Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'He was a shit,' Mikilov told Scar, keeping his voice low. 'Ironheart was never worthy of a daughter like that.'

  Scar whined his agreement. With a heavy sigh, Mikilov turned away from the girl and made himself busy building a fire. They were well into the night now and it was only getting colder. Once the blaze in the farmhouse had burned itself out, they'd be glad for a campfire.

  Scar settled down beside Mikilov once the fire was blazing, and they watched the girl together. She still stood at the graveside, lost in her grief. Mikilov thought about walking over and dragging her back into the moment, rather than leaving her alone with the heartache. But he decided against it. 'We have time,' he told Scar. 'And time is a healer.'

  Mikilov yawned in exhaustion. Sleep was a healer too, they said. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

  He slept without dreams, deep and untroubled, but he woke with a start. The girl was sitting at the fire beside him, feeding a fresh log to the flames. It was still dark and her face was pale in the firelight, eyes bloodshot and weary. Mikilov searched for the right words, but it was the girl who spoke first.

  'I'm going to kill him.' Her voice was deadly calm, spoken with grim certainty.

  Mikilov raised a brow. 'The Wolfeater?'

  The girl nodded.

  'Not that I doubt your skills, but that chance is long gone. He'll be over the river by now, deep in Old Valirov.'

  'I don't care. I'm going to follow him. I'll follow him all the way to his nest if I must. Velimir deserves no less.'

  Mikilov shook his head. 'That's suicide, girl. If you think that gets you a spot on the Great Hunt, you're wrong.'

  'I don't care about the Great Hunt. I only care about this one.'

  Mikilov grunted. 'So it's a hunt, is it? Then we should do it right. Come back with me to Haslova. We'll tell them what happened here; how the Grey Crow took the herd. You'll be surprised how many volunteer just for Velimir, even before we get to those who'd rather fight than starve.'

  'No,' said the girl. 'We can track the Wolfeater now, even with this snow. I'd wager Scar already has the scent, no?' The wolf cocked his head at the sound of his name. 'But if we head back to Haslova now, the trail will be lost and we'll be lucky if we ever see him again.'

  Mikilov sighed. The girl had a point. Out in the Whitelands, when the snows swept over, you could lose a trail in a moment. For a prey as wily as the Wolfeater, it might not even take a moment. 'You can't kill him, girl. Not alone.'

  'No,' she said, 'not alone.'

  Mikilov's face darkened. 'Don't even think it, girl. I'll have no part in this.'

  'My father told me about you. He said if he ever needed help from someone other than Velimir, you'd be the first person he'd ask. You're the old blood. You know the strength of the pack.'

  '“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”' Mikilov smiled at the quote. He could not remember who said it, but it was as true today as it had ever been. 'You think I'm the old blood?'

  'He does,' said the girl, stroking Scar's shaggy head. 'How many other Valor can say they have a wolf follows them about? None since the old days.'

  'He doesn't follow me, I follow him. He's the reason I'm here.' Mikilov met Scar's gaze. Any other man might have looked into those black eyes and watched the light being swallowed, but Mikilov saw only the wolf gazing back. 'And what say you, shit face?'

  Scar moaned a little at the insult, before resting his head gently on the girl's lap.

  Mikilov sighed. 'Looks like we do things your way. I warn you now though, girl, nothing but death awaits us out there.'

  'My name is Senya.'

  A good name, thought Mikilov. But he only nodded. 'I know, girl. Your bloody father never shut up about you!'

  She beamed at the lie, and it was a sight that warmed Mikilov's heart… even if she was determined to drag him off to his death. No point making it easy for her though. 'Get some sleep, girl. I'm not going anywhere in this light, and you're going to need all the rest you can get for what lies ahead.'

  Chapter Five

  Casting the Flame

  Jorn lay naked atop the pyre, all his possessions stripped away so that he might return to the Will unburdened. It was strange seeing him up there like that, mounted on a stack of twisted, dried-out branches piled almost as tall as a man. He looked shrunken without his furs, his lean body pale as snow in the moonlight.

