That wasn't entirely true. Not entirely. There was no point denying that the man's skin had deeply unnerved Senya when she first stood before him. She had even been expecting it, for it was all a part of the Wolfeater's legend. He was the Black Crow, after all; the one who carried the Black Wind with him. To stand before him, they said, was death. Yet none of that had struck Senya's thoughts when she stood before him at Velimir's cabin, seeing that dark skin for the first time. She had only thought how strange it was, for a man to be marked so different, yet appear so natural.
'I don't care about his skin,' she echoed. 'It's his black heart that troubles me.'
'His black heart?' Elgamire shook her head incredulously. 'Let me tell you about his black heart! The Radok you know was born in the water. They found him washed up on the Silver Shores of the south, his frail arms clinging to a piece of broken timber, his legs tangled up in the silver seaweed that gives the beach its name. There was no other wreckage, no other bodies. Just the boy. He was no more than six years old at the time and the piece of wood he clung to was all that remained of his old life, everything else taken by the sea.
'Each Basillian tribe is different, but they all hunger for the same thing: fresh meat for their never-ending wars. That's why they steal children. The young are easier to break, easier to shape and mould. That's why they took Radok. It didn't matter to the Grey Crow that he was different, that his skin was darker than any they had seen before. They cared only that he was brave and strong, and that his mind was keen for honing.
'It didn't matter that he was different,' Elgamire's eyes narrowed, 'or at least that's what they told him. But Radok was born to a different tribe - a different people - and on those rare occasions he forgot that, there was always someone ready to remind him. Always the outsider, he had to fight every day of his life to gain the respect of those born Grey Crow. It wasn't enough that he be the fastest, or the strongest, or the bravest. He had to be the best too. And so he is. He is the best of the best the Grey Crow have to offer. They worship him now as a hero, yet there are still those who wish to tear him down. He lives with that knowledge every day. Every time he strides into battle for those people, he knows there are those praying for him to fall.
'And yet there is still room,' the old woman's lip curled into a sneer, 'in his cold, black heart for those less fortunate. While Basillians have no time for the weak, spurning their crippled and broken, Radok saved a child born blind - even as her own father wanted her dead. The Wolfeater risked it all to stand for the broken girl. She lives with him still, raised as a daughter. And when the Black Wind finally sweeps him away, I would wager her grief for the Wolfeater will be no less than yours for Velimir.'
'Enough!' snapped Senya. 'I don't give two shits about the Wolfeater's blind hatchling, or that he was stolen as a babe! He has been killing my people for as long as I've lived. He killed my uncle and he would have killed me if I hadn't run.'
'Would he?' Elgamire's tone suggested she wasn't so sure.
'Of course he would!' Senya barked back. 'He's the Wolfeater! You claim to be the Wanderer? The Grey One? Elgamire? Then the Valor are your children. How many of us have to die before you consider him the enemy?'
Senya turned angrily to Mikilov. 'I'm done listening to this fraud,' she told him. 'I'm going down there with or without you. He has to die, Mikilov. I owe it to Vel.'
With that, she turned on her heels and stalked away, back towards the treeline overlooking the Grey Crow's camp. Her heart was heavy as she went. Perhaps the old woman was right. Perhaps there was more to the Wolfeater than the legend suggested. Back at Velimir's farm, he had said it was only the bison he wanted, perhaps he'd been speaking the truth? Until she killed his man and everything changed. Perhaps it was her fault Velimir was dead…
No, she shook her head forcefully, as though that might clear the doubts. He is the Wolfeater. He killed my uncle. He would have killed us both, and burned the farm, if he'd had the chance. The bastard must die!
✽✽✽
'The girl has a point.' With a wave of his hand, Mikilov gestured for Scar to follow the girl and watch her. The wolf went willingly, only pausing long enough to nuzzle at Elgamire's side. The old woman patted him obligingly and off he went.
