Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'You think it doesn't?' Radok's smile returned. 'The both of us forged our names when we were young, fired by the hate between our people. We are revered as heroes by our own kind, and feared as butchers by the enemy. But every kill we make takes us closer to the great truth. That is why we are able to sit here now, as old, wizened men, and talk about it. No swords, no anger, just words.'

  'And what is the great truth?'

  'When I stand at the Blackstone,' said Radok, 'I'll have the answer. Until then, nothing will stand in my way. Not even your girl.' The Wolfeater stood suddenly, as though only to take the dagger from Mikilov's reach.

  'I'm sworn to protect her,' said Mikilov. He tried to rise, but his ribs shifted, and he fell back in agony.

  'If she's ahead of us, it's already too late. Best you turn back, Mikilov. Your people need you. And right now, there's a girl that needs me.' He turned to leave, but Mikilov grabbed his leg.

  'Don't tell the girl,' he pleaded. 'About the farm. She already blames herself, no need to drive that blade any deeper.'

  Radok stared down at him for a moment, then nodded. 'The girl killed my friend and she'll pay the price for that. But I'll hold to the guilt for the farmer. It was my anger that killed him. You have my word.'

  And with that, Radok pulled himself free and backed away into the darkness, leaving Mikilov alone in the haunting quiet of the cave.

  ✽✽✽

  It took Mikilov almost an hour to build up enough strength to force his way through the pain and climb to his feet. Though his clothes were still damp to the touch, he dressed as quickly as he could, then carried out a quick search of the cave. He found his weapons stashed between two rocks at the back and quickly armed himself, axe slung across his back, daggers belted to his waist.

  By the time he stepped outside, thick storm clouds had consumed the night sky and were poised ominously overhead. Hoping to find his bearings, Mikilov worked his way towards the sound of the falls, an endless crescendo of water tumbling down over those three vast steps. It was distant now, that incessant roar, but unmistakable. He could hear the river too, though only faintly over the sound of the wind that came blowing through the trees. The river would be flowing southeast, but the falls would point the way north. And it was north that he would find Senya and Scar.

  Stumbling across an old deer trail heading in the right direction, Mikilov followed it through the trees. It began snowing as he walked, big soft flakes floating down through the gaps in the canopy overhead. It was hard going. The snowdrift was already banked up in places, and Mikilov had to fight his way through to the other side. It didn't help that he was hampered by his injuries. He walked hunched over, shielding his broken ribs, and every breath he took jabbed at his lungs with fresh pain, partly because of the ribs and partly because of the cold.

  While he walked, he found himself wondering about Scar and the girl. Would they have tried to follow him downstream, or pressed on without him, leaving him for dead? It was more a question for the girl really. Tough to know what meant more to her, friendship or the need for vengeance? Most likely the latter, given the choices that had brought them here.

  The wolf, on the other hand, was much more predictable. He would mourn Mikilov, of course, given that they had spent so much of the Great Hunt sharing the road together. But he was wise enough not to risk lingering for a lost cause. He would follow the girl, whether onward or backwards, for Scar was nothing if not a realist. He had to be, in order to survive the wild. There was no place out in the wilderness for dreamers or romantics.

  'Then why are you out here?'

  Mikilov spun at the sound of the voice, dry and creaky as an old door. The old woman gazed back from the hood of her ancient rags, those haunting white eyes hidden in the shadows. Behind her, there were no tracks in the snow, despite her rags trailing in the ground behind her.

  'Elgamire,' he muttered, offering a nod of the head. 'How am I not surprised to see you here?'

  The old woman shrugged. 'Because I've developed a bad habit of saving you from your own stupidity? I asked why you were here.'

  'You know why.'

  'Ah, yes. To kill the Wolfeater.' Elgamire shook her head. 'So many lives wasted on killing a man who is already dead. Yet you missed your chance. How was your meeting with our forsaken rival?'

