Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  Senya took a deep breath, emotion threatening to get the better of her. 'My father taught me to be Valor; to be the wolf, not the sheep. No words will ever change that, Vel. Not even yours.'

  Velimir smiled then, a joyous grin the likes of which Senya had not seen since the days her father was there with them. Gone from his dark eyes was the pity, and in its place, she saw pride.

  'I've always liked you, Senya,' the old man said. 'Even as a little girl you were full of fire. Finn would have been proud of you. He'd be proud to see the Wolf you've become.'

  ✽✽✽

  For the first time since her father's death, Senya slept without dreams. There were no snapping jaws lurching at her face from the gloom, no fangs dripping with bloody saliva. There were no monstrous roars to shatter her calm, no blood-curdling screams to wake her. There was nothing at all of her father's last day, only the darkness of a peaceful night, sweet and blissful.

  Then Velimir was there, shaking her by the shoulder. 'Wake up, girl!' he hissed, voice tight with concern.

  Senya gazed at him for a moment, her eyes struggling to adjust to the grey light of dawn seeping in through the two small windows behind him. She had fallen asleep in the armchair and her back ached with the memory of it. Velimir had kept the fire stoked though, and the room was still warm. She sat up, wiping the sleep from her eyes. 'What is it?'

  'Riders. Ten of them. Coming in from the southeast.'

  Senya lurched to her feet, blankets falling to the floor as she scampered across the room to the windows. She balled her hand into a fist and wiped away the condensation clouding the glass, pressing her nose to the glass and peering out.

  The riders were picking a path down the steep hillside to the front of the farmhouse, only two hundred yards away. Big men on big mounts, all wrapped up in fur and bristling with steel. Senya swallowed hard. 'They only cross the river when they're heading for Haslova. And they've never come this far north.'

  Velimir was busy packing food into Senya's saddle bags. 'I guess our people aren't the only ones starving,' he said, stuffing salted beef into the rear pockets. 'Desperate men do desperate things.'

  Senya could feel herself looking at him as she had done a thousand times before… a little girl lost. 'What do we do?'

  'We do nothing.' The old man smiled wryly. 'I'll go speak to them, see what they want. Best you slip out the back, get your horse from the stable, and disappear. You can be gone before they ever know you're here.'

  Senya felt another surge of anger. 'I'm not a child anymore, Vel. I'm a Wolf. You can eat shit if you think I'll leave you here to face those bastards alone.'

  Velimir sighed. 'Even a Wolf knows when it's time to run.' He finished packing the saddlebags and thrust them into Senya's hands. 'When the only glory to be found is a quick death, always better to make yourself scarce. Get you gone, girl. Before it's too late.'

  Senya looked at him for a moment, into those grey, steely eyes, and knew there'd be no moving him. 'If that's what you want,' she sighed, bowing her head and taking the saddlebags.

  Velimir turned back to the window and squinted out. He swore at something outside, but Senya was already moving, too intent on her own actions to wonder what the old man might have seen. She let the saddlebags fall gently to the ground, her free hand moving silently to sweep up her sword and scabbard from their resting place beside the armchair.

  'You're right,' she muttered. 'No time to be stupid.' And she swung the sword as hard as she dared. The flat of the hilt caught Velimir on the side of the head with a vicious clunk, dropping the big man to a knee. Too dazed and confused to fight back, he offered no resistance as Senya struck him a second time, this time cushioning the sword hilt with her cloak. That got the job done. Velimir was unconscious by the time he hit the floor.

  Senya checked him over quickly, fearful she might have cracked his skull. There was always a risk with head injuries, but there was no faster way to settle an argument. She breathed a sigh of relief. His pulse was strong and his breathing steady. He'd wake with a lump the size of an egg on his temple, but at least he'd be alive. The trick was keeping him that way.

  I hope you have a plan…

  Her father's voice, sounding doubtful. Senya glanced around the farmhouse in a desperate search for anything that might help. Cold sweat beaded her forehead, and she swallowed hard.

  'How about a prayer to the Great Hunt?'

