Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  'What are you doing out here, girl? Where is the Wolfeater?'

  The girl straightened, the grip on her dagger tightening. 'You'll never stop him reaching the Blackstone.'

  'I don't care if he touches some rock… so long as he dies. He killed my kin.'

  'You are Valor?' The girl nodded sympathetically. 'Radok has killed many Wolves.'

  'And now it ends,' said Senya.

  The girl cocked her head again, as though straining to hear something over the roaring wind. And then her dagger fell away. 'You are right,' she said. 'Everything must come to an end. You should come with me to the Blackstone. All our paths lead to the same place.'

  Senya considered it for a moment. She didn't like the idea of scouring the Whitelands for the Wolfeater, especially not with conditions the way they were, and only likely to worsen. That the girl meant something to Radok only added weight to the idea of playing along. At least she'd be something to leverage, should Senya need an advantage over the Wolfeater.

  Before Senya could answer, though, it was Scar who made the choice. Having stayed at Senya's side throughout the whole encounter, he suddenly strode forward and sat at the girl's heel. Even sitting on his haunches, he still towered over her, yet he nuzzled at the girl's free hand with a softness that belied the difference in size. The girl hesitated, then, a smile growing on her face, she patted him on the head. 'You can come too, wolf. The wind touches all.'

  'Out here it does,' muttered Senya. Then, louder, 'We'll come with you, girl, but know that I mean to kill the Wolfeater.'

  'I understand,' she replied. Her head twitched again, turning her ear south, listening. 'We should go now. He is coming.'

  'Who is coming?'

  But the girl had turned on her heels and started north, Scar padding along beside her. Senya glowered after them, their figures fading into the dark, washed away by the blizzard swirling around them. She looked back over her shoulder to the dark outline of the trees. There was shelter back there, and, somewhere, maybe even alive, was Mikilov. Or onward into the storm, with no knowing how long it would last or how bad it would get?

  He killed Velimir, she told herself for what seemed the thousandth time. There's no stopping until he's dead.

  And so she walked on after the girl and the wolf, leaning into the blizzard and tracing their footsteps. Behind her, drowned out by the roaring wind, a different kind of roar split the night air.

  He was coming.

  ✽✽✽

  They walked slowly across the open white, their feet crunching ankle deep into the snow. The day warmed slightly as the sun rose, but the blizzard kept on. It wasn't so bad for Nyana, who could feel the Will weaving its power about her, shielding her from the worst of the storm.

  'How are you doing this?' asked the woman, walking a pace or two behind her.

  'Doing what?' asked Nyana.

  'This… bubble? There's a blizzard raging all around us, yet somehow it's barely touching us.'

  Nyana had no answer. This was as new to her as it was to them. She'd even wondered herself if the protection of the Seven would extend to her new friends, and here was the answer. In the end she said the only thing she could. 'It is the Will.'

  The wolf strayed a little closer, his right flank brushing against Nyana's hand. She smiled at the touch, turning her hand over to run her fingers through his fur. Strangely, the beast reminded her of Radok. There was a familiar scent of the wilds for one thing, but mostly it was the sense of power radiating from him that Nyana recognised. It was like she could tell instinctively when they were close, even before her other senses gave them away. It was comforting, that power. Almost as comforting as the Will.

  'He likes you,' the woman said. 'Most Basillians, Scar rips their face off before they get chance to pet him.'

  'I am not most Basillians.' If the words were meant to scare Nyana, they failed. Something in her bones told her the wolf was safe. 'His name is Scar then?'

  'Aye,' the woman said. 'Most of his coat is grey, but three white lines mark his fur on his left side. Mikilov… my friend… tells me it was from a wound when he was a pup. The name has stuck.'

  Scar pulled away, perhaps tiring of the attention, and moved off ahead of them, edging out into the blizzard. Nyana turned all of her focus to the woman walking beside her. 'And your name?'

  'I am Senya. And you are Nyana of the Grey Crow.'

  'You shouldn't be out here,' said Nyana. 'There is nothing in the Whitelands but death and the Blackstone, and the Valor have no business at the Blackstone. Your kind serve different gods.'

