Yorath the Wolf

by Wilder, Cherry;

“You have heard that the princess goes to the Southland.”

  “I know why she goes,” said the Owlwife. “She is with child. You may be saving the life of some heir of the Duarings.”

  “Well, Goddess be praised,” I said. “I hope Fadola’s child grows up unmarked and unharmed by that vile old man.”

  She smiled at me; I felt that we were true friends.

  “You saved my life,” I said. “You say that I saved your life, eight years ago, when I was a child. What will you do now, Gundril Chawn? Will you stay with me and be my scribe? Will you work magic for me?”

  “You will need it,” she said. “You are still a child. You are strong as the wind itself and tall as a tree and you have done your training well at Cloudhill, but you are a child and tender-hearted.”

  “Must I be cruel to prove that I am not a child?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You will learn to be cruel.”

  “What did you see in my hand that frightened you?” I demanded.

  “The same as I saw in Huarik’s hand,” she said. “A fight to the death, and for you . . . a long life thereafter. I knew he would not survive this wretched journey to Silverlode. Suddenly I found the instrument of his death.”

  Outside, in the darkness, the watch, pacing between the hour-posts, called the time of night.

  “We must sleep,” I said. “We ride to the rift at midnight. Will you stay here in my quarters?”

  “Will you send me away, Yorath?”

  “I am not such a child as you think!”

  I stood up to take her in my arms and hit my head on the roof of the cottage. I sat down in a heap and pulled the Owlwife across my knees . . . we were both laughing.

  “No one will come in,” I said.

  We kissed, and I was lost utterly and forever. I fled back into my dreams, and my dreams were nothing to the warmth of her presence.

  “Can you . . .?” she whispered.

  I knew that she meant, “Can you at this time? Can you make love after this frightful killing?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I must!”

  We spread my cloak upon the floor of the cottage and lay down. When I drifted into sleep, I was marvelling at the ease and kindness of my dark lady, who took all my clumsiness away. I dreamed of a woodland glade and the beating of wings among the trees and a brown owl with yellow eyes that sat overhead. Then I was awake, aching in every limb from the floor boards. The Owlwife stood by the table, and Ibrim tapped upon the door ready to put on my armor. I thought of the letter that lay beside the lamp.

  “You must trust me, Yorath,” said Gundril.

  “I do trust you!”

  I clambered up to the stool, calling for Ibrim who came in with a smile to see the pair of us.

  “Let me deliver your letter,” she said.

  She had found the point of my mistrust. I wondered if she had powers to read the letter. I staggered to the crock of water that Ibrim had brought and splashed my face.

  “Take it then,” I said wearily.

  I wrote on the folded paper: “To Master Hagnild Raiz, Healer, by Finn’s smithy in the marsh, at Nightwood on the Dannermere.”

  “With all speed!” I said. “It is a long way over the plateau. Come to me again in the rift.”

  Gundril Chawn reached up and kissed my cheek.

  “I will find you out,” she said.

  She was gone into the darkness.

  Soon afterwards I rode out of Silverlode under a starry sky at the head of my own free company. I had begun to learn the names and histories of all my men. My head was full of quartermasters’ lists and the spoils of war, from the emerald collar of the princess to the arms and horses of Huarik’s officers. I have a clear memory of the awful sense of power and well-being that grew upon me as I rode on good Reshdar through the undark summer night.

  Behind us in the ghost town certain of the rift soldiers waited with Arlies of Nordlin to bring home the bodies of the slain lords. I do not know if any officers of the Boar survived. They were young, picked men of arrogant temper, a war lord’s brood. For the first time I saw men who were incapable of docility even if their lives were at stake. Three became enraged and were promptly killed by men of the rift. One hostage rode with us, taken for ransom and as an informer.

  When the princess and her consort headed south with a small escort, the remaining servants of the king—cooks, carpenters, grooms, armorers, who had set up the town of Silverlode for the Bloody Banquet—walked home to the Palace Fortress across the wastes of the High Plateau. Or so it was for some. When the sun rose upon my own troop, I found that we had acquired a number of faithful servants trailing along in half a dozen extra baggage wagons drawn by mules still in the trappings of the royal house. Joost, the fat steward, was among these renegades. His life had been changed utterly by the chance that he brought a barrel of drugged ale to the quarters of the men of Cloudhill. He served me from that time forward.