  Radok took a step forward and held the flaming torch closer, his eyes sweeping the dead man's flesh. He smiled. Every scar told a different story, and Radok read them like a pathfinder might read the stars, memories filling his mind.

  There was the stab wound just below Jorn's ribs, taken while saving Radok's life from their own brothers, boys whose fear of Radok's dark skin had turned them to violence. And there, the long viscous scar down Jorn's thigh, where a kragan had taken a chunk out of his flesh.

  Radok had been the hero that time, though the beast escaped into the mist before they could kill it. Now the torchlight danced on the old wound as Radok leaned closer. The flesh had long since healed, but you could still see the jagged toothmarks, savage and deep. Jorn had never walked the same after that, but he could stand well enough. And he had never let Radok stand alone. No matter the odds stacked against them, no matter the reasons, Radok would find that old bastard standing beside him, no questions asked.

  Radok sniffed and moved the torchlight on, studying wound after wound, remembering. There had been skirmishes against the Empty Faces, pitched battles with the Blue Eyes, raids against the Wolves; a thousand different fights against a thousand different foes, and it seemed near all of them had left a scar to tell the story.

  The light paused on the wound in Jorn's chest, one of two that would never heal to scars. Here, Radok's own blade had pierced Jorn's heart, ending his brother's life. Ending all their history. He felt a wave of guilt at that. It should never have been his blade that did the deed… but what choice did he have? He couldn't let his old friend die in agony, drowning in his own blood.

  Fuck no, he thought, his gaze drifting to the gaping wound in Jorn's neck. There was the blame. There was the wound that killed him. And for what? A bite of red meat when the cold hits hardest. He groaned.

  'That fucking bitch…' As he spat the words out, Radok's anger bubbled over. In his rage, he began to hack violently, the pain of it burning through his chest like fire through kindling. No! he would have hissed, if he could only catch his breath. Not now! Not here!

  But once the coughing took hold, there was no stopping it. He could only bury his face in the crook of an arm and let it run its course, every explosive cough an agony in his chest and throat and lungs.

  He became suddenly aware of the crowd of men gathered behind him, come to pay their respects to Jorn. He could feel their eyes watching him, his mighty shoulders shaking with the fit, struggling to suppress each cough, and he knew they were seeing his sickness for the first time.

  Sickness is weakness. Only the strong survive.

  Radok focused his efforts and managed to suck in two rasping breaths, slowly cooling the fit and regaining some control. His eyes watered from the pain, every inch of his chest a burning flame…

  'You still think she'll come?'

  Radok jerked his head around at the question, surprised. As he turned, his gaze swept over the half circle of men gathered around the pyre, all their eyes on him. It was an impressive crowd, full of the Crows' finest, and not one man amongst them who hadn't ridden with Jorn at some point or other. They could all tell stories about the scars they shared with the old bastard, and not one of them would have a bad word to say.

  It was Tiyan who stood front and centre, waiting for an answer. His eyes burned bright in the torchlight. With Jorn gone, he'd probably been with Radok the longest now. Radok was glad of the distraction, though he despised the idea Tiyan pitied him enough to intervene. Not that it mattered. Sickness was weakness, no matter how you tried to dress it up. By morning, the entire tribe would kn
ow of Radok's condition. Strength was the only answer here.

  Radok straightened his back and looked Tiyan in the eye. 'She'll come.'

  'None of those lads are back, the ones that followed her.'

  Radok shrugged. 'They're probably dead. Like I told Jian, that was Wolf country up there, and the girl wanted to lead us out there for a reason. Wolves don't run without a plan. We won't see our lads again, but we'll see her.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because of the old man. She was trying to keep him safe, away from harm. And now he's dead.' Radok nodded grimly. 'She'll come.'

  He looked around at the faces gathered behind him, rough and weather-beaten, most sporting the hair and beards to match their furs. These were hard men, shaped by the hardest winter any of them could remember. They huddled in groups and spoke in hushed whispers, waiting for the burning to begin. Radok looked at those grim, unwelcoming faces and sighed.