  'No gods,' said Senya. 'Only the Old Ones and the Great Hunt. And we don't call it the Blackstone. We know it as the Last Rock, because there is nothing else in the white waste beyond it. Death sounds good, though. Death for the right person.'

  'Radok is already dying,' said Nyana.

  'People keep telling me that, yet he's still breathing. My uncle is not so lucky. Radok killed him and stole his bison. That's why I'm here. For justice.'

  'This is about bison?' asked Nyana, surprised. 'Then your friend must have killed Jorn, that was why Radok killed him. Justice is done.'

  'Vel didn't kill anyone. He gave up his sword a long time ago. Not that it stopped the Wolfeater from slashing his throat open.'

  There was a quiver in the woman's voice, though only Nyana's keen hearing could have caught it. She killed Jorn, Nyana realised. Then she must have run and Radok killed her uncle in revenge. She blames herself.

  The wind shifted slightly, the tremors in the air surrounding Nyana filling her mind with sighs and whispers. As ever, it was difficult to know for sure what they were saying, but Nyana found herself understanding more and more the further north they travelled, as though they were closing in on the source. Of course we are. The source of all things lies at the Blackstone.

  Heeding the whispers, Nyana said no more on the subject of Senya's dead uncle. This was a volatile woman, the Seven warned, and Nyana would need her for whatever lay ahead.

  'What about you?' the woman asked. 'What are you doing out here? The Whitelands are no place for a blind girl, not even with…' Nyana imagined her gesturing around at the surrounding blizzard, still held back by the Will, 'whatever this is. Why would the Wolfeater bring you out here? He must have known you'd only slow him down.'

  'He had no choice,' said Nyana.

  'There's always a choice,' said Senya, and Nyana heard the smile in her voice.

  'Not for someone you love,' she replied. 'It would have been the end of me once Radok left. The Grey Crow have no use for the blind. They would have banished me, maybe even killed me, so long as they were left with one less mouth to feed. Radok knew it too. That's why he brought me with him.'

  They walked on in silence for a time, only the sound of their feet sinking into the snow or else the muffled howling of the blizzard following after them. Nyana almost fell twice, her feet getting stuck in the snow and almost tearing the boots from her feet. She could feel the ice-cold dampness starting to seep through the leather cladding of her fur-lined boots, and her toes were starting to ache.

  The third time Nyana would have fallen, face first into the powdery white, but Senya caught her by the elbow and held on until she straightened. 'What next?' Senya asked when she finally let go. 'What happens when you reach this Blackstone of yours? When the Wolfeater finally succumbs to his illness - if he hasn't already - what becomes of you then?'

  Nyana stifled a gasp. It was almost painful to think of a world without Radok, and yet that day was coming. There was no escaping it. She had sensed him melting away these past few days, knowing his great coat was starting to outgrow his shrinking frame, imagining his ebony skin growing paler with every passing moment. It was only a matter of time.

  'I learn to fly alone,' she said, 'or I die with him.'

  'And you will learn this at the Blackstone?'

  Nyana nodded. 'Once I touch the Blackstone everything will become clear. I will know if I'm Ashan Tai, or A
shan Tay, or… nothing at all. I'll know my place in this world.'

  Senya remained unconvinced. 'And how can a stone tell you that?'

  Nyana considered her answer carefully. She was still learning the great truths herself, how could she explain it to an outsider? 'It's not just a stone,' she said carefully. 'The Blackstone stands where the wind is born, where the All Song pours into this world.'

  'The All Song?'

  'The song of everything,' said Nyana. It felt like she was talking to a child. She supposed, in a way, she was. 'We can all hear it, even you. Every time you hear the sigh of a gentle breeze, or the roar of a wild storm? That is the All Song, flowing all around us.'

  'No,' said Senya, 'it's not. It's just the wind.'

  Nyana bristled at that. 'You wouldn't say that if you heard the voices. But they are there, Senya, for those willing to listen. The voices of the Seven, and of the thousands and millions of souls to ever pass through our world.' She paused, hesitating over what she wanted to say next, but it was not something to be hidden. 'Only the Eighth sings a different song. He sings the End Song.'