  Chapter Two

  The Wolfeater

  Radok waded out into the shallows of the Adalvas, his clothes tossed aside on the river bank, dark skin a stark contrast to the chunks of ice flowing south from the northern mountains. He stopped when the water reached his midriff, spreading his arms wide and taking a deep breath. The air, like the water, was fresh and bracing, and Radok smiled as his body shuddered against the cold.

  Nine members of the Grey Crow watched from the safety of the shore, some already mounted, others breaking camp and packing saddle bags. They were dressed in the heavy fur cloaks and fur-lined trappings of the Whitelands, their hoods drawn up and gloves pulled tight, watching silently as their leader went about his morning ritual.

  None of them understood the significance of what they were seeing, save perhaps Jorn, who had been with Radok since the beginning. He at least knew how they had found Radok, the day they dragged him from the water and made him Grey Crow. The ritual was a throwback to those days, at the start of it all, when he first learned to walk with the Wind.

  The rest of them just saw a man standing naked in the water, his sculptured physique rigid with the cold. They saw him flex the muscles in his arms and legs, roll those powerful shoulders and stretch that muscular back. They saw flesh crisscrossed with a hundred different scars, some turning blue as Radok splashed himself with freezing water. They saw only a madman… just as Radok wanted it.

  It was better they see a madman than a sick man. Sickness was a sign of weakness for the Grey Crow, and the weak never lasted long. When the coughing fits took hold, as they had done these past few weeks, it was better Radok's men remember the cold bath of the morning than turn their thoughts to darker causes. A sick man was an obstacle to be removed; a madman someone to fear.

  'It's time,' Jorn called from the riverbank, dragging Radok from his thoughts. 'Let's move before we freeze to death.'

  'You should try this sometime,' Radok called back, turning on his heels and wading ashore. Jorn sat his mount at the edge of the water, hands resting on the reins. His narrow eyes peered out from the shadows of a fur-lined hood, his thick black beard cracking into a smirk. Radok grinned back. 'Might wash the cobwebs from your stones and put some hair on your chest!'

  'Never heard your mother complain about my stones,' Jorn countered. 'And she seemed to enjoy the smoothness of my chest when her head was resting on it afterwards.'

  Radok laughed. 'That is weak, old friend, even for you.' He took up the spare blanket left on the shore and dried himself off. He was feeling the cold now, deep in his joints, but he forced himself to move calmly and confidently. 'My mother was dead the day I was born Grey Crow, and you were ten-years-old.'

  'Aye, but I was satisfying women by the time I was eight,' said Jorn, straightening in the saddle.

  'You'd be lucky if you could satisfy a sheep,' said Jian, heeling her mount up beside Jorn, 'let alone the woman who birthed the Wolfeater.'

  Radok burst into laughter, joined by the tribesmen gathered closest. 'Oh, I like her,' he said after a moment. 'You can ride with us more often, girl.'

  'As long as it's the horse I'm riding,' she said, making a point of looking down at Radok's manhood. 'Else I'd be better off as one of Jorn's sheep.' And with that, she turned her horse about and set off downriver.

  This time it was Jorn's turn to laugh.

  Radok cast him a wounded look and glanced down. 'It's not even that cold,' he said mournfully. Then he laughed too.

  ✽✽✽

  They turned north after crossing the Adalvas, away from the distant spires
of Haslova, still hidden as they were among the grey mountains of the Spears. They aimed instead for the snow-clad peaks of the deeper Whitelands. It was a path few Grey Crow had ever taken, yet Radok's nine followed him without question. There were no complaints as they furrowed a track through the thick snow, battered by the elements, the morning sun little more than a ghostly orb watching over them.

  Radok grunted in satisfaction at their silent obedience. Yet he couldn't help but wonder if it was loyalty that drove them, or fear of the madman?

  'I hope there's good cause behind that grin,' said Jorn, reigning his mount in alongside Radok's. 'We could use a victory.'

  'And we'll have one,' said Radok.

  'By the Seven, I hope you're right.' Jorn scanned the landscape ahead, all whitewashed hills and frozen woods. 'They say only Chadra walks this far north. It's a hell of a risk we take.'

  Radok glanced around, through the flurries of snow swirling all around them, to the fur cloaks dancing on the wind, the long hair and full beards snapping in the breeze.

