Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'Scar!' Mikilov barked.

  The wolf's first few strides were a struggle, his claws scrabbling furiously for purchase on the ice, but then he was gone, darting across the frozen river like an arrow loosed from a bow.

  The Basillian showed no fear as the wolf charged at him. He pressed on with a steady rhythm of raising the axe over his head, then bringing it down with a dull, wet thwack, chunks of ice sent flying as fresh cracks broke out from the source of the impact.

  'And you, girl. Move!'

  The sharp command cleared Senya's mind and she glanced at Mikilov, who urged her on with a wave of his arms and a thrust of his head, panic in his eyes. All around them the ice was starting to crack and groan, as though the water below was rousing from a great sleep.

  Senya had no idea what to do. Press on in the direction they'd been heading all along, towards the axeman and the shattering ice? Or flee in any other direction and try to outrun the breaking ice?

  In the end, she chose the path she thought would get them to solid ground the quickest; the path that led to the man with the axe. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, the ice shifting and crackling beneath her, threatening with every step to plunge her into the cold, eternal depths below. There was no point holding back now, no guarantees the ice would hold even if she stood her ground. So she ran… and she prayed.

  'Don't stop, girl!' Mikilov called after her. 'No matter what happens, you get to solid ground!' Senya winced every time the big man's bulky boots struck the ice behind her, heavy crunch followed by heavy crunch. She could hear his laboured breathing, his every grunt and groan, as he shifted the weight of his powerful frame after her.

  Not once did Senya glance back, not even when she heard him stumble. The Great Hunt would end when it ended… no need to tempt the fates with hesitation.

  Scar flew across the ice ahead of them, his paws skittering across the surface as though he barely touched it. The Basillian started working faster as the wolf closed in, panic taking hold. His axe rose and fell in weaker, less rhythmic strokes, barely making a dint as the wolf locked in. Twenty yards now. Ten. Five…

  The Basillian's eyes widened in horror as the wolf leapt at him. Scar's jagged jaw tore out the tribesman's throat, blood spraying on the scarred ice where he'd been hacking at it, and man and beast toppled through the air. They landed heavily, skidding across the surface in a snarling, screaming tangle, the Basillian's axe clattering away out of his reach.

  Senya breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time she let her eyes focus beyond the axeman, scanning the riverbank and the tree line above. Nothing. No sign of any other enemies waiting to strike.

  She glanced back at Mikilov, the big man still striding after her, no more than ten paces behind. 'I think we'll…'

  Before Senya could get the words out, the ice gave way beneath her. She plunged through the surface like a hammer punching through glass, her right foot going first, dragging the rest of her down with it. She fell screaming, though the sound cut off sharply once the freezing water pierced her clothes, stealing her breath and replacing it with a wheezing gasp.

  Down she went; feet, legs, midriff sinking into the black waters of the Velga. It was only when her chest struck the ice that the broken remains of the surface held. Senya's gloved hands slapped down on the ice ahead of her, scrabbling desperately for a grip, even as she felt herself slipping ever deeper into the water.

  She thought it was over, the end of both the Great Hunt and the hunt for the Wolfeater. The cold would numb her body as the heavy fur clothes that had been keeping her alive dragged her down to the riverbed. The water would burn her nostrils and her throat and her lungs, until she could take no more. And then she would sleep.

  Sleep is death.

  Her father's voice, reminding her of the laws of the Whitelands, as he had reminded her not so long ago. Velimir had found her back then, dragging her out of the frozen dark and into the light and warmth of his cabin. But her uncle was gone now, ended by the Wolfeater. That's why you're here, she reminded herself, anger warming her blood. For Velimir.

  Digging her fingers into the ice, Senya tried to pull herself from the water. She cried out with the effort, but slowly she managed to lift her head and shoulders above the water and drag herself up onto the ice.

  That was where her strength failed. Shivering uncontrollably, her arms gave way beneath her and her face slapped down on the frozen surface. Senya felt herself sliding back into the water, the Velga drawing her on like an old lover.

