The Wolf's Call Read online

  “Stand with Lord Nortah,” Vaelin told Ellese. “He’ll tell you where to aim. Master Sehmon, have a care for my back if you please.”

  The youth tightened the buckle of his sword and straightened. “Of course, my lord.”

  “Take us there,” Vaelin told Crab in Chu-Shin, inclining his head at the boats.

  The boatman blinked in momentary surprise at the fluency of Vaelin’s words, then let out a dismissive laugh. “Only I command this boat, foreigner . . .”

  His mouth clamped shut as Vaelin stepped to him, drawing his hunting knife and pressing it to the ample flesh of his neck, all done with a smooth lack of hesitancy that forestalled any reaction.

  “This is unwise,” Chien said, voice rich in warning. “The Crimson Band has a treaty with the Silver Thread . . .”

  “I don’t.” Vaelin pressed the edge of his blade deeper into Crab’s neck, the man’s nostrils flaring in a mix of fury and fear. “Take us there. Now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nortah’s bow began to sing as soon as the swirling cluster of boats drew within range. His first arrow followed a high arc as it plunged down into the back of a man on the foredeck of the nearest boat. He was an easy target to identify, having been engaged in ripping the clothes from a frantically struggling woman before the arrow slammed into his back. It had been the woman’s screams that called to Vaelin, screams that fell to silence as her attacker reared up and staggered, trying vainly to reach for the shaft protruding from his back. Ellese’s arrow took him in the chest, pitching him into the water.

  “That puts the knot on it,” Chien said in bitter resignation, hefting her staff. “We have to finish them all,” she told Crab. “If word of this reaches their brothers, war will follow.”

  The boatman gave a reluctant nod, gaze still locked on Vaelin’s. “That isn’t necessary now,” he grated, flicking his eyes at the knife still pressed against his neck.

  Vaelin grunted in satisfaction and withdrew the blade, sliding it into the sheath on his belt and turning to watch the fast-approaching chaos. The flames consuming the larger boat blossomed higher as they drew nearer, birthing an even thicker cloud of smoke that robbed Nortah and Ellese of further targets. As Sehmon and Alum worked the oars to close the distance, Vaelin’s ears detected the snapping chorus of multiple crossbows being loosed in unison.

  “Down!” Nortah barked, throwing himself flat as a hail of bolts came streaming out of the smoke to rake the boat. Ellese let out a curse as one plucked at her sleeve before she rolled clear of the roof. “Just a scratch,” she said as Vaelin inspected the wound. It bled far more than a mere scratch and would need stitching, but there was no time for that now.

  “There’s still work to do here,” he told her, inclining his head at the stern.

  She frowned at his flat tone but, as had become her habit these days, kept any retort to herself. Nocking an arrow, she bobbed up, drew and loosed, ducking back down as a trio of crossbow bolts whined overhead. “Well, that’s one less at least,” she said.

  “Alum,” Vaelin said, making his way to the prow. “If you would care to join me. Master Sehmon, remain here and have a care for Master Erlin. Also.” He paused to glance back at Crab before returning his gaze to Sehmon. “Make sure our captain doesn’t decide to take himself off.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Vaelin crouched low behind the sturdy block of timber that rose from the prow. It bore many old scars, presumably as a result of occasions much like this one. He waited until the prow butted against another hull, then hauled himself up, launching himself onto the deck of the adjoining boat, drawing the sword from his back as he did so. To his right a man immediately surged out of the smoke, a broad-bladed, cleaver-like weapon raised high above his head. Ellese’s arrow whined past Vaelin’s ear to slam into the man’s chest before he could strike, piercing him from sternum to spine. Vaelin stepped over his rapidly expiring body, sword flicking up in time to parry the thrust of a curve-bladed spear stabbing out of the acrid murk.

