Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  She found herself staring after Talak as he disappeared through the trees, her anger growing. She had always despised the man and recent events had done nothing to ease the distaste. Arrogant and dogmatic, he represented everything that was wrong with the Seven and their disciples. Their vision left no room for compromise, no room for mercy or charity. In their mind there was only the Will, and the Will was law.

  Grava had thought the same too, before Jian killed him. But like so many of them, he had confused his own will with that of the gods. She wondered if he had seen the error of his ways as she choked the life out of him?

  Probably not, she thought. Most likely he'd blame me for having the gall to fight back, just as he blamed me for the child's death. Some men's minds are so small, they think the world serves them.

  Talak was no different. True, he wore the mantle of Ashan Tay, but did the Seven truly want Dakar to die, or was that only Talak's will?

  We'll find out, decided Jian, still watching the hunters filter through the trees. When they were gone, she looked down at Dakar's corpse. I have more than one promise to keep to you, my friend.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hunting the Hunted

  'There were two of them in here.'

  Crouching beside the charred remains of the campfire, Mikilov ran his fingers over the surrounding dirt, reading a story only the ground could tell. 'Aye,' he muttered, 'only two.'

  'Yet you said there were more outside, maybe a dozen?'

  'Aye. But only two or three of them took a look in here, and by then the two with the fire were already gone.'

  'What does all that mean?'

  Mikilov tugged at his beard thoughtfully. 'It means our hunters are closing on their prey.'

  'The Wolfeater?'

  Mikilov gazed at Senya through narrowed eyes. 'The day you can tell me which bird shat on my head two years ago, is the day I'll need no more than a footprint to say who laid it. We'll find out once we catch up to them.'

  'That's all you had to say,' said Senya, smiling. She couldn't help herself. She had been travelling with Mikilov for five days now, and in that time she had found her liking for the man growing immensely. He reminded her so much of her father. Not in looks, perhaps, but in the things he said and how he said them; down even to the way he moved.

  It was said the Valor shared their blood with the wolf, which went some way to explaining the elongated canines and heightened sense of smell, the keen ears and prodigious strength. In most cases that was where the similarities ended, but not with the likes of Mikilov and Finn.

  Those two seemed to share the instincts of a wolf. They moved with grace and cunning, looking every inch the killer, yet once you got to know them, once you became a member of their pack, you knew you would find no safer haven, nowhere with such warmth, or love, or loyalty.

  There could be a home here, Senya thought suddenly, with this one and his wolf. A new pack… But then the guilt would kick in, driving the thought away. This was no time to think of what could be, only what had been, only what was taken.

  'Let's keep moving,' she told Mikilov. 'We've wasted enough time here.'

  Mikilov gestured for her to wait a moment. 'Scar!'

  The wolf appeared at the tomb entrance, his huge frame blocking out a good part of the sunlight. He padded softly down the tunnel, nuzzled into Senya on his way past, and stopped with his head resting beneath Mikilov's hand. The gnarly warrior scratched the wolf's ear, and gestured to the scuffed dirt around the campfire's remains. 'Get the scent, lad. Go find!'

  Scar wasted no time. Sweeping his nose over the ground, the wolf circled the charred mound twice, before moving back up the tunnel and heading outside.

  'He has them,' said Mikilov, following after him.

  Senya lingered a moment longer, looking around the tomb one last time. On the far wall, barely visible in the faint daylight slipping in through the tomb's entrance, a dais had been carved into the rock, along with three thrones of equal stature. A body sat slumped in each of the stone thrones, their skeletal remains dressed now only in rags, and dust, and rot. Senya's eyes drifted to the central corpse. His head was gone, toppled from the shoulders and resting now half-shattered in the dirt.

  There were no riches to be seen; no treasures glinting in the dark. They were long gone. Tomb raiders had found this place centuries ago, stripping it of any worth. Age had taken the rest, as it would one day take the bones.

  The kings of old, thought Senya. Nothing but dust in the wind. That was how it always went, she supposed. Rich or poor, powerful or weak, time took everything in the end. Except when it didn't.