  'Does it feel like there's only one wind out here?' he asked. 'Seems like the full set to me, and they can't decide a damned thing between them!'

  'You shouldn't mock the gods, Radok. We all bow to the Will, eventually.'

  Radok waved a hand dismissively. 'You've always been a superstitious old bastard, Jorn… especially when times are hard! The Will favours those who favour themselves. Even Talak knows that.'

  'Is that what you told him, to allow this little adventure?'

  Radok groaned at the memory. Never one to enjoy his visits with the Ashan Tay, that last one stuck firmly in the craw. The old priest was sending men north, east, and south in search of food, yet none were going west.

  'It's a mistake,' Radok had argued after forcing his way into Talak's tent. 'We're more likely to find what we need out west than we are going anywhere else.'

  Yet even with Radok towering over him, Talak remained steady as a rock. He spoke calmly, reasonably, as though talking to a child. 'It's too dangerous to rile the Wolf right now. The hunger has left us too weak.'

  'We won't go anywhere near the city,' Radok had promised. 'We'll swing north, towards the mountains. There is bison up there. I've seen them with my own eyes, Ashan Tay!'

  Talak had grunted. 'And I have heard the Will with my own ears. Or do you doubt the words of the Seven?'

  Radok had weighed his response carefully. While it was true all men served the Will, the Ashan Tay were something else entirely. They were held in such high esteem by the elders, it seemed they spoke with the voice of the Will themselves. And any man who spoke with the voice of a god had a chance to change the world. 'I doubt nothing,' Radok had said, bowing his head submissively. 'As ever, I shall heed your guidance.'

  'Then ride south,' said the priest. 'Ride as far as you dare, and if you find nothing on land, bring back fish.'

  Radok had backed from Talak's tent like an obedient child. From there, he rode his men south for two miles, then turned west and headed for the lands of Old Valor, ignoring everything the priest had said.

  What was there to lose? Find bison and Radok would ride Talak's storm on the wings of victory, as he often had; find nothing and chances were they'd all be dead by winter's end anyway.

  Radok turned back from his memories to the line of horses ploughing their way through the deep snow, and he met Jorn's gaze. 'I told him there are bison out here,' he said smoothly. 'The starving children told him the rest.'

  Jorn held his gaze a moment longer. 'I hope you're right, for all our sakes.'

  'Pah! You fret like an old woman.' Radok reached across the gap between them and slapped his friend on the shoulder. 'When have I ever let you down?'

  'Never,' admitted Jorn, 'but there's always a first time.'

  Radok rolled his eyes. 'I grow tired of this conversation. It's always the same with you, Jorn, no matter where the journey takes us. You won't relax until we're back home eating steak!'

  Jorn shrugged his big shoulders. 'Can't argue with that. How else could I have kept you alive all these years?'

  Radok smiled. That was true too. If it came to steel, there was no one in the tribe he would rather at his side than his old friend.

  Seeking to move the subject away from their mutual admiration of one another, Radok nodded along the road ahead, to where Jian rode. She moved gracefully in the saddle, rising and falling with the mount's movement. Seemed she could have been born in the saddle. 'What do you make of our new friend?'

  Jorn took a moment to study the girl before replying. 'It's a thing of beauty, watching her ride. I know that much. Even under all that fur.'

  'She's a beauty, true enough,' said Radok, 'but what do you think?'

  Jorn gave him a sidelong glance, then nodded. He dropped his voice as he spoke, so only Radok would hear him over the blustery wind.

  'She'll test the men,' he said. 'When their blood is up and their loins hard… it could be dangerous for her.'

  Radok had considered that himself. They were decent men chosen for his flock, but even decent men could lose themselves when the blood lust was up. 'She can look after herself,' he told Jorn, though he meant the words more than a little for himself. 'She's one of us now. The men will respect that, or they'll answer to me.'

  'Why her?' Jorn asked suddenly. 'She's not the first of the Fallow to ask, but she's the first you've let ride with us. What did she say that was so convincing?'

  Radok shook his head. 'That's not my story to tell. I like her though, Jorn. I like her a lot. She will do well for the Grey Crow.'

