Wolfeater

by Anthony Mitchell

  Talak thought about putting the man's words to the test and killing him anyway, but at least one thing Aldur said was true: the Ashan Daru stood neutral in the All Song, and there was no way of knowing how killing such a man might tip the balance of power. Talak sighed reluctantly. 'Speak then,' he said at last. 'Let's hear these rules of yours.'

  Aldur took another mouthful of stew before answering, and his words trickled out slowly as he wrestled with the heat of the food. 'You must… respect the sanctity… of the Käda. Only the children of the Wind - only Basillians - can die upon the mountain's slopes. You cannot touch the Wolves.'

  'And if they attack me?'

  'They won't. I'll make sure of it.'

  Talak considered it for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement. The Valor mean nothing to the Black Wind, only the girl.

  Setting his bowl aside, Aldur leaned forward suddenly, his eyes bright with intensity. 'Only the girl.'

  Talak's stomach tightened at the thought of the Ashan Daru reading his mind. His hand drifted slowly towards the hilt of his sword. 'What did you say?'

  'Only the girl,' Aldur echoed, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance. Then he shook his head as though clearing it. 'If she touches the Blackstone, there is a chance the girl becomes the greatest Ashan Tay to ever live. That's why you're really here, no? It's not about stopping Radok or protecting the Blackstone, it's about the girl.'

  Talak's fingers brushed lightly at the soft, leather-bound hilt of his sword, his hand resting on the pommel. 'That's why I'm here. The girl.'

  'Then it will be Ashan Tay against Ashan Tay; servant of the Seven versus servant of the Eighth. There will be the balance.'

  Talak almost laughed aloud. 'You want me to fight a blind girl? You think that's balanced?'

  'Not the girl, perhaps, but a champion of her choosing. The Grey Crow have already lost too many heroes on this journey without adding three more to the list. Defeat her champion, and the girl's life is forfeit.'

  Talak suppressed a smile. There was no doubt in his mind that the girl would choose Radok for her champion. A weak, dying Radok, no less. And set against him would be the right hand of the Eighth. Death itself, thought Talak, remembering how he had cut through the crowd of Empty Face near the Velga. What chance did one dying man have against that? Less than he would with three friends alongside, that was for sure.

  'I accept,' he told the Ashan Daru. 'I will kill her champion, and then I'll kill her. I'll kill any the Black Wind demands.'

  'Then you'll never find rest,' said Aldur. 'For so long as there is life, death will call its day. Go then, Ashan Tay. Climb to the Blackstone and wait there for chance. The blind Crow and her friends will be here soon. I shall strike the same bargain with them, before sending them up to you.'

  'No tricks,' said Talak, though he quickly realised the warning was unnecessary.

  'The Ashan Daru always speaks true,' said Aldur, thrusting his chin out indignantly. 'The truth is neutral. Only lies take sides.'

  'Then I climb.' And with that Talak turned on his heels and swept out through the covered entrance, into the cold and the wind and the snow.

  ✽✽✽

  It was snowing again by the time they stood in the shadow of the Käda, a wicked flurry lashing at them from every angle. Though still shielded from the worst of it by the guiding hand of the Will, Nyana could feel the tiny shards of ice flicking at her face.

  Ignoring the pain, she focused instead on the looming presence set before her. Nyana needed no eyes to see the lonely mountain towering over them, a sentinel of frozen rock standing tall in the white waste. She could feel it. Nor did she need ears to hear the wind roaring down at them from the summit, though these she had. The sound filled her head with its awesome power, with the full glory of the All Song threatening to drown her thoughts.

  'Is he mad?' a voice asked suddenly, having to shout to be heard over the wind. It was the one they called the Grey Wolf. 'He'll freeze to death, standing there like that.'

  Nyana smiled. He was waiting for them, as she had known he would be. She smelled his fire long before the others saw the smoke rising from a shaft above his cave, a heady mix of woodsmoke, toasting bread and meaty stew. She could see him standing there in her mind's eye, near-naked, watching them draw ever closer. 'It is the Ashan Daru,' she said brightly. 'He does not feel the cold.'