  She heard Senya tut. 'The End Song? The All Song? It's all just noise, little girl. Stories they tell children to keep them in line. There are no songs, only the wind.'

  'Tell that to Talak,' said Nyana, a shiver running down her spine at the memory of their last encounter. Is he waiting for us up ahead, she wondered? Then she remembered that Senya had no idea who Talak was. There was only one she cared about. 'Tell it to Radok.'

  Senya sighed with exasperation. 'Fine, then let us say it's true, these songs of yours. Where does the Blackstone fit in?'

  Nyana's mouth opened to answer, but no words came out. If Senya couldn't hear the song, how could she understand the power of the stone?

  No one can understand the Blackstone until they have pressed their hand to its cold surface. Ilgor's voice, Ashan Tai to the Grey Crow and Nyana's own teacher. But you know the theory, Little Sparrow. Use it.

  'Touching the stone focuses the mind,' she explained as best she could. 'Countless voices make up the All Song, but there are only really seven worth listening to - the Seven we worship: Life, Destiny, Fate, Chance, Desire, Love, and Time.'

  Nyana closed her eyes, as pointless an exercise as that was, and focused her hearing. 'Right now, I can catch the odd word or phrase uttered by one of the Seven, but most of their words are lost in the song, amongst all the other voices.' Her eyes peeled open again, unable to resist, as a smile crossed her lips. 'But once I touch the Blackstone… ah, the many will fade for the few and I will hear them loud and clear. I will know the Will.'

  'And you will become Ashan Tai or Ashan Tay… one of your priests?'

  Nyana nodded. 'If that is the Will.'

  'We also have a word for those who hear voices in their head,' said Senya, her voice taking on a mocking tone. 'We usually lock them away for their own safety.'

  Nyana shook her head. She would not be shamed by a non-believer. 'We don't hear them in our head,' she said, 'we hear them on the wind. Our minds are open, not broken.'

  'Ah, my mistake,' said Senya, with that same mocking tone. But then the tone changed, becoming urgent and frightened. 'What was that?'

  Nyana had heard it too, coming from some distance behind them, tearing out of the swirling sheets of snow. A viscous roar, loud enough to break through the sound of the blizzard and pierce the bubble of protection formed by the Will. Nyana licked her dry, cracked lips. 'He has found us.'

  ✽✽✽

  Senya gazed back the way they had come, across the open plains and into the blizzard, back to where the distant roar still echoed. Her blood ran cold at the sound of it, dread gripping at her heart. What kind of beast could make such a sound?

  'Scar!' she called, but the wolf was nowhere to be seen. He had pulled away ahead of them, disappearing into the blizzard. Cursing, Senya grabbed Nyana by the collar of her fur coat and dragged her back behind her. She drew her sword, the blade ringing out into the crisp night air. 'Stay behind me,' she hissed at the girl.

  Best to keep her safe. I still need that edge over the Wolfeater. He'll have no use for a dead girl, and he's too canny to let anger and grief get the better of him in a fight.

  At least, that was what Senya told herself. But deep down she knew she had no desire to see a child torn apart before her… not even a Basillian. And she liked this one more than most. Blind and seemingly helpless, Nyana had shown more courage, more strength, and more determination than any grown man Senya had ever met. Even without the strange power that seemed to emanate from her, the girl was something formidable.

  Another roar echoed out, this time much closer, and Senya felt the earth trembling beneath her. Adjusting her stance, she gripped her sword in two hands and waited. She breathed slowly, deeply, hot breath smoking in the cold air.

  Then she saw it bounding through the blizzard towards them; a colossal, white figure charging on all fours. Snow had plastered itself to the beast's fur coat, but he thundered on regardless, his dark eyes and black nose standing out like pieces of coal. His eyes narrowed when they locked on Senya, lips drawing back to reveal a mouthful of long, sharp teeth. The creature picked up pace, his powerful limbs churning up clumps of snow in his wake as he bore down on them.

