The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Near on a mile away, Olam saw the grey silhouette of two dozen wolves set against the bright white of the northern morning sky. All at once, as though commanded by the howl, the wolves began to run at pace, still in line, down the slope towards their camp.

  Si’eth backed off. “Hostage!” he bellowed at the three Salrians guarding Gialyn and Ealian. “Take the magician hostage! He is known to them.”

  The Salrian who had dragged Elspeth from behind the fallen tree, took a step towards Olam. Elspeth drew a dagger from her thigh sheath and cut him across the face. Daric and Grady jumped to their feet. In a whirl of frantic thrashing, they disarmed the other two. Olam clubbed the last one over the head. The short Salrian dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Moaning, he appeared not to know whether to rub his head or mind the cut on his cheek.

  Taking their weapons, Daric and Grady pushed Elspeth and the others into the trees. Olam followed.

  For a long moment, the three disarmed Salrians looked at them, as if wondering what to do next. Grady bared his teeth and raised his bow. The three turned on their heels and ran up the slope towards Si’eth, who was currently dividing his attention between them and the advancing wolves.

  “Well done, Elspeth,” Grady whispered, patting the girl on the back.

  “It’s not over yet, you two,” Daric told them.

  Olam felt a hand on his shoulder. He had been watching the wolves’ progress, wondering what, if anything, he could do. As if hearing his thoughts, Daric said, “I fear it is up to you, my friend. Are these beasts truly known to you?”

  “Not exactly,” Olam said. “I met a leader of theirs once, called him friend, and learned some of their customs and greetings. I was expecting to address them at length, not in a running battle. Little can dissuade a wolf from a chase.”

  “Oh, dear!” Daric pushed his fingers through his hair. Clearly, Olam’s admission was not what he had wanted to hear.

  “They will not kill without reason, Daric,” Olam assured him. “We should have time to explain ourselves. Just do not provoke them.”

  His look took in Grady, too. This was going to be hard enough without the old soldier grinding his teeth and beating his chest.

  Both men nodded, if reluctantly, and Olam turned his attention back on the wolves. The Salrians had broken formation and were desperately climbing up the sandstone ridge. Olam gave a short chortle. “I wonder if wolves can climb,” he whispered. The question was immediately answered; half the wolf pack turned and ran back up the sloping verge, doubtless to a point from where they could pursue the Salrians as they fled west, back towards the marsh. The rest, twelve in all, continued their advance on the travellers’ camp.

  “Arfael,” Elspeth suddenly shouted, as if Olam had not already considered him. “Arfael is still out there. We can’t leave him.” She certainly was an honourable sort, if a little inexperienced.

  “He’s too big to drag,” Daric said, “but she’s right; we can’t just leave him there.”

  Grady nodded in agreement.

  The three made for Arfael. But precisely what they could do once they were there was anybody’s guess.

  “I hope you’ve got something up your sleeve,” Daric whispered when they were away from the youngsters. “We won’t last long if it comes to a fight.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Rukin

  The three men took positions around Arfael: Grady to his left, Daric to his right, while Olam stood squarely in front of him. Daric had moved to take that position, but Olam felt he must be the one to take the greater risk. Arfael was his friend, after all.

  The wolves were close: barely two hundred paces away. Close enough to hear their padded footfalls and wrenching growls. They were not wasting any time – their heads were down and their tails flew straight, like the rudders of a dozen boats.

  “Whatever you’re going to do…” Daric whispered.

  “…hurry up and do it,” Grady finished.

  Olam knelt. He pushed his fingers into the hard turf and tried to open his mind. Waves of colour flashed across his eyes. Silver-grey silhouettes darted behind a misty curtain: a running wolf, a staring eye, a jarred vision of Daric, the trees, and then back to the curtain again. The colour dissipated. Olam tried for a second time. A slap cracked the link at the back of his mind. The eyes closed, the silver curtain fell away into darkness – and then, nothing.

  Olam did not need fifty years’ experience to know the Link, as he called it, was not going to work… not on these wolves.

  He stood, raised his arms wide and shouted, “Em wra ach ulf!”