  She felt Radok's hand on her shoulder. 'Oh, he feels the cold, Little Sparrow. But I doubt there is a hotter place in the world than the cave he calls home. The cold is a reprieve for him.'

  'I never dreamt I would see him,' said Jian. 'Not here, at the end of the world.'

  'Who is he?' The other Wolf this time, the woman, Senya. 'He looks half mad.'

  'Only half?' Radok's voice again, half amused. 'The Ashan Daru lives for the All Song. He serves neither the Will of the Seven, nor the lone voice of the Eighth, but all of them combined.'

  'All of them, and none,' put in Jian. 'He is the only neutral in the never-ending struggle between life and death. He is the…' She struggled for the right word. '… arbitrator?'

  'Aye,' said Radok. 'It is his role to maintain the balance between life and death, for there cannot be one without the other.'

  'I suppose Basillians know that better than most,' said Senya. 'Your life is death.'

  'Sometimes survival must be paid for with death,' said Nyana, who had heard Ilgor offer the same argument many times before. The words seemed to work well against the younglings of the Grey Crow, whenever one of their number spoke out against the violent life thrust upon them by the elders. But Nyana doubted they would carry the same weight among those they called the enemy. She let out a sigh. 'We should join him, before he does freeze to death.'

  The Ashan Daru remained silent as he watched them approach, but for Nyana that silence spoke a thousand words. The Will faded to silence as she grew closer to him. She could still hear the wind, roaring down from the summit of the last rock like a waterfall, but the voices of the Seven fell slowly silent, as though nullified by whatever power the man radiated. By the time she stood before him, the wind was just the wind, tugging at her clothes and lapping at her skin like waves in a storm.

  'Nyana of the Grey Crow,' she heard him say, his voice like grating stone. 'I've been waiting a long time for a girl to touch the Blackstone. Will you be the first, I wonder?'

  'She will,' said Radok, taking her tiny hand in his and giving it a squeeze. 'We'll make sure of it.'

  'Ah, the Wolfeater! Yes, I don't doubt you will play your part in what lies ahead. You've come a long way to speak to the Seven.'

  'Will they hear me?'

  'My dear Radok, they have always heard you. The question is: will you hear them?'

  'If we're going to do this,' said Jian, 'can we at least move it inside? I hear it's quite warm in there and this cold is starting to grate on me.'

  The Ashan Daru chuckled. 'Quite. My nipples feel ready to drop off. Come then. I offer warmth and rest, food and drink. The Blackstone will still be there in the morning.' Nyana felt his eyes suddenly on her. 'And some of you have choices to make.'

  ✽✽✽

  The cave felt like paradise after weeks out in the open wilderness. The fire popped and crackled, the heat and the orange glow enough to banish - however briefly - the memories of the cold outside.

  Fur hides littered the place, covering the floor and hanging from the walls, while animal skulls were nailed up alongside them. Even as she stepped inside, Senya found herself reminded at once of Velimir's home. This was a little less civilised perhaps, but both homes spoke of a man firmly at one with the world around him. And with every reminder came the anger…

  Senya flashed a look at Radok as he sidled in beside the fire, sinking down to sit on one of the hides laid on the ground. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword, tempting her, while the others moved in behind the Wolfeater, each taking a place beside the flames, each distracted by this brief reprieve from the great outdoors.

 
It would be so easy to do it; to just draw her blade and bury it in the Wolfeater's back. The memory of Velimir cried out for it…

  'You are Senya.'

  Surprised by the voice, Senya turned to find the strange cave dweller standing beside her, his emerald eyes bright with energy. In the fading light outside he had looked gaunt and unhealthy, but up-close Senya saw that he was younger than she'd thought, and lean, and wiry, and strong - a man in his prime.

  'You know me?' she found herself asking, and the man's mouth twitched with a faint smile.

  'I know the eyes. You have your father's eyes. He was a great man, Finn the Ironheart. One of the few Valor to seek out the ways of the tribes, wanting to understand his enemy beyond the violence. He earned our respect by giving us his, and there were many who were sorry to hear of his death. If there were more men like him in the world, there would be no need for the Ashan Daru.'

  Senya stared at him, dumbfounded. She knew her father had worked Old Valirov and the Whitelands, but she never dreamed of him consorting with the tribes of Basilla. Nor that they would remember him with anything but hatred, which seemed all that existed between the Valor and the tribes.