'You think that matters?' she asked, her voice betraying her own thoughts. 'This is about life and death, Mikilov. It's suicide to go down there, you must know that? The girl may be warped by thoughts of vengeance, but what's your excuse?'
Mikilov shrugged. 'You heard what she said. She's going down there with or without me. I can't let her go alone.'
'Then you'll die.'
Mikilov nodded. 'Then I'll die. Seems as good a place as any.'
'Well,' the old woman sighed, 'it won't be down there.'
'What do you mean?'
'He's not down there. He slipped from the camp last night, going south first but heading north. The party you saw earlier is a hunting party. They want the Wolfeater dead too.'
'What? Why didn't you tell us this earlier?'
'Because you needed to let him go - she needed to let him go. Radok's a dead man walking, Mikilov. There is a sickness in him that will kill him before long. That's why he travels north. He's going to one of their sacred places, deep in the Whitelands, where their gods hold council. He seeks answers for his condition, but revisiting the Blackstone goes against everything the Grey Crow believe. It has turned Radok's own people against him. They will stop at nothing to keep him from reaching that holy place.
'So, you see… if his illness doesn't kill him, the Whitelands will. And if not the Whitelands, then his own people.'
Mikilov rubbed at his tired eyes. 'Senya will never believe any of that. She thinks you're a fraud.'
'But you know better,' she said, smiling a weary smile. 'You need to convince her.'
'I'm not sure that I can.'
'And yet you must. Or let her go alone. If you follow her into the Whitelands... if you chase a dead man into that white abyss... one of you will die. And it won't be her.'
'And if I let her go alone, will she live?'
The sullen silence and bowed head were answer enough. 'I will try to talk her out of it,' he said. 'But if she goes, I go with her.'
'You'll do what you must, Mikilov, just as you always have.' Turning away, the old woman started back for the western treeline. She was leaning heavily on her gnarled staff as she shuffled away, her grey robes dragging through the snow that covered the clearing. She paused and glanced back. 'I will pray the day never comes when I have to remind you of this conversation.'
And then she was gone, the sound of her passing fading with her into the trees. There was a time Mikilov had tried to follow her, but she had an ability to disappear as swiftly and alarmingly as she appeared. It was one of the reasons he had no problem believing she was who she said she was.
He turned his back on the clearing himself, heading back through the trees towards their spot overlooking the Grey Crow camp. Senya was hiding back in the undergrowth, the only sound she made the gentle rasping of her blade on a whetstone. There were several hours to go before dusk and the girl was nervous. She sat like a ball of tension, waiting to explode.
Mikilov took one last look at the tents filling the valley below, thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. Not for the first time he imagined bringing back a horde of mounted Valor, to ride roughshod over the camp and crush the Grey Crow once and for all. How many lives would be saved, he wondered? How many days of peace bought?
But such an act would change the very nature of the Valor. They would become the aggressors, the murderers of women and children, of the sick and the old. And if it worked, and the Grey Crow were gone for good, there would be those who wanted to do it again. How many tribes would they have to kill before the Basillians stopped coming? And if the tribes learned what was happening, how long before they finally wiped Haslova from the face of the earth?
'We're leaving,' he said suddenly holding his hand out fo
r Senya.
She gazed up at him angrily, her face dappled with sunlight as the day slowly brightened. 'I told you I'm not leaving until the Wolfeater is dead.'
'He's not here. He's heading north, for the Whitelands. That party we saw are out hunting for him. If you want to catch him before they do, we should go now.'
Senya looked dubious. 'She told you this? And why should we believe her?'
'Because she is Elgamire and she does not lie.'
'She's a fraud, Mikilov. The Wanderer is a myth, nothing more. That's just an old woman playing mind games with you.'
'Aye,' Mikilov replied calmly, 'I can see why you might think that. But you've not seen the things I've seen, Senya. This woman has dogged my life. I've known her since I was a boy, yet she has never aged. Her eyes are as useless as a bent blade, yet she sees everything. I've even walked a thousand miles since last I saw her, yet here she is, in the right place at the right time. Can you honestly tell me that's not a voice worth listening to?'