  Then Scar was there, the grey fur around his mouth dark with blood, his teeth dripping with it. At first, she thought he was about to tear her face off, but instead his bloody maw closed tightly on her fur coat and he dragged her from the water.

  Senya took a moment to gather herself. She was shivering violently from the freezing water and exhausted from the brief battle to escape its clutches. Glancing ahead, she saw the Basillian lying prone on his back, blood scattering the snow all around him. She looked back, and horror stabbed at her heart.

  A vast section of the ice had broken apart in her wake and Mikilov was nowhere to be seen. Where the ice had given way, it revealed the Velga was not asleep after all - that only the surface was frozen. Below it, the river flowed east as swiftly as it ever had… and it had swept Mikilov away to his fate.

  Senya screamed out in pain and anguish. The Great Hunt had spoken, and Mikilov was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Voices in the Night

  His was the only face she had ever known.

  Her fingers traced every line of it, rising and falling with the creases, sensitive to the bumps and blemishes, the scars of battle and the wrinkles of age. They found his beard, usually close cropped, but longer now, wild from weeks in the wilderness. She could even tell the grey hairs from the black, reading the march of time in a single touch.

  He was old now, but not so old as those grey hairs told her. That was the illness, she guessed, rotting him from the inside out.

  There was a time he would have woken at even the slightest touch, though he'd lay still, letting her fingers poke and prod at his flesh, sculpting his face in her mind's eye. Not now though. Now he failed to stir. He slept on, tired and broken. That was the illness too, she knew, grinding him down and wearing him out.

  With a sigh, the girl slid away from Radok and shuffled out from under the boughs of the pine, emerging into the cold night air.

  Though her world was as dark and empty as ever, Nyana could still feel the moon on her skin, bathing her in silver light. Closing her useless eyes, she focused her other senses, letting them paint the picture for her. More trees surrounded them, the breeze rustling through their branches and needles, the smell of pine somehow comforting in a world where the snow had buried everything else.

  It was still snowing now. Big, heavy flakes landed on Nyana's face, making her flinch, carried on the ever-shifting wind.

  Yet, when it came to the wind, it was not the snow that interested Nyana, nor even the rustling trees or howling plains. It was the voices hidden within, whispering of the past and the future, the living and the dead. Squeezing her eyes closed even tighter, Nyana strained to hear the words.

  No woman can hear the Will, Talak had told her once, laughing at the absurdity of the idea. Certainly not one so young and blind and useless as you!

  Nyana feared that old bastard more than anyone, but his scorn had never been enough to stop her from listening. Men like Talak thought the gods belonged to them, but Nyana knew better. The Will of the Seven applied to all, whether man or woman, boy or girl, or even blind or all-seeing. And so their words were there for all to hear… so long as you were brave enough to listen.

  Try. The word was little more than a whisper slipping from a screaming throat, but it was there, hiding beneath the roar. Try, it said again.

  He wants you. Nyana was less certain of this one. The voice was deeper and stronger, but the words were muffled, half buried in the constant ho
wl of the northern winds.

  Nyana stepped further into the clearing, felt the wind grow stronger around her. She spread her arms wide and lifted her face to the heavens, turning slowly on her heels. The wind washed over her, snaking around her limbs and caressing her skin until she tingled with the touch. And the Will filled her ears...

  Try, it said again.

  'Try what?' Nyana called back.

  Grey Wolf.

  Nyana huffed. What did that mean? What did any of it mean? No matter how hard she listened for the Will, the few words she could pick out from all the bluster of the howling wind meant nothing to her.

  The Blackstone.

  That one she did understand. Once she reached the Blackstone and laid her hands on its smooth surface, everything would change. The chaos of the eternal wind would give way to the All Song. Those broken words and empty phrases would become whole and beautiful. For the first time in her life she would know the true voices of the Seven. She would know the Will.

  And the Eighth… A different voice, lower, more sibilant.

  Run. The first voice, low and soft, barely a whisper.

  He is coming. The darker voice, sinister and triumphant.

