Don't Call the Wolf

by Aleksandra Ross

  “What now?” she whispered.

  “I’m a Wolf-Lord,” said Lukasz. “They’ll let us through.”

  But his horse trembled as the Faustians wove around them. Scales slid over the cliff edge, and the two dragons intertwined themselves like braided hair, until Ren and Lukasz were surrounded by a heaving wall.

  They couldn’t go back.

  Lukasz clicked at Król.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  Król trotted, then broke into a canter. Dust exploded under his hooves. The air bit down in sharp blasts from the rocky slopes. Snow scattered. They thundered onto the cliffside beyond the gorge. Ren looked back only once, and the bridge twisted and hissed after them.

  “The sun is setting,” said Lukasz. “We haven’t got much time.”

  The hills climbed steadily upward, transforming to low trees and brush. Squat firs rose from the rocky earth, and a thin layer of dust coated every surface. The air was oppressive, silent. Ren couldn’t see any animals. The narrow path wound ever upward, twisting away through the high rock walls. The Mountains blocked out most of the sky, edges glowing with the setting sun.

  Ryś would have loved this, she realized. The climbing. The cold, the adventure—

  No.

  She couldn’t think about that now. It was too final. She thought of Lukasz, of Franciszek. Even if he was dead—and Ren wondered if he was—it was easier to think of him as missing. It was easier to accept things that way. Ease into the newness. Ease into the aloneness.

  Ren blinked back tears as up into the Mountains they rode.

  Lukasz watched as night fell like a veil of smoke.

  They walked long after the darkness; Ren heard the dull crunch of stone moving around them. But Lukasz had been born here and Lukasz knew the way, and their trek did not waver. Their path did not fall away.

  It was only after what felt like hours that they chose a wide ledge for the campsite. There was a cliffside behind them, and a view of the Mountains below. Even in all the open space, darkness enveloped them. It filled the gaps between the more distant peaks and tethered itself to the edge of every horizon. With it came a chill wind strong enough to rattle the shale and cut right to their bones.

  “No fire,” he said, lifting the saddle from Król’s back. “The smoke might attract the Dragon.”

  Ren turned to him, arms crossed tight across her chest. She nodded. The movement was sharp and forced, and immediately she looked away. It took him a moment to recognize the disappointment in her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  He unhooked his formal jacket from Król’s saddle. It was like the ragged one he wore, only clean and lined with silver fur. It was meant to be slung over one shoulder and secured with a chain. He couldn’t remember the last time he had worn it. Maybe when Franciszek had still been ali—still in Miasto.

  Ren didn’t move. The jacket hung between them, just another bit of black in the night.

  At last she turned.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The jacket passed from hand to hand, and when she slipped it over the pale shoulders of her blouse, she almost disappeared into darkness. Lukasz blinked. His mind was playing tricks on him.

  They settled with their backs against Król’s warm side.

  Lukasz had a sudden, almost visceral sensation of familiarity, and although part of him held back, his memory stretched and searched, and suddenly, suddenly he had it: night, in these Mountains. Sitting in the front of the saddle, someone behind him, holding him tight. The same chill air. The same endless sky. And instead of silence, the soft, keening cry of wolves.

  “It’s so quiet,” whispered Ren, shattering his thoughts.

  “There used to be wolves,” he murmured.

  He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or his weakening mind, but it seemed that Ren shifted closer to him.

  “I don’t like it out here,” she said, in the same soft voice. This time he knew it wasn’t his imagination, because she put her head on his shoulder.

  “Neither do I,” he managed.

  Ren slipped her arm through his and moved closer. She asked, “Isn’t this your home?”

  He took a long time to answer. And in that time, he had the same haunted, sick feeling. In that time, he remembered glowing windows and light-kissed snow. He remembered climbing steep stone steps. Warm hardwood under bare feet. A hand, which had seemed so much bigger than his own, reaching up to break a small carved dragon off a mantelpiece.

  “No.”