  'I'm not here for him.' Mikilov felt a twinge of pain, and exhaustion suddenly got the better of him. He found a fallen tree beside the trail and took a seat, breathing heavily. He was shivering violently again, the cold gnawing at his core. Yet he recovered long enough to meet Elgamire's gaze. 'I'm here for the girl.'

  'Ah, yes. The girl.' Wandering over to him, Elgamire cupped his chin in one wrinkled, arthritic hand, and she smiled fondly. 'What was it about romantics?'

  'I'm a realist too,' Mikilov told her. 'I know what it means to be out here, but I couldn't live with myself if I let her face it alone.'

  'You're a damned fool,' she said softly, but there was a fondness behind the words. 'Too noble for your own good. I suppose that's why I like you.'

  She laid a hand on Mikilov's shoulder and he felt warmth flowing through him, emanating from the place where she touched him. He hadn't even noticed his teeth were chattering until they started to slow, and soon enough the shivering stopped entirely. He could even feel his clothes drying on his body, as though her touch drained all the cold and damp from him. Finally, she laid her free hand on Mikilov's right flank. He winced as she pressed her fingers to the broken ribs, yet he felt the warmth again and the pain quickly evaporated.

  Finally, her hand fell away and she sagged heavily on her gnarled, oaken staff. Mikilov felt strong again, rejuvenated, his clothes somehow warmed and dried. He tested the ribs again, breathing deeply, stretching left and right, and they felt as fine as they ever had.

  Yet Elgamire's face was ashen, her energy and vitality drained away. For someone who had always looked old - ancient even - today was the first time it truly showed.

  'What have you done?' he asked, moving to her side and guiding her back to the fallen tree.

  She sank to a seat and gave a sigh of relief. 'I have saved your life for a second time,' she told him. 'I fear there will not be a third.'

  'Why?' he asked. 'Why do you keep helping me?'

  'Because you are the last of the Old Valor, the true Valor, and you alone will pave the way for the generations to come. That's not this story though.' The old woman's white eyes drifted off to gaze into nothing, as though she was talking to herself rather than him. 'Few will care what happens to the Wolfeater. Only the Sparrow has a part to play in the years ahead.'

  'The Sparrow?'

  Elgamire blinked. Her blank, yellow eyes shifted back to meet Mikilov's gaze. 'Radok's girl. All being well, you will know her before this journey is done. She must live, Mikilov. If you take anything from this meeting, take that.'

  'You didn't even want me out here, now you want me to save some girl?'

  'I only try to point you in the right direction,' said Elgamire. 'You decide the role you play. Go now, this storm will only get worse.'

  'What about you?'

  'I will rest here a spell.' Elgamire smiled fondly. 'The cold does not trouble me, but you are not an easy friend to keep alive.'

  'Will I see you again, old woman?'

  'Oh, do not doubt it.' She took his big hand in hers and squeezed. 'Go now.'

  Mikilov did not look back as he set off up the slope. He could see the falls rising up above the trees, plumes of mist filling the air like smoke. There was no time to look back and check for the old woman. It was time to climb.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Defiance

  For the first time in her life, doubt gnawed at Nyana's mind.

  Radok had told her to stay where she was and he'd return for her once the kragan was drawn away. But then the wind told her to move. Not one voice, but many, all pulling in the same direction. It was the Will, Nyana was sure of it, and so she did the only thing she could. She
ran.

  Now the voices had fallen silent, lost to the confusion of wind and rushing air as she ran, while she had left Radok, her only constant, far behind. Suddenly Nyana could not be sure she had made the right choice. What if it was not the Will that guided, but the whispers of the Eighth? What if it was the Black Wind, Chadra, leading her astray?

  Nyana ran on, wincing as trees whistled by on either side of her. Branches snagged her clothes and scratched her face… but not once did she hit a tree. When she sensed their great bulks looming before her - and she did sense them - she would swing aside and choose a different path. Radok had always said she had good instincts, but Nyana knew there was more to it than that. She could feel the guiding hand of the Seven in every decision she made. Even now, with her doubts at their strongest.

