Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'I'll eat your fucking heart!' Jian hurled at him, spit flying from her mouth. She had aimed for his throat, but the tip of her blade did no more than catch the underside of his chin.

  Only the fur at the top of the beast's head remained the white of snow; the rest of him had been painted a pinkish red, right down to his paws.

  Now that he was on the defence and Jian had a chance to really look at him, she could almost feel pity. The kragan looked gaunt and tired, half-starved by the king of winters, and for all his bravado and menace he was as weak as they came; a shadow of what he must have been back in his prime. The thought was enough for Jian's hand to pause… and the moment's hesitation was all it took for any hint of pity to be wiped away.

  Seizing even the slightest opportunity, the kragan lashed out at his three attackers, his claws raking across them all in one fell swoop.

  Garda took the brunt of the attack, the kragan's claws slashing across his stomach, heading up towards the chest. Jian was next in the line, but she leaned back just at the right moment, the razor-sharp claws grazing her chest and throat. She saw Talgar catch the end of it, his face torn open, and the three of them hit the ground together.

  Rather than finish them off, the kragan turned on his heels and lumbered away. Seemed he'd taken enough damage for one day. He looked back only once, making sure he wasn't followed.

  'Aargh!' Talgar writhed in agony, half buried in the snow. He was holding his hands to his face, but Jian could see the blood flowing freely between his fingers. She gave his arm a squeeze. His good looks were gone for good, but at least he'd live.

  The same could not be said for Garda. The old man was finished, torn up across the belly, his guts spilling out like spoiled fruit. He smiled as Jian loomed over him, taking his hand in hers. 'Only the best for the Black Wind,' he muttered, through bloody, gritted teeth. 'Toe to toe with a fucking kragan.'

  And then he coughed his last cough and was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Man From the River

  The screams echoed out in the growing gloom as Radok stumbled through the trees. He kept glancing over his shoulder, but there was no one following him, nor any sign of the kragan giving chase. Nothing besides the sounds of death, at least.

  He staggered to a halt, his lungs burning up into his throat, bile sitting on his chest. The last time he walked the Whitelands he remembered seeing smoking mountains far to the east, which had turned the skies orange of a night. 'Volcanoes,' the Ashan Tay had explained. 'Below the ground the world burns, and those mountains are where the fire escapes.'

  That's what I feel like right now. Like there is something bubbling up inside me, waiting for release. And this fire will eat away at me until there is nothing left to burn.

  Radok started moving again, pushing the fears and the pain to one side. He knew the Eighth was hunting him - had been hunting him for most of his life, in fact - but it was as close now as it had ever been. Radok could feel the Black Wind's cold caress on the nape of his neck, even as the fire burned within.

  'Not yet,' Radok muttered into the wind. 'I save the girl first, then we touch the Blackstone… and then you can take me.'

  What about me? Jian's voice, as strong and challenging as ever. You left me behind with that… thing!

  Radok could still see Jian's eyes widening with horror as the kragan burst through the trees behind him. He had led the beast straight to her, then abandoned her to deal with the consequences. After everything she had lived through, everything she survived, it was heart-breaking to think he had visited such a terrible end upon her…

  She made her choice, Radok told himself, driving the voice away. She chose Talak. Now she's on her own.

  He made his way back along the tracks that had taken him up the hill; his own tracks, demolished by those of the kragan. It was growing darker now, with the sun starting to slip behind the western mountains, but Radok eventually found his way back to the tree where he had left Nyana.

  'Little Sparrow,' he said, his gaze sweeping the branches above. 'We're alone now. Where are you?'

  No answer.

  Circling the tree, Radok performed another sweep of the surrounding area, searching for any sign of tracks in the snow beyond those he'd left himself. He found a set of small footprints heading southeast, back towards the Velga. The girl. Running, by the looks of it.

  'I told her to stay put.' With a curse, Radok set off in pursuit. He followed the trail of footprints through the trees, only starting to run when he saw the second set of prints, off to the left, moving parallel.

  They were larger than the girl's, Radok noticed, and he judged them most likely a man's boots. Like the girl's though, there was only one set and he found himself wondering who might be out here alone.

