Aleban sat on his haunches and watched as Daric paced back and forth. He might have expected something like this; humans were always concerned about their wealth and their trinkets.
“Are the Surabhan going to attack the Black Hand, too?” Aleban asked the general. “Do you have the men to fight a battle on two fronts?”
Both the general and Daric turned and gave him a puzzled look.
“What do you mean, ‘two fronts’?” the general asked.
Farnok was smiling. The big wolf knew what he was about to say and that it would probably put a stop to Mikelmoor’s rant about “claims and petitions.”
“The reason we are here on our own, General, is because we came across an army of mercenaries. Men from the south, along with a large contingent of Black Hand. They are camped to the southwest, a little over a day from Bailryn.”
The general looked impatient as he stared back and forth between him, Farnok and Renik. “Well, go on then. How many?”
“At least eight thousand,” Aleban told him.
Daric slumped down onto a stool. “Well, there go your plans,” he told Mikelmoor. “And mine, for that matter.”
“Eight thousand,” Mikelmoor whispered. The general put down his goblet and pushed it away. “It will take most of our wolves to contain that many.”
Daric looked deep in thought. And then, “Look on the bright side, General; think where we would be without them.”
The general laughed. “Yes, running south, I shouldn’t wonder.” Straightening himself up, Mikelmoor pulled on his gauntlets. “You’re right; the plan isn’t going to work. First thing we have to do is pay a visit to the Rukin and the wildlings. They need to know about this, and I’m not sending a messenger. Come on, Daric. You’re with me.” The general stopped in the centre of the room and nodded to Farnok. “If you wouldn’t mind coming too, Mr. Farnok, Mr. Renik. I have a feeling we’re going to be in need of your services.”
“What do you mean by ‘wildlings’?” Aleban asked.
“Oh, you’re in for a surprise, my friend,” Daric replied. “Mott has been busy since you left.”
* * *
The camp was enormous. From its eastern perimeter on the Great Western Road, the collection of wolves stretched out of sight towards the southern horizon. Aleban followed Daric and Mikelmoor as they rode along the boundary. Farnok was by his side, and Grady behind, talking to a Salrian that Aleban remembered seeing back in the hollow. For once, Farnok was quiet. The Darkin Alpha probably had the same question bouncing around in his head as he did: Where had all the wildlings come from?
The wildlings were well organised, Aleban noticed. They seemed to have sectioned themselves off into groups of about fifty. Most were using the Voice to communicate. Aleban could pick up bits of the silent language, but not enough to understand fully. From what he could gather, most were comments about Farnok. Those who weren’t “talking” were busy with chores, collecting food, pulling small sleds with water buckets on them, rounding up and looking after pups. There were more than a few females. In fact, now he had time to look properly, it appeared that most of the groups were packs, probably each with its own Alpha. How had they all come together? Who was their leader? And more importantly; who would be capable of leading a hundred packs of wildlings?
Aleban followed as Daric turned off the road. They were heading for a tightly packed group of tents set up along the edge of a copse of trees. The small encampment was obviously Rukin; Aleban recognised some of the wagons.
Then, to his surprise, he spotted Mott running around on the edge of camp, playing with three pups.
“Have they got you pup sitting, Mott?”
Mott pulled up mid-stride. “Aleban! It’s about time you got here. Did you take the long way round?”
The pups stopped and stared as Mott trotted up to him.
“In a manner of speaking,” Aleban said. “We took the southern route, and picked up some new friends along the way.” He nodded at Farnok and Renik.
“Oh yes,” Mott said, nodding to the two of them, “your kin arrived last night. They caused quite a stir. They’re camped along the western edge, close to the stream.” Mott nodded along the track that led away from the small camp. “Their leader was asking if anyone had seen you.”
Farnok, who had been surveying the cluster of tents, turned to Mott. “They’re here already? What happened at Redgate? How many are with them?”
