“Is that… sorry, I don’t know your rules.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nacole said. She sounded resigned, hopeless. “My mate was Alpha. He died in a challenge, an argument about the direction we should travel. He wanted to go west, but Ker argued for the Gathering. I must walk behind the pack until the new Prime accepts me, or wait for the third moon. Knowing Surash, I’ll probably be waiting; she doesn’t like me very much.”
“Prime… she’s the Alpha’s mate; I know that much. Why doesn’t she like you?”
Dras coughed again.
“You do ask a lot of questions,” Nacole said. “I’ve heard you Rukin like to know everything.” She nosed one of her cubs in closer; they hardly looked big enough to be off the teat. “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business. Let’s just say that we had a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“Fair enough; I don’t mean to be rude. Yes, we Rukin like to learn. Right now, I’d like to know why you are talking.”
Nacole looked confused. She turned to Dras.
“He knows nothing. Until four days ago, he didn’t know there was an Earthen Voice.”
Mott felt embarrassed. It was true; Rukin did pride themselves on their knowledge. For him to get to thirteen without knowing how other wolves communicate was… well, embarrassing. Oh, he had heard about the so called “Mind talk,” but that was about all he knew, save for a few stories Toban had told him.
“I see,” Nacole said. “Well, I’m talking because you are. We don’t hold the same opinions as Wildlings. We use the Earthen Voice as needed; high chant when we want everyone within a few miles to hear; low chant, and only those with eyes on me will hear. And then there’s speech. We often whisper when we want privacy.”
Mott raised a brow at her wry grin. Is she teasing me? “High Chant; what a gift that would be, especially in battle.”
Dras coughed and shook his head. Mott had an inkling that he had said the wrong thing, again.
“You do not use the Blessing of Ein’laig for war, Mott,” Nacole said. She was still smiling; it seemed she liked teaching him a lesson or two.
“Oh, that’s… understandable, I suppose.”
Mott glanced around at the trees. It had become darker in the few minutes they had been there. “I think we are stuck here for a while.” As if for effect, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled down from the mountain. “Yes, maybe longer than a while.”
“At least we are over the river,” Dras said. “And it’s only an hour to the valley. We can afford to wait until tonight, now that we know they are still there.”
“How do you know that?” Mott asked.
“Because we haven’t seen any wolves; if such a gathering had broken up, we would be tripping over them.”
Mott nodded. Dras’s logic made perfect sense. If a couple of thousand wolves had moved on; some of them would have crossed their path. Knowing that didn’t help his anxiety, though. And now it seemed they were fighting amongst themselves, as well as running humans off their farms. He hoped it wouldn’t be too late, and that he could still talk some sense into them. ‘Talk sense into them’? Who am I kidding; I’ll be lucky if they only chase me off.
* * *
Morning came, and it was still raining hard.
The plan that had seemed clear – travel to an unprecedented gathering of Wildlings, find their thick-headed leaders, and persuade them to fight alongside an army of humans, who, under normal circumstances, would gladly take every opportunity to kill them… simple, really – was in tatters, thanks to the female.
Nacole and her three cubs: they were not part of the plan. He had imagined a great army of wolves, marching to Bailryn, fighting for the glory of the clans, a final unity, the end of centuries of separation. He did not imagine families, females and helpless cubs. How did they fit in?
He shouldn’t care. He should leave them. Make sure they were safe, yes, but leave them and move on. He and Dras had a job to do, and they should be moving on, not cubsitting. Only he couldn’t just go; things had changed. Suddenly it wasn’t all about duty; it was about Nacole and her three cubs. The urge to take them and flee south weighed heavily on his chest. It wasn’t love; he knew that, but the thought of her and the cubs caught up in violence… It was all too real, too… heartless, not honourable at all.
“Maybe you should wait here,” Mott told Nacole. “At least until we know more. If the Alphas are at each other’s throats, it might well be dangerous; too dangerous for cubs.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Nacole said. “I am of Broan; I will be with my Sect. If I am to die, then so be it. That goes for my cubs, too.”