  Olam noticed Daric and Grady were gripping hard on the weapons they carried. Both men looked nervous… which was hardly surprising. From the look on their faces, neither of the old soldiers had a clue what Olam was attempting, never mind understand the words he had shouted. He would have explained, but there was not enough time for such details. Indeed, there might not be time to finish what he was trying. If this did not work…

  Olam saw the lead wolf’s ears prick up – which was a good sign; he was not sure if he had remembered the words correctly. The beast slowed down, and the others followed his lead. The pack trotted the last thirty paces in an almost prancing step. Each one of the twelve scanned diligently left and right and made a good job of staring into the trees, from where Gialyn, Elspeth and Ealian were probably watching with nervous interest. The wolves stopped three paces in front of Olam and spread out in an arc with the four travellers at its centre. The lead wolf took a step forward. Then, to gasps from Daric and Grady, the wolf began to speak, in common tongue, no less – Olam supposed it was one thing to hear about talking wolves, but quite another to meet one in the wild.

  “Who are you to call yourself ‘friend’?” the wolf asked. He began pacing around the travellers, eyeing up the camp. “Who are you to make the welcome of Illeas’cu? And did you try to… calm me, wizard?” The wolf exaggerated the last in a none-too-friendly manner.

  “Wizard?” Daric mumbled to Grady. His friend just shrugged. They were both stood at Olam’s side.

  Olam told them to stay quiet and lay down their weapons. They did so, slowly, eyes still fixed on the wolves. Then both men raised their empty hands as they each backed off a step.

  The wolf nodded towards the trees. “Tell your young ones to come out. I will see you all.”

  Olam looked across the line of wolves before turning and waving the others forward. “Come out, you three, please, and with no weapons, Elspeth.” He was beginning to understand the character of his companions, especially the girl. The three walked out in single file. Elspeth first, of course, followed by Gialyn and Ealian. At Daric’s bidding, the three positioned themselves between the two soldiers. They, too, raised empty hands to the wolves.

  The twelve wolves tightened their arc so there was barely a pace separating them. Their leader squared up and sat in front of Olam. Looking up with brilliant, cool grey eyes, he asked, “Will you answer my question, Surabhan?”

  Olam opened his palms in a manner of pleading and dropped his gaze to the ground as if submitting. He hoped he remembered it right. A mistake now could prove costly. “I’m Olam O’lamb, son of Alindair, kin of Eurmac. I was a friend to Arlenoch, the fourteenth Alpha of Illeas’den. And I was not trying to calm you, sir. Please believe me. The gods be my judge; I was trying to communicate friendship.” Olam bowed deeper, his palms still open.

  The wolf sat silently. Eying the travellers up and down. He appeared to be considering what to say. The other wolves began to whisper amongst themselves. Their leader quickly silenced them with a snarling bark. It must have meant “quiet!” in wolf tongue, or maybe something more severe. The pack immediately faced forward and held their heads high. They stood at what could have passed for attention. Daric would doubtless be impressed. Not only could they talk, but they were also well disciplined, too.

  “Arlenoch died twenty years ago. I was young so I may be mistaken, but I do not remember anybody called O
lam… O… lam?” The wolf chewed around the name; clearly, he had not met many Eurmacians. He began to pace again. “Do you have any other claim of kinship, something other than the name of a long-dead friend?” the wolf asked with a tired tone, as though he did not believe a word Olam had said, and yet, by the edicts of some ancient ritual, he had to enquire.

  Olam pondered the question. Remembering the old Illeas’cu welcome had indeed paid off. Now if only he could think of something else. Maybe they know Elim.

  “There may still be friends of mine in Illeas’den. Do you know—?”

  A deep groan interrupted Olam. Arfael reeled on the ground, reaching his hand up to rub his head. Daric stepped forward and offered a hand. Arfael took his arm and placed a heavy hand on Olam’s shoulder. Bracing themselves against the big man’s considerable weight, both Olam and Daric stood firm while Arfael steadied his shaking knees. With a nod of thanks, Arfael turned, and then quickly raised an eyebrow at the sight of the wolves.

  “Have you met some new friends, Olam,” Arfael asked.