  'You are Aldur of the Slow Storm tribe,' said Mikilov, eyebrows raised. 'Finn spoke of you many times.'

  The man grunted. 'I was Slow Storm, many years ago. Before the Blackstone called me home.'

  'The Slow Storm?' Talgar chuckled. 'More like the storm that never moves.' Jian tried to restrain him, but Talgar ignored her. 'When was the last time they joined a raid?'

  The Ashan Daru stared back at Talgar coldly, the mask of neutrality slipping just a fraction. 'They are waiting.'

  'Waiting for what? The Whitelands to melt?'

  'They wait for the Thunderhead. The one who will change the world.'

  A sneer twisted Talgar's face even more than the scars he now bore, and he dismissed the notion angrily. 'The Thunderhead is nothing but a myth; something you and your ilk dreamt up to keep the tribes hungry.'

  Turning his attention away from Talgar, the Ashan Daru's gaze fell briefly on Nyana, who sat beside Radok at the fire. 'Believe what you must, Talgar of the Grey Crow. I would only warn you that the storm is closer than you think. Wait! Let me see!'

  Senya, who had started to peel the gloves from her numbed hands, looked up in time to see the Ashan Daru bearing down on her. He snatched her hands into his and frowned down at them, squinting as he inspected the damage. Senya winced as she looked down herself. There was no pain - her fingers were numb to any feeling - but the tips of two fingers on her right hand and three on her left were bluish and splotchy. They looked dead. They felt dead.

  'Frostbite,' said the Ashan Daru. 'Don't put them near the fire, you'll do more damage that way. Come, follow me.'

  Senya glanced at Mikilov, unsure, but the big man gave a subtle nod and so she followed. The Ashan Daru led her through a narrow passage at the back of the cave, the sound of running water drifting out of the darkness, into a smaller, torch-lit sub-chamber. A pool of steaming water almost filled the chamber, with bubbles rising up from beneath the surface and rivulets trickling down from between the stalactites above. Senya felt her skin prickling with the warmth.

  'Pleasant, no?' The Ashan Daru smiled as he held his hand out towards the pool. 'This water has properties that will warm your flesh and repair some of the damage caused by the cold.'

  'How is it so warm?' Senya asked, astonished.

  'There is fire deep within the mountain.' Lowering to his haunches, the Ashan Daru pressed his hand to the stone beneath his feet. 'You can feel it in the rock. Most of the caves around here have similar hot springs, some with different properties, others with powers of their own.' He grinned again. 'For anyone who walks the Whitelands, this is the place to be.'

  The Ashan Daru held his hands out, waiting. Senya glanced at them for a moment, then back at him, and shrugged. 'Your clothes,' he said. 'You don't need them to bathe. I'll see that they get dry. There are robes over there by the pool, once you're finished.'

  'I'm not stripping in front of you.'

  'Child, you don't have anything I want.'

  Seeing that his words failed to move Senya, the Ashan Daru sighed. He closed his eyes and turned away. Senya hesitated for a moment, but one look at her blackening fingers was enough to sway her. She removed the heavy layers of her furs, then slipped from her boots, her white linen shirt and her leather leggings. A moment later she was dipping her feet - the toes showing their own signs of frostbite - into the steaming water.

  The relief was almost immediate. Rather than the searing heat she had expected, a gentle warmth drew Senya into a world of comfort. She sighed as the steam washed over her, clearing her sinuses and opening the pores on her skin. Taking a deep breath, she submerged herself completely, shuddering with pleasure as the water closed over her. By the time she lifted her head from beneath the surface and looked back, the Ashan Daru was gone, her clothes disappeared with him.

  She lingered in the water for almost an hour, letting the heat slowly soothe life back into her frozen digits. Hot baths were rare even in Haslova, and Senya could barely remember the last time she had felt so clean and relaxed. Eventually, her skin beginning to shrivel up, she lifted herself from the water and dressed in one of the woollen robes left beside the pool.

  She made her way back into the main chamber, where she found the others still sitting around the fire. Mikilov was deep in debate with Talgar and the Ashan Daru, discussing something about their gods, while Radok dozed with Nyana asleep on his lap. Jian and Tess rose from their seats once Senya emerged, moving off to take her place in the pool.

