WOLVEN KINDRED
By
James Tallett
Published by Deepwood Publishing, Inc.
First U.S. Edition: April 2013
Cover by Dennis Björk
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © James Tallett, 2013
To Raffles, Bear, and Lucy. Thank you for the memories.
Deepwood Books by James Tallett
TARRANAU
BREAKING AN EMPIRE
BLOODAXE
SPLINTERED LANDS VOLUME ONE
WOLVEN KINDRED
CHLODDIO*
LAECCAN WATERS*
UNFOLDING A NEW CONTINENT*
*Forthcoming
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A great deal of thanks to Twitter and the wonderful people on it, for providing inspiration, support, and ideas. And to all of the readers who worked to polish Wolven Kindred to its absolute best.
Nietan glanced at the banner fluttering overhead. Death before Dishonour. His company’s motto, supposedly. One they had long ignored. Dishonour had come in many forms, bribery and corruption foremost among them. Honesty was too easily cast aside for money.
The Wolven Kindred had once been better than that. They had made kings, affrighted armies and shattered empires. But that was long ago, when the Kindred numbered five thousand or more. Now, they were down to a paltry two hundred. A number that was only lightly bolstered by the sixty wolven still with the Kindred. Once, there had been one of those great predatory beasts for each brother-in-arms, but like the Kindred themselves, the wolven had diminished.
“At least I have mine.” Nietan ran his hand along the thick fur coat of Ær, the wolven who had fought by his side for more than twelve years.
Ær glared up at him. You don’t have anything. I chose you just as much as you chose me.
Nietan chuckled as Ær’s thoughts rippled across his mind. Despite their outwardly bestial qualities, wolven were almost as bright as the humans they partnered, and often larger. Certainly, when both human and wolven were covered in the banded scale armour that had long been their hallmark, most opponents would say they feared the wolven more.
Would have. These days the Kindred had such a poor reputation they were only paid to fight bandits. Or by the desperate.
The skirmisher wandered through the Kindred’s camp, Ær at his side. Around him was a desultory mess of tents, camp-fires, and refuse heaps, the layout haphazard and crowded. What little discipline there was in the camp could be seen on the edges, where the wolven were left to rest. There, the Beastmaster had organized the company’s stores, and the little pens that housed the companions.
The men stank, of drink, of filth, of encrusted blood. They had fought that morning, driving raiders away from a village at the behest of the local noble. For once, they had won with no casualties, although that had more to do with the poor quality of the bandits than any skill on the part of the Kindred.
Yet victory had not brought peace, but was instead a reminder of the legendary history of the company, and how it had fallen. And so the brothers drank, and gambled, and played idle games, all to dull their minds. Others flopped about, trying to sleep.
Despite his status as one of the older heads in the camp, Nietan did not remember the beginning of the fall. That had happened long before he had joined the Kindred, although in the years since he had seen further degradation and despair. The Packmaster of his first years had harboured grand thoughts of revitalizing the Kindred, of growing the ranks and making them once more a force, but he had bet poorly on the victor in a war, and the Kindred had been broken on a battlefield, remade, and broken again. When the remnants had fled and reformed afterwards, they had numbered perhaps four hundred. In the decade since, they had shrunk to their present number, through death, desertion, and all manner of leave-taking.
Nietan yelped as teeth closed around his palm. If you keep this up, I’m going to wet your bed in terror. Ær’s eyes held a twinkle, but one with too much depth to be called happy.
“What do we do, then?”
Ær shrugged. Your race plans ahead. Ours does not.
Nietan knew that to be an out and out lie, at least as far as Ær was concerned, but he let it slide, as he had ever since they had been pair-bonded. Although at the moment it appeared that neither race thought ahead, for now that the bandits were defeated, and pay received from a grateful earl, the Kindred had no plans, no road to walk.
Eventually, one of the packs of wolven would decide to strike out in a direction. Their companions would follow closely. Other humans would bestir themselves to march after friends, and thus would the camp slowly disintegrate and stream along a road. But it would be uncertain, loose, and poorly organized, and one or two would wander off along the way, or decide not to bother.
But that was all some days in the future. Until then, the Wolven Kindred, kingmakers, would sleep in their own filth and vomit.
***
Eventually the Kindred moved on, a desultory few here and there at first, and then more, as the company trundled generally northward. Nietan and Ær were among the first to leave, happy to be on the road once more, or at least away from the festering bog the camp had become.
As they walked, the companions talked idly to one another, until at last the conversation swung round once again to the topic of the Wolven Kindred, and what future it might possess.
“Another year, maybe two, and the Kindred will be no more. There’s nothing holding us together, no purpose, aside from the remaining pair-bonds. And as they die off, the whole company will crumble.”
Then give them a purpose.
“How?”
Become Packmaster.
Nietan burst out in laughter. “I’m a skirmisher! I don’t even have a formal unit within the company. Who would support me for that?”
