Don't Call the Wolf

by Aleksandra Ross

  Beyond them, the domowiki danced the traditional dances of Hala Smoków. The skirts spun out and the white jackets danced on their owners’ shoulders. Hands clapped, feet tapped, and over it all, the two violins sang to them. But Ren was blind to anything beyond him, smiling at her. For under those silver bones, among those forgotten heartbeats, beneath that bewitching spell, even then, Ren felt like they were the only people left alive.

  And in that moment, in that place: they were.

  37

  THE FOREST WAS MOVING.

  Half blind, Koszmar crawled, searching for his saber. He would not die. He would not die. Not like this. Not out here. His hand found the hilt, and he staggered to his feet. The trees, still smoking, shifted in his vision. Golden flames licked lazily at the earth. Twisted, melted corpses stretched in every direction, and the air was filled with a low mewling sound. It was angry, whining.

  Koszmar almost collapsed. Everything hurt. But he was going to live.

  I am going to live.

  The movement took shape. Elbows and knees. Bald heads and long scaly arms. Hanks of gray fur. They broke from the shadows of trees, crawled out from beneath the branches. And then from the pit they came, swarming up, up, up from the bottom of the world, climbing like ants upon each other’s backs, breaking the surface.

  Yellow eyes. Needle-sharp fangs. Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Strzygi.

  38

  REN AND LUKASZ DANCED UNTIL the hall grew empty and the night wore on, the domowiki vanishing once more to their shadows and thresholds. Ren didn’t notice. The unseen music played on and she couldn’t look away from him. They danced until the chandelier dimmed and the sky glowed pink overhead, until Ren finally tripped, until Lukasz tried to catch her. He fell, too. They were on the hardwood. Laughing, gasping. A mess of swords and black jackets and dust.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, laughing.

  He still had his burned hand on her shoulder, and she reached up to hold it. The skin felt thick under her fingertips, like dry leather and sinew.

  Lukasz pulled his hand back.

  “Sorry,” he stammered. “It’s ugly—”

  Ren pushed back her sleeves and held up her own hands. Her fingernails lengthened. Tawny fur raced up her forearms and shuddered to a stop under the sleeves of the jacket.

  “It’s who we are,” she said.

  His smile faltered. Ren moved her gaze to the dust, swirling gently back to earth around them. He ran his disfigured hand up her arm absently, and she couldn’t tell whether he was looking at her or at his scar.

  Ren reached up and touched his serious brow, then let her hand, human once more, trail down his rough cheek and neck to rest on his shoulder. He flinched as she strayed over the wounds of the mavka, but when she tried to pull away, he reached up and closed his own scarred hand over hers.

  “Why do you want me to kill the Dragon?” she asked.

  His expression changed. In a split second, it became unreadable and hard. He got to his feet.

  “The sun is up,” he said. “We should go.”

  Ren followed. She was inexplicably embarrassed. She folded her arms.

  “Where?” she asked. “Did you find the way to the Mountain?”

  He backed away, avoiding her eye.

  “If we go now,” he said, “we’ll make it by nightfall.”

  Ren’s hand closed on the hilt of the glass sword. Seventeen years of horror. Seventeen years of hiding in a dark castle, running from golden flames, fighting a war that seemed unwinnable.

  Seventeen years, and they could end it today.

  39

  LUKASZ AND REN PASSED UNDER the wooden gate, its dragon skull swaying gently in the breeze. For seventeen years, it had swayed exactly like this, over an empty town. Any—or all—or none—of his brothers might have come here. In another world, he might even have lived here.

  Not that it mattered anymore. Not that any of it mattered.

  He was getting sicker. For the first time, he couldn’t climb on Król’s back alone, and the big horse knelt down to help him get astride. Ren watched without speaking. He had never seen her look so unguarded. Her slyness was gone, and he could read her so easily now. Everything seemed written so clearly in those sharp green eyes and that perfect, thin curve of her mouth—

  In that other life, he realized, he would not have met her.