  Somewhere in the distance a crashing sound started through the trees. The wind seemed to fall silent as snapping branches and broken needles filled the night air, along with bending barks and crushed snow. Nyana had frozen mid-turn, ear cocked to the new sounds, while an unstoppable wave of destruction flowed towards her, growing ever closer.

  Run now!

  Turning on her heels, Nyana darted back to their makeshift shelter and dived beneath the tree. She grabbed Radok by the shoulder, shaking him fiercely. 'Wake up!' she screamed. 'He is coming!'

  It was only on the fourth attempt that the big man stirred. Nyana felt him lift his head and peer about. 'What is it, Little Sparrow?' he asked groggily. 'Who is coming?'

  'I don't know. But he's here. We need to run.'

  The crashing sound was closer now, undeniable, and it was enough to get Radok moving. 'Go, I'm right behind you.'

  Do what I say when I say it, he had told her, and Nyana had given her word to obey. Without argument, she left Radok to gather his sword and their belongings together, while she slipped out from beneath the tree. The sounds of destruction were almost on top of them now, drawing closer with every passing moment, moving in an unstoppable wave towards her.

  Gritting her teeth, uttering a silent prayer, Nyana turned away from the approaching doom and ran. It didn't matter that she was blind, nor that every step was a risk. It only mattered that she put as much distance between herself and whatever was coming as was possible. That was the Will.

  She ran with her arms stretched out before her, ducking and weaving at the touch of overhanging branches. It was harder to account for the feet though, and it was only a matter of time before a jutting tree route snagged her foot and sent her crashing to the ground. She landed heavily, ploughing face first through the thick snow.

  She tried to scramble to her feet, but the fall had knocked the wind out of her and she was struggling to find a grip. She heard the trees being shoved aside behind her, branches bending and snapping with the force. Heavy footfalls slapped down in the snow behind her, drawing closer… closer…

  Nyana closed her eyes then, instinctively. What else was there to do, when the end was upon you? No chance for her to be scattered to the wind. Even in death, the Will would pass her by.

  She screamed as something grabbed her about the waist, hauling her up. Hands, she realised. A man's hands. Then that familiar smell of stale sweat mixed with the iron of blood and the steel of business. A good smell. The smell of home.

  'Up, girl, on my back.' Even as he spoke, Radok practically heaved her up there. Nyana locked her hands across his chest, and hitched her legs up around his waist. Then they were moving again, Radok's giant strides eating up the distance.

  'What is it?' she gasped down his ear.

  'A kragan,' said Radok. 'Big bastard too. Might be the one Jorn fought off, back when we were young. We never did catch him.'

  Though a kragan was just one of many things Nyana had never seen, she had heard enough stories to paint a picture of them in her mind's eye. They were said to be vast in size - twice as large as even the biggest bear, and twice as vicious - with teeth and claws the size of daggers, and a roar that could shatter bones.

  As though the beast could read her thoughts, a blood curdling roar filled the darkness of Nyana's world. She screamed, part in fright, part in pain, as the sound vibrated through her, her hands clasping over her ears for protection.

  'I've got you, Little Sparrow,' said Radok, though Nyana could feel him slowing. Their escape path was taking them uphill and his stride had faltered with the climb, his breathing laboured.

  'Leave me,' she told him. There were tears in her eyes, but she knew he couldn't see them. 'I'm only slowing you down. You can make the Blackstone without me.'

  'You're right!' Suddenly, Radok swung her down from his shoulders, grabbed her by the waist and lifted her high. 'Grab the branch and haul yourself up.'

  Sure enough, Nyana felt a branch hanging over her head and she was able to drag herself up onto it. 'You can climb higher, there are good branches above you.'

  This is it then, he's done with me.

  'I don't blame you,' she told him. 'I can't believe you've carried me as far as you have. You have always carried me, Pappa. I love you.'

  Silence followed, for what seemed an age, but then she felt his hand squeeze her foot. 'I'm not leaving you, Little Sparrow. I promised we would touch the Blackstone together, and I mean to keep that promise. You stay here now. I'll lure the beast away. If I'm not back before nightfall… wait a little longer. I'll come back for you.'

