Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'Are you sure about this?' asked Senya, glancing sideways at him. She looked tired. There were bags under her eyes and her skin was pale, her rosy cheeks the only bright spot about her.

  'The Empty Faces were,' he said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder towards the corpses. 'And they know this land better than most. It might take us a few days to find a better path.'

  Senya chewed her lip, still uncertain.

  'Only one of us can call this off,' he told her. 'Say the word and we go home.'

  The silence stretched out between them, and, for a moment at least, Mikilov found himself hoping once more…

  …only for it to be snuffed out a second later, like a candle in the wind.

  'No,' said Senya, shaking her head as though that might clear the doubts. 'We're wasting no more time. If the Wolfeater dies out here, it has to be for Velimir. I have to be the one who finally puts him out of his misery.'

  Mikilov raised a brow. 'For Velimir?'

  'For Velimir.'

  He sighed. 'Best be about it then,' and he nodded at the ice sheet. 'After you.'

  Senya took a careful step out onto the ice, hesitated for a moment, and then began to walk. Mikilov watched her go for a spell. She was lighter on her feet than he was, and better balanced on the ice. If anyone was going to fall through, he thought, it was likely him. Better to fall through alone than drag the girl down with him, and if she went in first, he had a better chance of pulling her out than she did him.

  He glanced down at Scar, sat at his heels, head cocked as he watched Senya making her way out across the frozen span. 'Go on then, lad. Stay close to her.'

  Needing no second invitations, the wolf padded down to the water's edge. He paused there for a moment, pushing his nose out to sniff at the cold air. Then he touched one paw to the ice and snatched it back, as though the cold burned. Perhaps it did.

  Scar's gaze flickered from Senya to the ice and back again, and Mikilov smiled. He could see the wolf's struggle. Protect Senya, or stick to the safety of solid ground? It was not an easy choice to make, for man or wolf.

  Scar sank to his haunches, whining, all the while watching Senya stride further and further away, and Mikilov's smile widened. He had never seen the wolf so smitten. That Scar had chosen to walk with Mikilov was only ever about respect, but with the girl it was different. There was affection there, pure and unbridled. It was quite a thing to see in a wild beast.

  'What kind of wolf are you?' said Mikilov, brushing past the wolf and setting off across the ice after Senya. Scar followed a moment later, bounding onto the ice and scrabbling after them, the layer of snow just enough to offer his paws some much needed grip. It took the wolf some stones to make that leap, but Mikilov suspected it was more shame than courage that drew him on.

  Ten strides further on, where the water deepened, Mikilov's heart skipped a beat as the ice groaned and cracked beneath him, threatening to split open and plunge him into the murky depths below. He held his nerve, maintaining a steady pace. Too slow and he'd leave his weight in the wrong place for too long; too fast and his weight would be striking the ice quicker, and in smaller areas, weakening far more of the surface. Slow and steady, he told himself. Slow and steady.

  His heart was in his throat for most of the journey, but Mikilov kept his fears at bay as best he could. His nose was red raw from the chill and the rubbing. Snot flowed freely. He pulled his gloves tighter as he walked. It was as cold out on the ice as anything Mikilov had ever felt while walking the Whitelands. Away from the banks, where there were no trees or rising slopes to offer shelter, the biting wind tore at them with hungry relish.

  On they marched, snowfall swirling around them like ash from a fire. It caked their furs, the damp seeping through to their clothes. Even Mikilov's beard felt heavy with the weight of it, tugging at his face whenever the wind picked up. His fingers and toes felt numb too, the flesh around his eyes and nose burning from the relentless gales.

  Senya seemed to share his thoughts. 'I never knew the cold could burn,' she called over her shoulder.

  'Pain is good,' he called back. 'Pain will keep you alive out here. It's when the pain stops you need to worry.'

  They walked most of the way in silence, tension hanging over them like a bad moon. The distant sound of the falls had been lost to the roaring wind, but Mikilov knew they were still out there, rumbling on. Even here, less than a foot below them, the Velga continued to flow, water rushing eastward to that magnificent drop.