  Sometimes it was men that took it all. Men like the Wolfeater. He doesn't get to wait for time to take him, thought Senya, or even this bloody illness. When he dies, he'll be looking into my eyes. And he'll know the reason was Velimir.

  Leaving the dead behind, Senya turned on her heels and made her way back up the tunnel to the tomb's entrance. She stepped outside into the cold midday air, greeted by heavy flakes of snow carried on a soft breeze. Grey clouds were hanging low overhead, but the sun shone brightly behind them, almost burning through.

  Scar was already some distance away, following the trail of churned snow that let out from the tomb's entrance and meandered its way north.

  'That path won't last long in this snow,' Senya muttered.

  'It won't need to,' said Mikilov, tossing Senya's saddlebag to her, which she caught deftly and slung over her shoulder. 'Scar has the scent now. They'll not escape.'

  'You sure?'

  'He's a wolf.' Mikilov smiled, those sharp teeth of his adding to the sense of confidence. 'The hunt is all he knows! You can take my word for it, girl. Scar will not stop until he has them.'

  Senya made to follow the wolf, when Mikilov grabbed her by the shoulder, drawing her to a halt. She glanced at his hand, then met his gaze, an eyebrow raised.

  'He won't stop,' said Mikilov, 'but we should. There is nothing in the Whitelands save death. Not for them, not for us, not for anyone.'

  Senya hesitated. For just a moment she was almost willing him to drag her back, to save her from whatever precipice this was. But then she saw again the smoke rising from the charred remains of Velimir's hut, the blackened, twisted ruin of his corpse, and the moment passed. Senya let out a sigh. 'I can't stop,' she said. 'Not until he's dead.'

  And so they fell in behind the wolf, following him north. They didn't run, much as Senya wanted to. The snow made it impossible in places, and dangerous everywhere else. The same reasons they'd left the horses behind. But they marched to a healthy pace, Senya keeping stride with the much taller Mikilov. She kept to his back though, using his tall, powerful frame as protection from the wind and the snow. They walked in silence for the most part, as the world around them slipped into empty, cold bleakness.

  It changes nothing, Senya told herself as the frost closed in. The Wolfeater lies ahead. I'd follow that bastard into the coldest hell to give my blade a taste of his blood.

  ✽✽✽

  Smoke again.

  This time drifting lazily from the centre of a small wood, the white trail standing out clearly against the soft blue sky that had broken with the morning sun.

  Scar crouched low to the ground and Mikilov held up a clenched fist, signalling for Senya to stop. The three of them stood there silently, staring ahead at the distant column of smoke rising from the clump of evergreens.

  'We should take cover,' said Senya, suddenly feeling very exposed out on the open white plains of Basilla.

  'Take cover where?' asked Mikilov. 'Those trees are the first we've seen for two miles. If they were going to see us, they'd have seen us by now. And if they'd seen us, they'd be on their way to kill us.'

  He whistled to the wolf, who looked up at him expectantly. 'Go see,' Mikilov told him, and Scar darted off to the right. Keeping low to the snowy ground, he skirted the wood's edge, before finally plunging into the trees on their eastern flank.

  'What if they
're in there?' asked Senya, her voice barely a whisper. As eager as she was to kill the Wolfeater, she was not a fool. She had no wish to stand toe-to-toe with a dozen Basillians.

  'They won't see him,' Mikilov assured her. 'This is Scar's world out here. And this is not his first hunt.'

  Mikilov led Senya on, crossing the open fields and drawing closer to the woods. The snow grew deeper with every step, their fur-lined boots crunching through the crisp surface and sinking to the top of the foot, to the ankle, to the knee. Senya winced as the sound of each footfall echoed out across the great whiteness, the only sound to be heard over the howling wind.

  Once they finally reached the tree line, Senya and Mikilov ducked into the woods and headed for the centre, from where the smoke was rising. Senya had always thought herself light on her feet, but next to Mikilov she felt as subtle as a kragan with the scent of blood. The veteran warrior moved through the trees like a ghost, ducking and weaving between low hanging branches and avoiding ground debris with uncanny skill.