  They started up the new path, with new mountains surrounding them and Król easily finding his way through the foothills. Behind them, Hala Smoków was empty, except for the occasional snowdrift that swirled in on the silent wind, dusted the hollow streets, and disappeared again.

  Up in the lodge, the halls would still be warm. It would have been good to die in those halls. It would not have been lonely, to lie down among the ghosts, domowiki watching from the rafters. To leave the only body in that hollow town. Something at least substantial, more than those poor domowiki, so fragile that one day a sharp blast of wind might come down and obliterate them for good.

  They trekked upward for most of the day. Król was tireless, but Lukasz was not. He tried not to speak, only telling Ren where to direct Król when a fork arose in the path. The Mountains watched them. Lukasz could feel them. They were as alive, as watchful, as her forest. They were like a living thing. Waiting for nightfall.

  He would have liked to die in Hala Smoków.

  We shall be buried in the shadow of the Mountains, Tadeusz had once told him. Beneath the blessings of wolves.

  In that other life, he would have died there. He would have walked those warm hallways in dragon fur and leather, arguing with his brothers, fighting with his father. He would have learned to chart the Mountains properly. He would have learned to read. The Wolf-Lords would have lived on for a thousand more years, oblivious to what the world thought of them.

  He would not have met her.

  No one outside of these Mountains would have known his name. No whispers. No rumors. His knee wouldn’t hurt all the damn time. He wouldn’t be as good with a rifle. His picture would never have appeared in a Miasto newspaper, the Saint Magdalena Faustian would still be devouring milkmaids, Michał and Eliasz would still be handsome, and the rest of them would still be alive—

  And he would not have met her.

  “I can smell smoke,” said Ren suddenly. “There is someone here.”

  I know, he thought, but he suddenly felt too tired to answer aloud.

  They had reached a meadowed valley, squarely between two mountains. There was no snow here. Instead, purple flowers carpeted the grass, and the air was filled with the smell of baking bread. In the distance, a log cabin seemed to await them. Smoke curled from its chimney, washing fluttered in the wind, and the sound of barking dogs echoed faintly in the valley.

  Ren slipped easily off Król’s back. She put a hand on Lukasz’s knee and looked from him to the cabin. Lukasz had never seen her look like that. He loved her. It was one of the last times he would look at her, and he loved her.

  “Don’t get off,” she was saying. “If you fall, I can’t get you back up there.”

  It was the first time either of them had admitted how sick he was. He wondered if she was afraid. He used to be afraid, but now he was just tired. The meadow began to blur at the edges. She stayed at the center.

  I love you, he thought.

  Ren started to lead Król down the hill. The grass was waist high, without a path. As if by magic, the purple flowers floated out of their way. As they neared the cabin, he could make out a quaint little fence surrounding it.

  This was how it would end. It had been worth it. He had met her.

  The cabin blurred. The ground lurched. For a moment, Lukasz thought it was a tide, and suddenly he hit the ground. Pain exploded through his shoulder.

  “Lukasz!” Strong hands grabbed at him. “Lukasz, please! Get up—we’re almost there—”

  He realized he had fallen off Król. Strange, he thought, while the grass danced and Ren’s face faded in and
out of focus above him. Strange, he didn’t remember falling. . . .

  “Lukasz,” she shrieked, “please!”

  That got him, and he struggled up. He felt Ren drag his arm over her shoulders. He was warm. As warm as he’d been at Hala Smoków. Things were dimmer. He stumbled again. He wished he could help her.

  He could hear Ren panting as she half carried him, half dragged him toward the cabin.

  “We’re close, Lukasz,” she said. “We can rest here, before we go on. It’s a cabin. It has two windows and a thatched roof. It looks warm, Lukasz. It’s getting windy—Oh, there’s even a little fence, Lukasz. And dogs. Do you hear the dogs? We’re almost at the gate—”

  Ren gasped. She let go of him, and Lukasz hit the ground.

  She grabbed his collar. He groaned as his head lolled back, and her voice came out gravelly, close to his face.

