She watched him dance among them with quiet fury, his sword flashing in the firelight as he moved from one opponent to the next, weaving between their blades, ducking and swerving each slash. Talak moved like a storm, every flick of his blade marked by the clash of steel or a flash of crimson blood.
And like all the worst storms it was over in an instant. Once the dust settled and the calm returned, Talak was left standing alone amidst the ten bloodied ruins of his opponents. One curt wave of his arm later and the Grey Crow swept in, putting those who still lived to the sword.
By the time the final blow was struck, Jian was striding into the circle of firelight, her eyes fixed on the Ashan Tay. 'By the Will, what the fuck was that?'
Talak's gaze snapped to Jian, as though he awoke from a daze. 'Our favourite sister returns! That, my child, was the Will. The Seven, working through me to do their bidding.' He took a deep breath and cast his arms into the air, turning slowly on his heels, face lit by pure ecstasy. 'Such a beautiful thing… I have never felt such power…'
Jian looked around at the other Grey Crow - at Vinak and Talgar and the rest, and at Tess when the girl appeared beside her and gave a squeeze of Jian's hand - and she saw the same fear there that she felt growing in her own heart. They too had never seen such power… but they had heard of it. And the Black Wind rises…
'Have you found them?' asked Talak, snapping from his reverie.
'No sign,' said Vinak.
'There is,' put in Talgar, gesturing towards the Velga, 'out on the ice. Two sets of tracks; one larger, one smaller.'
'The ice?' Tess shivered at the thought. 'That's suicide.'
'This whole thing is suicide,' muttered Jian. 'What now Talak?'
The Ashan Tay gazed off towards the river, kneeling to absently wipe his blade clean on one of the fallen. 'You can go home, Jian, as you have long wanted.' He swept his gaze over the remaining Grey Crow, all gathered in a circle around him, and smiled. 'You can all go home. I don't need you anymore. I never have.'
And with that, Talak strode to the edge of the Velga and stepped out onto the ice. He walked with confidence, never hesitating, not even when the ice groaned and cracked beneath his weight, until at least he faded into the dark mist and was lost, the Grey Crow watching after him in silence.
'It's not the Will that drives old Talak,' a voice spoke out. It was Garda, a well-wintered brute of a man kneeling over the body of the first Empty Face Talak had killed. He lifted the man's mask aside with the tip of a knife, revealing a shock of blond hair framing the youthful face below.
'What's that?' asked Jian.
Garda looked up, his dark eyes grim and serious. 'You don't get to my age without seeing some men who can swing a sword, and I've seen some of the best. The Wolfeater is good, true enough, but he's nothing next to the Outsiders - those bastards that fight beside the Wolves. I tell you, I've never seen anyone who can kill like that… not until today at least.' Garda waved his knife in a circle, taking in the scattered corpses of the Empty Face. 'Only the Black Wind could help a man do this.'
Jian shivered herself, but not through the cold. 'What are you saying?'
'I'm saying Talak serves the Eighth.'
'No,' said Jian. 'I have as much reason as anyone to despise that little rat, but Talak has always done right by the Crow.'
Pushing himself to his feet, Garda walked over to stand before Jian. He towered over her by some distance, though Jian felt no panic standing in his shadow. Quiet and methodical, he had always been one of the good ones. Here though, now, he was making his move for leadership.
'You saw his eyes,' he said softly. 'He only now realised the truth of it himself. But do you think him cowered by it? Or did he seem eager to embrace the power the Black Wind offers?'
Jian found herself struggling for an answer. Talak had enjoyed every moment of the slaughter, there was no escaping that. You can all go, he had told them afterwards. I don't need you anymore.
'Then what, Garda? What do we do now?'
Garda shrugged. 'You know what happens to those moved by the Black Wind. Killing becomes the only thing they know. Men, women, children… it doesn't matter to them. They would butcher the world just to hear the dark whispers of the Black Wind.
'The Will says a man like that must die. That's the law of Basilla and the law of the Grey Crow. I will not allow him to burn our name. I say we kill him, or die trying.' Garda looked around at his fellow warriors, sent to kill a hero but now facing a different choice. 'Who is with me?'
