Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  Jian bit her tongue. The old shit thinks the pain of childbirth a gift? I'd like to see him squeeze a boulder out between his legs! Then we'd see who is weak and fragile.

  'That is the Will,' the old fool continued. 'That has forever been the Will. To break it is blasphemy.' He made a point of staring at the faces gathered before him. 'He must be stopped.'

  Jian had stopped moving. With the crowd pressing in on all sides, it was impossible to get any closer to the Heart's Fire. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. The other elders, Hanuk and Graal, were sat huddled in their chairs off to Lokar's left, while Lokar himself pranced about before the fire, waving his arms like a performing bear.

  Jian's eyes flickered to the man standing in the shadows behind them, his wild eyes dancing in the firelight. Talak played the part of a loyal servant of the Grey Crow, yet there he stood… holding the bear's leash.

  'And why should we believe him?' called Jian, straining to be heard over the din. Lokar glared back at her, Hanuk and Graal shifting in their seats.

  Talak stepped forward, half his face suddenly lit up by the orange light of the Heart's Flame. He rubbed a hand over his bald head. 'You don't need to believe me,' he said evenly, though Jian could feel the hatred behind his gaze. 'Ilgor will testify to Radok's intentions. You'll trust the Ashan Tai, won't you girl?'

  'More than I trust you,' Jian muttered under her breath.

  'Talak speaks the truth,' said an older voice, sagely wise. Pushing himself from the crowd near the front, Ilgor climbed onto the dais and stood beside Talak. Ashan Tay and Ashan Tai side by side, the two voices of the Will. Two voices that rarely spoke as one.

  Ilgor pressed on. 'Radok is a sick man. Heavy with the lungrot. He feels the Seven have cursed him, despite serving them all his life. Now he means to reach the Blackstone. To stand before the Seven and ask them why.'

  'The arrogant fool!' snapped Talak. 'The Seven have a plan for all of us, but the Eighth always finds a way.'

  'I told him as much,' Ilgor said calmly. 'But only after I told him he had weeks to live… days even. I fear he was not himself after that. Anger has gotten the better of him.'

  Jian caught a nod passing from Talak to Lokar, and the elderman stepped forward. 'Yet laws are laws, Ilgor. Without them, all is chaos. Without them… the Black Wind rises.'

  Ilgor bowed his head. 'Laws are laws,' he sighed. 'But I would add one thing. Whatever is decided here, Radok is already dead. If the lungrot doesn't kill him, the journey will. It's not an easy task at the best of times, making the Blackstone, but this is the worst winter we've seen for a generation. In these cold, bitter days, the Whitelands earn their name more than ever.'

  'Swear it,' said Talak, the Ashan Tay stepping up to stand face to face with the Ashan Tai. 'Swear that Radok will not reach the Blackstone and we'll leave him be.'

  Ilgor considered this for a long moment. Talak stood there, towering over him, almost a head taller, yet the medicine man stared back unflinchingly. 'I cannot,' he said at last. 'This is the Wolfeater we speak of. For him, nothing is impossible.'

  'Then he must be stopped.'

  Lokar raised his hands and turned his focus back to the crowd. 'Who would volunteer for this honour? Who will fly for the Grey Crow and bring the Wolfeater home? Dead or alive, we must turn him back from this foolish quest. And when he does die, we will cast his ashes to the Seven as his legend demands - with a fire hot enough to burn this winter away!'

  Hands went up amongst the crowd, more than Jian would have hoped, but no less than she should have expected. Radok's name carried more weight than most amongst his people, even as a born outsider. There would be great honour in being the one to bring him to his knees. Though the feeling would be bitter sweet for the tribe.

  Tradition demanded seven names be picked out for the honour of serving the Will, and Lokar wasted no time picking out the Grey Crow's finest from the sea of hands that went up. Tess was first amongst them, deadly as she was with the bow. Then it was Garda and Talgar, veterans who had served with Radok many times over. Vinak, Ingram, and Dakar followed, all seasoned hunters, who, like Jian, had ridden with Radok just a day earlier. Even Pican, the youngest of the group, had made a name for himself as a hard man to kill.

  Jian's stomach tied itself in knots as each name was called out. In his prime, Radok would have proven a challenge for even this group of hardened killers, but sick as he was, with a child weighing him down?