  He thought back to the encounter at the top of the hill, when he had been almost blinded by Jian's appearance. Radok still had enough wits about him to pick out the other faces in amongst the trees. There were all the usual suspects - Garda, Ingram, Talgar, even Tess - but there was one face missing that should have been there. Talak.

  As Ashan Tay to the Grey Crow, there was no chance Talak would have missed the opportunity to join the party charged with stopping Radok from returning to the Blackstone. And if there was anyone in the world Radok wanted to keep away from Nyana, it was that righteous fool. Talak had wanted the girl dead from the moment she was born; one reason amongst many that he and Radok shared such bad blood.

  Run, girl, Radok willed her, even as his lungs started burning afresh. Run as fast as your legs will carry you. I am coming.

  The sound of waterfalls drifted to him as he moved further south; a rushing, churning sound that grew steadily louder with every step he took. He followed the trail down a steep incline, half running, half sliding on his way to the bottom. At the foot of the slope the trees ended and Radok stepped out onto the stony shores of the Velga.

  To his right the waterfall glistened orange gold in the fading sunlight, water thundering down the side of the icy cliff in three big steps, each slightly larger than the last, until at the foot of the falls the water eased into a slow meander east, where eventually it would spill into the vast frozen lake that bore the same name.

  Radok gazed up at the falls for a moment, marvelling at the volume of water pouring down toward him. It was hard to believe that the river had been frozen up there, while down here the heart still pumped and the river's lifeblood flowed as true as ever.

  Radok turned to the east and gazed along the river's length. His heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of something floating in the water further downstream. He cursed, and started to run again, his eyes fixed on the distant object. The fire had spread to his chest and throat now, not to mention his arms and legs, and every other part of his wretched, dying body, yet he ran on regardless. He tried not to imagine the worst - that it was his girl floating down there, the Little Sparrow - but he imagined it anyway.

  The Blackstone faded from his mind. The Seven and the Eighth fell silent. Their voices, which Radok had never understood anyway, still washed over him as he ran, but he could not hear their whispers, only the sound of blood rushing to his head. Even the pain tearing at his insides dulled to a weak throb as the body in the water drew closer.

  And it was a body. Radok could see the arms and legs now, bobbing on the surface. Big arms. Big legs. A man!

  Relief flooded Radok like a tidal wave and he almost staggered to a halt, almost collapsed such was the force of the realisation. Yet instinct drove him on, and he waded out into the Velga. The ice-cold water caught his breath, but Radok pushed on, finally grabbing the body by the shoulders and turning him face up. Long, wet hair, covered the man's face, but there was no gasp for air as he turned over - no sign of life at all.

  Radok thought about letting the body go, allowing the current to carry it away downstream, for he barely had the strength for anything else. But he had come this far, and if there was a chance the man lived, there was also a chance
he might have information Radok could use. Grabbing the body under the arms, Radok began dragging the man back ashore.

  He hauled the body from the water and staggered onto solid ground. The man's hands and feet left trails in the shingle, where they dragged lifelessly along, until Radok collapsed under the weight, coming to rest with his head on the man's chest. He waited for a moment, listening. But there was nothing to hear. No breathing. Not even a heartbeat.

  Radok peered up at the man's face, brushing aside the dark, greying hair for a better look. His mouth hung open slightly - a crack in the midst of a wild, tangled beard - revealing two sets of sharp canines, glistening menacingly top and bottom.

  'Valor,' Radok muttered, hawking and spitting. His dagger was drawn before he knew what was happening, ready to make sure the Velga had done its work. It would not be the first time I had to end a sleeping Wolf…

  Yet there was something familiar about this Wolf that gave Radok pause. His hand hesitated, the dagger point barely an inch from the man's throat. Radok leaned in closer, studying the lines around the man's eyes. Recognition finally dawned. It's him. It's the Grey Wolf.

