Yorath the Wolf

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “So I have found you,” she said.

  Her lips did not move, but I heard a voice and knew that it was her voice.

  “You cannot speak,” she said. “You are dreaming. Take care, Yorath. Trust no one, light or dark. Beware of Rosmer, the old monster. Do not serve Lien. My lovely swans are flown. Oh child . . . we are both like the dead, you and I, the dead or the unborn. Who knows where we are hiding? I must leave you. It is difficult for me to reach so far.”

  The lady’s voice had softened almost to weeping, but now she raised a hand and I heard the storm rage overhead. Then the dream became confused and sociable as my dreams often were. I was among a company of fine lords and ladies who resembled persons that I knew or half knew: Thilka and Strett of Cloudhill, Nimoné and Valko, even Gundril Chawn, Duro, Knaar and the officers of my company. When I woke, I hardly remembered my dream; it had swirled away and it returned in broken images and phrases.

  Now the sunlight was streaming in through the widened windows of my tower room, and Ibrim had brought breakfast. I dressed and was armed and tried to cast away all the clinging threads of my dreams and even of my love-making. I felt a distaste for all softness, even the luxury of the citadel. I must be a soldier and nothing else. I went down and saw to the mustering of the company, who were alert enough but somewhat subdued by their surroundings.

  Softness was not going to be a threat to us in Krail; after this welcome neither I nor my men set foot in the citadel for several years. On this day we were given our orders by a ferocious captain of the guard. We had a choice of lodging: a wing of the third barrack in the Plantation on the other side of the city or a certain untenanted place in the city itself, the Hunters’ Yard, on the river bank. We had time to inspect this place before riding to the Plantation in time for our first parade.

  We set out in good heart and crossed over the Moon Bridge, which led to the citadel, and entered Krail with our banner flying. Citizens going to market gave us a cheer from the street corners. I remembered Krail a little, and we had a young guard to show us the way. We went down the river bank past the High Bridge and found the Hunters’ Yard. It was spacious and well-built but fallen into disrepair.

  I went in with my captains, Gorrie and Hallin, and Quartermaster Münch. The Owlwife came with a salute and asked that the camp-followers might be allowed to see the place. I watched the wagons come into the yard and saw the wives and servants get down, exclaiming over the big stone house, half-timbered in an exotic, almost Lienish, fashion, and over the stables, the barn, the well. I realised that it would be hard to budge them.

  I wandered into the barn . . . a proof that Krail had once been a country town whose livestock had gone the way of its hunters . . . and heard a soft call. The Owlwife stood in shadow, and two large shapes rose up from her outstretched hands. There were a dozen owls large and small gazing mildly down on us from the rafters.

  “This is a fine place,” she said, smiling.

  “I am being persuaded, I see that,” I said as gruffly as I could.

  I went back to Gorrie and the others and said, “Well, shall we take the Hunters’ Yard?”

  There was a chorus of agreement. As veterans . . . some had been in the king’s longhouse since they were twelve years old . . . they hated all barracks. The company cheered when they heard the decision; we left the camp followers in possession and rode on through Krail two miles further to the Plantation. So the Wolves came to dwell in the yard of the Hunters’ and we never regretted it except perhaps on cold winter mornings.

  The size of the Plantation and the scope of Valko’s military arrangements were greater than any I had seen and rivalled those of the Great King. Among the broad fields of corn and cotton, beside a string of small ponds, he had brought the Mel’Nir talent for practical building and military organisation to its finest flower. The rural setting softened the look of the barracks, storehouses, stable-blocks of yellow stone and brick, but day and night long the air rang with voices of command, the thunder of hooves, the cry of trumpets.

  The War Lord of Val’Nur kept a thousand mounted troopers under arms, trained four hundred more in his longhouse and was liege to two other free companies . . . the Sword Lilies and the Eagles of Gath Gayan, each with their separate barracks. Separate, it was said, for different reasons. The stockades kept men out of the Lilies’ domain, even if those tall, fierce girls could look after themselves, and stockades kept the Eagles caged. These birds, two hundred of them, had an evil reputation: they looked and behaved like brigands.