  'And her,' Talak called out, and Jian watched in horror as his bony finger pointed her out. 'Jian Stormcrow.'

  'You have your seven. I'll play no part in this,' she called back. 'I owe Radok my life.'

  'Exactly!' the Ashan Tay hissed triumphantly. 'Why else would I choose you? You will be our witness, prove our purpose. You'll show there's no vendetta against the Wolfeater, no watering of egos for those that hunt him. We merely seek to uphold the laws of the Seven, to which the Grey Crow have held true for a thousand years.' He smiled fiendishly. 'To you, girl, I put a simple question. Where does your loyalty lie? With the Grey Crow, or with the man who betrays us?'

  Jian felt her heart sink. The bastard had trapped her. She felt every eye in the tent fixed on her, daring her to side with the Wolfeater. And if I do, they will tear me apart. 'I am Grey Crow,' she said at last. 'And I fly where the Will commands.'

  'Even if it means Radok's death?'

  Bile rose in Jian's throat, but she swallowed it down. 'Even then,' she said. 'Always.'

  Chapter Eight

  The Boy From the Sea

  It was a remarkable sight – the city of tents. Close to a thousand shelters littering the valley below, standing like small islands amidst the sea of mist rolling in from the western mountains, built in all shapes and sizes and crafted from animal hide and canvas. Senya could barely believe her eyes as she took it all in. It was hard to imagine that there was only one tribe down there, and that there were a thousand more just like it scattering the plains of Basilla.

  Senya sank bank on her haunches, deeper into the undergrowth of the copse of trees her and Mikilov were hiding in. Her throat was tight, her fingers bristling. He was down there somewhere, the Wolfeater. Velimir's killer.

  'We should have moved last night,' she said with a heavy sigh. 'We might have had a chance slipping in unnoticed in the darkness, but now…?' Even if the mist held, the chances were slim.

  'Peace girl,' Mikilov soothed, shifting his weight beside her. 'Do you know nothing about the Great Hunt? We watch, and we wait. Sooner or later, an opportunity will present itself.'

  The big man pointed at the vast tent in the centre of it all, made up of three distinct chambers, each supported by its own giant mast. 'That one,' he said. 'That's where the Heart's Fire burns.'

  Senya gazed at it curiously, noting how it seemed to eat the mist away, a thick column of smoke drifting free from a hole in one of the chambers. 'The Heart's Fire?'

  'Each tribe has their own,' explained Mikilov. 'It's just a fire really, but it holds great weight for the Basillians. Every fire and torch in the camp is born from it, and they never let it burn out. Even when they move camp, somehow, they take the flame with them. If it ever dies… they say the tribe dies with it.'

  Senya snorted at that. 'If it were that easy, I'd head down there with a bucket of water! I'd tour the whole bloody world and put out as many of their fires as I could!'

  'If only it were that easy…' echoed Mikilov, a sad look in his eyes.

  Senya eyed the great tent again, chewing her lower lip. What if it was that easy? What if she slipped down there in the dead of night and poured cold water all over their giant fire? Would that be the end of the Grey Crow? Would they fade away like the mist, never to trouble the Valor again?

  Not all of them, Senya knew at once. Not the Wolfeater.

  Her father once told her that some men were born to ride the storm, while others were crushed by it. There was no denying that the Wolfeater was such a man. Senya could still feel the power reso
nating from him, as she stood before him outside Velimir's cabin. He exuded an almost elemental force, and standing in his shadow, those piercing blue eyes staring back at her, Senya had felt like ice wilting in the sun. There was no shifting a man like that, fire or no fire.

  'Here's a chance,' Mikilov whispered, guiding Senya's gaze. Nine figures had emerged from the giant tent, weighed down by heavy furs and thick pelts, trudging slowly north in single file. Women and children gathered to see them off, waving and kissing, while the men watched too, silent and sombre.

  Senya frowned. 'Where do you think they're off to?'

  Mikilov scratched at his beard and shrugged. 'Dressed like that, with no horses? Can only be north, into the Whitelands. Frit knows why though. There's nothing up there but death.'

  'Should we follow? What if the Wolfeater is with them?'

  Mikilov watched them for a while, dark eyes narrowed. 'He's not.'

  'How do you know? Even black as he is, they all look the same from up here.'