  The north bank edged ever closer, the steep incline crowned with snow covered evergreens and a backdrop of white mountains. It was the first true sight of the Whitelands they had seen, and in this most bitter of winters the name seemed more fitting than ever.

  'I didn't know a place could be so cold,' said Senya, still having to raise her voice to be heard over the wind.

  'It'll only get worse,' Mikilov told her. 'When we make land, best stay close to me, eh? The ground out here can betray you at the best of times… and these are not the best of times. Even the weather can turn quickly. If a blizzard or fog rolls in, it's best we can reach each other before we lose ourselves.'

  'Have you been out here before?' Senya kept her eyes fixed on her feet as she spoke, alert for any sign of give in the ice.

  'Once.' Mikilov swallowed hard at the memory. 'A long time ago. Back when I knew your father, in the days we hunted the King Killer.'

  Senya froze in her stride, spinning back to face him. 'The Jarl? The last of the Jagged Horn?'

  Mikilov nodded with a grimace. Bloody bards. Everyone knows some version of the story…

  'I knew my father was there, but you too? Tell me about it,' Senya urged hungrily. 'Not the way the bards tell it. Your way, Mikilov. Tell me the truth.'

  Mikilov grunted. Odds were, the truth would be the last thing she wanted to hear. 'Talk as we walk,' he said, waving her on. He was almost level with her now. 'We need to get off this ice as quick as we can.'

  The girl turned on her heels and marched on, but Mikilov stayed closer to her this time, close enough so that she could still hear his voice over the wind.

  'Why don't you start us off?' he asked her. 'Tell me the story you know, and I'll fill in the gaps.'

  Senya thought about if for a moment, then shrugged. 'I can try. Where shall I start?'

  Mikilov shrugged back. 'Same place as the bards, I reckon. Start with the snow.'

  'They always say it was the worst winter Haslova has ever seen; that a man would freeze to death if he stayed still for too long. Is it true the snowdrift was fifteen feet deep in places?'

  'At least. Whole villages were lost out in the wilds, buried in the snow. It was a desperate time for the Basillians. They always had a knack for killing each other, but I think that winter was the first they turned to cannibalism. No doubt that's where it started for the likes of the Empty Faces. Some tribes were wiped out entirely, lost to the cold and the hunger.'

  'And then came the Jarl,' said Senya.

  'And then came the Jarl,' muttered Mikilov.

  The girl bristled at the interruption. 'Are you telling this story, or am I?'

  Mikilov chuckled. 'Fine, girl, you tell it.'

  'One day, in the midst of this winter, the city watch glimpsed shadows moving through the fog in the valley far below the city walls. One by one, the bells rang out…'

  Mikilov closed his eyes as the memories came flooding back. He could remember it as though it were yesterday: the smell of coals burning in the brazier when he stepped out onto the ramparts; the clanging bells sounding the alarm; the confusion as the fog washed over him, thick as soup, shrouding the sights and muffling the sounds.

  'The Jarl brought men from twenty tribes,' Senya was saying, 'two thousand strong at least. No one can say how he led them across the White Waste, only that he did.'

  'Desperate men do desperate things,' muttered Mikilov, though he knew that was unfair. There was nothing desperate about the Jarl. He was a formidable foe and an inspirationa
l figure among the Basillians, a man whose ambitious plans offered hope at a dark time. He had sought to use the weather to his own advantage, taking Haslova by surprise in a daring raid. That so many tribes had thrown manpower behind him was a testament to the Jarl's will.

  'Spare me the details,' Mikilov told Senya. 'I was there. Just tell me what you know.'

  As Senya recounted the story the bards had shared a thousand times before, Mikilov's memories dragged him back through the truth of that day. Not so pretty as the songs. Not so glorious.

  He had thought it a test when the alarm went up, an order from the powers above to assess the alertness of the guards. But then he saw the lights on the horizon; the orange orbs of torches blurred in the fog, filling the valley below. Two thousand men at least, and even that a stingy estimate.

  The journey through those conditions would have broken lesser men. That the Jarl had brought so many of them through in such good order spoke not only of his leadership, but also of the determination of the tribesfolk. You had to respect an enemy like that. It made them worth killing.

