The Tiger and the Wolf (Echoes of the Fall Book 1)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  ‘Before you were born, we went to war,’ he remarked. ‘You know this, even you. Back then, the Tiger was strong, and we all lived in his Shadow. But the Wolf gave us iron claws and iron coats, and the Boar and the Deer rose with us, even the Bear and the Eyriemen, a little. And we broke the Shadow Eaters; we drove the people of the Tiger into the highlands. You have heard the stories of these things?’

  ‘I have heard them.’ Her voice even sounded different, not a girl’s any more, and yet more of her father’s daughter than before.

  ‘You know that your mother was of their tribe.’

  There was a hard edge to his tone, but when she answered, ‘I know it,’ without any hurt in her voice, that seemed to satisfy him.

  ‘She was trouble, an evil woman. The Tiger are ruled by their women. You know this?’

  ‘I have heard it spoken.’ She was waiting for some stab of anguish to engulf her over her mother, but she was Wolf, and she was calm. I have no mother, she could tell herself. I have no tiger within me.

  ‘They called her the Tiger Queen when she was still free – before I took her,’ Akrit explained. ‘Even with a rope about her neck, too much trouble.’ He gestured vaguely, shaking his head. ‘But we were hoping this day would come, when a child of hers would come of age, and be of the Wolf. And here you are.’

  A slow uncertainty was stealing over Maniye. The last thing she had expected was so much talk of her mother. She had stood before Akrit, feeling that half of her cut away, and now he was fumblingly trying to join it back onto her.

  ‘I am of the Wolf,’ she said carefully.

  Akrit nodded animatedly, and in that rapid motion she saw just how drunk he really was. ‘But you are her daughter.’

  ‘I am your daughter.’ It was not something she had ever wanted to be, before, but suddenly it was very important to her.

  ‘But you are hers. That is how they do things, among the Shadow Eaters. The mother rules, and then the daughter.’ Akrit grinned abruptly. ‘So it is time we bare our teeth again! This spring the Winter Runners shall go to raid the highlands and draw the Tiger out. And when we have their attention, when we have bloodied them a little and reminded them of the strength of the Wolf, we shall show you to them: the child of their queen.’

  She was just watching now, saying nothing.

  ‘And they will kneel, because you are their dead queen’s get. And you will bring them under the Wolf’s Shadow. You will bring them under my Shadow, and they will league with the Winter Runners, and we will be the strongest of the Wolf’s children, eh, Kalameshli Takes Iron?’

  She felt as though she was tracking something through the forest, print by print, scent by scent, and now she stood before its lair, understanding what it was she had been hunting. She wondered how much of this might have been couched differently, had he been sober. Akrit’s words for her were normally few and hostile, but her passing her Test, her denying the tiger within her, had been for him the culmination of many years of scheming. Apparently he felt that he was allowed to relax his guard just this much.

  There was a High Chief of the Wolf, the first and only Chief of Chiefs. Seven Skins of the Many Mouths tribe held that honour, made such by the acclaim of his peers during the war with the Tiger. He had masterminded the uprising of the Wolf, when her father had been just one war leader amongst many, albeit one who had taken more risks and won more victories than most.

  Seven Skins was old, though: years past Kalameshli’s age. The time would come when he would pass into the forest, and if there was to be another High Chief, who knew who that might be? If Akrit could make the hated Shadow Eaters bow the knee, then none would deny him.

  This was the purpose he had contrived for her. It was a grand plan, and one that might have failed at so many points, but Akrit and Kalameshli and the will of the Wolf had made it work. Here she now was, poised to stand before her mother’s people and lead them into the Wolf’s Shadow.

  She reached within herself to see what she thought of this. She had never realized that the Tiger were so bound to their bloodlines that some bastard child of their last ruler might come and usurp control of their whole tribe. For all she knew, Akrit was entirely wrong about that. They might just tear her apart.

  Or she might bring him a grand victory for the Wolf. She might prove herself Akrit’s daughter.