  For a moment it seemed he would say more, but in the end Radok's hand slipped from her foot and she heard his footsteps moving away.

  The kragan wasn't far behind him. Nyana's tree swayed with the force of his passing, the shuddering impact of his great lumbering strides almost tearing Nyana from her perch. He smells like winter, she thought as he swept by. Cold and damp and hungry.

  Then they were gone, both man and beast, lost to the white noise of the forest. Nyana climbed higher in the tree, feeling her way carefully amongst the stronger branches. Finally, she settled back against the tree's trunk and lost herself in the foliage. Now she would wait.

  You cannot wait.

  The wind was back, if it had ever been away, and the voices were as loud and disjointed as ever.

  Run, they were saying. It was all they ever seemed to say. Run.

  He is coming.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Crow Eater

  'Any sign?'

  Garda blew warm air into his hands as he crouched beside Jian, his question hanging in the air like the ghost of his breath. They had climbed the highest hill they could find on the Velga's northern bank, and now Jian sat on a rock gazing south.

  In truth, it was difficult to see anything in the darkness, but every now and then the moon would peek out through a break in the clouds overhead. When the silver light painted the landscape below, Jian would lean forward and hold her breath. Her gaze would sweep from the trees of the north bank to the hills of the south, and then glide up and down the weaving, silken line of the river itself, looking for any sort of movement. Then she would breathe again, and sigh.

  'Nothing,' she told Garda. 'My first bloody decision as leader was to leave Vinak behind, and now where is he? You want to take back your vote?'

  'And lead myself? I'd rather cut out my eyes with a wooden spoon!' Garda smiled. 'Don't get me wrong, decisions I don't mind. It's living with the consequences I have a problem with. But you're stronger than that, girl.'

  'Am I? I've only ever had to worry about myself.'

  Garda still looked amused. 'Tell me your story.'

  'What?'

  'Tell me your story.'

  'You know my story.'

/>   'Aye, I do, but I want to hear it from you.'

  'Why?' asked Jian.

  Garda laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Because Vinak is dead, and you need to know why.'

  Jian frowned. 'Even if he is dead, what does my story have to do with it?' Garda did not reply. He just kept staring at her, that half smile playing at his lips. Jian shrugged. 'I was Grava's woman until I lost his babe. Then he tried to kill me, but I killed him first. That was when the Fallow took me in. I've been with them ever since.'

  Garda shook his head. 'That's not your story, Jian. Grava the Fearless was your man until the day you lost a babe in childbirth. Instead of joining you in grief, as he should have, Grava's rage got the better of him. He tried to kill you, aye, but your heart was too strong and the Eighth took Grava instead.

  'That should have been the end of you. To lose your child and your sworn man in one stroke, to be told you could have no more children… a lesser woman would have faded and died after that. But not you. Even with the tribe set against you in those early days, you stood tall and proud. Radok saw it when no one else would. That man has a liking for lost causes, but he has never stood with someone he didn't believe in. And he stood with you.

  'The laws of the Seven say a woman who killed her sworn man should die, but together with Radok, you moved the Will to spare you. The Wolfeater found a place for you in the Fallow, with other women left barren by the Will, to serve the Grey Crow on the battlefield. It seems even the Long Eye knows there is a place for you in the All Song.'

  Garda squeezed Jian's shoulder. 'That is your story, girl. And that is why Vinak stayed behind. He stayed because you asked it of him. And you are our leader now.'

  Jian shook her head. 'I can't…'

  Garda pressed a finger to Jian's lips to silence her. 'The mark of a true Grey Crow is how strong they fly through the storm. Your storms have been worse than any, yet still you fly. You should be dead, yet still you live. You should be weak, yet you are strong. You should know fear, yet none are braver.' The warrior shook his head. 'No more doubts, girl. We don't need to hear what you can't do, we only want to see what you can. Show us that, and I promise we will follow you to the end.'