  Arfael’s reaction paled in comparison to that of the wolves. Their leader dipped his head almost to the ground. With his tail between his legs, he backed off, positioning himself within the arc. Their line wavered as the wolves began to fidget. One by one they bowed their heads, doing a fair impression of respect – or was it fear? They settled into what looked like silent adoration. None of them would take their eyes off Arfael. Eventually, the silence was broken as one wolf after another began… growling.…

  Or was he singing? The sound grew louder. Clawed feet scratched at the ground. Jaws snapped and heckles rose.

  Arfael reached for Olam’s staff.

  Olam placed a hand on his friend’s wrist. “I do not think they are going to attack,” he said.

  Daric and Grady pulled Gialyn and the others in close. Both men stood with their backs to the youngsters, with arms wide, ready to defend. “What are they doing, Olam?” Daric had to shout above the din.

  One of the larger wolves took a pace forward and broke into a fearsome howl. He raised his call to the heavens, or so it seemed. Indeed, his cry sounded almost… worshipful. Not a threat; the howling did not sound in the least bit aggressive. As though that were their cue, all twelve wolves joined in, including their leader. Each took their part reciting a solemn, mournful song – almost a dirge, or a requiem, Olam thought. The howling lament – if you could call it that; it had no melody to speak of, but still seemed structured, somehow – filled his mind with questions. He was almost sad when the wolves stopped. He would have loved to study it for a while.

  The wolves seemed to settle, and their leader took a step forward. Directing his comment to Arfael, he asked, “You are of Gan’ifael, are you not, of the Kel’mai?” For a moment, Olam thought the wolf was frightened. No, not frightened: in shock. The wolf was shocked to see Arfael.

  Arfael, who was still rubbing his head, looked to Olam for answers.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” Olam said to the wolf. “We know this man as Arfael. As for the rest…” He shrugged and raised him palms. It seemed the only thing to do. “Please, if you know more, tell us.”

  Olam put his hand on Arfael’s shoulder. He could not help but grin at the wolf. Was this animal about to answer all their questions? Did the wolf know who Arfael was, where he came from?

  “There’s not a Rukin alive who would not recognise a Kel’mai when they saw one,” the wolf said. “But we have not heard from them in over a century. We still honour them at the reading of The Scrolls of Illeas, of course.” He said the last as though expecting Olam to understand. “We share tales of your victories. Your tribe is legend.”

  The leader turned to Olam and asked, “How can you not know this? You must know of the old unions, if what you say is true, if he is your friend. For centuries, the Rukin and the Kel’mai were Battle Brothers.”

  Olam felt his eyebrows lift more with each word. Gods, this could be it; this wolf knows everything. He bowed again. You must handle this with care, Olam. Gods, thirty years of questions.

  He cleared his throat twice before answering the wolf. “Sir… uh… Mr. Wolf. It is a long story, and I am afraid we have no easy answers. Arfael has no memory of what you speak.” Olam cleared his throat again – he was very nervous. “If you know him, if you know of his people, then I beg, please tell us more.”

  “Oh, so he is cursed,” the wolf said. He did not seem surprised.

  “I do not think he is… cursed… no. And please, might we know your name?” Olam raised his palm, as was the Illeas custom when asking a personal question, he hoped.

  The wolf nodded. “I’m Toban, fifteenth Alpha of the Rukin in the Age of Illeas.”

  Toban turned to the other wolves and singled them to stand down – Olam thought that was what the short bark meant. The other wolves relaxed, anyway.

  Toban sat on the ground in front of Olam. “Yes, we can answer your questions, and there is a lot more we would ask of you. But later, this is not the time. And please, be at ease. We’re not your enemy.”

  Toban glanced at the rock face, over which Si’eth and the other Salrians had escaped. “Speaking of your enemy… what quarrel have you with the Salrians? I’ve not seen them this far south, not since the war.”

  “That is another long story,” Olam said. “May we get water? I have a mighty thirst all of a sudden.” Olam exaggerated his point by tapping his chest and coughing. “Must be all the excitement.”