  She had not ever thought that being of use was something she might aspire to. She had spent her childhood being as contrary as possible, as a reaction to finding herself without friends or place or even parents who cared about her. The harsh hand of Kalameshli had seemed almost more paternal than that of Akrit. And yet all that time she had been in his thoughts: if not as his child, then at least as his weapon.

  If he had asked for her agreement, she might have said yes, and been forever after bound by her own word. He took her consent – her subjugation to his plan and his will – as a given though. He never asked, and so never extracted that agreement from her.

  And then he added, ‘And we must find you a mate, of course.’

  She went still at the thought.

  ‘If the Shadow Eaters are to be driven into the Wolf’s Shadow, they will need a firm hand holding the switch,’ he went on, and the image made her think of Kalameshli, so that for a terrible moment she thought that the old priest was somehow being put forward as a suitor, against his vows and all prior custom.

  ‘I will rule them for you,’ she said, but Akrit barely seemed to hear her.

  ‘You will need a man, a hunter, to govern you,’ he told her, ‘even if the Shadow Eaters will want to hear his words in your voice.’ He frowned. ‘Someone who will do what he’s told.’

  Something inside her was turning sour, as though she had been drinking and the liquor was curdling in her stomach. Yes, so many of her peers had lived a life of speculation over who they might be mated to, recounting the names of the fine young hunters or hearth-keepers of the Wolf tribes. For Maniye, however, it had never been a consideration. She had made a virtue of necessity. She had lived a future in her mind in which she was self-sufficient: a tribe of one.

  ‘I would match you to Smiles Without Teeth,’ Akrit went on, forging deeper and deeper into this appalling new territory and dragging her along with him. ‘I would want him always at my side, though. And he is . . . not the cleverest.’

  Maniye had begun to shake, very slightly. She thought of big, brutal Smiles Without Teeth, a man without humour or imagination, but very quick to strike out whenever the complex world frustrated him. He had already taken one wife, Maniye recalled, but the woman had been seen too often with bruises about her face, and she had cast him from her hearth. Smiles had been searching for a new wife ever since, but no woman would look at him.

  But her father continued talking, the drink drawing the words out of him, and Kalameshli listened complacently. Nothing of the conversation even required her contribution or consent.

  ‘But then I thought,’ Akrit went on, ‘there was one I need by my side for the fight, and nothing I’ve done for the ungrateful cur has ever bound him to me enough to keep him here whenever spring comes. But if I give you to Broken Axe, that must be enough. He must know his wandering days are done, and become my warrior.’

  Maniye sat motionless, because she knew this game: this was the game she herself had played every day up to today, up to the Testing. This was the game she had thought she would never need to play again. This was show nothing on your face. This was where she sat and pretended that nothing that she heard or saw affected her, because if the world knew that it could hurt you, then hurt you it would.

  Matched to the man who killed my mother. And it was obvious that her father saw nothing objectionable in this thought at all.

  All at once she had made up her mind and knew what she must do.

  ‘What good are you?’

  The moon was overcast tonight, so the darkness of the pit was near total. She stared challengingly at the pale smudge that was the Snake priest, Hesprec Es
sen Skese.

  ‘Tell me,’ she hissed, feeling inexplicably furious at him, just for his being there, as though he was to blame for her predicament. ‘What’s the use of you? What’s a Snake priest for?’

  ‘I know many things,’ he said carefully.

  ‘What things? Priest things? Magic?’

  ‘Ssome magic, yesh.’

  ‘You have friends here in the Crown of the World? Friends who will help you?’

  He was silent. That meant no.

  ‘These things you know, they’re valuable? Or you can make people do what you want, or . . . ?’ Her words tailed away to nothing. He was bound, haltered, kept in a pit. If his knowledge gave him genuine power, would any of those things be true? ‘What good are you?’ she repeated.

  She heard him take a deep breath and then he spoke as clearly as he could, fighting to speak around his raw gums. ‘The wise of the north might value what I know, those who lust for blood less than do the Wolf. The Horse people will honour me. And I can live in many lands.’