Mott sighed as he helped Dras drag a large, leafy branch over to the cubs – they were warm enough, but Nacole was getting wet from the dripping canopy, and Mott used the cubs as an excuse to cover her. “The world has changed, Nacole,” Mott said, nudging the branch into place. “Oaths must be broken; old alliances must be reborn. We cannot fight alone, nor can we lean on old traditions; we must gather under a single banner. Only then, will we be strong enough to defeat the witch.” And save Elspeth and Gialyn. Gods, say those two are safe.
Nacole scoffed, and then laughed. “I don’t know about any witch,” she said, “but break our oaths? Ignore our ways? The old Rukin tradition for telling others what to do seems alive and well. Tell me, Mott, what will the Rukin give up for this… alliance?” She rolled her eyes and tilted her head away from him.
Mott clenched his jaw, damn if she was right; the Rukin would compromise.
“That’s it, Dras,” Mott said to the old wolf. “That should cover the cubs well enough.” Mott turned and began to walk towards the tree line.
“Oh yes, that’s it, walk away,” Nacole said. Her voice crackled with sarcasm, “You’re not going to argue the point? No pearls of soft, southern wisdom? I never thought I’d live to see a Rukin outdone by a simple Wildling, and a female, at that. Are you sure you’re from Illeas’den?”
Mott couldn’t look at her. For the moment, he didn’t care who was right. “I’m trying to be a friend,” he said, looking past her. “I’m telling you the truth, the plain, simple, staring-you-in-the-face truth. Gods, if you’re anything to go by, I might as well turn back now.”
A slow smile built along Nacole’s jaw. She raised her head high. “Is that your plan? Go to the Gathering and persuade them to join you?” She laughed loudly. “Yes, you might as well turn around and go home; no Wildling will follow a Rukin.”
Mott growled. “Damn you, Nacole, I’m not asking them to follow. This isn’t about power or control; this is about survival. We will die if we don’t work together.” Mott paced in a circle. Foolish female. Has she no sense? Pig-headed, ignorant… Argh. “Even the humans are coming together; my friends are joining with the Kalidhain and the Cren. By Ein’laig, Nacole, if the humans can do it…”
“It’s really happening, then? The dragons mean to invade?”
“The witch… the dragons… Did you think they were going to stay where they are, holed up in Eastern Barath? There’s nothing there. Yes, they’re coming.”
Nacole’s lip trembled. She looked down at her cubs as they lay sleeping by her side. Mott felt a stab of shame; was it worth winning an argument to upset her?
Dras broke the silence, “We must do what we can, Nacole.” The old wolf sounded sincere. “Put aside our differences and run as one pack. Meet these vermin head on and send them back across the sea, or to whatever afterlife they believe in. We could do with your help.”
“You want my help!” Nacole’s ears pricked. “What can I do? My own Sect won’t talk to me; not for three months, at least.”
“We must try,” Dras told her. “We must try because failure will mean the end of us all. If not, we might as well leave now, travel south beyond the Eurmac and hope the witch doesn’t turn her eye to the southern lands. Sitting idle by is not an option.”
Nacole gazed at the ground for a long moment.
“All right, I will try. I don’t
know what good it will do, but I will try.” She let out a small laugh. “Looks like you have won your argument after all, Rukin.”
Mott said nothing. It wasn’t worth arguing; she said she would help, and that was more than he had hoped. He nodded appreciatively at Dras.
“We have a few hours before the storm passes,” Dras said. “We should see if there’s any food amongst these trees.”
“I’ll go,” Mott said. “You wait here.”
* * *
Indeed, it was hours before the eastern skies cleared, and well into the late afternoon before they left the cover of the trees. The ground was soaked, yet still hard underfoot, despite the downpour. They had to be careful not to slip, as they each carried one cub. To the west, the clouds were still dark. It could rain again, but Mott had grown tired of waiting.
After an hour, they came across a thin track and walked steadily along the edge of the Taris Grassland. Mott didn’t think the Shinnon Valley was far from the border. And he was right. As the mist cleared, and the Crenach Woodlands resolved on the southern horizon, Mott could hear what sounded like a rumble of whispers, a thousand voices speaking at once.