  Radok had seen enough action on the walls of Haslova to recognise one of their finest warriors. He had watched countless friends cut down by the Grey Wolf, both young Crows and old, yet had never seen any malice in the man. He was a killer, aye, but a fair one. And in this world, it was rare to find such an honourable foe. That was why they called him the Grey Wolf. Not because he was grey himself, though he had reached that age, but because they saw him as one their own… a Crow born on the wrong side of the wall.

  Radok sheathed his blade. The Grey Wolf deserved better than a dagger through the throat. By the Seven, he deserves better than drowning!

  Radok's fist thumped down on the Valor's chest with as much strength as he could muster, but there was no reaction. The Grey Wolf lay still, his head lolling to one side, his mouth slightly ajar. The fist struck down a second time, but again there was no reaction. Radok sighed. What was the point in it all, he found himself wondering.

  It was the same question that had dragged him out into this wilderness, where nothing but death waited. If I am to die, he had decided, the gods can tell me what it was all for. I will stand before the Blackstone and demand an answer…

  Yet the Blackstone seemed as far away as ever, and Radok was no closer to his answer. He had brought the girl out into this world and lost her, with little hope of her surviving without him. And now this? The Grey Wolf had done as much for his gods as Radok had done for the Seven, yet he too had ended in obscurity, stripped of honour and dignity. The gods were cruel indeed, to offer such rewards for the lives spent in their service.

  'What is the fucking point?' Radok's rage spilt over and his fist slammed down a third time… causing water to explode from the Valor's mouth. The man Wolf sat bolt-upright, sucking in a great gulp of air. He tried to catch his breath, but every gulped air ended in a coughing fit that was painful to watch. I've been there.

  'Breathe,' Radok told him, resting a hand on his shoulder. 'You're back now. Stay calm and breathe.'

  Slowly, the Grey Wolf's breathing eased and his senses started to return. Radok studied him closely. There was a blueish tinge to his skin and he was shivering badly. 'What happened?' he asked, his eyes trying to focus on Radok. Then they widened. 'You!'

  The Grey Wolf tried to rise, but he fell back, his head striking the shingle hard, and slowly drifted to unconsciousness.

  'Me,' said Radok.

  ✽✽✽

  Mikilov drifted in a world of darkness, vaguely aware of his aching body, battered and bruised from his journey over the falls.

  He should have been dead. After falling through the ice, he had plunged like a stone, dragged down by his weapons, the thick fur coat he wore soaking up water like a sponge. He'd never had much talent for swimming, and the extra weight he carried made the feat almost impossible. Even where the water ran shallow, he had lacked the strength to reach the surface and break through the ice.

  Just before his lungs failed him entirely, Mikilov hit the falls. Three vast steps, each higher and rockier than the last, and Mikilov was dragged over all of them. It was a reprieve from drowning at least, but more than once his body was smashed against the rocks and only the fur coat played a part in holding him together.

  Finally, the white rapids had given way to the calmer, placid current of the lower river, and it was there that Mikilov's exhausted body shut down. He floated for a spell, watching the grey clouds drifting overhead. And then the darkness had taken him, hiding him from the pain.

  Not all darkness, he remembered suddenly. The Wolfeater!

  He saw again the black face leaning over him, a dagger in one hand. It was a face he had seen many times before, but only ever across the battlefield. They had killed countless men between them, but never stood face-to-face.

  With a groan of effort, Mikilov forced his eyes open and sat up. It was dark, but a fire was burning beside him, its light and warmth offering some solace in the circumstances. He winced as a log popped in the fire, sending up a flurry of sparks. The sound echoed off hidden walls beyond the darkness. A stale, damp smell clung to the air, and Mikilov could taste it with every breath. The sound of dripping water drifted from somewhere close, and the earth rumbled with some unseen force. A cave then, Mikilov reasoned. Not far from the falls.

  He glanced down. There was a fur blanket draped over him, but beneath it he was naked. His clothes lay by the fire, drying, and there was no sign of his weapons. He moved the blanket aside for a moment, inspecting the damage. He was covered in bruises and grazes, his skin ranging in colour from yellow, to purple, to red. Nothing broken though. Thank the Great Hunt!