  ‘You’re no hunter.’

  ‘You need no hunter to trap or to fish.’ His patient, quiet tone was maddening.

  ‘You’ll die,’ she spat at him, striving to keep her voice low despite her desperation. ‘If my father hadn’t taken you, you’d be a frozen body out in the woods, or prey for our mute brothers.’

  ‘And yet I crossed half the world to get here.’

  She thought hard. She felt as though there must be some magic combination of words that would somehow cut the whole knot of her problem open, and present her with a simple and certain way out. Instead she had herself, and she had this ragged, wretched creature.

  She was leaving, she had decided. She was abandoning the tribe. It wasn’t unknown. Broken Axe had done it, become a lone Wolf and made his mark on the world. Much as she did not want to think about him, perhaps in this he would be her inspiration.

  Of course, Broken Axe – or the youth he had once been – was not wanted by the chief for some mad plan to conquer the Tiger.

  ‘What troublessh you, girl?’ asked Hesprec Essen Skese softly.

  She glared at him. She would give him no blades to hold to her throat, nor secrets to cut her with. She had crouched in her alcove under the roof of the chief’s hall and counted over her options, forced herself to examine precisely why she was going to cut herself loose from her own people. The bitterness of it was that she had finally been given something to stay for, after all. She had passed the Testing. She had proved herself a Wolf. If he had only left her alone after that, she would have been Akrit’s most loyal supporter. She could have taught herself to love him, despite all, even to love Kalameshli because he was the voice of the Wolf, her Wolf. But that was not what Akrit had wanted from her. He did not want her at all – not Maniye. He wanted a tame Shadow Eater cub with the Tiger muzzled within her, so as to twist her mother’s people into paying him tribute and strengthening his name. That was all she was: a thing to be used. And to keep her on a leash, he would marry her to Broken Axe. That ought to be the worst of it, but in truth it was that sense of being used, as a thing is used: that cut deepest.

  And even if the old Snake died in the cold, in the snow, in the woods, still she would be striking one grand blow against her father and against Kalameshli. Not only would she be taking herself out of their grasp, she would be robbing the Wolf of his sacrifice. The thought made her breathless with fear and daring. If the Wolf would not accept her as herself, then she would not hesitate to steal from his hearth. She would turn her back on him. Perhaps she would choose the tiger in her once she could put off that choice no longer.

  The thought hurt her: making that choice between the two souls within her was like seizing briars. She knew she would eventually have to, lest her soul split in two and drive her mad, but she put the thought off one more time.

  ‘You said the Horse – you came from the south with the Horse Society?’ she told the Snake.

  ‘I did.’ Still so polite and conversational, though she could hear him shivering.

  ‘Would they take you south again?’

  ‘When I am done in the north.’

  ‘Done what? Done being sacrificed?’ she goaded him.

  ‘If the Wolf will not sspeak to me, there is still the Deer, the Eyrie, the Bear, the Tiger. Sss-somewhere I will find wisdom in this cold land.’

  She was about to demand that, as the price for his life, he take her south immediately, but then his words sunk in, and she thought . . . the Tiger?

  ‘Will they receive you?’ she asked. ‘Or will they kill you? How do you know you won’t be met like this wherever you go? We have no kind tales about the Serpent.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘I have to hope. It’s very important.’

  And she found she was decided, just like that. She had a flint blade in her hand and was stepping forwards, feeling him flinch.

  ‘If I cut loose your collar, can you Step? Can you climb?’

  ‘Better than a tiger.’ His voice, so close to her, made her shiver.

  ‘You must travel with me. I know these lands.’ A gross exaggeration from a girl who, a moment before, had despaired of finding any use for this wreck of an old man. Now, though, he was all she had. She needed to keep him with her.

  ‘Agreed.’

  She had her hands at his throat, the razor sharpness of the flint against his skin. She could have killed him then and there, another way of stealing him from Kalameshli.

  She seized the rope they had haltered him with, the noose that held him to his human shape, and sawed at it, tugging him back and forth, until the tough fibres parted and abruptly he was free.