“That’s them,” Dras said. “Don’t try to listen, it’ll make you dizzy.” Apparently, the old wolf had noticed Mott shaking his head and had guessed what was wrong.
“You’re right,” Mott said. “There are too many; my stomach is doing summersaults. How do I stop it?”
“Wave it away,” Nacole told him. She swept a paw in front of her eyes. “Just push it to one side.”
Mott did so. It worked. The voices were immediately silenced. In fact, the silence was so complete… “I hope I can get them back again,” he whispered.
“You will,” Nacole said. “Just don’t try too hard. Forcing the Voice is what makes you sick.”
Mott nodded. He wanted to try to hear them again, just to make sure, but he left it for now. The last thing he needed was to turn up to the Gathering shaking from sickness.
With the young pups on their backs, the three walked on.
Until…
Mott’s eyes widened. “You said five thousand.”
“It appears I was wrong,” Dras said.
The bottom of the valley was full of wolves. More were emerging from the cover of nearby trees. “There must be eight or nine thousand… maybe ten.”
“No,” Nacole said. “There’s six thousand, seven at most.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I was with them for a week.”
“If you say so, but….”
“You still think your plan will work, Rukin?”
“I don’t know, Nacole, but just imagine if it does.”
Mott knew he was grinning – seven thousand wolves… Well, three thousand were probably too old or too young to fight, but even so… “This army could make a real difference. It might even be enough to turn the tide. We have to convince them, we have to.”
“A wolf army? You have delusions of grandeur, my Rukin friend. You think you can do something no one has ever done before?” Nacole asked.
“Oh, it’s been done before. Eight hundred years ago.”
Nacole’s eyes stilled into a cold gaze; her teeth ground behind her upturned lip. “You know of the Karakin?”
Mott was more surprised than Nacole looked. “Of course; doesn’t every wolf?”
Nacole shook her head contemptuously. “That was different, Mott,” she whispered. “The Karakin paid a heavy price for their gift, too heavy. You know very well these humans can’t expect the same loyalty.”
“And again, you’re only concerned with who is in control. Loyalty will matter little if the Clans are spread to the four winds.”
“Maybe so. I hope you’re right. But what I think doesn’t mean much; you have to convince them.” She nodded toward the mass of wolves. “I hope you’re ready for this.”
Mott pulled in a deep breath. “So do I, Nacole, so do I.”
CHAPTER 19
Out of the Valley
Tor trudged through the tunnel above the dragons’ den. It had been a long two days since the Cinnè’arth had arrived, and he had barely recovered from his flight to Crenach’coi. His legs ached, and his shoulders, still sore from flying, were telling him to rest. At least it would be over soon. One way or another, his brother would be free of the witch’s influence.
Tor stepped out into the open bowl, optimistically called the Hall of Elders. In truth, it wasn’t much of a Hall, nothing like the grandeur of the Dragon Hall in Toi’ifael. The ceiling had collapsed, leaving the once-covered cavern open to the elements. Grey clouds still covered the sky, though the rain had stopped, and an after-summer-rain smell lingered in the air – a mix of dust-laden moisture and thick humidity.
The debris from the cave’s fallen ceiling was long gone. Rock shelves, like naturally tiered platforms, circled the bowl. In its centre, the Moon Pool filled a near perfect circular hollow. Tor often wondered how such a thing came to be; it certainly wasn’t the work of any natural force.
Even after all his time, Tor still felt awkward as he took the centre plinth. Maybe it was because this place was never supposed to be a permanent home; who would have known that, a hundred and twenty-three years ago, they would still be here, still talking of returning to Toi’ifael. At the time, Tor thought it would be a year at most. How things had changed…
The Gan numbered well over a hundred then, now they were only thirteen – and one of them a child. The Aldreg Caves had become their refuge, their haven. As much as he hated to admit it, they owed their very existence to its quiet solitude – a solitude that, in the past, had raked at Tor’s patience. And yet, what else could he do with twelve dragons, other than hide, wait and hope?