  So it was that when we rode in and presented ourselves to the officer of the watch, he looked us over with a grin.

  “By Old Hop,” he said, “are these your wolves, Hem Yorath? I think we’ve got a wedding guard here!”

  “Wolves are handsome beasts,” I said, showing my teeth.

  We put on menacing looks and came to the parade ground on our mettle. We were in time to join in a mounted drill and acquitted ourselves well enough. Before I went in with my officers to present ourselves at Headquarters, old Captain Hallin said to me, “Ah, I know the smell of this place, Lord . . .”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “The smell of peace,” he said. “Of the Long Peace. These men are for spit and polish, for tax-gathering and helping with the harvest.”

  “Is not peace better than war?”

  “Truly,” he said, “but when the peace is broken? We learned more in six moons campaigning among the wild tribes of the Chameln than some of these men have in twenty years as troopers.”

  We had been yoked in our drill with one of the spans of light horse: fifty men of a height and weight to ride swift horses. Now their officer, the oberst of our hundred, came forward and we saluted him. He was under six feet, dark, about forty years old: Oberst Quent, Hem Quent of Quentlon, an ancient family of the Westmark. He returned the salute unsmiling; he stared up at me with an expression of hatred and contempt that froze the blood.

  “You drill badly,” he said in a harsh voice which he kept just below the level of a shout. “Free company does not mean a herd of bullocks. Extra drill, after midday mess, understood?”

  Understood. I presented my two captains. He made a slighting reference to their service with the king and their defeat in the Chameln lands, then led us further into the duty room. The captain-general of our five hundred or ten-span sat in a pleasant alcove made of screens working with his scribe lieutenants.

  “Yorath,” screamed Quent, “Landless man. Last rank ensign, unranked leader of Free Company of the Wolf. Captains Gorrie and Hallin, discharged veterans of Balbank, reporting to Captain-General Flieth.”

  The captain-general was a tall and genial man, who smiled sunnily at me.

  “Yorath,” he said, “formerly of Cloudhill . . .”

  “A hero!” cried Quent. “The Butcher of Silverlode.”

  “He lent Captain Knaar some service there,” said Flieth. “We must give you some rank, Ensign Yorath.”

  I was made a marshall of the army of Val’Nur. It was a convenient catch-all rank that could mean anything or nothing: a marshall could be a head groom, the leader of a special mission or even a general’s herald. It was a rank above that of captain but below that of oberst; I was slotted into place.

  “Question for Marshall Yorath,” screamed Quent at once. “When will he move his dirty cutthroats and their whores into third barracks?”

  With some relish I saluted again and replied, “My company will not lodge in the barracks, Oberst Quent, sir. We have been given the Hunters’ Yard in the city.”

  From beyond the screens I heard a sound of soft laughter, quickly hushed. The officers of the Plantation were listening to our ordeal.

  “Carry on, Marshall Yorath,” said Flieth, mild as ever. “What is the state of affairs in the rift?”

  I told him briefly, and we escaped. In the duty room we were received decently and made welcome.

  “A pack of doves,” said a lieutenant, “not wolves. Why didn’
t you clout the little bastard, Marshall?”

  “Surely that was what he wanted?” I grinned.

  The bloody-minded Oberst Quent of the Ninth never altered; he was like a natural bane, a cold wind in winter or a blazing summer sun. He used the light cavalry just as ill. It took me time to realise how closely he worked with Captain-General Flieth. They were like a pair of clowns at a fair, one gentle and smiling, the other snarling and hitting about with a bladder.

  The Free Company of the Wolf gained a reputation for good behavior; we were long-suffering and kind; we did our drinking and roistering in our own yard.

  On the fourth evening as we rode back through the streets of Krail to the Hunters’ Yard, I heard a voice somewhere between earth and sky shouting, “Yorath!” There, hanging from a rope at about eye level, was a creature that resembled nothing so much as a giant spider.

  “Forbian!” I cried.