  Instantly she jumped backwards, Stepping so that she could see him with her tiger’s eyes. For a moment he was just the same stiff old man, hands tied to a stake driven into the earth floor. Then, with the impression of immense relief and release, he Stepped. It was a fluid, elegant motion, one that ceded nothing of his age and stiffened joints. In an instant he had no arms nor hands, and the ropes had fallen away. Before her eyes he squirmed into the form of a serpent as long as she was tall: a lithe, dangerous-looking creature. For a second she froze, aware that he could strike at her easily within the close confines of the pit.

  But, of course, he had no fangs, thanks to Kalameshli. He could only threaten. She could sink her own claws into this reptile and rip him apart.

  Then he was lifting up his head, weaving up the pit’s vertical side, and she waited for him to drop back down and yet he never did, just ascending and ascending in a lazy zig-zag, somehow clinging to the earth with the very scales of his belly until his head had looped over the edge and he was fully up.

  She realized that she was being left behind and followed suit, scraping and raking herself up, with far more effort than he had shown.

  At the top, she thought she had lost him. Crouching low to the ground and relying on the cloud-coated sky to hide her in its shadow, she could see no sign of either snake or man. Then something moved almost under her feet and he was there, lifting his arrow-shaped head, the forked tongue flicking.

  She had hidden a pack nearby: a hide bag of stolen food and clothes that she reckoned she could strap about her and carry either as wolf or tiger. Now she crept towards it, waiting to see if either of tonight’s sentries was more alert, or whether they were still drinking to celebrate the successful Testing.

  At her heels, the serpent followed. Unfanged or not, the thought made her shiver.

  7

  For the people of the Crown of the World, fall meant a time of sacrifice. Winters came hard enough to kill experienced wilds-men as well as just the old and the young. If a tribe had miscalculated or had suffered a poor year, or if vermin got at the stores, then winter was a killing time. None knew it more than the Wolf, and those that died in winter were the Wolf’s due. Offering sacrifice as the nights grew long might persuade the Wolf to act as messenger to the greater powers of storm and snow and cold, and th
us persuade them to stay their hands. Such intervention could make the difference between a winter that took only a few of the weak and one that took all but the strongest.

  Journeying with Hesprec Essen Skese was not easy, Maniye had discovered. It was not like travelling with some sorcerer priest of the mysterious south. It was like travelling with an old, old man, and one with far too many quirks that slowed them down.

  For a start, and while it was still dark – their best chance to put distance between themselves and Akrit’s hall – he had called a halt, lurching into his human form and shivering in the thin robe they had left him, out of all his belongings. She had been forced to Step likewise and delve in her pack for what little she had brought for him: soft hide shoes that would surely not last long before wearing through; an old sheepskin jacket, much mended; a very thin woollen cloak. He struggled into them all gratefully. The first spots of rain were lancing down from the louring clouds above, and she had to watch as he sat and fought with the shoes, forcing his too-big feet into them, then fumbling with the bindings. And all the while their time was wasting, and they were still close enough that she felt tethered to the Winter Runners and her home.

  About that time Maniye realized that she had not really been heading anywhere in particular. In fact, she had been taking them north, into friendless climes where the weather would get no kinder. What had drawn her there was the treeline. The cover of the woods lay closest in that direction, for the uneven landscape made felling difficult. Now she would have to pretend that was her plan, or else lose what little faith the Snake priest might have in her.

  It made some sense: get into the shadow of the trees, then curve east, because she was heading for . . .

  ‘You said the Horse men would listen to you . . .’ She frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

  The old man had torn up the hem of his thin robe, exposing his bony ankles, and was binding the ripped cloth about his bald head with meticulous care.

  ‘Sshowing due deference,’ he told her, and he was certainly taking his time about it, no matter how his hands trembled in the cold, or how blue his lips were. That was the first time she wondered if he might just die on her; if she would leave his emaciated corpse behind her, not enough meat on him for a Coyote’s belly.