“‘Redgate?’” Mott looked puzzled. “The garrison was destroyed, along with most of the stores. There was nothing there to defend, so they carried on. If they had stayed, they would only bring the dragons down on the townsfolk.”
“So who’s guarding the road?” Aleban asked.
“Nobody is guarding the road. Groups of wolves, Surabhan, and Cren have agreed to pull together and guard the merchant trains, though.”
“Oh they have, have they?” Renik said. “And who arranged that?”
“I arranged it,” Mott told him. “Why? Does it not make sense to defend our supply lines?”
“Brother Mott is in charge!” one of the pups said. The little wolf growled at Renik.
“That will do, Floss. You mind your manners before I tell your mother you have been rude.” Mott told the pup.
“‘Brother Mott’? What’s all this about?” Aleban asked.
From behind, Aleban heard Daric laugh. “I told you he’s been busy,” the man said. “You should hear what the wildlings call him. What is it Mott… Gerkin, Jerkin?” Daric asked, still chuckling.
Grady wasn’t far from falling off his horse.
“Tier’kin,” Mott answered, looking embarrassed, “and it doesn’t mean what you think.”
“That’s enough of that,” Mikelmoor said. “Mr. Mott, we have news. Can you gather the others? This is important.”
Mott raised his head. “Of course, General, I’ll call them to the main tent.” He gestured over his shoulder to a large, brown tent with open sides. “You go ahead, I won’t be long.”
Mott turned to the pups. “You three go back to the others. It’s nearly time for food, anyway.”
“I’ll come with you,” Floss said.
“No, Floss. Food first, then back to the den.”
The pup looked disappointed but did as she was told.
Aleban shook his head. Battle or not, before this day was done, he would have to catch up on the news. What had Mott been doing these past few weeks?
* * *
“I don’t know,” Nacole said. “I’m not sure bringing up the pups in Illeas’den is such a good idea. They haven’t even had their naming day yet, I don’t want them forgetting where they came from. They should learn the old ways; it’s important to honour their father’s memory.”
Gaiden walked beside her as they both made their way back to camp.
“I can understand,” Gaiden said, “but things are changing. Whether we win this battle or not, the war is not over. Would you go back to the Broan? Would it not be better to stay together? Not just you, all the wildlings? You should stay where we can find you. You will be needed again before all this is done.”
Nacole was surprised at how much sense the old wolf was making. In truth, she quite liked the idea of living an easier life. Yes, hunting was fun, but who said they couldn’t hunt and live in a comfortable home? But would her pups agree? Would they even hear the Voice calling them to hunt if they moved out of the wild?
“You Rukin are good wolves,” she told Gaiden, “better than I expected. We had heard stories of you wearing clothes and using a knife and fork. You are quite honourable, really. Maybe we will move close to Illeas’den, but stay in the forest… There is a forest, isn’t there?”
Gaiden nodded. “Yes, there is a forest: Illeas’coi runs for miles, all the way round the southern border of the Am’bieth Marsh. Your pups will love—”
“We’ve been looking for you. There’s a meeting.”
Nacole spun around. A young wildling was trotting in her directi
on.
“What meeting?” Gaiden asked. “What has happened?”
“Nothing, yet,” the wolf said, coming to a standstill.
The wildling was one of the Broan Clan. Nacole thought it was Arben. He did not look very happy to be talking, but like most wildlings, he had managed not to argue with Ker’s order to speak aloud to the Rukin and the humans.
Arben continued, “The human general is here. He’s with the Darkin Alpha and some other people. Mott tried to delay them until you arrived, but they have already started.”
Nacole suppressed a sigh as she and Gaiden followed the wildling. With all the talk of settling down, she had, for a while at least, forgotten about the coming battle and the dangers that lay ahead. Fear bit at her gut, but it wasn’t just fear for herself and her pups; she was worried about Mott, too. Realising that made up her mind about one thing; she wasn’t going back to the Broan.