  Jorn shrugged. 'If she's good enough for you, she'll do for me.' He straightened in the saddle, brushed snow from his shoulders, and swept his gaze over the frostbitten landscape ahead. 'I still don't see any bison though.'

  ✽✽✽

  Smoke on the horizon.

  Not much, just a thin, white tendril drifting lazily to the sky, merging with the bulge of grey cloud overhead. But enough to tell Radok they had found what they were looking for.

  He raised a hand and signalled for his men to draw rein, waiting as they gathered behind him. Eight men and one woman, all garbed in heavy furs and bristling with steel. They sat their mounts in silence, staring off at the distant line of smoke, wondering what it meant for them.

  Means I'm right, thought Radok, cocking a wry smile. Not that he would hold their doubts against them for too long. He had known without doubt the farm existed, but even Radok knew the Whitelands had a habit of sweeping away such memories with ice and wind.

  Arrogance is a gift of the young, a familiar, scalding voice muttered in his mind. Surely you're too long in the tooth to think such victories are yours alone, Wolfeater?

  Talak's voice, Radok realised, his good mood evaporating. He glanced about him, watching the flurries of snow dance to the Will of the Seven. As all things must dance, Talak's voice whispered.

  Radok grunted. Jorn was the pious one alright, but Radok was no fool. He knew that while a man had to do things himself to get the best from the world, it was always wise to thank the gods when things turned out well.

  Radok closed his eyes and muttered a thank you, before heeling his mount over the crest of the rise and sweeping his gaze over the land below. White fields stretched out before him, as far as the eye could see, climbing and falling with the swell of the land, until they met the distant snow-capped peaks of the Whitelands. Radok smiled.

  Dark, hulking forms scattered the landscape below, standing proud against the elements. Amidst it all stood the small farmhouse, thatched roof coated white, the trail of smoke rising from a single chimney.

  Jorn pulled rein beside Radok with his own grin lighting his face. 'Just as you said!'

  Radok clapped him on the shoulder. 'You should know by now not to doubt me, old woman.'

  'What are we waiting for?'

  The question came from one of the younger riders, drawing up beside them. Tiyan was a big man, tall and powerfully built, his heavy bea
rd yet to show the first wisps of winter. 'Let's just ride down there and storm the place.'

  Radok shook his head. 'We'll negotiate.'

  'Negotiate?' Tiyan curled a lip. 'What is there to negotiate? How many people can they have down there? Two, maybe three? Our people are starving, Radok. We should ride down there and kill them, take the herd and head home.'

  'Their people are starving too,' Radok pointed out. 'Not here perhaps, but in the city.'

  Tiyan scoffed at that. 'And who cares about them?'

  'We care,' Radok told him. 'A strong Crow needs a strong Wolf, Tiyan. Ten of these beasts will be enough for the tribe. The rest can go to the Wolves.'

  Tiyan gazed at him in astonishment. 'Have you gone soft in your old age, Radok?'

  'Careful, boy.' Jorn nudged his mount closer to Tiyan's, hand resting on his sword hilt.

  Radok held up a hand to stay him. He could feel the eyes of his riders watching them. 'Let him speak, Jorn.'

  Tiyan needed no second invitation. 'You're supposed to be the Wolfeater,' Tiyan raged. 'Yet here you stand, desperate to keep them happy. What happened to you?'

  This time it was Radok who nudged his horse closer. 'You think I'm soft because I don't kill farmers? Because I don't leave women and children to starve? I'm not soft, Tiyan. I face my Wolves steel to steel, as the Will demands.' He leaned in closer, face inches from the younger man's. 'Now, question me again and you'll find it's the Black Wind who answers.'

  Radok let that hang in the air between them for a moment, before turning back to the gathered riders. 'Follow me. Silence is the key, so no one speak unless I tell you to.'

  They descended on the farmstead in single file, Radok leading the way. There was no effort to hide their approach, they just ploughed their way through the snow and kept their swords sheathed. Radok drew up a few yards from the farmhouse door and his men formed a line behind him. There was no sign of life from within, save for the wisp of smoke seeping from the chimney.