  The spear bearer withdrew the weapon and tried again, this time aiming a slashing thrust at Vaelin’s eyes. He was swift and evidently practised, his bunched, outraged features smeared with the gore of recent slaughter, but anger made him clumsy. His thrust was delivered with too much energy, causing the weapon to swing wide as it missed its target, leaving his face and neck exposed. Vaelin’s stroke cut him from chin to forehead, rending his already garish features into ruin. He clung to life, however, whirling away with blood spiralling from his bisected features, gibbering in panic. His flailing had the beneficial effect of impeding four of his fellow outlaws, forcing them to dodge his wayward spear as they attempted to charge the newcomers. The pause was sufficient for Nortah to claim two, each with a precisely placed shaft to the chest. A third outlaw cursed and shoved his still-flailing comrade aside, sending him tumbling over the rail into the lake.

  Alum leapt into the path of the two remaining outlaws as they resumed their charge. The Moreska’s spear blurred as it whirled left then right, laying open the neck of one outlaw and slicing deep into the arm of the other. The man’s narrow-bladed sword fell from nerveless fingers as he yelled in mingled pain and fury, turning and attempting to flee into the smoke, then falling dead as Vaelin’s throwing knife took him between the shoulder blades.

  “Please . . .”

  The woman from the foredeck crouched at his feet. She clutched the tattered rags of her clothes against her thin frame. Vaelin winced at the sight of her spine, the bones jutting from flesh denuded by starvation. Clearly, she had suffered much even before falling victim to outlaws.

  “Stay low,” Vaelin told her, crouching to put a hand to her shoulder. “This isn’t done yet.”

  She shook her head, hair parting to reveal a face hardened by privation, her brows knotted in consternation rather than fear. “The cargo,” she said, pointing to a gap in the deck boards. “If the flames reach it . . .”

  Peering through the boards Vaelin saw a sizeable stack of large clay pots, also several pairs of bright eyes staring out of the gloom. Leaning closer he made out the huddled forms of half a dozen children, all as thin as the woman kneeling at his side.

  “What is it?” he asked her, pointing to the pots.

  “Naphtha. We brought it from home, all this way. It would buy us a new home, my husband said.” She let out a bitter laugh that quickly turned into a cough. Vaelin flared his nostrils, tasting the smoke which he realised held a thick, oily tinge very different from woodsmoke. Recalling the way the fire that claimed the first boat had suddenly blossomed, he cast his eyes over the deck, finding several patches of flame on the ropes and woodwork.

  “Alum,” he said, rising. “We need water . . .”

  “Uncle!”

  Ellese’s shout drew his gaze to the east in time to see a dozen small boats emerging from the smoke, each bearing five men or more, many of them aiming crossbows directly at him. He threw himself to the deck, hearing the overlapping thud of dozens of bolts tearing into timber. When the volley faded he looked for the woman, finding her unharmed and huddled against a grain sack. Hearing a muttered curse, he glanced at Alum as the hunter tied a rag over a cut in his forearm.

  A chorus of angry shouts came from the outlaws, and Vaelin raised himself up to see one tumble into the lake with an arrow in his neck. More arrows followed in quick succession as Nortah and Ellese, presented now with a wealth of targets, began a steady barrage. Three more outlaws fell before four boats peeled away from the pack, oarsmen labouring to bring them alongside Crab’s boat. The remainder kept heading for Vaelin, crossbowmen working frantically to reload their weapons. By his estimation he and Alum would soon face combat with thirty outlaws or more. Whilst the Vaelin Al Sorna of popular myth would have seen scant challenge in such odds, he had never fallen victim to the folly of believing his own legend.

  Vaelin’s gaze went to
the naphtha pots below as a notion sprang to mind, a lesson his sister had once taught to the Volarians. “Get your children on deck,” he told the woman. “Be ready to jump to our boat when I tell you.”

  She cast a bright, fearful glance at the approaching outlaws, then nodded, moving to the hatchway and calling for the children below. As she shepherded the whimpering infants to the foredeck, Vaelin climbed down into the hold to retrieve as many pots as he could carry.

  “Are we to drink to our own death?” Alum enquired with a bemused grin, watching Vaelin remove the stopper from a pot. He ripped off a strip of coarse fabric from a grain sack, dousing it with a splash of naphtha before stuffing it into the pot’s spout. Spying a tongue of flame licking at a coil of rope, he held the pot to it, setting the soaked rag alight.