* * *
Aleban sat and listened as the circle of Rukin, Surabhan, Cren and Darkin argued about what to do next.
“We don’t need all the Cren and wolves to confront a rabble of mercenaries,” Renik said. “I’d bet half of them are farmers, and will run at the first sign of trouble.”
Renik had abandoned his silence and was arguing, louder than most, to limit the forces they would send to meet the Black Hand. He might have a point; the mercenaries were mostly made up of farmers and townsfolk, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. Aleban had heard many tales of the bravery of men fighting for what they believed in. Even if what they believed wasn’t right.
“We can’t do anything about the dragons,” Toban said, “and teeth and claws won’t be much use against thick armour. At least we can be effective against the mercenaries. But you’re right, General, a thousand Cren should go back with you to Bailryn. They will prove useful on the wall.”
The general nodded, and Kirin’thar stood up. Up until now, the Cren leader had been happy to allow Renik to do all the talking. “Yes, we must help secure the wall. The Cren are archers, used to living high up in the forest, the wall will be where we can serve you best.”
“Then why not send them all?” the general asked. “Surely ten thousand wolves and the Darkin can take care of these mercenaries.”
“They will have archers, General,” Ker, the wildling Alpha, said. “Wolves are only of use up close; it would be better if we weren’t running into a hail of arrows while on our way to fight.”
The general sighed but nodded his agreement.
“You’re right about one thing,” Daric said to the general, “I don’t think these mercenaries have been sent to attack Bailryn. I would guess their orders are to disrupt supplies. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have broken into groups already.”
“We’ll find that out when we move,” Farnok growled. “Are we done talking? They could have marched past us by now.”
“Yes, Farnok,” Kirin’thar said. “We will begin packing up the camp as soon as we are ready. Now if there is nothing else… Good. I’ll get back and arrange who is going and who is staying. It will take a while. Does tomorrow morning sound acceptable, General?”
The general bowed. “The morning will do fine. It will be getting dark soon; I doubt the Kel’madden will attack at night—at least not on the first day.”
“Then if there’s nothing else, I suggest we all be about our business,” Kirin’thar added.
Nobody said anything, and the tent began to empty.
Aleban wondered, for a moment, who had put Kirin’thar in charge? But thinking about it, it made sense; the Cren were by far the most powerful, and furthermore, they had no stake in Bailryn or the outlying provinces. They were independent. The wolves would certainly listen to them—more so than a Surabhan General—and the Surabhan appeared to be in awe of the tall woodsmen. There couldn’t really be any other leader.
Aleban followed Toban out to where Daric and Grady were talking.
“Are you sure?” Daric was saying to Si’eth.
“I think so, yes,” the Salrian replied. “Fighting with the Cren would suit us better, there’s still a lot of ill feeling towards Salrians in Bailryn. Not that I think anyone would harm me or Bre’ach, but best not to have to worry about it.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Grady said, patting the Salrian on the shoulder.
Aleban wondered when those two had become friends. Last time he saw them, Grady was ready to send the Salrian captain to the garrison at Gieth’eire. Something must have happened over the past few weeks, they were like brothers, now.
Putting that thought to one side, Aleban trotted over to Toban.
“Do you have orders for me?” he asked.
“You’ll have to see Mott about that,” Toban said, smiling.
“Mott? Is he first? When did that happen?”
“No,” Toban laughed. “No, he’s not first, but he is leading the wildlings, and Gaiden thinks it’s a good idea if orders appeared to come from him.”
Aleban’s mind spun. Grady wasn’t the only one who had had a peculiar few weeks. “I would ask why, but I’m guessing it’s a long story.”
“Very long,” Toban said. “Best to just go along with it for now, we’ll have time to catch up later.”
Aleban fell in behind Toban and followed as they made their way to the Rukin camp. He could hear shouts coming from the east and west; the wolves were beginning to move. Still, with a camp this size it would be a while before they were ready, and he was hungry. He put thoughts of the coming days from his mind and went in search of food.