  'I've seen the Wolfeater scale walls in the blink of an eye; seen him tear through my friends - all good men, all good with a sword - yet I've seen him tear through them like a whirlwind. When you've seen a man do that, it's hard to forget how he moves. You can pick him out from a crowd, sure as night follows day. And believe me, I wish he was down there.' Mikilov took a deep breath. 'Better to face the nine of them than the whole bloody tribe.'

  'Might be best I go alone…'

  Senya had given it some thought and that was starting to feel like the wiser option. The Wolfeater was down there somewhere, with no idea of what was coming. Surprise was the only edge they had, and any slip would raise the alarm, killing their hopes of ending the bastard.

  'You think you have it in you, girl?' Mikilov eyed her curiously. 'You think you can slip in there unnoticed? Think you can sniff out the Wolfeater's lair? Think you can kill him? Alone?'

  'Doesn't take much to gut a sleeping Crow,' said Senya, 'and I reckon I'd have a better chance doing that alone than with you at my back. You're not as sharp as you used to be, Grey Wolf.'

  Mikilov smirked at that, his curled lip revealing one of his sharp canines. 'And I suppose age makes fools of us all, eh, girl? It just depends on which side you're standing as to who seems the most foolish: the young or the old. I may be grey and long in the tooth, but I can still ghost when I need to. Right, Scar?'

  There was a light touch on Senya's shoulder and she almost screamed. Jerking around in horror, she found the wolf's giant muzzle resting on her shoulder. His warm breath blasted her in the face, smelling of the blood and meat of a fresh kill. Scar's black eyes stared back at Senya, looking like pebbles set in snow and yet deep as a well. Without warning, the wolf licked Senya's face and then padded over to where Mikilov sat.

  She watched a moment pass between the two of them, of a meaningful look and a silent conversation, then Mikilov turned to her. 'We're not alone,' he said.

  They followed the wolf back through the trees, careful not to step on fallen branches or dried leaves, ducking under the overhanging foliage of the evergreens above. It was hard going for the most part, in the grey light of dawn the wood was a dark and brooding place, the air close and thick with the smell of the earth. Every step they took was slow and deliberate. So far they had managed to avoid the patrols circling the Basillian camp, but if Scar was leading them to such a group now, it seemed best not to warn them.

  They reached a clearing some hundred yards into the small wood, but before they could take in the scene the wolf bounced forward into the open. Mikilov whistled for him to stop - a short sharp sound, more bird than man - but Scar ignored it, bounding on regardless.

  Senya drew a knife, the blade hissing from its scabbard. Mikilov held a hand out to stay her, but she saw his grip tighten on the haft of his axe, the creak of his leather gloves almost deafening in the silence of the wood.

  'That you, woman?' he called out, his voice echoing through the trees. Senya winced at the noise of it, half expecting an army of Grey Crow to burst into the clearing. She could see it now, opening out before her, an open patch of ground covered in a thick carpet of snow.

  It looked like it might have lain there for a generation, that snow. Untouched, save for the heavy paw prints now marking its centre, every inch an ugly scar. Senya's gaze followed the tracks until they settled on Mikilov's great beast. He was lying on all fours, surprisingly calm after his charge, staring up at the stump of a gnarled oak…

  Only it wasn't a tree stump at all, Senya realised suddenly. It was the hunched figure of an old woman dressed in grey rags and holding to a staff of twisted wood. Her matted, grey hair hung down over her face in wiry strands, and her weathered features looked old as the mountains themselves.

  'Of course it's me,' she muttered in a hoarse, craggy whisper. She lifted her head, looked directly at Senya. Though her eyes were little more than yellowed-white orbs behind the tattered veil of her hair, it seemed to Senya they pierced straight through her, digging down to her soul. 'But who is this, leading you astray?'

  'No one leads me anywhere,' said Mikilov, breaking into the clearing and striding to where the woman sat. 'This is Senya, Finn's girl.'

  The old woman looked surprised. 'Finn? Now there's a name I've not heard for a long time.' She eyed Senya carefully, or at least it felt like she did, with those blind eyes of hers. 'He was a great man, your father. A true Valor. It must have been hard growing up in the shadow of such a legend. A tough name to live up to. Eh, girl?'

