And he replied: ‘How can you think that?’
She was silent a long while, feeling that she had not understood, that he had said one thing and her ears had misheard it entirely. And yet he was sitting there peacefully with no angry words, no blows. And this was the same man who had whipped her through her trials, pacing after her with dreadful patience, and waiting for her to fail.
‘You have hunted me my whole life,’ she told him. ‘I lived each day in fear of you. When I came to Step, you knew I went as a tiger where no one else saw. And you hated it.’
‘Of course,’ he snapped, as though this was too obvious to need saying.
‘And you hated me for it because I offended the Wolf.’ She had wanted to say ‘your Wolf’, but it was her Wolf too, no matter how she might fight it. ‘So you punished me at every chance you got. Don’t blame me for seeking a life outside the Winter Runners. Blame my father. Blame yourself.’
‘You idiot child,’ he began, with an edge of familiar anger that she welcomed. But then he continued: ‘I drove you hard so that you became a strong child of the Wolf. I tried to whip the tiger out of you because, if you had slipped just once and been a tiger before the eyes of the Winter Runners, they would have torn you apart.’ And abruptly his voice was fierce with emotion, though he forced himself to keep it low. ‘So you had to be forced to be a Wolf above all things, no matter what! I drove you to make you strong, you stupid girl!’
‘But not so strong as to break away from your hold,’ she challenged him. ‘Not so strong that I couldn’t still be a thrall in Stone River’s mad plans that could never have worked.’
‘If the woman really had been dead, they might have worked. If she dies now, they still may.’
Maniye felt a stab of pain and outrage. My mother! No matter how she had left the Shining Halls, no matter that the Tiger were probably still hunting her with murder in mind, she had found her mother once. She felt a loyalty there, where Akrit stirred nothing in her. Perhaps it was just a loyalty to the ideal mother she might have dreamt of, rather than the all-too-real father that she knew.
‘I have seen your altar, priest,’ she told Takes Iron. ‘The Tiger Queen will outlive me.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘I heard my father. He thinks my death will win him the Wolf’s love.’
‘A death – but perhaps not yours. I have spoken to him. Another throat has bared itself to us now. I will make him spare you.’
‘What other throat?’ Maniye demanded, and he told her.
The clash of champions, open combat under the sun, that was one way for the Sun River Nation, yet there were others. When his father’s people had surprised Venat’s pirates, they had blown no trumpets to alert their foes. Sometimes an attack must proceed by the moon’s rules.
The moon was too grand and bright for his liking, but there was plenty of the cloud that seemed never to leave these northern skies. So it was that the light faded in and out, and great bands of shadow passed over the world, as though Asmander lay in clear water as vast fish swam above.
Well, he had only this night, so no sense complaining about his preferences. The world did not care.
And it would be cold. Even with this ‘summer’ they were so proud of, even with the clouds to hug the day’s heat in, he was under no illusions. He had clothed himself and donned his armour, and then clothed himself again, layer after layer, and still knew it would be cold.
There was a fire within the Champion: it hunted under sun or moon indifferently, burning up its strength for warmth, for speed and strength. But Old Crocodile, he was a creature of the warm days of the south who loved nothing more than to lie in the sun on the banks of the Tsotec. Show him the cold air of the Crown of the World and he grew slow in mind and body.
And yet, Stone River had set guards all about his camp – scouts who were men and scouts who were wolves – and left one gate wide open, unbarred and unwatched. There was a slender whip of a river that curled into his camp at the forest’s edge before passing under the trees, and that would be Asmander’s road.
The wolves’ noses were keen, but the water would disperse the scents of both reptile and man. How good were wolf eyes in the dark? Asmander could not say, but Old Crocodile saw well by moonlight and possessed keener senses besides. Many had been lost beside the Tsotec because of a shadow or a log with hidden teeth.