  At least that was what he thought until he breathed, when a sigh of relief turned into a groan of agony. When his lungs pushed up against the ribs, pain seared from his chest. Wincing, Mikilov tested the area where the pain had struck, his fingers tracing the curves of his ribs on his right-hand side. He found two he was sure were broken, and another two severely bruised at least.

  'You're lucky,' a voice drifted from the other side of the fire's glare. 'You should be dead. You smashed your head up pretty good too.'

  Mikilov reached up instinctively to the right side of his temple, wincing again as his fingers landed on a lump the size of a child's fist. Then he felt the pain that accompanied it; a dull, throbbing ache deep in his mind.

  'Wolfeater?' he asked, though he knew the answer.

  The man shifted around the fire and crouched before Mikilov, a white smile breaking his dark face. Even having seen this face before, even having its origins explained to him by Elgamire, it was still the strangest sight Mikilov had ever seen, made all the stranger by the flickering light of the fire. 'You can call me Radok,' said the Wolfeater. 'And you, Grey Wolf? What is your name?'

  Mikilov thought about lying, about arguing, about throwing insults, but in the end he only sighed. Whatever his reasons, this man had saved him. The least Mikilov owed him was an honest answer. Besides, he had no idea where his weapons were stashed. In his current condition, Mikilov knew it would be a difficult task to kill the Wolfeater without a blade. 'My name is Mikilov.'

  Radok nodded. 'Well met, Mikilov. You should know that I have seen you many times before, on the walls of Haslova. I have watched that axe of yours cut my people to shreds. It's quite a sight to behold.'

  'As I have seen you,' said Mikilov. 'Hard to miss the black crow in amongst the grey. You're always the first to get a foothold, leading the way for your young ones. I've always wondered, why don't you push on? Once you have the wall it wouldn't take much to topple Haslova.'

  Radok grinned. 'You Wolves think the world will end with you, but you're nothing in the All Song. Have you ever been east, Grey Wolf? Have you ever looked upon the wall of the One God? That is where the world begins and ends, and that is the wall we want. That's the truth for all the tribes of Basilla. We live for that wall, and
one day we'll take it. Haslova is practice for the real thing, nothing more. And that is why we stop.'

  Mikilov grunted. 'And what a life we all live, eh? Wondering if each day will be our last… knowing that it probably will.'

  Radok's smile slipped. 'Aye. What a life.'

  'Why did you save me?' asked Mikilov. 'You knew who I was and the things I've done… and you saved me anyway. Why?'

  'Why not? All my life I've been killing men like you. Some deserved it, some didn't. I thought I was doing it for the right reasons, for a cause greater than myself. I was doing it for the Seven. I was doing it for that fucking wall.' Radok shook his head. 'My reward for all those dead? The lungrot, eating me from the inside out. I'll be dead soon enough, Grey Wolf, I can feel it coming. But I won't spend the last of my days killing Wolves for the Seven. Not until I've stood before them and asked them why.'

  For the first time since waking, Mikilov allowed himself to relax. The tension eased away, and he lay back. 'You know why I'm out here?'

  'To kill me,' Radok said without hesitation.

  'No,' said Mikilov, 'that's why the girl is out here. I'm here for her.'

  'The girl?' Radok mused. 'The one from the farm?'

  'Would you have killed him? The man with the bison. Before the girl got involved, would you have killed him?'

  'That wasn't my first choice. I wanted to talk first, to see what happened. That's what I told my men, and that's what I would have done.'

  Mikilov sighed. 'You don't sound much like the Wolfeater to me.'

  'Nor you, Grey Wolf. They tell stories about you around the fires of the Grey Crow. The Grey Wolf who stalks the walls of Haslova, Chadra swirling around the blades of his great axe. They say you've killed more of our people than the plague.' Radok patted the knife sheathed at his waist. 'Why haven't you dived at me yet, grabbed this knife and buried it in my chest?'

  'That's right,' said Mikilov. 'I've killed Grey Crows, and I've killed Empty Faces too. I've killed Crawsmen and Blue Eyes, Hardings and Blood Sworn. I've killed a thousand different men from a hundred different tribes, most I've never heard of. You think it makes a difference to me, adding one more name to the list?'