The Beastmaster. And the wolven.
“Why? You and I are loners. We fight on the edges of the battle, and in the line only when absolutely necessary. Brothers do not stand shoulder to shoulder with us. Why would they on the debating ground?”
Because the wolven grow restless. And so does the Beastmaster. Do you think these humans would not grasp at a sense of purpose if it was offered to them? Ær whuffed in the direction of a small group meandering past, slovenly attired and with weapons rusting.
“I would say they’re too far gone for purpose to find them. Certainly any I could invent. And that presupposes they would elect me Packmaster. No one’s held the title in some time.”
I will speak to the wolven.
With that promise ringing in his mind, Nietan watched Ær trot off in the direction of the Beastmaster and the travelling kennels. They held the wolven too old, too young, or too wounded to walk for long distances, and were drawn by mules that had been trained to accept the presence of the wolven. Not that that stopped the surly creatures from lashing out occasionally. Nothing improved a mule’s disposition.
Even with the best will in the world, Nietan was sure there was no way he could become Packmaster. He was an outsider, a loner, and had led nothing larger than himself for his entire life. There was no possibility that he could go from managing himself and Ær to a whole mercenary corps, albeit a diminished one. The idea of him as Packmaster was foolish.
I can still he
ar you, short hair.
Nietan muttered some unkind comments about Ær’s heritage.
Of course my mother was a bitch. All wolven mothers are.
Nietan muttered a few different unkind comments about Ær’s heritage. All he got in return was the impression of a wolven licking his lips. Shaking his head at the optimism of his companion, Nietan went in search of lunch.
***
Several days passed in abject misery, as the weather turned foul, and buried them under a blanket of continual heavy drizzle. If there was anything more unpleasant than marching along a muddy, rutted road while drenched to the skin, Nietan didn’t want to find it. He’d seen people die happier than he was now. His feet were sore, his skin chafed from the damp leather, and his weapons were showing signs of rust.
And to top it all off, the Kindred were starting to starve. The grain they carried with them was spoiling from the damp, as were the fruits and berries. And even with the wolven searching for food, there wasn’t enough to satisfy everyone. Each day it got slowly worse, one more mark of their fallen status. Nietan could not imagine any of the Kindred of lore starving on a barren road.
Legends don’t have stories of humans crapping under a bush and wiping their arse with a pine cone, either.
“Thank you for that.”
My pleasure.
Ær and Nietan were out hunting for berries, venison, whatever kind of food could be had. So far, they had managed to scrounge up a few overripe apples, but not much else. Even climbing the tree searching for more had yielded almost nothing.
Ær’s nose twitched. This way.
Nietan followed in silence, carefully reaching around to unlimber the throwing darts from his back. Three feet long and weighted with lead, they would punch through even heavy armour. He had never come across animal hide strong enough to stop one.
They paced through the forest for some time, Ær leading by a dozen paces, Nietan trotting behind and slightly to the side, hopefully downwind of whatever the wolven had spotted. After some time, it became apparent to Nietan that they were following a trail laid down by a large animal, large enough to break low-hanging branches.
Given the damp, soft, ground, a creature that size should leave prints, and so Nietan hunted about for one until he found it.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Ær whuffed. Keep up.
What they were tracking was a forest bear, a large predator that outweighed both companions together, and one that was quite adept at ambushing other creatures. And it wasn’t very picky about the origin of its meals.
“We’re heading for a trap.”
Then walk silently.
Despite his long skill as a skirmisher, scout, and otherwise, that was easier said than done. Every time a branch crackled under Nietan’s feet, he cursed, wondering if it would be the moment that unleashed the forest bear. But each time it wasn’t, and so he followed along after the brown and grey shadow that was his companion.
Dappled and streaked as his fur was, Ær all but disappeared into the undergrowth, and Nietan sometimes had to follow him by pair-bond alone. But he was long skilled at that, and it proved no great burden to his movement.
Presently they came to a small clearing, and the tracks they had been following meandered across it, disappearing into the woods on the other side. There was occasional chirp from a bird, and the rustles of small mammals in the brush. If they had more time, it would have been a pleasant place to take a break.
He’s here.
Ær broke to the left, disappearing into the woods with a thunder that was almost deafening. Dart in his throwing hand, Nietan drew the long knife that fitted easily into the other. This would come down to close work, if he was any judge of the matter. And that was not a good thing for any party involved.
The bear broke into the clearing, branches flying around it, as Ær scampered only a stride ahead, using all of his considerable talents to avoid the massive paws that swung for his hind quarters. The dodge worked, but only just, and Ær was forced to leap into the bole of a tree to evade the strikes.
Nietan took the bear’s preoccupation with his partner as a chance to throw first one dart, then another. The first glanced off the predator’s back, scoring the flesh but leaving no remarkable wound. The second struck it above the hips, a location that might eventually cause the animal to bleed out, but only well after it had killed both him and Ær.