Asmander had warmed himself as much as he could, and sealed in that warmth with hides and furs and cloth. When he Stepped to that long, ridge-backed shape, the hoarded heat of his human body would be the only fire he had to warm himself with. Old Crocodile would provide no more for him.
Enough, he told himself, knowing that now he was simply taking up time to avoid having to act. Go now.
And so he did, sliding headlong into the river, Stepping even as he went, so that he barely made a ripple. Gliding in the waters with only his eyes and nostrils above the surface, he felt the thickness of his clothes become a barrier within that crocodile body, keeping out the chill of the river. He let the current carry him, drawing silently near to where the Wolves had their camp.
The Champion would have ambushed them – every one of them. How many of the Wolves could he have fought, catching them unprepared and without their iron hides? All of them? Probably not, and yet the Champion was nothing if not confident in his own abilities.
He had stood in the dark, after leaving the others, on the brink of calling that shape to him, and decided it was not permitted. He had committed a shameful act, unworthy of what he was. It did not matter that he had fulfilled his duty to his family, or to Tecuman. The Champion held him to a higher standard. Until he had lived through this night, he was locked in his body with only Old Crocodile for comfort.
Knowing this in his heart, he did not call for the shape of the Champion, in case he was right and it would not come.
He could scent the camp as he drifted closer, just a little sculling with his tail aiding the flow of the water. His eyes, half-closed so as not to reflect the firelight, marked the presence of sentries along the bank. Old Crocodile brought the news of them to him with a rumble of hunger: any warm, living shape by the water’s edge spoke to the animal within him. He fought that instinct down.
And if the wolves looked into the river, even in the full lambent paleness of the moon, they would see only a log drifting . . .
He left himself glide a little further, well past the ring of sentries that Stone River had posted in case the Tiger was stalking. There was a grand fire that the camp was built around, and with a structure of stones and wood set before it. There were tents pitched – neat little things that spoke to him of economy and warmth – and there was a larger and more untidy shelter strung about one of the trees. That must be Stone River’s domain, surely? And yet it seemed a rough piece of work, with gaps where the cold would creep in and no sign of a fire inside.
He slowed himself and his long form drifted towards the riverbank, where he clawed into the mud for anchorage. The cold of the water had begun seeping into him and he would have to get out soon, to return to his human shape and restore some heat.
His nose was telling him a lot, but he did not have any memory of the girl’s scent. The big tent looked too flimsy to be a prison but, still, where else to keep a prisoner? There was also a big pit up where the ground rose away from the river, but that stank strongly of pigs. Would they put the girl in such a place? Asmander realized he had no idea if such a thing might be done in the Crown of the World.
He had been hoping they would just have her out in the open, tied to a tree or similar. But then this was a test, after all, and the world expected him to exert himself. Nothing was supposed to be easy.
Except . . .
Except, looking towards the treeline, surely there was something there? Old Crocodile was not so good at seeing distances in the dark, so Asmander let himself slide back into the water. With a sinuous ripple of his spine, he let himself ease closer, passing invisibly through the
heart of the camp before beaching himself once again. The cold was beginning to slow him now. He must make a plan and act on it.
There was a prisoner tied there. It was almost as if he had dreamt it, and the dream had become real. There, from the nearest tree, was a captive hung by the wrists. And yet it was not the girl. Within his barrel body, Asmander’s heart stuttered.
A man: Broken Axe.
‘You have him?’ Maniye demanded.
‘He crept into our camp, but we were waiting for him,’ Kalameshli confirmed. ‘He will say nothing, but I know he came for you.’ The moon caught the old man’s raised eyebrow. ‘Is it for your mother that he would save you?’
‘My mother cannot live with the fact of me,’ Maniye said bitterly. ‘And Broken Axe . . .’
‘If you have grown an affection for him, you should have become his mate when your father offered the match,’ Takes Iron observed with that mocking tone she was used to from him. ‘He will surely die now. Amiyen demands to wield the blade: she claims a right of vengeance against him.’