  'I've never needed to live up to anything.'

  'Of course not,' said the old woman, her voice suddenly growing more serious. 'Why else would you leave the safety of Haslova to trek about in the wilderness during such a bitter winter? Why else would you wander into Basillian lands on the trail of one of their greatest ever killers? Not because you're tired of your father's shadow, obviously. It must be because you're an idiot.'

  Senya stepped forward, bristling. 'Easy, girl,' said Mikilov. He tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but Senya pushed him away.

  'What do you know of it?' she stormed. 'You don't know my father and you don't know me.' She paused, the strangeness of the moment finally dawning on her. 'Who even are you?'

  'This is the Wanderer,' said Mikilov. 'Sometimes called the Grey One, sometimes the Old Lady of the Wood.'

  With a scoff, the old woman pushed herself to her feet, her joints popping with the effort. 'My name,' she sighed, offering a small curtsy, 'is Elgamire.'

  Senya stared at her, open-mouthed. It was all she could do. Elgamire was a myth, a throwback to the old days, when folk believed the gods walked amongst them. And yet there was something in those strange, empty yet overflowing eyes that made Senya doubt herself. 'Impossible,' she said at last.

  Mikilov lifted her jaw with a finger, closing it and bringing her back to the moment. 'You get used to it,' he said with half a smile. 'This crank has been hounding my trail for years.'

  'And I'll keep hounding it until you stop making a fool of yourself!'

  'But you're a god!' Senya blurted out.

  'No, girl, I'm not.' She looked at Senya afresh, a trace of fondness in her gaze. 'I am old though, so very old.'

  'Too old to be out here,' said Mikilov, patting Scar ruefully on the head. 'To what do we owe the pleasure?'

  'This is still Old Valirov, is it not? This is my realm and I come and go as I please. The real question is… what are you doing here?'

  Mikilov bowed his head like a scolded child about to confess his sins. 'We've come for the Wolfeater,' he muttered.

  'No,' said Senya, anger temporarily overpowering her disbelief. 'We're here for justice.'

  'Justice is it?' The old woman raised her eyebrows. 'Justice for what?'

  'Murder. The bastard killed my uncle, just as he has killed a thousand like him.' Senya jerked a thumb over her shoulder, back towards the treeline and the city of tents. 'He's down there somewhere, waiting for my blade.'

  'Murder.' The
old woman let the word hang in the air for a moment, testing its validity. 'Is it murder, killing to survive? That's what he does when he stalks the battlefield. The Wolfeater is no different to any true Valor.'

  'No different! How can you say that? The man is a monster!'

  The old woman sighed heavily. 'Spoken like a pup,' she muttered, turning to Mikilov. 'What about you, long tooth? Where do you stand?'

  'I stand with the girl,' Mikilov told her without hesitation. 'Finn was my brother once, and Velimir too for that matter. Senya is the last of their kin. I'm duty bound to protect her.'

  Elgamire laughed scornfully. 'And to do that you would ride down into the Grey Crow's nest?'

  'I'd rather not. But she's going down there with or without me, and I won't let her go alone.'

  'I'm standing right here,' said Senya, blushing. She was deeply moved by Mikilov's words, yet it was irritating beyond belief that they should talk about her as though she were a child.

  'Indeed you are,' said the old woman, switching her gaze - those seeing yet unseeing eyes - back to Senya. It was a hard stare to live with and Senya licked her lips nervously. Every time those milky white eyes swung back to her, it felt like the weight of ancient wisdom might crush her. 'Tell me, girl, do you even know who it is you mean to kill?'

  'Everyone knows the Wolfeater.'

  'Everyone knows the legend,' said Elgamire. 'What about the man himself?'

  'That he's a Basillian dog.' Senya was growing tired of the conversation. 'What does it matter?'

  'Nothing at all.' Elgamire started to turn away, then turned back, a single raised eyebrow. 'Though… you do know he wasn't born Basillian? He was born on Agaron, a small island in the southern sea. That's why he has black skin. He is not diseased or accursed, he is merely different. His people herald from a distant land, where the sun burns brighter and hotter than you can imagine. Their dark skin protects them from that. The people of Agaron may have left the sun behind, but the skin will stay with them for generations to come.'

  'What does this have to do with anything? I don't care what colour his skin is.'