. Even the greatest warrior in the world could not fight all of Stone River’s hunters together.