‘Amiyen and her son would have killed me, once they found me,’ Maniye told him flatly. ‘If not for Broken Axe they would have done so. She is no loyal hunter of Stone River.’
The old priest nodded slowly. She could still not believe that he was just sitting here speaking with her. Where had the savage tormentor of her childhood gone? Why did the man care?
‘So Stone River believes that the Wolf will welcome Broken Axe’s soul as a gift?’ she enquired.
‘Broken Axe will die – as all who turn against the Wolf must die,’ Kalameshli replied equably. ‘But because of that—’
‘Broken Axe is the Wolf,’ Maniye hissed fiercely. ‘He is the Wolf that walks alone. He is a man unto himself, not a creature that needs the crutches of others like my father does. You think the Wolf will be glad when Broken Axe’s blood is shed? The Wolf will curse Akrit Stone River seven ways.’
Kalameshli sighed, exasperated. ‘Girl—’
‘My name is Many Tracks. Broken Axe gave it to me.’
He slapped her. In the dark, she barely saw his hand move before the hard boniness of it exploded against her cheek.
In the startled silence that followed, Kalameshli spoke slowly and patiently. ‘Broken Axe will die. If he is weak and a traitor, he will die for that reason. If he is strong and a rival to Stone River’s power, then it is fit he will die for that. Let the Wolf decide what taste his soul has. But, with that sacrifice, it may be Stone River will be satisfied.’
But this time Maniye felt that she had wisdom, and it was the priest who indulged in foolish fantasies. ‘If he finds more to barter, then he will trade it all, and get whatever value he can. He would cut a thousand throats if he thought the Wolf would place a great sign on him to make him known as High Chief. You know this, Takes Iron.’
And he did know it. She could see it from the defeated slump of his shoulders. Still he tried to argue: ‘He has listened to my counsel for many years. He has heeded me since before you were born. He will heed me now when I tell him you must be spared.’
‘Why?’ she asked simply, and then to clarify, ‘Why would you even try? You say you have tried to make me strong? Old man, you have tried to break me all my life.’
‘That is how it is with iron as with men,’ came his almost-whisper. ‘They must be taken to the point of breaking, beaten, hardened, tempered. Only then can they be strong enough to take an edge and not to shatter. With iron and men both, that is how it is. I have always tried to make you strong, stronger than the rest. I have tried to make you such a thing as the Wolf might be proud of.’
And the word, Why? was on her lips again, but then there came to her some words of her mother’s, when the woman had been least able to stand the sight of her own daughter, because of the captivity and the treatment that had ushered Maniye into the world. I cannot forget them, Stone River and that loathsome creature his priest. And here was the priest, cursed by her mother for exactly the same deeds as Akrit himself.
And she understood: staring on Kalameshli, she saw it all, the secret that even her father – that her father most of all – could not know.
Broken Axe had been ill used. The moonlight touched the bruises the Wolves had laid on him in capturing him, and there was a noose drawn tight about his neck. He was strung up by his thumbs to a branch, high enough that he was on his toes trying to keep his own weight from tearing at his arms.
He was guarded, but the woman standing before him had no eyes for Asmander. Instead her venom was turned entirely on her captive. Words drifted on the air, hissed in an ugly mutter: she was telling Broken Axe how he would suffer. They would give his soul to the Wolf and to the fire, yes, but she would bring him plenty of pain before then.
Asmander was still creeping along, belly to the earth, just a long low shape that took one slow step at a time as he neared. He would have to find his human feet soon enough: even the ground was chilling his innards like ice.
And then he was as close as he dared, and he Stepped so that he was still lying low to the ground, arms splayed out, hands still in the mud, thick clothes all dry as if he had never been in the river at all.
He understood the woman: from her words, she had a right of vengeance for a dead son. It was a debt that would be understood over all the world. In the Sun River Nation a parent’s grief might be bought off, but here in the Crown of the World they were more true to themselves.
To interfere with a right of vengeance was the wrong thing to do, but Asmander felt he had the curious luxury of already having placed himself beyond honour. And he could not leave Broken Axe.