  With Jorn gone, there was no one left to talk to. Nyana could be relied on for a word or two, but she was eight years old, and she hadn't seen enough of the world to help Radok through this loss. Perhaps no one had…

  The girl has. Jorn's voice, as though he'd had enough of Radok's self-pity and risen from his pyre. There's no loss in the world greater than hers.

  The old man hadn't known of Jian's loss while he lived, but now he was gone it seemed there was no keeping secrets from him. Didn't help that he was right. Jian had lost more than most, sure enough, and there was a good chance she'd have some words of comfort…

  'Pah!' Turning his back on the crowd of faces, Radok peered at the top of the pyre, where Jorn rested peacefully. 'You stay quiet up there, you old fool,' he muttered in a whisper. 'I'd not dare weigh her losses against my being rid of such an annoying pain in the arse!'

  Bad enough they had seen the sickness now, without letting them know the Wolfeater needed the soft words of a woman to ease his troubled mind. And what was the death of one old man anyway, next to the loss of a child? Jian would likely stab Radok in the face for such an insult.

  And why not, he found himself wondering? For softness was a sickness too… and only the strong survived.

  ✽✽✽

  The wind shifted slightly and the flames of Radok's torch fluttered noisily from one direction to the other. There was a change in the crowd too, their hushed voices falling silent one by one, their feet shuffling in the snow as something moved between them.

  Radok sighed. It was time.

  Lifting his torch higher, he watched the shadows dance on Jorn's bearded face, willing those hooded eyes to open one last time. They did not, and Radok stepped forward with a heavy heart. He kissed the fingers of his free hand and pressed them gently to the pyre. 'Goodbye, old friend.'

  'So passes Jorn Redclaw,' a voice boomed out, old and sharp, crackling with an edge of ice. Radok turned to see an old man hobbling towards the pyre, crowd parting for him with awed reverence. He leaned heavily on a stick carved from bone, his right leg dragging behind him through the snow. A heavy cloak of grey fur hung from his shoulders, crowned by a magnificent shoulder piece of black and grey feathers. Radok almost missed the bird nestled on the man's right shoulder, dead eyes staring back like pieces of coal. It was a grey crow, the kind that gave the tribe their name. The man's bald head gleamed smooth in the moonlight, while beads of bone held his forked beard together. His face looked serene, almost pleasant amongst such hard company, yet his eyes, shadowed with black ink, looked as wild as any fire Radok had ever seen.

  The newcomer's voice continued to bellow out as he edged through the crowd, making his way to the pyre. 'A man who flew further than most upon the wings of the Seven.' He pointed up at the corpse. 'Jorn Redclaw was the youngest of any Crow when he swam the Adalvas in his eighth winter. He saved the Wolfeater from the Old Bear, though it nearly killed him. He even defeated old Broken Tooth at the City of Wolves, threw him down from the walls and left his broken corpse lying at the gates.'

  The old man drew up alongside Radok and smiled, his teeth broken and stained black from years of chewing aldar root. His name was Ilgor, Ashan Tai to the Grey Crow, and a medicine man without compare. Next to Talak, the tribe’s Ashan Tay, Ilgor may have lacked spiritual power and tribal influence, but he more than made up for it in the love and respect of the common folk. 'We shall never see his likes again,' he said, his voice hoarse with reverence. Then he held his hand out expectantly, his wild eyes dancing in the torchlight.

  'Never,' Radok croaked in agreement. He stared back at the Ashan Tai's outstretched hand, felt his own tightening around the wooden shaft of the torch, ready to pull back. Why was this so hard? He had seen this ritual a thousand times before and knew the role he had to play, yet, for the first time in his life, it felt like it meant something.

  Ilgor seemed to read Radok's thoughts. 'Emotion is a rare beast among the Grey Crow,' he said softly, outstretched hand still waiting. 'We spend so much of our lives living in Chadra's shadow, we start to think of him as an old friend. But the Black Wind has no friends, Radok, and when he claws away someone we love… that's when our emotions threaten who we are. Not you though. You are the Wolfeater, and you know Jorn's time is done.' The priest's hand twitched slightly, encouraging Radok on. 'Let him go, boy. One with the Will.'