It didn’t take long to find; the carts were well stocked. He and Farnok sat on top of a small hill and watched as the sun went down on a busy camp. Tomorrow, they would be off to battle, the first in over a century. He couldn’t help wondering about all his new friends; was Arfael well? Would Gialyn return from Eiras? Would Elspeth finally tell the boy she wanted him for a mate? It had been a strange month, all in all. Now, at last, the waiting and wondering was over. Everything was in place. All that remained was to fight—fight and hope for the best.
CHAPTER 7
The Way Out
Olivia leaned back into the chair in her sitting room and straightened her skirt. Chrissa was sitting on the lounger opposite her. Now that all the fuss was over with, she hadn’t known what to say—it had been a long few hours.
She couldn’t help looking at her bodyguard differently. Before, Chrissa was the woman who was always there, whether Olivia wanted her or not. Someone to avoid when she wanted to go off on her own, spying on boys, or stealing from the kitchens. She had never thought of the tall, blond bodyguard as having a deeper commitment. She had always believed Chrissa had taken the job because it was better than looking after Bryoni or Battina—her stepsisters treated their bodyguards like slaves. Knowing Chrissa had kept her secret all these years, Olivia couldn’t help but admire her. Yes, Chrissa was a different person from the simple bodyguard she knew this morning.
“Were you there?” Olivia asked. “You know, at the end.”
Chrissa stopped looking at the wall coverings and gazed into Olivia’s eyes. Her face suddenly changed: softened. “She didn’t want you in the room, Olivia. Your mother was a proud woman. She loved you very much, but she didn’t want you to remember her that way.”
Olivia cast her mind back. For three weeks, she wasn’t allowed into her mother’s chamber. She would shout, scream, stamp her feet, but no matter what she did Chrissa had not given in. She remembered hating the woman for that.
“I know. I know what she wanted, I was just… wondering. Was it peaceful, you know, quiet?”
Chrissa smiled. “In the end, yes. Eugwani went to sleep. It was very peaceful.”
Olivia felt a pulling in her chest, like someone had reached inside her and dragged her heart down. For years she had made up visions of what her mother might have looked like laying on her deathbed. Had they made her comfortable? Was anyone holding her hand at the end? Were her eyes open? She had no idea wh
y that mattered so much—her eyes, that is. Maybe she hoped her mother could see her friends: know she wasn’t alone.
“You should have let me in,” she told Chrissa. And then changed her mind. “No, Mother should have let you let me in; it wasn’t your fault.”
Looking down at the carpet, Chrissa drummed her fingers on her thigh. “I don’t know who was right; you, or your mother. It might have been better for you to see her, or it might not. I’m sorry it still hurts to think about it, but you must take comfort from knowing it is what your mother wanted. And even if she was wrong, it was still her final wish.”
Olivia nodded slowly. She felt better, somehow; like a weight had been lifted. Chrissa was right; maybe her mother was wrong, but it was her choice to make, not Olivia’s. She felt a smile crease her lips, a smile of realisation. Until now, she had no idea how angry she had been, how hurt. For the second time in as many hours, Chrissa had surprised her with her understanding and compassion. Maybe she should stop thinking of her as just a bodyg—
Chrissa’s face had turned white. Her eyes bulged. “DOWN!” she shouted. “GET DOWN!”
Before Olivia could move, Chrissa had knocked over the seat she was sitting on. Olivia rolled on the floor, then grimaced, as Chrissa pushed over the table, sending the jug and goblets flying through the air.
“Stay behind there,” Chrissa said, positioning the table between Olivia and the window.
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Just… stay.” Chrissa waved her down.
A moment later, Olivia heard a roar. And then the sound of rumbling as the tower began to shake. She didn’t need to look outside to know a dragon had landed on the palace roof.
Chrissa crawled towards the window.
“What are you doing? You don’t need to see it. Stay away from the window.”
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