  I reined in and held up a hand. The little man clambered down, and I put him on the front of my saddle.

  “Well, boy,” he said, “you’ve grown well and done great things. I see you are ready for more good advice.”

  A lame beggar, especially one as crooked as my poor friend, was a strange companion even for the leader of a free company. Yet the presence of Forbian brought us nothing but good fortune. Our doors were free of beggars; in fact they cleared away all our refuse. We learned the best markets for our supplies. I found out the most honest goldsmith and sold the emerald collar of the Duarings for a fine price and pleased the company with the division of the spoils.

  I was soon able to ride to the northern part of the city and come to the swordmaker’s yard, with others of my company who had leave. We came into the yard with some dash.

  “Is Bülarn the Master about?” I asked the boy who ran to hold Reshdar.

  “Nay lord,” piped the boy, “he is dead two years, warriors guide him home. Here is the young master.”

  Arn stood at the door of the forge, changed almost out of recognition. He was like his father and like his uncle, both at once. He was so broad that he looked squat, and the muscles of his arms were like tree roots. He stared at me with a slow smile that I remembered, and I knew that he was seeing that image from the forest pool where we had made wishes. There stood a mighty warrior in black armor mounted upon a black charger.

  Finding Arn again, married to his cousin, Bülarn’s eldest daughter, and the father of twin sons, was as close to finding my own kin as possible. In my snuggery at the Hunters’ Yard, I could sit down at table with my beloved Owlwife, my servant Ibrim and my ancient Forbian Flink, busy with some scribe work. Arn, my friend, would come bringing me swords, and we would talk of old times. Knaar often came swaggering in, complaining that I outranked him at the Plantation, that the Yard was shabby, that his brother was a fox.

  We looked out at the river and the citadel. The caravel that had brought the royal visitors from Lien had sailed away with nothing settled regarding Duro’s marriage, but a war with the Great King was certainly brewing. Ghanor and Gol and Breckan of the Eastmark were furiously recruiting and stirring up trouble on the borders of Val’Nur. The point was that no one had determined where these borders were. The Long Peace had produced a zone of land between the king and the war lord where there were free towns, some looking towards the Palace Fortress, some towards Krail as their natural allies.

  Valko, the Commander-in-Chief, had us tightly in hand all through a mild winter. The first buds of spring had the forces of Val’Nur, the magnificent army, untried in battle, eager to ride forth. A pretext was soon found: Prince Gol seized a village on the northwest corner of the High Plateau to quarter his New Hundreds. We marched out of Krail to the sound of drums and trumpets and the golden sistrals or war cymbals shaken aloft. Fires were lit at night to the Gods of the Farfaring and to the Soldiers God, the Light-Bringer. This was the year 327 of the Farfaring, the forty-third year of the Great King’s reign, known for battles on the High Plateau at Aird and at Goldgrave.

  The Free Company of the Wolf was sent west into the gentle hills of the free zone. Quent kept his light horse to do great things upon the plateau and we went off in high fettle to garrison a villa at Selkray on the sea coast. The expected attack in our region never came; we spent the summer fishing and looking out from our tower. We sent demanding recall, fretting with inactivity. At summer’s end, a town in the hills sent up signal fires and we raced to its defence.

  It was a small and hard-fought action against a troop of light horsemen and kedran with the banner of a hawk . . . the crest of Hursth of Hurhelm in Balbank. There were more than double our number, but they were tired and we beat them easily, driving off some and capturing the leader on open ground. I went in and took him myself, for he was a brave and nimble fighter. His horse was a light, tough grey, his armor was unmarked, he had an empty shield. At last he leaped down, cursing horribly, and let himself be taken.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Yorath, you bloody monster!” he shouted when his helm was off.

  “Benro! Benro Hursth!” I cried. “Goddess, you’re dead! You died at the Adderneck!”

  “No,” he said bitterly. “I disgraced myself. I escaped. What are you going to do? Kill me?”

  “Don’t be a fool. This is my free company. We’ll have you for ransom.”