  'The siege lasted days,' Senya was saying, 'each bloody assault turned back by the stout defenders…'

  Mikilov rolled his eyes. 'That's enough nonsense,' he muttered. 'The siege barely lasted three hours, let alone three days. You think they would have made that journey if they had the provisions for a siege? It was the hunger that drove them to attack when they did. It was a damned raid!'

  They walked on in silence for a spell, both watching the ice at their feet, ready to react at the first sign of weakness.

  'Well,' Mikilov said at last, 'if you want a story told right, best to tell it yourself, eh? It was a brutal, bloody mess that day. They got a foothold on the ramparts easy enough, but only because the archers couldn't see a damned thing through the fog, not until they were right on top of us, and by then it was too late. The blizzards had battered the city for the better part of two weeks, too strong and too frequent to keep the snowdrift in check. By the time the Basillians made the wall, they were practically knee height against the battlements. They just had to step over.

  'We fought them tooth and nail on the ramparts, your father and I standing beside the king. Finn already had a name for himself, even back then. One of the king's favourites. I was there as the king's shieldman, an honour passed down from my own father.' Mikilov sighed as the last moments of King Ornov played out in his memories. 'Alas, neither of us could do anything about the arrow that took the king's life.'

  Senya nodded. 'They say it was an impossible shot.'

  'At least the bards got that much right. It was the Jarl himself who took it. He was still outside the walls, maybe three hundred yards away, with thick fog, heavy snow, and blistering winds between him and his target. I caught him in the corner of my eye as he loosed, and I knew as soon as the arrow took flight it would find its mark. It flew strong and true, and it took the king in the neck.' Mikilov shook his head as the image faded. 'By the Great Hunt, you'd think the wind itself had carried it home. And just like that he was gone. Ornov, the last Valorian king, slain by an arrow.'

  'Was that when the king's son led the counterattack, to reach his father's body?'

  Mikilov arched an eyebrow in Senya's direction. 'Victor? No, there was no counterattack. The Basillians forced their way to the livestock and food supplies, though it cost them a lot to get there, but they only stole what they could carry and then retreated. It was only when he heard of his father's death that Victor gathered fifty men to him to pursue the Jarl on horseback, your father and I included.

  'They'd lost the bulk of their force in the attack and most of the survivors had come on foot, so it was easy enough to ride them down. What few mounts they did have were piled high with the stolen supplies and driven on ahead. A force stayed behind to slow us down. We managed to finish them off, but the Jarl was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone on ahead with their spoils. A sharp mind, true, but a cowardly one.'

  'So, you tracked him?' Senya was watching Mikilov eagerly now, seemingly forgetting the fact they were walking on ice.

  Tread carefully now, Mikilov told himself. Sometimes the truth can cut deeper than a sword.

  'We did,' he said cautiously, his eyes narrowing. 'Victor wanted revenge, and we were young and eager enough to follow after him. We crossed the Adalvas into Old Valirov; fifty of us, skirting the Whitelands and ploughing headfirst into the bitter winter. The Jarl knew we were after him, so he just kept pressing on, dragging us deeper and deeper into their land.

  'We snapped at his heels and he snapped back. Bodies littered the trail behind us like breadcrumbs marking the way. Some were killed in ambushes and skirmishes, others it was the cold that got them. The frost can seep into a man's soul and snuff him out before he knows what's happening.

  'On a journey like that, it's only a matter of time before the line between right and wrong gets blurred. Soon enough it didn't matter to us who we were following, only who crossed our path. We burned two Basillian camps along the way, butchering men, women, and children. Two tribes, wiped from the face of the earth.'

  'No,' said Senya, her face suddenly pale. She had staggered to a halt, staring at Mikilov with open disgust. 'Father wouldn't do such a thing.'

  Mikilov stopped a few yards from her, offering a pitiful shrug. 'And yet he did. I led the first attack, when the blood lust was still high. I was the king's shieldman and I had failed him - I hungered for redemption. But after that, after the things we did…' Mikilov sighed heavily. 'Guilt got the better of me and I was no use to anyone. It was left to your father to lead the charge the second time. I remember him screaming the king's name as he doled out slaughter.