  “I’d fancy you have the better arm for this,” he said, holding the flaming pot out to Alum.

  The Moreska eyed the pot doubtfully for a second before his brows rose in comprehension. Taking it from Vaelin, he straightened from his crouch, ducked down to avoid the instant hail of crossbow bolts before rising again. Alum launched the pot into the air with a swift overhand sweep of his arm. Flame trailed from the makeshift wick as the pot arced towards the oncoming outlaws, landing squarely in the middle of the lead boat and exploding in a bright ball of yellow flame. Screams rose as the occupants thrashed in the resultant conflagration, beating at the flames that ate through clothing to the flesh beneath. Within seconds the boat was empty and adrift, the surrounding water filled with struggling men and rising smoke.

  “A jackal’s cunning indeed,” Alum said in approval, holding his hand out for another pot.

  They worked at a steady rhythm, Vaelin preparing the pots and the Moreska launching them with an unerring eye. He threw six in the space of a few minutes, the water off the port rail soon filled with screaming men and flaming boats. Vaelin watched the surviving two boats turn swiftly about and disappear into the smoke, the outlaws marking their departure with a plethora of shouted, rage-filled insults and a parting volley of crossbow bolts, none of which found a target.

  Any sense of victory faded when Vaelin heard a clash of blades from Crab’s boat. One of the four outlaw craft that had veered off from the pack was adrift, its crew feathered with arrows and lying dead or dying. The remaining three had managed to press home their attack, a dozen outlaws scrambling onto Crab’s boat with weapons in hand. Vaelin saw Ellese deliver a solid kick to the head of one, sending him back over the side. She dodged a cleaver blow from another, the man falling dead to Nortah’s sword thrust a second later.

  A warning shout rose in Vaelin’s throat as he saw a pair of outlaws leap up behind his brother, but it faded as Chien appeared at their rear. Raising her staff above her head, she twisted it, the wooden pole parting to expose a yard-long length of steel. Chien’s arm seemed to blur then, the revealed blade flickering as she sank to one knee. The two outlaws staggered back and fell, blood flowing freely from near-identical slashes to the neck.

  Chien whirled about to face the stern where Vaelin could see Sehmon and Crab frantically fending off the bulk of the attackers. Sehmon had managed to kill one, his blade red down to the hilt as he parried the slashes of his enemies. The rest were kept at bay by Crab, who had armed himself with an axe, sweeping it back and forth with a speed that displayed more strength than skill.

  Vaelin watched Chien leap into the midst of the surviving outlaws, her whole body seeming to blur now as her blade flickered once more. Within seconds it was over, three outlaws lying dead and the only survivor on his knees, hands empty and head bowed all the way to the deck in an obvious pose of surrender. Vaelin saw Chien’s lips move, perhaps in an apology, before she stabbed the tip of her blade into the base of the kneeling man’s skull.

  “Hurry!” she called to Vaelin, beckoning urgently before pointing her reddened steel in the direction of the fleeing boats. “We have to finish the rest!”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “The Stahlhast first came last spring.” The thin woman’s name was Ahn-Jin and she spoke in an accent very different to Chien’s, her voice possessing a softness that belied the tale she had to tell. A denizen of the hill country close to the northern border, she sat close to the stern with her five children, relating how her people had been forced to flee their village.

  “There were only a hundred or so, that first time,” she went on. “They stole the naphtha we harvested from the earth, and some of our young folk, killing those who tried to fight.”

  “So, that is their sole object?” Vaelin asked. “Theft and slaughter?”

  She gave a grim shake of her head. “They made it clear this was just the first cut of many. They told us their god had been made flesh and now rode at the head of their horde. Soon he would sweep south to claim all the wealth of the Merchant Kings. When they stole and killed they had been laughing, but when they spoke of their god there was no laughter. Each bowed their head when one spoke his name, and it was spoken in a whisper.”

  “His name?” Vaelin asked.

  Ahn-Jin nodded and spoke a short phrase in Chu-Shin that caused Vaelin to straighten in surprise.

  “Brother?” Nortah said. “What did she say?”