  In the light of dawn I rode in the van with the young burnt captain, Wilm Gorrie of Balbank, and my old sergeant, Wayl of Cloudhill. Behind us came other men who still served the rift lords or their heirs and among them our hostage. We had covered a good distance in the hours of darkness, taking up all the treeless, unprotected miles that lay between Silverlode and the wooded lands that edged the rift. We were glad to come into the shelter of the trees and pressed on in silence until I gave the word to halt and make breakfast.

  Our high spirits had gone; we were all cast down and thoughtful. There was no way for me to turn my thoughts without coming to something melancholy . . . the way we had ridden out so bravely to The Field of the Silver Crown, the change in fortune so many had suffered. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Gorrie how it had been at the Adderneck, but this was another tale too painful for telling. Wayl came up with the ensign of the dead lord Paunce and said, “Now we will see if that Boar’s man values his hide!”

  The hostage sat alone picking at his hunk of bread. He had not been trusted with a knife and his legs were hobbled while we were all dismounted. I recognised him suddenly as the darkhaired man who had broken out in a rage soon after Huarik’s death and been punched to the ground by his companions. I wondered if his wits had been scrambled, if he had suffered what Hagnild called a brain-shaking. He had spoken freely of Huarik’s plans, and Gundril Chawn had marked him out as worth a ransom.

  When we rode on I had the hostage brought up beside me. I noticed that he had kept his own horse, a strong and splendid bay, and wondered if love of this creature had made him so biddable. We had come through the woodland to a flattened knoll close to the edge of the rift. It was called the Green Fort, for its ancient Chyrian earthworks. Here there would be a strange encounter: Huarik had named this meeting place to his generals when he planned the treacherous overthrow of the rift lords at Silverlode. If the hostage had not lied, we would soon meet a party of the men of Barkdon ready to greet their victorious lord and bring him news of the battle for the rift. As we drew up at the foot of the knoll, below the green maze of walls and ditches, tangled with briars, the weather had turned round. The clear morning had darkened; the sky was heavy with cloud and a mist was gathering.

  “Divide here as we planned, Captain,” I said. “Go round the base in two wings. Keep a sharp lookout.”

  Gorrie soothed his grey; all the horses were restless.

  “This is an uncanny place, Lord,” he said. “I am not used to the Plateau.”

  He gave the order. I took the bridle of Chandor, the hostage.

  “Come,” I said. “I see a way to the top of this Green Fort. We will try for a view of the rift.”

  He gave me a startled look; we rode up a path between the briars and the tumbled stones netted with green grass. The mist had thickened, but we came to the top of the hillock. Chandor made some sound, and his horse whinnied and was echoed by Reshdar. My good black steed was not what one would have called a fanciful horse. We stood still, two men and two horses with the circle of green turf on the hilltop; we
were surrounded by a thick wall of white mist. The world had retreated from us; we had come into another place.

  I seized Chandor’s bridle again, drew the hostage and his steed closer to me. The man’s teeth were chattering with cold and with fear.

  “Stand firm!” I said. “They will not harm us!”

  I was afraid and outraged at this sudden fear. There came a crackling of the air overhead and a burst of sound that could have been the wind or strange voices howling in the wind. A patch of light grew in the misty wall that surrounded us. A young man was in the circle with us. He was slender, short, at least by the standards of Mel’Nir, brown-haired and fine-featured. He wore a russet tunic of dressed leather and I had the impression of jewels . . . a chain of gold, a ring.

  He cried out distinctly, “Hold! Are you dark or light who come to us?”

  It made no sense; it was a riddle. I strained to understand, and in a rush I did understand. My years with Hagnild had not been wasted. I answered, choking at first, then more clearly:

  “You see what we are! We are dark. We are mortal men.”

  The young man lifted his head proudly and turned it a little aside, as if he sniffed the air and found it tainted by our presence.

