The Wolf's Call

by Anthony Ryan

  The play of the torch’s glow on the walls abruptly disappeared as the stairs came to an end, Kehlbrand leading him into a large chamber. The air was musty and unpleasant, possessing a familiar sting of decay.

  “Sorry about the smell,” Kehlbrand said. “Never seems to fade. Still . . .” He paused, lowering the torch to reveal a withered corpse on the chamber floor, “this lot stank just as badly in life.”

  Vaelin judged the body to be perhaps four years since death. It was not completely denuded of flesh, the skin blackened with corruption, and teeth grinning from flaked and ragged lips. The cause of his end was easy to discern in the sundered rib cage and sternum, a single stroke from a long-edged blade delivered with impressive force. Vaelin’s gaze settled on one of the bisected ribs, jagged and sharp, sharp enough to pierce flesh. Kill him and then what? he asked himself. Fight my way through tens of thousands of enraged followers with Sherin in tow?

  “I had Obvar give him a quick death, finding myself impressed by his bravery at the end,” Kehlbrand said, Vaelin forcing his gaze away from the jagged rib to regard yet more corpses. They lay close to the walls of the chamber in a disordered, often dismembered state that told of a massacre. They had all plainly been left where they fell with no regard to whatever death rituals these people might observe.

  “But I didn’t feel so kindly disposed to him,” Kehlbrand added, the glow of his torch falling upon a skull lying apart from the other bodies, the light drawing a gleam from a patch of revealed bone. “Behold,” he said in a tone of mock reverence, “the Mestra-Dirhmar of the Stahlhast, last priest of the Unseen.”

  He crouched to touch a contemplative finger to the skull, voice becoming thoughtful. “I often wonder why I felt the need to torment him so. Perhaps because he killed my older brother, but that was a necessary act, one Tehlvar and I orchestrated, in fact. Or it could be what he tried to do to my sister, she being so precious to me. But no, I made him watch as I slaughtered the others. I flayed him, I bled him, I visited all manner of humiliations on his flesh and left him a broken old wretch because I just didn’t like him. Much like you and Babukir, eh?” He grinned up at Vaelin. “I imagine he’s not the first man you disliked. Did you torture any of them to death?”

  “No,” Vaelin said, “despite often sore temptation.”

  Kehlbrand gave a soft laugh and rose, gaze still lingering on the head of his murdered priest. “But all the torment wasn’t the worst of it. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to see the great lie of his existence. And so I made him touch it. After that, he begged for the blade and I gave it to him.”

  “Touch what?”

  Kehlbrand angled his head, gaze narrowing. “You already know, I think,” he said in a very soft voice, extending his arm so the torch’s glow illuminated something in the centre of the chamber.

  It stood about four feet high with a wide base that narrowed as it rose before widening into a flat top. Vaelin’s heart lurched at the sight of it, pulse throbbing his temples as he moved closer. How foolish we were, he thought, to imagine there would be only one.

  As his gaze roved over the stone, he saw it wasn’t entirely a twin of the one that had lain beneath the arena in Volar. Whilst its surface was mostly black, there were veins of reddish gold running through it that flared with unnatural brightness when the torchlight caught them.

  “You have seen one like this before,” Kehlbrand said, moving to stand on the opposite side of the stone. He attempted to conceal it but Vaelin could hear the hungry note in his voice. “If there is another somewhere in the world, I would dearly like to know where.”

  “There was,” Vaelin said. “Pounded into dust and cast into the ocean. It’s gone forever.”

  A thin hiss escaped Kehlbrand’s lips as he shook his head. “A terrible waste. A crime in fact.”

  “No. An act of dire necessity.” Vaelin nodded to the stone. “If you truly care about your people, you will do the same with this thing.”

  “It is thanks to this that my people prosper. With this I have freed thousands from bondage and will soon free thousands more from the greedy yoke of the Merchant Kings.”

  “Killing how many in the process?”