  “Where are we?”

  Lukasz forced himself to open his eyes.

  “She’ll help you,” he said hoarsely.

  They were in the right spot. They had to be in the right spot. The domowik had told him—

  Lukasz blinked, tried to orient himself. His surroundings were momentarily clear, lines shimmering out of darkness, and he caught a glimpse of the fence, twenty feet away.

  “You said we were going to the Mountain!” She was practically shouting, shaking him.

  “No,” he said. “I said we would be here by nightfall.”

  He could see why Ren hadn’t been afraid of the fence from far away. Even this close, even knowing what he knew, it took him a moment to believe what he was seeing. The fence was made of bones. They were stained red and lashed together with tendons. Crows battered against them, sharp beaks tearing at the remaining flesh. Each post was topped with a human skull. They were crushed in at the back, red candles burning amid broken bone.

  “What?” she breathed. “You lied? Where are we?”

  She was beautiful. From the slanted green eyes right down to the broken nails at the ends of her dirty hands. She was beautiful.

  “I promised,” he managed. “I promised to get you to that Mountain.”

  “This isn’t the Mountain!”

  “She’ll help you.”

  In another life, she could have been his. In another life, he would not have met her.

  “You—you should have told me.” It took him a moment—a precious moment—to realize she was trying not to cry. “We could have found a way. We could have fixed this.”

  Her hands were on his face, sliding down his jaw. She knows now, he thought. The hands stayed on his face, running over every line, like she was going to memorize him if it killed her. She knows what is going to happen.

  “We shook hands,” he said, then stopped to catch his breath. He had never seen eyes so dark and sad. “We said no games.”

  “Lukasz.”

  A blast of wind lashed across the field. It was so strong that it tore the words from his throat, tore up the grass around them. Ren ducked over him, and several bones tore free of the horrible fence. Dandelions and purple blossoms spun past. The crows scattered overhead. They hit the cabin with dull thuds, and feathers rained down on them.

  Then it stopped.

  Everything went still.

  The wind died, the crows cawed overhead. The gruesome cabin loomed over them. Somewhere above him, Ren was panting.

  Then came a sound like someone ripping up an enormous weed. The earth shivered beneath them. Shadows rearranged in the sky. It took him a moment to realize: the cabin was moving.

  Lukasz turned his head, just enough to make out a blurry outline. The cabin began to rock back and forth.

  It lurched violently, and a single, scaly foot poked out from underneath. He heard Ren gasp. The foot clawed at the ground with three gigantic talons. The house heaved once more, sailed into the air, where it blocked out most of the sky. What was left of the sky was purple behind it, lit by a glowing moon and filled with swooping crows.

  Too tired to be scared, Lukasz watched the cabin bend over them, peering down with murky, spotted windows.

  “The last of the Wolf-Lords,” said a voice somewhere above him. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  40

  LET HIM LIVE, REN PRAYED.

  She straightened. Lukasz half lay on the ground, moaning. His eyes had sunk back and his gray skin gleamed with sweat. His hands curled above his chest, black with blood.

  Let him live. Please.

  Reluctant to take her eyes off him, Ren turned around. The cabin watched them, tilted slightly to the side on its leg, like a gigantic, inquisitive magpie.

  Ren towered over the old woman. Loosened skin bagged over every pointy bone in her face. Her chin protruded and her nose drooped, and it was long and crooked and covered from bridge to tip with sores and warts and other things Ren didn’t want to think about.

  Ren could hardly believe it had come to this. Stranded in the Mountains with Lukasz dying beside her, facing—

  “Hello, Baba Jaga,” she said.

  The Baba Jaga wore beautiful clothes: a black-and-red-striped skirt, a heavily embroidered black vest, and a soft white blouse sweetly gathered at her puckered neck. What little hair she had left was covered by an embroidered black kerchief.

  “Who are you, little girl?” asked the Baba Jaga.

  “My name is Ren,” said Ren.