He shifted closer, crouching low on all fours. There were plenty of Wolves in earshot but none watching: this woman’s vengeance was personal and private. When she struck out at Axe, marking him with her knife, that was a matter between the pair of them, and Asmander was an unwelcome eavesdropper.
But he would have to kill her instantly and noiselessly. One cry or shout of warning would set the whole camp on him.
He saw Broken Axe notice him, as he rose up behind the woman: just a flicker in the man’s eyes, hurriedly masked.
A blow from his maccan would not suffice, he reckoned, and he had no expectation that he might creep close enough to gag the woman and cut her throat. She was a warrior, and likely she would manage to shout or wrestle herself away from him.
This left him one option: not sure by any means, but it might serve. This was a trick he had been taught by the Serpent priests: something that was common practice amongst them, but came far harder to all other people.
He was standing behind the Wolf woman now, watching as she slammed a fist in under Broken Axe’s ribs, raising nothing but a stubborn grunt from her victim.
Gingerly, Asmander extended a hand, until he could have touched her shoulder. In his mind he was trying to think through that exacting set of translations he would need: something closer to mathematics than mere Stepping. And again he was putting things off, despite the danger should any of the Wolves happen to glance this way.
The woman made his mind up for him. She caught sight of his hand in the corner of her eye and began turning, her mouth open.
He Stepped, throwing his shape forwards along the line of his extended arm. For Serpents this was easy: their legless nature divorced them from the human shape almost entirely. A crocodile was closer to a man, but still different enough that, if Asmander fought hard, he could twist himself so that his outstretched arm exploded out into the gaping jaws, his head merging into his shoulder, his body whipping out into the long, saw-scaled tail, even as he lunged forwards.
His jaws snapped down across the Wolf woman’s head and arm with all the force he could give them, and the falling weight of his body – more than human – took her off her feet. He wrenched her savagely about by the grip of his myriad teeth that were hard and sharp as onyx flakes. He felt her neck break, her skull crush inwards. Her blood was warm and maddening in his throat, awaking
Old Crocodile’s hunger savagely. He was hard pressed not to give in to it and simply feed.
She had died in her human shape, he knew. Her flesh was a prison for her ghost, and to eat of it would be to invite madness. He shook his head until the mangled body fell clear of his jaws. He could feel her ghost stuck between his teeth, caught there like a fragment of meat.
Then he was human again, and cutting Broken Axe down. The renegade Wolf had no words for him, but there was understanding in his eyes. That was all the reward Asmander needed just then.
He could have Stepped to the Champion’s shape then, for he felt he had regained enough of his honour to do so. He could have called out all the Wolves and seen how many it would take to bring him down. He wanted to finish what he had come for, though: retrieve the girl and get her away. Moreover, he wanted to live.
He shared a moment’s silent communication with Broken Axe, and the Wolf nodded towards that big, haphazard tent. There.
The two of them crept about the periphery of the camp, whilst nearby there were plenty of Wolf eyes turned outwards, watching for the wrong enemy. Axe had stepped to his wolf shape, slinking like a grey shadow, crouching in stillness when the pale stripes of the moon passed over him.
Then he had frozen, one warning look cast backwards to warn his follower to do the same, and now someone was emerging from the tent. Asmander recognized the Wolf priest, in his coat of bones, and guessed that he had been conducting some ritual to prepare the girl for sacrifice. The old man paused, looking up at the sky, and there seemed something dejected or defeated about him.
The world is full of stories, Asmander reflected, willing the man to be on his way. Yours does not concern me.
And then the priest was gone, hurrying off towards the main fire, his face crossed with lines of worry. Asmander made to go forwards, but another look from Broken Axe stopped him. As the wolf slunk into the tent, Asmander crouched in the shadow of its entrance, hand on his maccan.
The Tiger and the Wolf (Echoes of the Fall Book 1) Page 48