  Radok swallowed dryly. 'One with the Will,' he muttered. And he handed over the torch and stepped back, taking his place among the spectators.

  Ilgor lifted the torch high, the flames roaring in the wind, hissing where the snow kissed them. He swept the crowd with narrowed eyes, his brow creased with apparent grief. 'Tonight, we put Jorn's body to the flame!' His voice boomed out over the wind. 'We send him back to the ashes, so that he might return to the All Song, his strength and wisdom joined once more to the power of the Will.'

  Ilgor's crazed eyes stopped on Radok, staring intently. 'Radok Wolfeater, will you cast the ashes?'

  Radok cleared his throat. 'I will.'

  'Then I shall cast the flame.'

  And without further ceremony, Ilgor threw the torch at the pyre's base, where it clattered in amongst the piled wood. The fire caught in an instant, the oil-soaked wood working its magic, and in one great whoosh the pyre became a roaring pyramid of bright orange flames.

  It didn't take long for the smell of burning flesh to fill the air, somehow as sickly sweet as it was reassuringly familiar. Radok tried to remember the first time he tasted that scent, but it was like searching for the first star born in the night sky, an overwhelming and nigh impossible task. Not that it mattered. Friend or foe, every burning meant the same to the Grey Crow. One step closer to the Will.

  Radok took a deep breath and held it in. That smell was the very last of Jorn in this world. When the fire was done, only dust would remain. Only ash. Radok let the breath go… then coughed violently. His ribs ached with the pain of it, his lungs on fire. Not now, he thought, not here!

  He clamped a hand to his mouth to slow the tide, and by some miracle he caught himself. He held in two short breaths and felt his chest loosen. The burning eased. He began to breathe normally, the sense of relief almost overwhelming.

  He sensed eyes on him and slowly lifted his head. Ilgor was watching him closely, his painted eyes dancing with the firelight of Jorn's burning. Radok stared back evenly, fighting with all his fibre to hold the weakness back.

  A long moment passed, until Ilgor lifted a single finger and pointed at his left nostril. Radok reached up to his own nose instinctively, pulled the fingers away to find them wet with blood. 'What the…?'

  His head began to pulse, and his vision blurred. The blood was flowing freely now, pouring from his nose in a steady stream. Then his legs buckled and he fell.

  ✽✽✽

  He awoke to the sight of canvas rippling in the wind above him, glowing with the soft orange hue of a nearby fire. Stripped of his clothes, he lay naked beneath a pile of fur blankets, one hand above his head, the other trailing to the hard-packed earth beneath the bed. His nose f
lared at the bite of sweet incense and sharp spices. Not my bed…

  Radok jerked upright as the thought struck, his legs swinging from the bed… which was as far as he got before his breath scraped to a halt inside his chest. Then he started to cough again; a vicious cough, of the kind that punches out from the stomach, clawing at the chest and hacking at the throat. The kind that tells a man something is wrong. As they had been telling Radok for months now…

  'Let me see.' Radok's head jerked up at the sound of the voice. He'd thought he was alone, but Ilgor was sitting beside him, half his face cast in shadows, the other half glowing warmly in the firelight. The man's painted eyes gleamed with intrigue. 'Let me see,' he said again, his fur clad stool creaking as he leaned forward.

  Radok took two deep breathes… just managing to hold them in for more than a few seconds. Satisfied the fit had passed, he drew his hands away from his mouth and held them out, palms up, for the old man's inspection. There was blood spattered all over them, glistening deep crimson in the firelight of the small hut.

  'I've spilt many guts in my time,' Radok muttered, tasting the iron in the blood, 'but I've never seen a man cough them up. What is wrong with me, Ashan Tai?'

  The old man bent in closer still, sniffing at the bloody discharge and wrinkling his nose. 'Not good,' he muttered. 'Not good at all. You have breathed the Black Wind deep, my friend. And when Chadra takes a hold like that… he never lets go.'

  The old man held out a rag and Radok snatched it eagerly, quickly wiping his hands clean. Blood had never troubled him too much, but the sight of his own – drawn from inside of himself, not by a sword or spear, but by a cough - terrified him to his very core. 'How long do I have?' he croaked.