The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

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

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

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

  Olam bit his lip and 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 quite well, especially Elspeth. 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 made an arc with the travellers in the centre. Their leader squared up and sat a pace 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 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 stood silently. Eying the travellers up and down, he actually 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 in silence. They stood at what could have passed for military attention. Daric would doubtless be impressed. Not only could they talk, they were well disciplined, too.

  “Arlenoch died twenty years ago. I was young, so I may be mistaken, but I do not remember anyone called Olam… O… lam?” The wolf chewed around the name; clearly, he hadn’t 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 didn’t believe a word yet had to enquire by the edicts of some ancient ritual or law.

  Olam pondered the question. Remembering the old Illeas’cu welcome had certainly 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 sore 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 pack.

  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 rank of wolves. The line wavered as every wolf fidgeted and gaped wide-eyed at Arfael. Each bowed, doing a fair impression of respect—or was it fear? They settled into what looked like silent adoration. None took their eyes off Arfael, not even to look questioningly at one another. Eventually, the silence was broken as one wolf after another began nervously growling. 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 wrist. “I do not think they are going to attack, friend,” he said.

  Daric and Grady pulled Gialyn and the others in close. Both men stood with their backs to youngsters, 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, it did sound almost… worshipful, not a threat; it didn’t sound in the least bit aggressive. As though that were a cue to begin, all twelve wolves joined in the cry, including their leader. Each took their part in reciting an awful, mournful song, almost a dirge or requiem. The howling lament—if you could call it that; it had no melody to speak of, but still seemed structured somehow—astonished Olam and filled his mind with questions. He was almost sad when the wolves stopped. He would have loved to study it for a while.

  The lead wolf slowly came forward. Directing his comment to Arfael, he spoke, “You are of Gan’ifael, are you not, of the tribe, Kel’mai?” he said. For a moment, his lip seemed to tremble at asking the question. Strange that a wolf should be nervous—or shy? No, not shy. Shocked, the wolf was in shock.

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

  “Beg your pardon, sir. We know this man as Arfael, a good friend of mine for many years.” Olam put his hand upon Arfael’s shoulder.

  “I’d recognise a Kel’mai as surely as one of my brothers,” the wolf said. “But we have not heard talk of his kin, outside The Great Hall, for over a hundred years, save the reading of The Scrolls of Illeas, of course.” He said the last as though expecting Olam to understand what it meant. “Yet your kin is known to all the Rukin. The tales of your victories are read to us as pups. Your tribe is legend.” The wolf leader turned his gaze to Olam and asked, “How is it that you know nothing of this? You must know of the old unions, if what you say is true, if he is your friend. The Rukin and the Kel’mai were Battle-Brothers for centuries.”

  Olam felt his eyebrows more with each word the wolf leader spoke. Gods, this could be it. An answer. He bowed again. You must handle this with care, Olam. Thirty years of questions. He cleared his throat twice before answering. “Sir, that is a long story, and I would be happy to tell you, but I’m afraid that he has no memory of what you speak.” Olam cleared his throat again. Very nervous. “If you know him, if you know of his people, then this truly is fortuitous. Arfael and I have searched for years in hopes of finding some answers to his heritage.”

  “So he is cursed?” the wolf said. He didn’t look very surprised.

  “I do not think he is… cursed, no. And please, might we know your name?” Olam raised his palms in greeting, as is the custom in Illeas—he hoped.

  Seems he was right; the wolf nodded back at him. “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—at least Olam thought that’s what it was. The other wolves relaxed, anyway. Toban, himself, sat casually before the travellers. “Yes, we can answer your question, but later. This is not the time. And please, be at ease. We are not your enemy.” Toban glanced at the rock face, over which Si’eth and the other Salrians had escaped. “Speaking of enemy, what quarrel do you have with the Salrians? I have never seen them this far south, not since the war at least.”

  “That is another long story,” Olam said. “May we get water? I have a mighty thirst after all this excitement.”

  “Of course. As I said, you are amongst friends. Do as you will.” Toban’s look took in all the travellers, especially Arfael.

  Elspeth and Gialyn, and even Ealian, returned to the trees to fetch water and some food. Daric sat on the ground in front of Toban, while Grady helped Arfael to the fallen tree. The big man was still a little unsure on his feet. Olam remained standing in front of Toban.

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

  “By his necklace. 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 didn’t like it so much o
nce I told him.”

  Toban nodded. “He should be treated with honour.” Olam heard no doubt in Toban’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 hesitated and then shook his head. “No, this is not the time or place for such talk. We must get you home and safe.”

  Olam’s attention drew away from Toban towards the two wolves running quickly down the grassy slope. They were from the pack that chased the Salrians over the ridge. The two made directly for Toban without so much as a second look to 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 looked a little confused but didn’t press for answers.