  “Dark indeed!” he said in the same bell-like tone. “You stink of death. You are trespassers.”

  “Let us go then,” I said. “Show us the way out of your domain. You are light. You are one of the Eilif lords of the Shee. Give us leave to go!”

  “You are bold as you are tall!” said the young man. “I will have some toll from you. I will take your boldness or your wit or your love for your fellow mortals . . .”

  I was afraid, but I was impatient with the mocking fellow.

  “No!” I said. “We have done nothing to earn such punishment. I can pay you with silver or gold. Do not say that the Eilif lords scorn such things.”

  “I will take your soul . . .” said the young man smiling. “I will take the soul of that man riding next to you. He is very sick, he is cut to the brains, he has seen the death of his liege. I can empty the tower and send in . . . another!”

  “No, by the Goddess!” I cried. “This is a most cruel injustice. The man is my prisoner! I forbid you to harm him, Shee!”

  Chandor drooped in his saddle; I feared for his life. The being laughed aloud.

  “Go your ways, Yorath,” he said. “You speak well enough for a member of your grandsire’s house.”

  I did not reply, but trembled and would not ask what I eagerly desired to know.

  “We will meet again,” said the Eilif lord, “and then you will know your parentage.”

  A gap had appeared in the wall of mist I urged Reshdar forward and dragged on the bridle of the bay. We rode breakneck out of the circle and were plunging down a path to the foot of the knoll. I drew rein and looked into the drawn face of the hostage, Chandor. I saw only the young Captain of Barkdon, sick and haunted, in the hands of his enemies.

  “What cheer, man?” I whispered. “Chandor?”

  “I am here,” he said hoarsely. “I am still here, Hem Yorath. What was that we saw?”

  “A damned, tormenting fairy creature,” I burst out. “Pray you, say nothing of this meeting. I will see that you are well treated.”

  “You are brave to speak to it,” he said. “I have to thank you for my very soul.”

  We rode on more slowly down the hill, and for the first time I did get a clear view down into the rift. I saw a signal fire, which told that the rift was up in arms, defending itself against the men of Barkdon. A hail came up from the side of the hill:

  “Small body of riders approaching!”

  I sensed that no time had passed since we rode up on to the hilltop: my new men had seen nothing. I came to a broad grassy trench above the road and stood there with Chandor, lightly screened by a brake of alders. We watched the riders come up with their banner of the Boar snapping in the morning wind.

  Ten, twelve high-ranking officers and their attendants rode confidently to the meeting with their lord. Chandor had not lied. He saw them coming and said one word: “Thrane.” One of Huarik’s generals was leading the party. They had come to this secret meeting without any support. My men were wary of being outnumbered, but no larger body of troops lurked about. Thrane and his companions began a ritual cheer, crying out the name of Huarik, as they saw that soldiers were waiting. I had no wish to prolong the suffering; I came out from my alderbrake on to a natural platform above the road.

  “General Thrane!” I cried out in a loud voice. “Stand and parley!”

  Thrane was an old man, heavy and grey-bearded, the image of a war lord.

  “Who’s that?” he cried. “Where’s the Lord Huarik? Do you lead the moles that the king sent, the underground men?”

  “My name is Yorath,” I said, “and I do lead the veterans. The news I bring you from Silverlode is bad. How is the fighting in the rift?”

  “They are prepared and will give us heavy work,” said Thrane. “What’s amiss? Did the rift lords give trouble?”

  “The rift lords are dead,” I replied, “all save Dame Arlies of Nordlin. But before you rejoice, hear this. Huarik of Barkdon is dead, too. He was killed in single combat. Your liege has been struck down.”

  I saw the news fall upon them like a blow. They were Huarik’s own veterans, not the picked and showy young officers who had gone with him to The Field of the Silver Crown. They stirred and cursed, blistering the air, and found their way was barred. They were surrounded by armed troopers. This told them the news might be true.

  “Who did it? Who could strike down the Boar?” growled one man.

  I laid a hand on my sword and rode forward a little on my green dais. One of my own men cried out, “See where he stands!”