  Senya found a seat for herself beside the fire, where the Ashan Daru brought her a plate of food that rivalled anything she had eaten before. There was sausage and bacon, fried potato and tomato, mushrooms and beans, and sourdough bread. And it was all cooked to perfection. Senya ate her fill and more besides before she had the courage to ask where it had all come from.

  'The mushrooms grow here, in the shadows of the Last Rock. As I said, this is not the only spring with gifts of its own. They give extra energy and fortify against the cold. You will remember them fondly when you tackle the mountain.'

  'And the rest of it?' asked Senya. 'Somehow I doubt there's a spring for hogs.'

  The Ashan Daru laughed at that. 'No, no spring for hogs. The tribes send most of it, in tribute. Whatever they can spare.'

  Senya's mind drifted back over the journey of the past few weeks. She saw again her blackening toes and fingers, freezing to death before her very eyes. She saw the bodies torn apart by the kragan, Scar among them. She felt the cutting winds of the blizzard once more, watched Mikilov falling through the ice on the Velga, swept away to who knew what end. And then she remembered how it all began, what had dragged her from behind the walls of Haslova in the first place: the harshest winter in an age.

  'A hard road,' she said at last, 'during a winter where nothing is spare.'

  The Ashan Daru considered her words with a rueful smile. 'Your friend says the same thing. But all gods need sacrifice, and none more so than the balance between life and death. It must be the same for the Valor, no? Are there no sacrifices demanded by the Hunt?'

  'The Great Hunt,' Senya corrected, but she was already considering his words. 'No,' she said at last. 'No sacrifice is needed. We are the Great Hunt. We choose the life we want: hunter or prey, wolf or sheep. We live the best life we can, and when the Great Hunt calls us home, we are rewarded with whatever we deserve.'

  The Ashan Daru frowned. 'I remember speaking to your father of the gods of the Valor. He spoke of the Old Ones; the Half Bear, the Grey Woman, all the rest. They seemed strange enough to me, but this Great Hunt? In my mind, a god that holds no power is no god at all. There is wind up in the hills of Haslova, no?' Senya nodded. 'Then you could do worse than touch the Blackstone yourself. It may open your mind to a greater purpose, and then you'll understand the power of true faith.'

 
; 'Oh, I think I understand the power of faith,' said Senya, as she glanced around the cave once more. 'You may live up here in a cave at the end of the world, but men risk their lives so that you can live in comfort and eat like a king while your people starve and freeze. If that's the kind of world your gods want, I'll have no part of the Blackstone.'

  To her surprise, the Ashan Daru only smiled sadly and nodded his head. 'A wise choice,' he said. 'Not everyone is made for the cutting edge of the wind. Only Basilla. Only those forged in the Whitelands.'

  One by one, the group took their turns eating and bathing, until they were all gathered beside the fire once more, their bodies free of the aches and pains of months in the wilderness. They lounged about in the simple robes the Ashan Daru had provided, their own clothes hanging over the fire where the heat could dry them, their weapons stripped from them but close enough at hand for them to feel relaxed about it.

  Jian and Tess lay in each other’s arms, looking fresh and clean, utterly at peace. Talgar had a fresh bandage over his wounded face, which the Ashan Daru had also dressed with some moss from another of his sacred springs, to speed the healing. Mikilov looked younger somehow, with the tangles brushed out of his hair and beard, and the colour returned to his cheeks for perhaps the first time since he fell into the Velga. He looked sad though, gazing into the dancing flames, lost in his own thoughts. There's no bathing grief away, thought Senya, her own heart suddenly aching. Who knew a wolf could cause so much pain?

  Only Radok showed signs of the past two weeks. Out of his furs, the loss of weight was even starker to behold. His flesh was wasted away, his skin ashen grey where once it had been smooth ebony. It would surprise Senya if the man could stand in the morning, let alone climb a mountain.

  Such a fall for such a man was something pitiful to witness, and Senya found her hatred for the Wolfeater had wasted away along with the rest of him. What's left to hate, she found herself wondering? No man deserves such a fate as this. Not even him.