The question was met with silence. Tracking and killing a dying man and a blind girl through the Whitelands was one thing; tracking an Ashan Tay at the height of his powers was something else entirely. It was a task no one wanted, not even the Grey Crow's finest.
'What about the Wolfeater?' asked Jian, genuinely curious.
Garda only gave it a moment's thought before answering. 'The elders’ judgement was based on the twisted words of Talak. If they knew the truth as we know it now, would they have stood in Radok's way? Let the Seven deal with Radok as they see fit. We'll deal with Talak.'
Jian met the big man's gaze and knew he spoke the truth. By the Will, she thought, he rode with Radok for as long as any man would care to remember. If I owe the Wolfeater my life once, Garda probably owes it ten times over.
'If it's truly Talak you want to kill,' she said, 'I'll follow you.'
Garda looked stunned for a moment… then burst out laughing. Jian scowled at him, suddenly conscious she may have been made the butt of some unfortunate joke.
'I'm no leader,' he said after regaining some composure. 'I know one when I see one though, especially one worth following.' He smiled a little wider. 'If you're going after Talak, Jian the Breaker, I'll follow you.'
Jian wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but her confusion only blossomed further when the other Grey Crow threw their backing behind her. Tess was there in an instant, of course, announcing her love as well as her loyalty. Vinak, it turned out, had always been impressed by her spirit, Talgar by her strength and wisdom. One by one they all backed Jian, ready to follow her into the Whitelands in pursuit of a madman.
Jian shook her head. 'It's impossible. The elders won't stand for it. Not a woman. Not one of the Fallow.'
'They won't have a choice,' Garda assured her. 'The young will back our choice, and it's the young that rule the day.'
'Why me?'
'Why not? Some would say you owe the Wolfeater. He put his faith in you and so will the tribe. Starting today.'
Jian considered it for a moment. Garda had struck the truth of it sure enough. She owed Radok more than just her life. When the rest of the tribe had been ready to exile Jian, it was Radok who found a place for her in the Fallow, who had even trusted her enough to let her ride with him…
And now he was somewhere out there in the White Waste, dragging a blind girl and his own half-dead body to whatever fate waited for them at the Blackstone. If anyone deserved a chance to reach that hallowed place, to stand before his gods and look them in the eye, it was the Wolfeater.
'You're right,' Jian said at last. 'Talak has no right to stand in Radok's way, whether it's the will of the Seven or the Eighth he listens to. Nor do the two Valor currently dogging our tails. If I am to lead this merry band of hunters, I say we kill them all and let the Will take care of Radok. Are you still ready for me to lead, Garda?'
The big man swept his arm out towards the river. 'Lead on, Jian the Breaker. Lead and we will follow.'
Chapter Fourteen
The Velga
Though the fire had burned low by the time they reached the banks of the Velga, its orange glow shone like a beacon in the deep dark, drawing Senya and Mikilov to it like moths to a flame.
They approached slowly at first, having no idea what lay in wait for them, but it wasn't long before their apprehension gave way to curiosity and they made the last few yards at a run.
It was the smell, more than anything. If the light drew t
hem on, the smell would have been enough to turn them back, if not for Senya's burning desire for revenge. As it was, the pungent stench of emptied bowels and spilt guts was just another sign they were moving in the right direction.
Senya staggered to a halt as she broke into the circle of firelight, breath catching in her throat. Bodies littered the ground around the fire, ten of them at least, some slashed across the belly or chest, some with their heads near severed, and others with less visible wounds. 'Who are they?' she asked as she carefully picked a path between the corpses.
Mikilov pushed one of the bodies over with a gentle shove of his boot. The dead man's hand rolled away from his side, letting his guts spill out as it flopped lifelessly into the snow beside him. There was a dark, congealed pool of blood seeped into the snow beneath him, part frozen despite the nearby fire. Long dead then.