  To Ren’s surprise, Lukasz put his arm around her. When they had first met, she’d always been struck by how quick he was to laugh. Now, when he glanced at her, it was hard to believe he’d ever smiled at all.

  The closeness gave her courage. Made her wonder whether all those other starts had been enough.

  “Tell me about your brother,” she said.

  “Franciszek?”

  Click, click. He had the lighter in hand again.

  “That’s a nice name,” said Ren.

  There was a long pause.

  “I had nine brothers,” said Lukasz at last. “Franciszek was—is—the last.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, then became quiet again.

  “Nine?” she asked. “What happened to them?”

  When he answered, his voice was round and soft, more like Czarn’s than ever.

  “The Dragon.”

  Ren couldn’t help thinking of Ryś. She was trying not to, but he kept coming back to her. Poor, dear, adventurous, irresponsible Ryś.

  “How do you do it?” she asked suddenly.

  “Do what?”

  The stone was so empty. The world was so cold.

  “Move on,” she whispered.

  To her surprise, Lukasz’s arm tightened. She turned to look up at him. He was very close, and he smelled like blood. She felt the words on her lips.

  “I don’t.”

  In that moment, Ren wanted him closer. She wanted his other arm around her. His words on her lips weren’t enough. She wanted more than that. And maybe he did, too, she realized, seeing how dark and shiny his eyes had gotten. Feeling how he pulled her that much closer. His other hand had found her hair, and he smelled like blood and smoke and—

  The ground buckled. Król leapt to his feet.

  Lukasz swore and jerked Ren out from under the flailing hooves. She scrambled out of the way. For a second, the ground was still.

  “What is that—?” she gasped.

  Lukasz pushed his cap back on his head. He looked momentarily stunned.

  “It’s—it’s a—”

  There was a deafening rumble. It came from below them, from the very depths of the Mountains.

  “It’s—a tide,” he managed.

  The earth shook again, so violently that it threw Lukasz down to his knees. Ren slammed back into the rocks. The crags shuddered overhead. Król dodged out of the way as a horse-sized chunk of rock shattered on the ground.

  Lukasz was still swearing somewhere. The earth lurched on all sides; rocks hurtled past them. A wave shook the ground. The three of them tumbled off the path and through the rocks, borne along on a current of stone and shale.

  Then it stopped. Everything was still.

  Ren was on her back, coughing up dust. Król was getting gingerly to his feet. Shale tumbled past them.

  The sky was rapidly lightening. Behind them, the slopes continued to move. Rock crunched on rock. The jagged peaks rose and fell. But here, for some reason, the earth stayed still.

  Lukasz crawled to his knees, flexing his wounded shoulder, tugging his cap out from under a rock. Then his eyes focused in the distance, and he froze. His black coat was gray with dust. Slowly his hands went to his hair, pushed it back. All the color drained from his dust-streaked face.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  Ren turned slowly, followed his gaze.

  The sun had finished rising, and its light came out from behind the Mountains, glanced off smo
oth stone walls in pink and orange. But it also caught the glitter of golden antlers on a wooden gate. It lit on thatched roofs and glinted off polished walls; it wound through cobblestone streets and gleamed off windows in the distance.

  Hala Smoków.

  32

  WIND TEASED THEIR HAIR, RUSHED over the bare streets. As they approached, Ren could make out intricate carvings of wolves and dragons along the gate, encircled with antlers and vines of wildflowers. The wood shone as if lit from within, deep and red, topped with snow but somehow pristine and unweathered. Above the gate, hanging from silver chains, was a dragon skull.

  Beyond, a cobblestone road led up the hillside, with the town built around it into the rocks. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stared at them from either side, marching upward to a large house at the top of the village. This one was set back into the mountainside, made of the same red wood but supported on stone arches.

  It was all so different from Ren’s castle. From the village. There, there had been a sense of disuse. Of things left to rot. The same was not true of this place. No, this town had the same permanence as the rest of the mountains. It had that same pristine emptiness, and Ren was instantly, acutely aware of the fact that everyone who had once lived here was now dead.