  “Yes, you can do as you will. You’re not our prisoners.” Toban’s look took in all the travellers, especially Arfael.

  Elspeth, Gialyn, and Ealian – after a tug from his sister – returned to the trees to fetch water. Daric sat on the ground in front of Toban, while Grady helped Arfael to the fallen tree, where he sat with his back against the dead wood. The big man was still a little unsure on his feet. Olam remained standing in front of the Rukin Alpha.

  “How did you come to call him Arfael?” Toban asked. “It is similar to Arlyn Gan’ifael. A very old family.”

  “By his necklace,” Olam replied. “It is old and damaged, but I managed to read the beginning and end of it. He had called himself by another name before that. The villages near to where he lived referred to him as Mo’duien, old tongue for big man. He did not like the name so much, once I told him what it meant.”

  Toban nodded. “They should have treated him with honour.” Olam heard no doubt in the wolf’s voice. “You say he has no memory of his deeds, or of the deeds of his kin. It would have been over one hundred and twenty years since…” Toban trailed off, then shook his head. “No, this is not the time or place for such talk. We must get you home, and safe.”

  Olam was about to thank Toban when he noticed two wolves running towards them – likely two of those who had chased after the Salrians. The wolves made directly for Toban without as much as a curious glance for Olam and the others.

  “This is Aleban, my Second.” Toban introduced the first of the two as they came to a halt. Olam bowed respectfully, as did Daric and Grady.

  Aleban appeared a little confused by the scene but said nothing to Olam. Nor did he return their bow.

  He delivered his report: “The Salrians ran through the trees and back in the marsh. We followed for near on a mile but lost the trail in the flood waters. There were signs of a camp, though. Was that yours?” Aleban looked to Olam for an answer.

  Olam shook his head. “Our last camp lay half a day west, in Southern Ambieth.”

  “Then it was the Salrians. By the size, I’d put their number at fifteen… maybe twenty, not counting scouts.”

  “There were only ten when we last saw them.” Daric apparently felt well enough at ease with the mysterious talking wolves to join in the conversation.

  Olam thought it strange that Daric and the others knew nothing of the Rukin, they were practically neighbours, after all, albeit distant ones. But then again, the wolves were a secretive lot… he knew that for a fact. He remembered
his last visit to Illeas’cu. Thirty years ago – or was it forty? The wolves had made him camp two miles south of their village and kept him outside of the village gates when he an Elim had tried selling their wool. However, that was then, and he was only a simple trader. Now, there was Arfael, and the wolves were calling him “friend.” I wonder if Elim still visits their village. I must remember to ask. If the opportunity arises, I must not ruin this.

  Olam wondered, If only I had come back for a visit, we might have learned about Arfael decades ago. The irony that it had taken a storm and a wrong turn to bring him back here was not lost on him. You should keep in touch with old friends, Olam.

  “And what did you do to provoke their anger?” Aleban asked. His tone was short and ill-tempered.

  Toban looked at his number two and then nodded in Arfael’s direction.

  Arfael was still sat with his back against the fallen tree, holding a damp cloth to his head and eating some bread. He did not notice all the fuss.

  Aleban stared disbelievingly at Arfael. His mouth lay open, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. Turning back to Olam, the Second said, “Em wra ach ulf,” and dipped his head until his chin was on the ground.

  Olam could not help but smile. “Em wra ach ulf,” he told Aleban.

  “What does that mean?” Grady asked.

  Toban answered, “It’s from the old wolf tongue. There is no – what is the word? – translation. I suppose Welcome to my home is close enough. We used the greeting before our kinship with our Surabhan brothers. The Surabhan who have shared our home for the past three centuries, not all of Aleras’moya. We find most of your kind… distasteful.” Toban curled his lip.

  “What! You eat Surabhan?” Elspeth asked. She had just returned with the water.

  Toban laughed. “No, we do not eat men, at least not in this age. When I say distasteful, I mean we don’t like their manner; they have forgotten their ancestors and confuse the Hunt with conquest. They kill with long weapons and take trophies. They draw lines in the sand and spill the blood of their young over the fields and meadows, and they care nothing for the Balance. You know… that sort of thing.”