The man's face was a strange, pale mass of flesh bereft of any emotion or real detail, glowing like bronze in the firelight. It was a mask, Senya realised, though somehow both more and less realistic than any she had seen before.
'Empty Faces,' Mikilov grunted. 'The worst kind of Basillian. They are nothing more than butchers and cannibals, cutting parts from the dead and eating them, or else wearing them like trophies.' He kicked the leg of another dead man, watched it rock away and back again, lifeless. 'No Grey Crow though. If our friends did this, it didn't cost them anything.'
Just then a whimpering cut into their conversation. At first, Senya thought it was one of the fallen, still alive, but the sound was drifting to them from further away, closer to the river's edge. Scar, she realised, and she followed Mikilov to where the wolf sat at the edge of the frozen water.
He was peering into the darkness ahead, staring across the river towards some unseen threat. Taking a few steps out onto the ice, Mikilov crouched low to inspect the thin layer of snow coating the surface. 'Tracks here,' he said after a moment. 'Lots of tracks.'
Senya nodded. 'Our friends crossed the ice.' It was hard not to respect such a bold move. 'They must be fearless.'
Mikilov shook his head. 'Mad, more like.' He turned away from the river and walked back to the fire, where he started feeding fresh fuel to the flames from a stockpile gathered nearby.
'What are you doing?' Senya asked, eager to keep moving.
'What does it look like? Keeping this fire alive.'
'We need to keep moving. They're already hours ahead of us, we can't let them pull even further away.'
Mikilov raised an eyebrow in her direction. 'If you want to try crossing a river as wild as the Velga on a shell made of ice, with the dead of night closing in, you know where to start. But I'll be waiting here for daylight, warm and comfortable. The Grey Crow can't fly all night either. We'll catch them when we catch them.'
With the fire freshly stoked, Mikilov slumped to the ground beside it. He set to routing in his travel bags for his blanket and his cooking utensils, and Scar padded over to join him beside the fire. Senya's heart sank. When even the wolf took Mikilov's side in the argument, she supposed the old warrior must have a point.
✽✽✽
Rolling onto his shoulder, Mikilov awoke with a start, a sharp pain shooting up his arm and into his chest. 'Fuck,' he managed to gasp, before the pain curled him up into a ball. It seemed an age, but finally the pain subsided and he rolled onto his back, breathing heavily.
'You're getting too old for this.' Senya's voice, cutting through the blurriness of broken sleep.
Mikilov lifted his head. There was daylight, but it was still early morning judging by the crisp taste of fresh air carried on the southernly breeze. He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed at his tired eyes. Then he swept his gaze around the campsite.
The dead were still there, sleeping their eternal sleep, but the place seemed different in the daylight. The fire had burned low, down to the embers, and the cold was seeping into everything. There was a freshness to it though that was difficult to escape. The cold had killed the smells drifting from the dead, while the snow, growing thicker and heavier with every fall, had buried what it could beneath a blanket of purest white.
Senya was already packed, but she was working Mikilov's pans over a small cook fire and she grinned when Mikilov grimaced at another back spasm. 'Too old by far,' she offered helpfully.
It was difficult to disagree. In his prime, Mikilov could have slept on such hard ground for weeks at a time without his body making a single complaint. Now though, it seemed every part of his body ached… or at least the parts not yet numbed by the cold of the Whitelands.
'Our friends kindly left us some supplies,' said Senya. 'How does eggs and bacon sound? At least… I hope it's bacon.'
'What happened to wanting to get moving?' asked Mikilov, signalling for her to toss the meat over.
'I realised you were right. We'll catch up to them eventually. If not before they get wherever they're going, then on the way back at least. There's not many options for him out here.'
Mikilov grunted. 'Not many options for any of us out here.'
Senya tossed the meat through the air, and Mikilov caught it deftly. It was heavily salted, wrapped in dried lembas leaf from the north, but it sure smelled like bacon.
'Scar,' said Mikilov. The wolf, who had slept the night beside him, lifted his head and yawned. Mikilov dangled a slice of the meat in front of his nose and Scar sniffed at it. After a moment of consideration, the wolf lay back down and closed his eyes.