  It wasn't long before the fire came into view, orange flames winking at them from between the trees. Slowing their approach, Mikilov gestured for Senya to fall back behind him, and only then did he crouch low and edge slowly forward. Senya stayed close behind him, doing her best to peer over his shoulder.

  The light grew brighter the closer they got, and Senya began to smell what was burning. At first bitter and acrid, like burning hair, the woods were soon filled with the scent of roasting meat. Food had been scarce these past few weeks, and the smell was mouth-wateringly delicious.

  'Smells like they're cooking a feast,' she whispered, stomach cramping at the thought of it. 'Smells divine.'

  'Don't savour it too long,' said Mikilov, easing the underbrush aside and pushing forward. 'It's human flesh.'

  Bile rose up in Senya's throat and she almost vomited. He's right, she thought, disgusted. She could smell it now. It was roasting meat, sure enough, but there was something off about it, an underlying trace of humanity.

  Mikilov swung his axe free from his shoulders and brought it to bear. He was almost at the clearing, staring out at the fire in its centre. Drawing her sword, Senya joined him there and gazed out.

  They saw a single figure standing with their back to them, gaze lost in the flames. A second figure lay in the fire itself, flames licking up over the charred flesh. Senya winced. There was that smell again, somehow appealing and offensive in equal measure. Damn this hunger, she thought. Whoever knew a man could smell so good?

  'Basillian,' whispered Mikilov, 'and alone.'

  'What's she doing?'

  'Burning the dead, looks like.' He turned to look Senya in the eye. 'Follow my lead, girl. Don't let your anger get the better of you. We need to know what we're walking into, and this is our best chance. You hold your tongue.'

  Before Senya could defend herself, Mikilov surged through the undergrowth and into the clearing. Cursing, she followed after him, her sword at the ready.

  Hearing their emergence from the foliage, the Basillian spun around to face them, a dagger appearing in her hand in a blur of motion. Mikilov held his axe out to one side, his free hand out to the other, open palmed in a gesture of peace.

  The gesture did no good. The Basillian sprang forward, lips drawn back over gritted teeth, her dagger thrusting forward. At that moment, a large shape exploded from the trees on the right, showering the girl with broken branches and chunks of snow. Scar crashed into her an instant later, his powerful jaws locking onto her arm. She cried out, her dagger falling to the snow, and the wolf was on her, dragging her to her knees and holding firmly by the limp arm.

  'Easy, girl,' said Mikilov, taking a step towards her. 'We come in peace. Do you speak the common tongue?'

  The girl stared dumbly at the two Valor, her eyes flickering between them, her tongue licking at dried lips. She was young, in her twenties perhaps, with long black hair and a cleft lip that set her face in a permanent sneer. Her eyes were dark too, and watering from the pain of Scar's hold.

  Mikilov spoke again, this time in a guttural tongue Senya could not understand. The Grey Crow did though, and she replied in the same language, though it rolled far more fluidly from her tongue, even with the edge of steel she added to the words.

  'What did she say?' asked Senya. But Mikilov held his hand up for patience, and spoke again. The girl replied, her words once more seemingly meaningless, and Senya felt a surge of frustration. 'What is she saying?' she snapped, turning her anger on Mikilov.

  ✽✽✽

  'What is she saying?'

  There was fire in the question Mikilov did not appreciate. He'd asked the girl to hold her tongue, to let him find out what they needed to know, but it seemed she just couldn't help herself. More and more it was beginning to look like Senya's anger would be the death of her. Most likely the death of us all.

  He levelled his gaze at her, letting his own anger simmer on the surface. 'This one is not the Wolfeater,' he said as calmly as he could muster. 'Let me speak to her. I'll find out what she knows.'

  Senya huffed and puffed, on the verge of arguing further, but at the last she let out a sigh and nodded.

  Mikilov let his gaze linger on her a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the Basillian. Here was another one too young to be out here. With long black hair and dark eyes, dressed in a thick bear-hide that engulfed her slender frame, Mikilov put her at no more than twenty-five.