  So we had tasted blood and taken one rich prize, for Hursth of Hurhelm paid dearly for his son. When we sent word of the action, we were recalled although it was barely autumn. A dull campaign, said the company, but next year it might be better. Krail was dirty and disordered; the winter was hard; Aird had been an undecided encounter, Goldgrave a defeat. Knaar and Benro sat with me in the Hunters’ Yard and made big eyes at my sweet Owlwife, and we did not once question the wisdom of campaigning.

  “When will you learn?” asked Gundril Chawn, when we were alone, this winter or maybe the next. “The Long Peace is done. This is the beginning of the Long War.”

  I rode out with Benro when his ransom was paid and bade him farewell.

  “Thanks,” I said, “for not trying to escape.”

  “I gave my word.” He grinned. “Knaar and I were the troublemakers at Cloudhill, Yorath, but there is one great difference between us. Remember it. I can be trusted!”

  The Free Company of the Wolf was always on the edge of the battle. At Krisgar, also called the First Battle of Balbank, we were brought in late and helped turn the tide. At Donhill in ’29 we rode escort to Valko Firehammer and his staff; we watched from a hill as our hundreds gained the victory. We saw Duro, a poor soldier; almost taken by Ghanor’s light cavalry: Valko set his teeth and sighed and permitted us to rescue his son. I was put forward as oberst, but the promotion was not confirmed. At a duty conference in the spring of the year ’31, I turned on Quent at last, and in his rage he said too much. He called the company cowardly dogs whose leader was protected by those higher up. My duty was read out again: the Company of the Wolf would go west into the Chyrian lands collecting taxes. I flew into a god-rage or pretended to, overturned the table, punched Quent to the ground and took my men back to Krail, snarling.

  I waited, and about sundown Valko came to the yard alone with only one servant. I heard his limping step upon the stair, four years of war had left their mark. He came in, and we sat very quietly together over a goblet of wine.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are you short of money? Are the men giving you trouble?”

  He heaved a bag of gold on to the table. “Extra payment,” he said. “Perks. I have a fund for it.”

  “Let me fight, Liege,” I said. “Let the wolves do their share. Why do you hold me back?”

  He sighed heavily.

  “I take little heed of magic,” he said, “but I’ve seen and heard some strange things. I know that you are an orphan, raised near the Inland Sea by some old scholar. What do you hold from Rosmer of Lien?”

  I was surprised and wary. “He is a powerful magician,” I said, “and a man of intrigue. I would not trust him t
o serve any interests but his own.”

  “He looked at you,” said Valko, “and told me your parentage. He suggested I keep you unharmed.”

  I could not speak.

  “He swore,” said Valko, embarrassed, “that you are the bastard son of Prince Gol of the Duarings, the royal house of Mel’Nir. Do you think that is possible?”

  He paused and lightly twitched his left shoulder. “Taking everything into account . . .” he said.

  I thought of Gol of Mel’Nir, as seen in a scrying stone or riding out to hunt or on the battlefield. He fought well enough. Hagnild thought better of him as he grew older. Was this a father?

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is possible.”

  “Gol has no heir,” said Valko. “He could marry again and sire many princes . . . but with the fortunes of war . . .”

  “Lord,” I said. “How would this serve Rosmer or his master, Kelen of Lien? What else did he want?”

  Valko smiled and shrugged. “I can tell you that too,” he said. “He wanted Balbank. He needs a foothold across the river in Mel’Nir. It is part of his grand design for the expansion of Lien. I think he will make the Markgraf Kelen into a king. It would suit him very well if the Heir of Mel’Nir was a young man in the service of Val’Nur, a power friendly to Lien. Of course he has courted the Great King and Prince Gol himself, but now he looks to us.”

  “Well, the present Heir of Mel’Nir lives in the Southland,” I said. “Princess Fadola has a son, Prince Rieth of Mel’Nir, four years old.”

  Valko chuckled.

  “Poor little devil,” he said. “I hope this prince has more wit than poor Rieth of Pfolben, that great donkey who trained with you lads at Cloudhill.”