  Senya knew that face from childhood, staring back at her from the wall of Velimir's cabin. Back then, the kragan's jaw had been locked in place and the eyes lacked the usual spark of life, yet Senya had always felt those eyes following her around the room.

  She stared back now, mouth agape, hands trembling, as the beast crashed ever closer. Time slowed in that moment, and a cold certainty settled on Senya. This is the day I die.

  The kragan launched himself through the air as he reached them, his massive arms raised over his head. Reaching back and grabbing Nyana once more, Senya threw herself to the left, dragging the girl with her. They ploughed through the snow, getting clear just as the kragan's massive paws crashed down where they'd been standing a moment before. There was a crash like thunder as the ground gave way beneath them.

  Nyana went through first, Senya holding grimly to the girl's fur coat, praying to the Great Hunt that both it and she had the strength to hold on. She glanced down into the abyss that had opened up below them, threatening to swallow them whole. It was a narrow chasm that fell away some thirty feet to a mass of jagged rocks at the bottom, hidden by a shell of thick ice. Mikilov had warned her the Whitelands were full of such traps, yet it never entered Senya's darkest thoughts that her quest for revenge might end like this.

  More of the ice broke away beneath Senya's legs and she had to scramble for solid ground. She managed to get some purchase between her free arm and her upper body, before the rest of her was left dangling out over the drop. She looked down, her arm aching with the strain of holding onto the girl, and watched Nyana slowly swinging back and forth below her.

  The girl should have been screaming - perhaps would have been, if she had the eyes to see her predicament - but she stayed silent, simply holding to the arm that was her lifeline. Senya tried to lift her, but it was useless. She wasn't strong enough.

  Instead, she turned her face skyward, the veins in her face and neck bulging with effort as she tried to heave herself up. If she could find a foothold and push herself up, she might have a chance…

  The kragan's face loomed over her, drool dangling down from his jagged teeth, dripping onto Senya's face. When he leaned closer, Senya could see the scarred, blistered flesh making up the left-hand side of the kragan's face, where the fur had been burned away. His putrid breath was almost enough for Senya to let go, even before he unleashed a terrible roar directly in her face.

  Senya squeezed her eyes shut against the sound. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, to fall into the abyss, anything to escape that deafening howl. But she held on with the last of her strength, clinging desperately to the rock with one hand, to Nyana with the other. Her eyes slid open and she gazed back at the kra
gan, willing him to end it.

  The beast raised both paws over his head, and with reckless abandon he brought them down.

  ✽✽✽

  It felt better out here.

  The one they called Scar had been born to feel the wind rustling through his coat, to taste the blizzard lashing at his face with cold claws. That was life, in the eyes of the wolf. Wild, and brutal, and relentless.

  Things were different in the Small One's company. Everything seemed calmer, less unpredictable. Scar had barely felt a breeze while walking beside her, and the twisting, dancing snow had not fallen within reach.

  Even the smells lacked their usual body. The cold killed most smells out in the wilds, but those that remained were often the most potent. On a normal day, with the wind at its best, Scar could track a scent for miles at a time. Yet, with the girl, he could only smell one scent - a blend of smoke, and sweat, and filth. Her scent. It was all so… unnatural.

  Not for long, the wolf told himself. The Grey Beard will catch up to us soon, and things will return to the way they were. The way they have always been.

  So he had walked on ahead, leaving the Long Hair and the Small One to their strange talk, while he joined once more with the Great Hunt. He found the snow again, and the wind, and all the scents of promise they held, and the elements embraced him like an old friend. Scar missed the Grey Beard, but the white plains would always be home.

  Scar's ears twitched suddenly, drawn to some sound off in the distance, back the way he had come. Was it a howl, or just some trick of the wind? He stood there listening, his ears pricked up.

  Just as he was about to move again, he heard something else. A voice it sounded like, yelling the name they had given him.

  The wind changed direction suddenly, violently, wafting into his face. And then he caught the scent.

  It was a smell of the wilds, thick with blood and earth, and a faint trace of rotting flesh. A killer.