  'Somehow it was worse that second time. The first had happened too fast for thought, swift and brutal. But by that second time… ah, we knew exactly what business we were about.' He shook his head bitterly. 'Knowing that, it still shocks me how few of us held back.'

  'They don't sing about this in the songs,' said Senya.

  'Well,' Mikilov shrugged, 'there's no glory in butchering women and children. Not even Basillians.'

  Senya's face paled even further. She looked grief-stricken. 'How could he do such a thing?'

  'How could any of us?'

  They started walking again, Senya leading the way and Mikilov following once a gap had built up. Scar padded along beside them, a silent shadow on the ice.

  'The truth is I have no idea why Finn took up the mantle,' Mikilov continued. 'It wasn't hatred of the tribes, I know that much. When you fight them long enough, you learn to respect them. They are a brutal people, true, but they live in a brutal world. They have to be strong to survive, and we are the fire against which they test themselves. Your father knew that as well as I did… more even, having spent time in their world.'

  'He never spoke to me of them,' said Senya, and Mikilov was surprised to hear the tremble in her voice. Sometimes the truth can cut deeper than a sword. 'Even when I asked him, he would always deflect, change the subject. They were stories for another day, he would say, though he never got chance to share them.'

  'The Jarl changed him,' said Mikilov. 'Finn loved Ornov as a son loves a father, and, when the Jarl killed him, a part of your father died with him. He was consumed by the red mist. Revenge became everything to him, and Victor's bloody quest gave him the best chance of getting it. What was more dead Basillians against that?'

  Senya's jaw jutted out suddenly, her eyes blazing, and Mikilov winced. He had pushed too hard. 'A small price to pay,' she said, 'to end the threat of the Jarl. I see what you're trying to do Mikilov, but you won't change my mind. The Wolfeater must die. That will be my revenge, for Velimir, and for all the others that damned Crow has killed. And if what you say about my father is true, at least I know he'd be standing with me.'

  'That's where you're wrong,' said Mikilov. 'By the end, your father realised the same truth I did. Once you've seen enough of the world, enough death, you start to realise what vengeance is truly wort
h. And it's not worth the dirt you piss on, girl. Not a single bit of it.'

  'Well… maybe we'll get chance to find out,' said Senya, pointing ahead.

  A single figure had appeared on the riverbank, little more than three hundred yards away now. The wind whipped about him, kicking up snow and tugging at his fur coat, but even at a distance Mikilov could make out the band of grey feathers hanging around the man's neck.

  'Grey Crow,' he muttered, pulling up alongside Senya. 'Now it begins.'

  ✽✽✽

  They stood like statues for the longest moment, staring at each other across the icy expanse. Mikilov and Senya's breath caught in their throats as the surprise washed over them, only Scar's growl rumbling on in the silence. Up ahead, the Basillian cast a forlorn figure standing at the river's edge. Behind him, the evergreens cresting the river bank swayed majestically in the wind, which rustled through the tribesman's heavy furs and danced through the large grey feathers of his necklace.

  'Grey Crow,' muttered Mikilov. 'Now it begins.'

  Senya cursed under her breath. There was no doubt in her mind where the blame lay. 'I told you we should have killed her. That bitch has warned them we were coming.'

  'I'll not apologise for letting an unarmed woman live. She's done no less than we would have done, had we walked in her shoes.'

  'Say what you will,' snapped Senya, 'your mercy may have killed us.'

  'Or your hate.'

  The retort stabbed at Senya's heart. Before she could reply, a surge of movement killed the words forming in her throat.

  The Basillian strode out onto the ice, swinging a giant axe from his shoulders as he moved. He paused long enough to look up at them, his wild eyes peering out from a tangle of hair, thick beard split by a gash of gritted teeth. He swung the axe up over his head, then brought it down viciously, the blade hacking into the ice and sticking fast. The sound followed a second later, a howl of effort followed by the sharp clang of steel biting into ice.

  Pulling the blade free, he brought it down again… and again. By the third strike, a vast crack opened up in the ice, splitting open where the axe struck and shattering outwards in jagged lines, like a bolt of lightning hurled at the feet of the Valor.