Mikilov tossed the pack of meat back to Senya. 'Breakfast then! Scar has no taste for pigs, but he'd bite your hand off for a slice of man.'
'What a relief,' muttered Senya, frowning at the wolf. Then she gestured around at the dead bodies. 'Just make sure I'm not around when he decides to tuck into one of these delights.'
With the bacon sizzling over the remains of the fire, Mikilov made his way to the river's edge, where he took out his manhood and set to emptying his bladder. He watched the golden piss eat into the ice, doing his best to keep it concentrated in one spot - a task easier said than done, given the amount of shivering he was doing. By the time he'd ran dry the ice was holding firm. A few inches deep then, at least. That was a good sign. The one danger of making the crossing in daylight was the extra warmth of the sun weakening the crossing.
They ate in silence for the most part, both looking out over the Velga, the thoughts of what might lie ahead running through their minds. It was obvious enough where those thoughts would take Senya. Vengeance had a way of simplifying things like that. She would be thinking of Radok, every line of his face burned into her memory. She would be imagining what it would feel like to drive her sword through his heart once they finally caught up to him.
As though it would be that easy. As though the Wolfeater - one of the greatest warriors Mikilov had ever seen - would simply stand there, while a girl of limited experience tried to run him through. As though there were not a thousand other things between here and there that could kill them in an instant, long before they ever caught sight of their prey.
Mikilov shook his head. That was vengeance for you. Delightfully simple, and wonderfully short-sighted.
Sometimes you had to think deeper than that. Sometimes you had to think about how you might survive the crossing of a frozen river. You had to consider the miles of wilderness lying ahead of you, the bitter cold dogging your steps, the other hunters lying between you and your prey. You had to put your mind to the task of killing a man a thousand others had tried to kill before you. Tried, and failed. Most of all though, you had to consider how you'd get home once it was all done.
That was Mikilov's part in the piece, at least. He didn't give two shits about the Wolfeater, only that Senya survived to see the beckoning walls of Haslova once it was all done. That was the promise he had made to the ghosts of Finn and Velimir, and he meant to give his all to see their girl safely home. Yet it was a task that was growing more difficult with every step they took deeper into the Whitelands. This was not a place fo
r vengeance. Not when the land itself wanted to kill them.
There was no telling the girl that though. Her heart and mind were set on the path they were taking, and Mikilov was done arguing with her. 'It'll hold,' he told her, nodding at the ice. 'Time to get moving.'
Senya looked surprised. 'What? No last-minute arguments? No attempts at convincing me to turn back?'
'Too tired for that,' grumbled Mikilov. 'You won't hear it anyway. You need to see the Wolfeater's corpse before you go back home, so the sooner we get it done the better.'
'At last! You understand!' But Senya's smile quickly slipped, her fears suddenly bubbling to the surface for the first time in Mikilov's company. She met his gaze with big, sad blue eyes. 'Can we do it, do you think?'
Mikilov stared back at her for a moment, a spark of hope in his heart. Was this an opening? Could he convince her to turn back after all? Would she finally listen? But then he saw the truth of it, deep in her eyes. She was a woman struggling under the crushing weight of duty. Velimir had been one of hers and she had failed to protect him. Vengeance was all she had. The Wolfeater had to die so that Velimir might rest more easily. There would be no turning back for her, not even if she longed for it herself.
Give her what she needs.
Mikilov pushed himself to his feet, and offered Senya his hand. 'Anything is possible,' he answered, locking wrists with her and hauling her to her feet. He laid a hand on her shoulder for a moment, holding her gaze. 'Radok will die, I promise you that. And whatever follows, we'll face it together.'
✽✽✽
They stood at the river's edge, their boots touching what was once flowing water, now turned to solid ice by winter's coldest breath. Mikilov peered out across the white expanse. A thick layer of snow quilted the frozen surface, and he could have almost believed there was no river at all, save for the sound of the Velgan Falls rumbling on in the distance, a sign that the river's lifeblood still flowed just a few inches below the surface.
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