  “Only as many as is necessary. Unless”—Kehlbrand’s mouth twitched as his eyes flicked to the priest’s skull—“I happen across some I dislike along the way.”

  The humour slipped from his face and he focused a hard, inquisitive gaze on Vaelin. “You stole my name, Darkblade.”

  “It was given to me. I didn’t choose it and I never wanted it.”

  “Nevertheless, you carry it with you. The name is part of your legend, and names are important, names have power. Some years ago there was a man, a Skeltir of great renown whom the tale-tellers had dubbed the Blade of Darkness, whereas the priests had named me the Darkblade. You see the problem, I assume?

  “I was kind to this man, at first. For I knew I would have use of his battle skill in years to come, and so sent a gift of gold and horses with a polite request that he choose another name. He took my gold and my horses, and sent my messenger back minus his tongue. He was an older man, you see, this Blade of Darkness, his pride swollen by never having tasted defeat.

  “I killed his sons so that he might know the taste. One by one in single combat they fell to me, and each time I sent the same request and the same gifts, and each time he took my gifts and the tongues of my messengers. Taking him alive required a war of many weeks and a great deal of blood, but finally I had him, bound and kneeling before me. I made the same request and a promise: ‘Choose another name and I will restore you. I will give you horses, I will give you warriors, you will stand high in the Hast and we will be brothers.’ He cast his spit at my feet and said, ‘If I have not my name, what am I?’ Names, you see, are important and I will have no rival for mine.”

  Vaelin’s mind immediately returned to the dead priest’s jagged rib. Kehlbrand bore no weapon that he could see, save the torch, but his confidence told of a far from defenceless man. A fair fight is often the one you lose, Master Sollis had told him once, and the years since had proven him right time and again.

  “That would be foolish,” Kehlbrand said. “Bones grow soft as they age.”

  Vaelin looked again at the stone, a germ of understanding building in his mind.

  “There is love between you and the healer,” Kehlbrand went on. “An old love, born in youth, but now stained by bitterness and regret. The wounds left by betrayal never truly heal.” He frowned in calculation. “You were content to leave her with Obvar because she has the means to defend herself. A drug of some kind?”

  “You have touched this,” Vaelin realised, eyes still on the stone. “It gave you a blood-song.”

  “Blood-song? A good name. I just call it the Gift of the Unseen.” Kehlbrand’s eyes narrowed further in understanding. “You had this once, didn’t you? It sings to me a tune of envy, of grief at something lost. How did you lose it?”

  “It was taken from me.”

  “And yet”—Kehlbrand’s hand hovered over the stone, trembling slightly—“you once had the means to restore it, and you didn’t. Why?”

  “I have seen enough to know that whatever these stones are, their power is fickle, the effect of their gifts unpredictable, dangerous. Once they brought down a realm that spanned half the world in peaceful concord, fallen to war and slaughter because one man grew greedy for the gifts the stone would give. Perhaps it would have restored my song. Or perhaps it would have given me the power to heal, or to kill with a touch, or to know every thought in every head. I wouldn’t risk it just for the chance I might regain my song.”

  “What if I were to promise you it would?”

  Vaelin’s gaze snapped up, finding Kehlbrand regarding him with an expression of honest sincerity. “This is no trick,” he said. “Touch the stone and regain your blood-song. Then”—he raised his arms to his sides,
open in invitation—“you and I will fight for the name we both bear.”

  “No trick?” Vaelin gave a humourless smile. “You think I don’t know what waits on the other side of this thing? After doing murder under my roof, its servant told me a great deal. Something vast and hungry, and you’re intent on helping it eat the world.”