  “The Stahlhast have a leader,” he murmured in response. “A man they think of as a living god, apparently. His name . . .” He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. Simple coincidence, surely. “His name translates literally as ‘Darkblade.’”

  Ellese let out a laugh at that, something he hadn’t heard her do for many days now. “How rude of him not to ask your permission, Uncle.” Seeing Alum’s puzzled expression she added in slowly phrased Realm tongue, “As far as my people are concerned, he”—she nodded at Vaelin—“is the Darkblade. Named in the Prophecies of the Maiden as a great and terrible scourge visited upon all those who enjoy the Father’s love, since redeemed by the word of Blessed Lady Reva, as inscribed in the Eleventh Book.” She closed her eyes, reciting the words with practised accuracy, “‘And so did the Darkblade come to Alltor in its time of direst need and with his steel and his fury did wash away his sins with the blood of our enemies.’”

  She opened her eyes to regard Vaelin with unusually sincere gravity. “This simply won’t do, Uncle. There can’t be two of you. It’s blasphemy.”

  Vaelin gave her a withering glance and turned back to Ahn-Jin. “So, that is why you fled?” he asked.

  “We didn’t flee right away,” she said. “The Merchant King’s soldiers came a day later, the officer telling us it was just a raid and we should have fought harder to defend the king’s property. We were also fined for falling short on our quota for the season. The Stahlhast raided other villages in the months that followed, always in greater numbers, always taking more, killing more. In time the Merchant King sent his army, who also took from us. ‘Soldiers need to eat,’ they told us, ‘so they can fight in your defence.’ Weeks later they came back, what was left of them, a few dozen starving, terrified wretches who tried to steal from us again. The men of the village killed them with pickaxes. We tried to stay, some of the elders reasoning that conquest had come and gone before, that even the hated tribes that had rampaged all the way to the capital could be bought off with gold or naphtha. But then”—her expression darkened further—“the others came.”

  “Others?” Vaelin prompted.

  “Others in thrall to the Darkblade, but they were not Stahlhast. They were like us, from the northern villages, still like us in language and dress, but . . . changed. Most had no horses and carried only sparse weapons and armour, and they spoke only of him, their love for him. ‘You will all be redeemed in the sight of the Darkblade,’ they said, then they hung the monk who tended our temple from the gatepost and cut his belly open whilst his legs were still kicking. After that, we knew we couldn’t stay. I wanted to head east, to the coast, use our oil to buy passage on ships to take us far
away. My husband knew better.”

  She cast a hard glance at the two drifting boats now several hundred yards to their rear. The fire had evidently found the cargo of the second, for a bright blossom of flame could be seen in the heart of the pall. “He always thought he knew better,” she murmured.

  “Idiot peasants,” Crab muttered from the tiller, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon as he scoured it for sign of their prey. “Should’ve sold your oil to the first merchant you found. The further you travel the more likely someone like me will take it from you.” He turned a baleful glare on Alum and Sehmon, who were working the oars. “Faster, you foreign filth! If they make the shore, we’ll have the whole Silver Thread down on us by nightfall, and they won’t be in a forgiving mood.”

  “What was that?” Alum asked Vaelin.

  “We need more speed.” Vaelin rose and nudged Sehmon’s heaving back with his boot. “Get some rest. I’ll take over.”

  He and Alum hauled on the oars for over an hour, the speed of the boat increased by the sail Crab skillfully angled to make best use of the wind. “Hah!” the boatman exclaimed from the tiller, teeth bared in a predatory grin. “They’re making for Heron Cove.”

  “And that’s good news?” Vaelin asked, grunting as he continued to work his oar.

  “The current flows west here.” Crab jerked his head at the sail. “We have the wind to counter it, they don’t. You and you.” He flicked his hand at Nortah and Ellese. “Go forward. Kill them when they get close enough. All of them, mind.”

  After Vaelin translated the order, the two archers duly took up position at the prow of the boat, nocking arrows and waiting for the outlaw craft to come into range. After perhaps another twenty minutes of rowing, Vaelin heard Ellese say, “Is that . . . a ship?”