  She was plain-faced, save for a cleft in her upper lip. Whether that was from birth or a wound of some kind, Mikilov couldn't tell. Not that it mattered all that much. Battle scarred or not, she was Basilian. That meant she knew her way around a blade.

  Mikilov's eye was drawn to the necklace of grey feathers hanging around her neck. Crow feathers. He knew then she was one of those they'd been tracking.

  'My friend here thinks I should kill you.' Mikilov tried his best not to butcher the Basillian language, but it was far easier said than done given his lack of practice. In recent times, he had traded far more blows than words with the tribesmen of Basilla. 'But I've killed enough of your kind to last a lifetime. Tell me what you're doing out here, woman, and I'll let you live.'

  'You're a long way from home, Wolf.' The girl winced as she spoke, glancing at her arm, still clamped in Scar's mouth. She tried to pull free but Scar held firm, his cold black eyes staring back at her. He hadn't broken the skin yet, but he let her know he could by squeezing a little tighter.

  'I wouldn't do that if I were you. He hasn't eaten yet.'

  The girl looked up at Mikilov scornfully. 'Kill me then. Be done with it.'

  Mikilov spoke slowly, searching for the right words, not entirely sure he was finding them. 'You… are… Grey Crow, yes? We are not here to kill you. We come for the Wolfeater.'

  The girl laughed heartily.

  'What did you say?' asked Senya.

  'I told her we want the Wolfeater.'

  'You should run home, Wolves. There is nothing out here for you save the Black Wind.'

  'She was there!' said Senya, suddenly surging forward, realisation dawning on her face. 'You were there!' She grabbed the Basillian by her feathered necklace and pulled her up slightly, thrusting the tip of her blade under the girl's chin, the steel biting into the flesh. 'Where is he? Where is the Wolfeater?'

  The Basillian grinned up at her, the broken lip twisting it into a sneer. 'I remember this one,' she said. 'She was at the farm. She was the one killed Jorn.'

  'What's she saying?' asked Senya. 'What are you saying?'

  'Let her go,' said Mikilov, striding forward.

  'Tell her we wanted to trade,' said the Basillian. 'Tell her the old man would have lived, if Radok had his way.'

  'Tell us… where… he… is!' As she spoke, Senya twisted her sword so that the blade bit deeper into the Basillian's throat, slicing into the flesh and drawing blood.

  Mikilov grabbed Senya's arm and pulled her away. He dragged her back with such force that Senya lost
her footing and fell onto her backside in the snow. The Basillian burst into laughter, so Mikilov back handed her across the mouth, stunning her to silence. 'Enough!' he stormed. 'Enough!'

  All the while Scar maintained his grip on the Basillian's arm, without even a whisper of a growl.

  Mikilov glowered down at the wolf's prisoner, towering over her with his great axe gripped in both hands. 'I give no shits about who you are, girl, nor the games you like to play. We want the Wolfeater. Either you can tell us where he is and we let you live, or we can kill you now and let the wolf eat your remains. You will never burn; your ashes never cast to the Seven Winds. Your choice. Just make it fast.'

  The girl gazed up at Mikilov with fresh new eyes. There was all the hatred there that you would expect between two peoples who had been killing each other for as long as any of them could remember, but where there had been contempt and distrust before, there was now a healthy dose of respect.

  'I know you too, Grey Wolf,' she said. 'They say Chadra circles your blades; that you can even bend the Will to your way of thinking. But out here you're just another man waiting to die.'

  'Then give us what we want so we can go home. Before I freeze my damned stones off!'

  'Tell your friend to let me go and I will give you what you want.'

  Without hesitation, Mikilov granted her wish. 'Scar.'

  The wolf let go of the Basillian's arm and trotted away to stand beside Senya, who had picked herself up and recovered her sword. There was still anger in her face, but there was more control to it now, a more focused rage.

  After a moment, the Basillian also picked herself up. Testing the use of her arm, making sure there were no cuts or breaks where the wolf had grabbed her, she brushed the snow from her furs and picked up her dagger.