  “It will save the world, rescue it from greed and disunity, through me. I will give the world a god. A real, living god. One they can see and hear. A god that will make them tremble in fear and weep in gratitude. To do that, all other gods must die and all other faiths must perish. But first, I need more to my legend. For a god’s legend to endure he needs an adversary, a terrible villain to overcome. Did you think that vile ghost of your dead friend journeyed all that way to kill a pair of functionaries to the Merchant King just to redeem himself with a final service to you? He called you here on my instruction, tempted you with the healer’s peril should she fall into our hands. You are here to play a role, Thief of Names. Your dread Fire Queen has sent her greatest assassin to murder me, for she sees that only I can stand against her tide of conquest. It’s a fine tale. Touch the stone and you’ll have a chance to write your own.”

  Vaelin looked at the gleaming veins tracing through the fabric of the stone, feeling a growing certainty that somehow this one was different. A conduit to something far greater in power and malice than the gifts offered by its plainer cousin. Even so, he was appalled to find the urge to touch it was strong. So many years without it, he thought. You would think the ache would have faded by now. But it was an ache he knew he had to endure, for every instinct warned him that this man, this would-be god, was lying.

  “No,” he said, looking again at Kehlbrand. “I don’t need a song to fight you.”

  “True,” Kehlbrand said. The humour returned to his face and he lowered his arms. “But you would need one to win. Fighting you as you are would be like fighting a child. Hardly grist for a legend. Come.” He turned away and started back to the stairs. “I think I should like to hear the song of the Jade Princess. She’s come such a long way, it would be rude not to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Most of those gathered under the roof of Kehlbrand’s palace-sized tent regarded him with faces of rapt awe. He seemed oblivious to it as he moved amongst them, clapping some on the back, offering brief witticisms to others. He reminded Vaelin of an affable noble meeting trusted retainers rather than a man with pretensions to godhood.

  The assembly was about sixty strong in all and surprisingly varied. Stahlhast warriors in full armour, some with red eyes and hollow cheeks from the previous night’s carousing, stood alongside plainly garbed artisans. Others were dressed in the quilted, fur-lined jackets worn by the folk Vaelin had seen in the border country. Some wore leather armour and clearly hailed from one of the Steppe tribes, although their features and colouring were more akin to the border folk. He saw plenty of mutual detestation in the glowering looks each group showed the other whenever Kehlbrand’s gaze was elsewhere, but the awe they shared was disconcerting in its uniformity.

  How many have touched the stone? Vaelin wondered as he surveyed the group, recalling Kehlbrand’s words from the night before. And what gifts did they receive, besides blind worship of this man?

  The only exception he could discern was Obvar, who stood amongst a cluster of fellow Stahlhast, his face a dark, masklike contrast to their evident devotion.

  “Little colt!” Kehlbrand said, smoothly disentangling himself from the throng to enfold his sister in a warm embrace. Like Vaelin, Sherin and the Jade Princess, she stood apart from the assembly. He saw some of the worshipful congregation regard her with a similar level of reverence, mostly amongst the artisans, but the majority either ignored her or were conscientious in avoiding her gaze.

  “Did you miss me?” Kehlbrand asked, easing Luralyn back to sweep a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

  “Of course not,” she replied, reaching up to clasp his hand, Vaelin finding himself struck by the genuine warmth in her eyes. She truly loves him.

  “Well, your dream didn’t fail us, at least,” Kehlbrand said, glancing at Vaelin. “Nor your little stratagem. I’ll confess I was skeptical at first, but it got him here. True love in peril, promise of deliverance from an ancient princess. It was all rather perfect, I must say.”

  Seeing a sudden anger creep over Sherin’s face, Vaelin clasped her forearm before she could speak, shaking his head in warning. She lowered her gaze, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

  “Friends, we find ourselves honoured this day!” Kehlbrand said, turning to address the gathering. “For here stands the fabled Blessing of Heaven.” He gestured for the Jade Princess to come forward, which she did without particular haste or hesitation, smiling demurely at the assembly.

  “Can there be a truer sign of the righteousness of our cause?” Kehlbrand asked his audience, each face now riven with fascination. “The Jade Princess herself has journeyed many miles to bless us with her song.”

  The Princess raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing as every onlooker sank to one knee, heads bowed low.