  The Baba Jaga emitted a guttural laugh. She had a basket under one arm, filled with what looked horribly like slabs of meat. Her arms were bloodred to the elbows.

  “I did not ask your name,” she said. “I asked who you are.”

  Anger flared dully in Ren. Ryś was dead. Lukasz was dying. Her forest, his town, these Mountains—it all lay crushed under black claws, and this woman dared ask who she was? Dared mock her?

  Ren’s fury burned. But when she spoke, her voice was quiet.

  “I was born in a place where the sun never set and the monsters stayed out of sight,” she said. “Where the birds sang and the walls were whole. Then came the Dragon, and the flowers died and the branches closed overhead and I became queen of the woods.”

  The Baba Jaga smiled. Her teeth were abnormally long and blunt, yellow covered with red-brown stains. The chicken cabin tilted to the other side, and even though Ren didn’t dare take her eyes off the Baba Jaga, she could have sworn the windows blinked.

  “Bold words from a small queen,” murmured the Baba Jaga at last. “Especially as I hold your lives in my hands.”

  “Not for long,” offered up Lukasz from the grass.

  The old woman grinned down at him. He was still lying in the grass, his hand clasped over his wounded shoulder. She took in the blood smeared over his skin. The sweat on his cheekbones, the damp hair across his forehead. The longer she looked, the hungrier her expression became.

  “You smell like death,” she said, as if relishing the idea.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” he muttered under his breath.

  Ren stared from Lukasz to the Baba Jaga.

  “Mavka, was it?” asked the Baba Jaga. “You’re Wrony. You should have known better—”

  “Not like I did this on purpose.”

  Black blood dripped from between his fingers.

  “And yet,” said the Baba Jaga, “you came here on purpose.”

  “The domowik from Hala Smoków said you would help.”

  Ren blinked. She hadn’t heard any domowik say that.

  “I would never help a mere human,” said the Baba Jaga. “Especially not some pretty, arrogant man who thinks he can kiss rusalki and mavka and walk away. You have charmed one monster too many, Lukasz Smoków. I will not help you.”

  “I didn’t kiss any mavka,” he said, struggling to sit upright. He held his shoulder so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. “And this isn’t asking for help. This is offering to trade.”

  He coughed again. Blood, thick and black, trickled down his chin.

  A shiny tongue protruded from the Baba Jaga’s
mouth and ran around the edge of her lips.

  “NO!” shouted Ren, suddenly realizing what he meant to do. She stepped between them, kneeling in front of Lukasz. “No! You can’t do this—”

  She took his face in her hands and shook him. She wasn’t even upset. She was just angry.

  “You promised to take me to that Mountain! You promised to kill the Dragon!”

  Lukasz shook his head.

  “I can’t, Ren,” he said. “Not like this. But you . . .”

  The sky began to darken. Ren smelled the old blood in the Baba Jaga’s basket and tasted the fear in the back of her throat.

  “What about Franciszek?” she snarled. “He could still be alive. You can’t give up on him—not like this—”

  “He’s dead, Ren,” said Lukasz bluntly. “They’re all dead.”

  She didn’t want him to die.

  She felt the sword at her side, and she realized abruptly why he had insisted that she take it.

  “I have the sword,” she said suddenly. Inspiration struck, and she repeated it louder. “I have the glass sword.”

  “Ren!”

  With surprising speed, Lukasz lurched to his feet. At the same time, the Baba Jaga’s wrinkles rearranged themselves into an expression that could be loosely described as speculative.

  Ren drew the sword. Lukasz groaned. Silver blue lit up the twilight. The chicken cabin leaned over their shoulders for a closer look.

  “The sword for his life,” said Ren. “You could kill the Dragon. Take back these Mountains as your own. And the forest, if you want it.”

  In the glow, the Baba Jaga’s eyes grew in her face and became as livid as coals, and all sounds receded except for Lukasz’s ragged breathing. Like a moth to flame, the Baba Jaga inched forward. But instead of taking the sword, the Baba Jaga reached out a long, gnarled finger and traced it down Ren’s cheek.