'Then let us say it's true, let us say she is Elgamire… you know what the stories say about those she sinks her claws into?'
Mikilov could only nod his head. They said the Wanderer would thrust greatness upon those she infatuated over. Greatness and torment. 'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'What matters is I believe her. The Wolfeater is not down there. He's heading north, to some sacred place for the Grey Crow. He's sick, and his own people want him dead. Either we leave them to it or we risk our lives and follow.' His gaze met Senya's. 'We're here because of you and I'll follow your lead in this. But if you mean to kill the Wolfeater, we follow him north.'
At last Senya took his hand and he pulled her up from the underbrush. She took a moment to dust herself down from dirt and snow. When she finally met his gaze again, Mikilov could see the steely determination running through the core of her. 'Even if I'm not the one to kill him,' she said softly, 'I have to see him die. I owe that much to Velimir. If you say he's going north, we'll go north. But I can't let him go.'
Mikilov nodded slowly. 'Fair enough. Scar, check the way, lad. We go north.'
The wolf moved at once, nose to the dirt as he searched out the best path. If there were Grey Crow close by, the wolf would sniff them out. He would choose the safest path for them to follow, a path safe from exposure, with lots of cover. This was what he was made for; the hunt his way of life.
Mikilov set out after him, Senya a step behind. 'Stay close,' he said over his shoulder. 'Scar will show us the way.'
Part II
BLOOD IN THE SNOW
Chapter Nine
The Promise
Radok paused in his stride and looked back, squinting through the swirling sleet. His tracks cut across the open plains of Basilla like a scar, the freshly churned snow shining silver in the moonlight as it snaked away into the darkness.
He held his gaze there for a while longer, watching for any sign of movement. At last, satisfied, he breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing.
'We'll be safe a while longer,' said a soft voice.
Surprised, Radok turned his head awkwardly, trying to see the source. It was the girl's voice, tired and weak, muffled into the fur cloak he wore. She was pressed against his back, her arms wrapped around his neck, his own looped under her legs, holding her in place. Exhaustion had gotten the better of her hours earlier and he was surprised to find her awake. 'What was that?' he asked.
'The Seven are with us,' she mumbled. 'We're safe for now.'
And then she was gone again, her head sagging back against his shoulder. Radok chuckled. He wished he shared the girl's confidence, but then he'd never had that kind of faith. Not even in the old days, when faith was all a man had.
The Seven won't help a man who don't help himself, Jorn used to say, and that was as true as anything out on the Whitelands. A man served the Seven as well as he could, but every kill he made was to keep himself alive. Pious or faithless, thought Radok, the Black Wind takes us all.
A cough struck then, viscous and gut-deep. Radok tried to brace himself against it, not wanting to shake the girl too much, but his broad shoulders quaked with the effort. He hawked and spat once the fit had passed, blood spattering the snow.
Perhaps that's what this illness was? A punishment for underestimating the Seven and their influence.
Only one way to find out. Wiping a gloved hand across his mouth to clear the bloody spittle, Radok began walking again, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The Blackstone was still a long way off, but it was out there somewhere. Waiting.
✽✽✽
They reached the rocky outcrop as the sky began to darken, thick grey clouds rolling in from the north to slowly blot out the moonlight. Radok stretched his back and grimaced. If he was alone, he might have pushed on, eager to add more miles to the impressive amount already covered. But he wasn't alone, and he couldn't carry the girl another step.
His body ached too much. Every step felt like he was wading through water, his arms and legs heavy as stone. Even the girl, limp as she was, hung like a weight around his neck. It was all Radok could do not to drop her. He summoned his strength, shifted her weight slightly for a better grip, and trudged on for the rocks up ahead.