  Beside her, Lukasz’s eyes were glassy.

  Almost everyone.

  “Welcome home,” she said weakly, before she realized what she was saying. He’d told her himself: this wasn’t his home. Not anymore. The words sounded brittle in the cold as they fell between them and shattered.

  Lukasz ran a hand through his hair.

  “We should go up to the lodge,” he said. His voice was very rough. “We need to find that sword.”

  This time, Ren didn’t answer, and they began the long trek up the cobblestone street.

  The town was perfectly preserved. Bridles hung from pegs, boots stood outside doorways, axes lay half buried in woodpiles. Beneath open shutters, the windows still had glass. Nothing broken, nothing destroyed.

  The sound of their footsteps was deafening. The Mountains had turned their ears toward Hala Smoków, listening.

  “My God—” started Lukasz.

  Ren followed his gaze, jumped violently.

  A figure had appeared in one of the doorways. He wore pale trousers with green and black embroidery, with a loose-fitting shirt and leather vest. A leather belt, almost a foot wide, encircled his waist. He looked so different from Lukasz and Koszmar, with their neat black uniforms. But like Lukasz, he was very tall, with long black hair and tanned skin.

  Lukasz swallowed beside her.

  “A domowik,” he murmured.

  At the words, a foxy kind of smile lit up the domowik’s face. It leaned with a forearm against the top of the doorframe. With a furry hand, it took off its round black hat, then inclined its head. Two small horns pointed out of the long black hair.

  When Lukasz spoke, it was with an odd, dreamlike quality, as if he was suddenly remembering things that he had forgotten long ago.

  “They wailed every night,” he murmured. “None of us slept. All the candles went out. We couldn’t keep them lighted. It was only afterward that we realized they were trying to warn us . . . to tell us . . .”

  Even without his smile, his mouth remained crooked, dragging down on one edge. He looked hungry. He always looked hungry.

  “They’re good spirits,” he said. “They take care of the house. They live under floorboards. They guard the family.”

  The domowik turned and disappeared back into the doorway. A long fluffy tail poked out the back of his trousers.

  More and more domowiki appeared in the doorways as they made their way up to the lodge. They came out of their stables and stood in their yards. They were ghostly, silent. Black boots, white dresses. Green and red embroidered flowers. Red ribbons trailed from their thick black hair, and more long ribbons hung from their vests and skirts.

  Ren thought they were more like specters than actual creatures. And if not specters, then at least spectators. Watching over the lives that had once started and ended here, within these wooden gates. Silent guardians, hanging in the rafters, peering out from under stairs that creaked at night. It was sad, she thought. They had watched this town end.

  And now this.

  Ren glanced at Lukasz. Next to the domowiki, he looked even more haggard than ever. She could only imagine what kind of memories attacked him, staring into the faces of so many long-gone souls.

  Or worse: maybe there were no memories.

  They mounted the steps to the lodge, dwarfed by the stone arches, by the windows and verandas. As on the gate, intricate carvings covered the woodwork. Lukasz paused at the top of the steps, ran a gloved hand over the red-gold wood. The whole of Hala Smoków was still, save for their own breathing and steadily pounding hearts. The sun broke over them, shone pale pink and gold on the snowdrifts clustered between the hand-carved railings.

  “I was born here,” he whispered.

  Perhaps it was the color of the wood or the unexpected warmth of the sun, but Ren said, “It’s beautiful.” Then she surprised herself by adding: “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

  She meant it.

  Lukasz put his other hand on the railing. He had his back to her, looking down at the town. The domowiki had turned toward them. Ren’s heart quickened again. They were so solid, substantial. No black misty smoke here. No skeletal transformations. They were like her.

  He spoke again.

  “I had forgotten it.”