  “Heaven, as you know, my friends, is a myth,” Kehlbrand said. “A vile lie concocted by emperors past and kings present to keep their subjects in bondage. This poor woman, this being of wisdom and power, has spent countless years dwelling in a prison her captors chose to call a temple. Now she stands before you freed by the hand of the Darkblade’s sister and we are honoured to hear her voice.”

  A hiss of whispered affirmation rose from the kneeling throng. Vaelin saw some were weeping, tears leaking from tight-shut eyes as they voiced their devotion. He could hear several different languages amongst the murmuring babble, but the sentiment was clear; they all felt themselves to be present at a moment of huge significance.

  The murmuration died away, however, when the Jade Princess let out a small but audible giggle.

  “Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth as Kehlbrand turned to her. Her cheeks dimpled as she fought down further mirth before coughing and forcing her features into the same demure smile. For the briefest second there was a flicker of bemused annoyance on Kehlbrand’s brow before he too laughed.

  “What a delight you are,” he said. Stepping back, he extended his arms in grand invitation. “And how keenly we await the sound of your treasured voice.”

  The Princess inclined her head before pausing and turning to Sherin and Vaelin. The smile had changed now, becoming something far more sombre, but the impish light in her eyes remained, although Vaelin saw how they glistened with budding tears.

  “Tell my dear friend the young wanderer,” she said in perfect Realm Tongue, “that he was right. The time for the old ones has gone. We must make way for the new.”

  She returned her gaze to the kneeling audience, all faces now upturned in grave expectation. The Jade Princess took a breath and began to sing.

  Vaelin thought the first note perhaps the purest and sweetest sound he had ever heard. It was pitched high but not piercing, possessed of a sense of command he knew could only come from the Dark. This was a song no ear could be closed to, as addictive and captivating as the most potent drug. Further notes followed, each as pure and compelling as the first, and each seeming to sink into his mind. The world changed as the song continued, the varied hues of the tent’s interior becoming more vibrant whilst edges blurred and extraneous detail slipped away. The faces remained, however, like masks floating in a radiant fog, all the supplicants to the Darkblade wearing the same expression of utter rapture he knew must colour his own.

  As the song continued, he realised it had lyrics, but the language was unknown, perhaps unknowable. Ancient words sung by an ancient being, but although he could never know their meaning, the song left no room for doubt as to their intent. Every note sank deeper into his mind, cutting through fears and memories like a surgeon’s blade through muscle and sinew. The song wa
s like a hunter, tracking down the events of his life and bringing them forth in vivid, often unwelcome detail, and each was accompanied by a question. Why? the song asked as it showed him the outlaw hanging in Ultin’s Gulch, legs twitching as the effluent of death dripped to the ground.

  The law, he answered, then winced as the song’s answer overwhelmed his own.

  Anger, it told him, summoning Dahrena’s dead face, the chill of her forehead against his. The truth cut him, forcing a cry from his lips. He had spent years harrying outlaws and any others who aroused his ire, killing where he could and sparing only where he had to. Not for the queen, not for the Reaches, just to sate his own rage.

  The song grew louder and more memories burst forth, collapsing into each other in a fearsome collage of image and feeling. There was joy in this maelstrom, brief flares of light in the red and blackness of it all.

  Why? it asked as Reva arose from the storm, that first night in the forest when she had attacked him. He watched their dance again, seeing her blade slice and jab at the air as he refused to do what the Cumbraelin priests so wanted of him.

  My song’s guidance, he replied. And she needed me.

  The answer this time was less painful, but just as contradictory: You were lonely.

  On it went, his every self-deceit revealed and dismissed. Some were obvious, petty self-delusion to guard his pride, others unveiling lies that had become part of him, necessary shields to preserve his sanity. Pain blossomed as they were wrenched away, leaving him reeling in confusion.

  Why? it demanded once more, the whirlwind slowing to coalesce into Sherin’s face, the drugged, unconscious face from all those years ago when he placed her in Ahm Lin’s arms.