It was a vast outcrop, most of the stones tall, and thin, and sharp. They jutted from the earth like shards of ice carved from granite, weathered by a thousand years lived in the path of the Seven. Picking three slanting stones resting against each other, Radok squeezed his way in through a narrow fissure between them. He found a small cavern inside, sheltered from the wind and sleet running wild outside.
Radok tried to set the girl down, but she was plastered to him, their fur cloaks matted together and frozen solid where the girl had pissed herself. It took some effort to tear her free, but Radok finally laid her down against the wall, as far from the small opening as he could get her. The relief in the small of his back was almost instant and Radok slumped to the ground, exhausted.
To sleep is to die.
He couldn't remember who had told him that one, but it was as true as anything out on the Whitelands. Close your eyes out here, even for a moment, and there was a good chance the cold would kill you.
To sleep is to die.
With effort, Radok pushed himself to his feet and looked around. There was barely enough light to see anything in the small cavern, but he spotted a small pile of branches and logs stashed in one dark corner, whispering of hidden warmth.
'Seems we're not the first fools to call this place home,' he told Nyana, who slept on in silence.
The fuel was a good mix of logs and branches, straw and leaves for tinder, all bone dry. Radok gathered up a selection of each and wasted no time building a fire. As he worked, he found himself wondering about those who came before. How long ago was it? Would they be back this way?
Given how many times he had passed this way before, Radok was surprised he'd never found it himself until now. Perhaps it had been the hold of some Grey Crow from a different age? Or some other tribe, far from home? Perhaps it was a Wolf even, from back when this was their land?
Radok struck his flint over the tiny pyre, looking for a spark. 'Not that it matters,' he told the sleeping girl. 'No one has been in here for a dozen years or more. And those who follow us will have a cold night.'
A spark struck from the steel and fell onto the tinder, where an orange glow took hold. An instant later, flames burst through the dry leaves, licking at the kindling. 'Not us though, Little Sparrow.' He bent closer to the fire, blew softly on the smouldering fuel until the flames began to eat into the kindling. Then the fire burst into life and Radok smiled. 'Tonight, we sleep like the Wolves in their stone houses. Safe and warm.'
Radok dragged the girl closer to the flames, enough so that she would benefit from the warmth without the risk of rolling in. Then, pulling his hood into place, he eased himself back out through the opening and stepped into the cold air outside.
After the cramped, smoked filled air of the cavern, the freshness outside hi
t Radok like a slap to the face. He breathed it in deeply, watching the flurries of snow dance to the tune of the wild winds howling and raging amongst the rocks. He smiled. Snowfall was good. In an hour their tracks would be completely buried, lost to anyone giving chase.
He turned back to study the cavern entrance. The orange light of the fire could be seen flickering on the sloping walls of the opening, but it was only a soft hue, most of the light contained by the shape of the shelter and the placement of the fire. Still, in the dead of night, even a faint light would stand out like a beacon in the sweeping blackness of the Basillian Plains. There wasn't much Radok could do about that, but at least the other rocks in the formation provided some additional cover. Chances were, someone would have to stumble into the outcrop themselves to spot the light, and by then it would be too late to do anything about it but fight.
And I can't fight without sleep, thought Radok, his eye lids feeling suddenly heavy. He looked back to the growing blizzard, how it swayed and whirled in the wind. 'Do what you will!' he called to the Seven. 'I'll find my way to you, one way or another!'
The Seven were listening, it seemed, for the words had barely left Radok's mouth when the gods stole his breath away. He began coughing as he gasped for air, a dry rasping cough from deep in his core. You will pay a price for that vow, a voice whispered in Radok's mind, and all he could do was cough, and hack, and retch.
He staggered back through the opening and made his way towards the light and warmth of the cavern, one hand pressed to the smooth surface of the leaning rock to hold him up, the other covering his mouth, as though that might keep his guts from spilling forth…
Radok's vision began to blur, his lungs burning from a lack of air, yet he stumbled on regardless. He could see the fire now, bobbing up and down before him, a glowing orange blob beckoning him on.
Is that blood…?
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