  The mass of trees suddenly gave way and the land opened up before her, revealing a vast expanse of empty country. Though Nyana lacked the eyes to see the sweeping dunes of snow lying ahead, she saw it in her mind. The wind was wilder out here, battering at her tiny frame from all directions, like the tide breaking on a lonely piece of driftwood.

  The snow was thicker too, falling in heavy clumps that stuck in Nyana's ears and nose, or else landed in her eyes and mouth. It made running almost impossible. Nyana struggled to pull her feet free of the deep blanket of snow and lift them high enough to keep powering herself forward. The effort quickly sapped her energy.

  Still, she kept moving. What was it Radok had said? Sleep is death, out here. She thought it must be the same for standing still too. She could already feel the cold seeping through her clothes, made worse by the cutting wind.

  'Where are you running to, child?'

  The voice cut through the howling wind like thunder through silence, and Nyana froze to the spot, her stomach lurching sharply.

  She made no reply, hoping against hope that the voice had been a trick of the mind. But then the wind shifted and she caught his scent; a strange concoction of stale sweat, fire smoke, and the sweet perfume of Kamra's Whisper, the flower from which the Ashan castes drew their visions. The smell, when paired with the voice still echoing in Nyana's mind, sent a shiver of fear down her spine. Talak.

  Perhaps it was the Eighth then, delivering her to his servant. Or perhaps it's a test, she thought suddenly. Perhaps I need to prove myself…

  The Ashan Tay's footsteps drew him closer, crunching through the snow, until he stopped a few feet away. The wind eased sharply, as though the Seven and the Eighth were holding their breath, watching.

  Nyana licked her lips. Talak had always terrified her, for one reason or another, and she'd tried her best to avoid him like the plague. Even now, her legs felt weak at the thought of his cold eyes staring back at her. In another life she would have run, fear breaking her courage. But that life was done now.

  You heard the Will, a voice whispered. Not a voice on the wind this time, but a voice in her head; Nyana's own voice. You have heard the Will, and he never has.

  Nyana held her ground.

  'I asked where you were running to?' said Talak, his craggy voice carrying even more of an edge than usual.

  'Where the Will leads me.' Nyana's own voice sounded tiny and afraid out on that frozen tundra, little more than a whisper.

  'The Will…' Talak sneered, his voice breaking into a cackling laugh. 'I have followed the Will for most of my life, girl - almost fifty years, man and boy - and it never brought me anything but pain and loss. You're better off without them.'

  And just like that, Nyana's fear of the man melted away. He had always hated her, she knew that. From the moment her mother died in childbirth and he saw the ruin of her eyes, Talak had declared her an abomination, urging the Grey Crow to end her life before she could taint the rest of them. Back then, even as now, it was only Radok who stood for her. He was the only one with enough influence to stop the Grey Crow from holding to Talak's version of the Will. Yet Talak was Ashan Tay, and in the eyes of the tribe he spoke for the Will. Nyana knew the day would come when they took up his call, with or without the Wolfeater's backing.

  That was the fear Nyana had lived with until now. Now she saw the truth and the fear was gone. Now she was free.

  'I'm not afraid of you anymore,' she told him. 'I thought you were special, a true Ashan Tay, and I was always terrified that what you said of me was true. I actually believed the Will might want me dead.'

  'But now you know better, eh?' said Talak. Nyana could still hear the sneer in his voice.

  'Now I know better,' said Nyana. 'I know you're a weak, bitter, twisted old man. You might hear the Seven, but I don't think you've ever listened to them. You're no closer to knowing the Will than anyone. And now you follow the Eighth…'

  The sound of lurching steps in the snow cut Nyana short. 'You would lecture me?' spat Talak, his words dripping with venom. 'You're just a child! What do you know of the world? What do you know of suffering? Even forgetting your eyes, you've seen nothing of this world!'