The skirmisher glanced back as he reached for his third dart, hoping he could strike cleanly and put the matter beyond a reasonable doubt.
Dive right.
Nietan did as he was told, and felt the glancing impact of a heavy mass. The bear had changed targets and was coming after the less nimble of the companions.
Rolling to his feet, Nietan reached again for the dart case on his back, only to find he’d spilled the weapon. Rather than hunt around for it, he dropped into a crouch and drew another long knife, giving him one in either hand. He could throw knives in a pinch if needed, but he’d rather not unless absolutely necessary.
The bear stalked towards him, hulking shoulders rolling as it closed the ground. Nietan backed away until he felt himself pressed against the bole of a tree. Then, he waited.
Ær hurled himself from the woods as the predator began its charge, and the impact was heavy enough to knock even the massive creature from its feet. More importantly, the wolven had struck the side with the dart, knocking it askew and making it tear through more innards.
The pain stunned the bear for a moment, and into that opening dashed Nietan. He dove with both long knives outstretched and facing downward, ramming them into the neck and throat of the great predator before rolling over the creature and sprinting into the woods. Ær followed at a more reasonable pace, head turned to listen to their opponent.
Only when there was no noise for a length time did Nietan and Ær return to the clearing, and there they found the creature expired against a tree, slain by the weapons lodged in its neck. Retrieving and cleaning them, Nietan also hunted down the darts he had used. With his weapons safely stowed, he turned to the matter of the bear. It was too big for him to carry, and the weather was too damp to allow for a fire.
Wolven come.
“What, so they can eat it all before the humans arrive?”
Ungrateful, as always. Ær sniffed, then began to lazily snack on the carcass.
Presently another ten or so wolven trotted from the forest, each wearing the fitted packs the company had long ago designed for their four-legged members.
Butchering the animal was done in a haphazard manner, the wolven tearing with their teeth while Nietan sawed at the harder parts with his knives. As each wolven’s pack was filled, it turned into the woods and loped off, having also eaten from those entrails too messy to carry.
At last Nietan and Ær walked off as well, leaving nothing much behind other than a few bones. There would be good eating tonight in the camp, even if the meat was raw.
***
The council convenes tonight.
“I know. And I still have no idea what promise I might make. What future I might propose.”
A better one?
“Thank you for that inspiration. I’m sure I couldn’t have come up with it on my own.”
No, you couldn’t.
“If you’re going to be that helpful, could you go do it somewhere else? I’m trying to think.”
Both Nietan and Ær were on edge tonight, for this was the only chance they would get to try and save the Wolven Kindred. But try as they both might, neither could see a future in which the band would succeed. Granted, there were always truly marvellous visions, of returning to one of the grand cities and recruiting until they once again were strong enough and trained enough to be a fit fighting force, but the Kindred had no funds to afford any of that. What little they had was mostly personal property, and no noble or merchant would lend them the difference.
Likewise, ransacking a noble’s manor for the funds would have t
hem banned from the list of mercenary companies, and hunted down by one of their former brethren. Which meant it had to be some plan that would allow them to climb up on the strength of their own achievements.
Nietan paused. They could serve as the scouts and shock troops for another mercenary company. The pay would be decent, and there would be ample opportunity to train with veterans, as well as an example of discipline to live up to. But how would he convince a mercenary company to hire the Kindred? More importantly, how would he sell the idea to the Kindred?
It’s time. And I’ll help.
Shaking himself and running a hand through his hair, Nietan strode from his tent and made his way to the shallow depression outside of camp. There, he would be given his chance to speak, the brothers would be given their chance to vote, and he would find out whether he was a leader or a failure.
There were only about half the surviving brothers in attendance, but almost all of the paired wolven. Between the two contingents, there was a large enough proportion of the Kindred that if the vote was in the positive, the rest would have to acquiesce. That was good, for Nietan had not wanted to tip his hand, and had only asked for a general meeting, rather than one to specifically elect a new Packmaster.
The Beastmaster stood at the bottom of the depression, watching as the last brothers who chose to arrive settled themselves in. Rather than wait for silence, he spoke powerfully into the minds of all those in attendance.
We have been called here tonight because brother Nietan has something he wishes to discuss. Objections?
As expected, there were none. The barest of formalities over, the grizzled man called Nietan forth. Straightening his shoulders, the skirmisher strode into the centre and faced his audience.
Speak your heart, companion.
Nietan smiled.
His speech was short, and to the point. He spoke of his plan to resurrect the Kindred, of grafting them to a successful mercenary company until such time as they could stand on their own again, of finding some way to increase the number of wolven in the company, and of pair-bonding more soldiers. Those last two points were met with some trepidation by the wolven present, although the more forward thinking among them were able to calm the nervous.
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