Ribion, the huge Cuis’gan dragon, sat on the plinth closest to Tor. Like all Cuis dragon’s, Ribion was not built for speed. He was half again as big as Tor, and yet he was no fighter. True, he could flatten a town in under an hour, but on his own, he would succumb to even the smallest of the Heeras.
Altor, the dragon next to Ribion, was a Heeras. However, his fighting days were long gone. Altor was a scholar, full of wisdom, and a great orator. Still, for all the old dragon’s virtues, when he set his mind to it, he had the potential to be infinitely annoying.
That left the two remaining Elders: Ban and Lyduk. But at less than a thousand years old, they hardly qualified as Elders. With only twelve to choose from, Tor had to make the best of what was available. Both Ban and Lyduk were of the Drin’gan: small, fast and fierce fighters. They were far from the smartest of dragons, but they were loyal and ferocious – truth be told, in battle, they were not far from feral.
The Gan had no Nirads in their number. Tor hoped that at least some of the huge vegetarian dragons had survived the battles and gone home. They were rare enough without falling needlessly to the Gaw; they were no threat to anyone.
“No, no, no! We should wait here!” Altor yelled.
Lyduk, the recipient of Altor’s tirade, creased his lip in anger. The Drin was not known for his patience. A more loyal dragon you would never meet, but he was hardly the best conversationalist.
“We go! Staying is pointless,” Lyduk growled. “The battle will be to the east. Or is that why you want to stay here, Altor?”
Altor rose on his hind legs; his eyes shrunk to slits as he roared at Lyduk.
Tor could see he was about to summon fire. “Enough!” he shouted. “Both of you calm down. We leave for Bailryn as soon as we hear word of the Shard, or by week’s end, if no news has come. One way or another, we are leaving.”
Tor stared at Altor, who looked ready to rebuke his statement, but said nothing. The old dragon chomped wordlessly at his teeth. Lyduk smiled at Tor.
“Wipe that smile off, Lyduk,” Tor said. “You both have a point. I made my decision for the sake of the villagers.”
“We have to go to Bailryn, villagers or not,” Lyduk said.
“Eventually, yes, but the safety of
the villagers has forced our hand. I would have liked to gather more information first – but there just isn’t enough time.”
“Then why not leave now?” Altor said. “If it’s of such importance, why wait for the Cinnè’arth to return from this fool’s errand you have sent him on?”
“‘Fool’s errand’? Removing Vila’slae’s control over the dragons is no fool’s errand, Altor.”
“That’s as maybe, but what chance have they?” Altor sat down. He took on an air of scholarly wisdom, an arrogant look that Tor knew all too well.
“One chance in ten,” Tor said. “Maybe less. I have no doubt Brea will lead them to the Shard. From there, it will be down to Arfael.” Tor unconsciously shrugged; he didn’t want to appear negative, but if he were honest then he, too, didn’t think they had much chance of success.
“One in ten!” Altor almost laughed the words. “Why bother at all? They’ll just get themselves killed.”
“Arfael may die; in fact, it is almost a certainty, but the rest will return. Brea only needs point to the Shard; she will not be in danger.” Gods, I hope she won’t; the foolish child is likely to jump in the fire after him.
Altor sighed; his smug grin fell from his lips. “Such a waste,” he mumbled. After a long moment, he continued, “I suppose you are right; the potential rewards outweigh the risks. It is war, after all.”
Tor gazed around the cavern. Ban and Lyduk were shaking their heads; Ribion chewed at his lip while giving him a pitiful stare. Altor was gazing into the Moon Pool.
Suddenly, the weight of the moment hit Tor square in the chest. This was it, the moment he had waited on for a hundred and twenty years. Now that the battle was upon them, he felt neither relief nor satisfaction. All he could see was confusion, a thousand things that could go wrong. Not least, the humans’ part in his plan.
It gnawed at him that they needed the Surabhan. Of that, the questions were the most uncertain; would the foolish king barter with the witch? Would the humans surrender? He needed them to fight. That, above all, was why they must go to Bailryn; the humans needed to see them, they needed to know dragons were on their side, too. I hope Arfael destroys that cursed Shard.
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