  Though every inch of her wanted to turn and run, Nyana stood firm. For a moment she was lost for words, but then she remembered the winds had fallen silent and the words were already waiting for her. 'You're wrong, Ashan Tay,' she heard herself say. 'What do you know of suffering? You had a mother and father who loved you, who made you strong enough to touch the Blackstone and join the All Song. You have a tribe that respects you, and a people who would do whatever you ask. And you have your eyes, to see the world and all the beauty it holds.' Nyana shook her head. 'I have none of these things. They were taken from me the day I was born, and I've been outcast ever since. You dare to tell me you've suffered more than I have, but that belittles the both of us. Pain and loss are life, Talak. That's how we feel it. That you would turn your back on that, for whatever small reward the Black Wind offers, is a sign of just how small you are!'

  That struck a nerve. Talak cried out in fury and grunted as though hurling something. Nyana felt a tug on her left sleeve and side-stepped in that direction. She felt something hard and cold brush against her right cheek as it flew past her, the ring of metal following after it.

  There was the crunch of snow again as Talak charged forward. She heard him draw his sword, icy fingers of fear closing about her heart…

  And then it happened. A loud crack shattered the silence of the snowy waste and Nyana felt the ground giving way beneath her. She stepped back sharply, just as a great chasm opened up between her and Talak. Snow and ice split apart and crashed away into the void below, debris raining down after it. For just a moment, Nyana allowed herself a small moment of hope that Talak had gone down with it.

  But then the wind swept back in, bringing with it a blizzard so fierce Nyana had to shield her face from it. It burned at her skin and roared in her ears. She turned back from the chasm, away from the worst of it, and felt a shove against her back, as though the wind had formed a hand to push her. She staggered away, back towards the Velga, and the pressure eased almost at once. She tried to turn back, but the blizzard lashed at her harder once again. Not yet, a voice rose above the crowded whispers. You must take a step back before you can move forward. You're not ready to stand against him.

  'You best run, bitch!' Talak's voice cried out, barely audible over the storm. The hope died, and Nyana ran.

  ✽✽✽

  Talak glanced down at his feet, the tips of his boots standing at the very precipice of the new chasm, his toes sticking out over the edge.

  Below him, snow drifted down into the deep dark that had almost claimed him. He lifted his gaze to look across the ten-foot expanse, squinting into the swirling snow of the blizzard, trying desperately to spot the girl. She was gone, scurried away to safety by the Seven.

  Smiling, he turned slowly in a circle, arms spreading wide. The blizzard continued to rage around him, but he remained untouched. An unseen barrier stood between him and the winds, shielding him from the snow and the hail. It was like he stood in the centre of a sphere of glass and nothing the world threw at it w
ould break through.

  It's not glass though, thought Talak. It's the Eighth; the Black Wind, protecting his servant. And his will is mightier than the Will of the Seven.

  'What now?' asked Talak, though he did not expect an answer. Chadra had chosen him because he could think for himself, because he could make the hard choices. He turned on his heels and headed north.

  It mattered little where the girl was fleeing to, nor even where Radok was. What mattered was the Blackstone. That was their goal, and it was there that he would wait for them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Slow Death

  He found the girl's trail easily enough, though more by luck than by skill. With the snow as deep as it was this far north, he would have struggled to miss the trench the girl left behind. It wound its way through the trees in a meandering path that only a blind person would have taken, though somehow missing every tree along the way.

  Still, the snowfall was near constant now and it wouldn't take long for the trail to be buried. Radok picked the pace up. He felt good, for a change. He had feared the time spent helping the Valor from the river would cost him massively, but the respite had done him good. He was rejuvenated, energised. His chest still felt raw, like a deep breath would be too much for his lungs to bear, but he was breathing freely.

  Climbing one gentle slope with ease, Radok half ran, half slid down another, before finally reaching the northern edge of the Velgan trees. From here, he gazed out across a vast, open expanse. He expected to see the rolling white plains from which the Whitelands took their name, but it was too dark and the blizzard too heavy for him to see anything.

  The wind was driving in hard from the north, relentless as the tide. Radok ducked beneath the needled branches of a fir tree and pressed himself up against the trunk, peering around to watch wave after wave of harsh snow crash into the woods around him. He groaned.