  Then there were cheers for “Yorath!” and “Yorath the Wolf!” round about.

  “I killed the Boar,” I cried, “to avenge my dear master, Strett of Cloudhill. Now these men follow me. We are the Free Company of the Wolf.”

  Thrane and his brother officers looked dark, very dark and downcast, and whispered together.

  “Thrane!” I cried again, “you have no liege and no reason to fight in the rift. There are men here from the manor of Cloudhill, Pauncelain and Keddar ready to kill you where you stand to avenge your lord’s foul treachery, the bloody banquet he prepared for us at Silverlode.”

  “The king!” howled Thrane suddenly. “The Great King is to blame . . .”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “The Great King is an old man, half out of his wits from the defeat in the Chameln lands. Where is the army he was promised?”

  Thrane made no answer, but another man, more greedy for life, cried out, “Breckan has them, lord. Breckan leads them down the Eastmark, ready to go into the king’s service.”

  “Thrane, you have one chance,” I said. “Surrender at once! Lay down your arms, surrender to me and come down under flag of truce to call off your army in the rift.”

  I saw the old man wagging his head from side to side and cursing still. “Come sir,” I said. “What is it to be? Men are dying down in the valley.”

  Thrane made some gesture I did not understand; he looked at the sky and touched his lips. Then he stood up tall in his stirrups, drew his sword and shouted aloud, “Be damned to you, landless bastard!”

  He rushed upon the soldiers nearest him and I raised my hand. It was all over in a few minutes. Two of the officers tried to climb up and attack me; I struck one down with a boot in the face, unhorsed him, saw him trampled. A pair of attendants, lightly mounted, got free and rode back the way they had come. A few others dismounted and surrendered. The rest were killed on the spot.

  We did not wait to be found out by the Boar’s army; our way led down into the rift by a green road, a track through the trees. We came down into the valley in two hours and were at Cannford Old House, midway down the rift. We rode up through its orchards and passed the word of our arrival to a company of kedran riding to the front, which
was at Cloudhill. I told my men to make camp in the orchard.

  I went on foot through the barns and the stable-yard and came to the front of the house. A figure in a black and green mourning hood stood upon the steps of the house; other women looked from the windows. Thilka came towards me. We said no word, but she saw from my face that all that had been told to her was true. Strett of Cloudhill was dead. I knelt before her on the path, and she came and rested her hands upon my shoulders. We were both weeping.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Summer wore out in the rift, a disturbed and dismal time. Only the weather was fine, the perfect days blue with the smoke of funeral pyres. Huarik’s force that had attacked the rich valley fell back leaderless, yet the folk of the rift could not believe that raiders would not come again. Men and women of every estate lived in anxiety since the death of their lords at Silverlode. They spoiled the men of my company, plying them with all that the valley had to offer, begging them to stay and almost in the same breath calling them brigands, freebooters.

  Still we stayed and might have stayed forever. The quartermaster, Münch, a spare and watchful man who had served the Great King for thirty years in peace and in war, turned all his talents to procuring and salting away provisions. We were outfitted in fine uniforms, our banners were sewn by the ladies of the rift and their daughters.

  I was offered the greatest inducement to stay. I remained at Cannford Old House with my men encamped in the orchard. I lived like a lord, a rift lord, in the family of Strett of Cloudhill. Thilka and her three daughters, Annhad, Pearl and Perine, kept back their grief to give me pleasant entertainment. Between one long, sweet summer evening and the next I understood what was being offered. There was fair Annhad walking with her sisters in the park or riding under the trees on her palfrey as she had done with Marris a year or so ago. Thilka stood beside me at a window; she murmured of Strett, how he had regarded me as a son, his finest pupil.

  I looked out into the rift and saw the little river and looked south to Cloudhill, where the mares were in foal. Lords’ sons would come again and I would be Lord of Cloudhill, Annhad’s husband, a permanent bulwark for the whole valley with my veterans. Yet I could not stay. Thilka left me alone on another evening and sent fair Annhad herself, fine-boned, shy, tender, a mate for Marris but not for Yorath.