  They found the lodge’s single, immense door was already ajar. Every fresh gust of wind brought a fine sugaring of snow into the gloom beyond. Inside, with the absence of sight and sound, her sense of smell sharpened. There were the usual human things: fresh chopped wood, frost, and mildew. But she also smelled the things only animals could smell: cobwebs and old dust, gold and tears, and permeating it all, the overwhelming, bitter smell of grief.

  The hall was octagonal, with each side vaulting into a doorway bordered with carvings. The walls were horizontal planks of the same red wood, topped with antlered skulls in silver and copper.

  Dragons, thought Ren.

  Without hesitating, Lukasz led the way under one of the arched doorways. Ren was impressed that he remembered the lodge so well. They moved deeper into the red-wood halls.

  “I can’t believe it’s so warm,” she murmured, pressing a hand against a carving of a dragon.

  “The wood is enchanted,” Lukasz replied over his shoulder. “It gives heat in the winter.”

  Lanterns hung from hooks overhead. Everywhere, the walls bore the same horizontal wood paneling and carvings. Rows of dragon skulls gleamed down, glowing with the same eerie silver and copper as Król’s saddle and bridle. They were the only sources of light in the long dark passages.

  “Are these skulls—?”

  “Real silver?” finished Lukasz. His teeth caught the bare gleam. “Yes. All dragons have skeletons made of precious metal. The thirst for riches is literally in their bones.”

  They climbed an intricately carved staircase with spaces between the steps. They walked down a hall with one side entirely made of windows. They came at last to another octagonal chamber. Here, six of the eight sides were also windows. The deep blue Mountains shifted below them, crowned with snow. They stretched away in every direction.

  A chair and a desk had been pushed up against one of the windows. The furniture was as ornately carved as the walls. The desktop was invisible under the clutter of papers and strange instruments. A miniature silver dragon curled around a candle stub, and by the window, a telescope stood on jointed brass legs.

  There were no dragon skulls here.

  “Your father’s chamber?” she guessed, looking around.

  “Yes,” said Lukasz. With each step, tornadoes of dust whirled in the dawn.

  Lukasz pulled the chair out from under the desk. Shoved it aside with a bang.

  The desk edges were inlaid with go
ld rulers, marking set distances along each side. Pencils and inkwells dotted the top border, along with compasses, small knives, and a dozen other instruments Ren could not recognize. But everything paled in comparison to the charts that Lukasz now pulled apart.

  Writing danced like spiders, drawings sprawled over every edge: of fangs and lolling beasts, of precious metals and wild horses. The maps were gridded with marked squares, inked with mountain ranges and caves. Maps built into books, with translucent pages that, when laid over one another, showed how the Mountains changed over weeks, months, and even years. Maps dedicated exclusively to the lairs of dragons, maps that charted the migrations of beasts, maps that connected the dots of treasure troves and mines for precious metals. There were maps of winds and maps of wolves, maps of avalanches, and more than anything, maps of dragons.

  Lukasz’s long gloved fingers flickered expertly across the drawings. Ren imagined that she could see the lines reflected in his blue eyes. For all his talk, he looked like he belonged.

  He cares, she realized. Even if it wasn’t home, exactly. He cares about this place.

  He ran his hand over his chin, down his throat, and around the back of his neck.

  “Is this Glass Mountain on these?” she asked into the yellow, dusty silence.

  In answer, Lukasz slid a piece of parchment into view.

  It was a mountain. The sides were not smooth, like Ren had expected. Instead, the illustrator had drawn a tangled mass of knights, kings, horses, and banners. All together, they formed a vaguely mountain-like shape. Their limbs intertwined and their faces formed silent screams. Atop this towering, peaked pile of humanity perched a dragon in golden ink.

  Next to it, someone had drawn a map.

  Ren shuddered.

  “It’s awful,” she said.

  He glanced down at her. The sun caught under his cheekbones. Ren found she barely recognized this new stranger, born once up here in these wooden halls and now reborn in the glow of the dragon skulls.

  “At least it’s still here,” he was saying. “I thought Franciszek might have taken it—”