  He delivered his report. “They are through the trees and back towards the marsh. We followed for near a mile, but they’re gone. We saw signs of a camp. Was that yours?” Aleban looked to Olam for an answer.

  Olam shook his head. “Our last camp lay half a day west, in southern Am’bieth.”

  “Then it was the Salrians. By the size of the camp, I would put their number at fifteen, maybe twenty. Not accounting for scouts.”

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

  Olam thought it strange the others knew nothing of the Rukin, but then, of course, the wolves were very secretive. Despite their current acceptance, they were unlikely to welcome strangers. Olam remembered, at his last visit he’d had to camp two miles south of the village. However, that was only a simple trade meeting. I wonder if Elim is still there. I must remember to ask if the opportunity arises. I must not ruin this! He’d had no reason to visit for decades. If he had, Arfael would have known of his kin years ago. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Lose one friend because you were too busy helping another. Fool!

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

  Toban looked at his number two and then nodded in Arfael’s direction. The wolf leader had the wolf equivalent of a cheeky grin on his face. Arfael was sat with his back against the fallen tree. Only now did Aleban notice him. Like Toban, Aleban’s first reaction was to back away. Arfael was busy holding a wet cloth to his head and eating some bread. He didn’t notice all the fuss or Aleban’s bow. The second turned back to Olam and bowed again, almost to the floor. “Em wra ach ulf.” He recited the Illeas welcome with reverence.

  Olam returned his bow. “Em wra ach ulf.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Grady, who until now seemed content to sit back, watch, and listen.

  Toban answered, “It’s from the old wolf. There is no—what is the word?—translating. It is a simple ‘welcome to my home’ spoken back before we became kin with our Surabhan bothers. By that, I mean those who have shared our home for the past three centuries, not all of Aleras’moya. We find most of your kind… distasteful and vulgar.” Toban curled his lip.

  “What! You actually eat Surabhan?” Elspeth asked. She had just returned from fetching water.

  Toban laughed. “No. We do not eat men, at least not in this age. When I say ‘distasteful,’ I mean we do not like their manner: always concerned with conquest; caring more for trinkets and pageantry than they do for their own kin; drawing lines in the sand and spilling the blood of their young over it. You know, that sort of thing.”

  “Yet you do protect this land, don’t you?” Elspeth said.

  “We call this ours because it puts line to paper in the minds of your leaders. In truth, we have no border. We stay because it is safe. Your armies have no need of this land of grass and rock. Yet, mark my words, if there were ought of any value to them, they would be on us like flies on a day-old kill, and we would have to move on. We will not die to protect a blade of grass. Wolves we may be; fools we are not! As for being territorial, our sacred canon states that all lands should be free to travel and settle on, providing the land is cared for, respected.”

  Olam nodded in agreement. “Wise words, sir.”

  Toban stood and turned towards the trees. “We will drink from the stream, and then we must be off. You should come to Illeas’den while we figure the plans of these neighbours of yours.”

  Olam looked at Daric, Grady, and the others. Everyone nodded in agreement. “We accept your gracious offer, sir.”

  “Good. Ready yourselves. We will leave in five minutes.” Toban laughed to himself. “This is going to be… interesting.”

  * * *

  The travellers followed Toban up along the shallow eastern edge of the grassy verge. It was still early, yet the day already seemed old. Walking in the shadow of the Illeas Ridge was some welcome relief. It was going to be another hot day. Before long, the soft grass gave way to hard shale. The wolves broke from encircling the travellers and lined up in single file to climb the last steep rise.

  Gialyn followed at the rear of the pack. Best to keep out of the way of the elders. It looked as though they were in deep discussion over some point or other. It might have been interesting, but more likely not. Gialyn ambled lazily at the back of the line and chatted—yes, chatted—with one of the wolves. Mott appeared to be younger than most, but how do you tell? Apart from a little grey around Toban’s chin, there was no real sign of age amongst any of them.

  The young wolf was happy to point out landmarks. Gialyn couldn’t help but smile at the wolf’s laidback, matter-of-fact chatter. Mott spoke like any other young adult. He could be talking to someone back home in Geddy, for all the difference it made. Gialyn felt a small stab of shame that he might have expected any different. The wolves clearly didn’t see of themselves as a curiosity. Gialyn resolved to treat Mott and the others like any other “person.”

  “That is Illeas’coi,” Mott said, nodding his head towards a clump of trees on the far side of the rise, “or at least the start of it. It follows the Cu round to the south and along the bottom of Am’bieth. It eventually joins with Herann’coi. We do our hunting there. But hunting is mostly ceremonial now.”

  “Why is that?” Gialyn traced the path with his eyes, following the Cu—the grassland—south until it disappeared behind the western rift. “I wonder why we didn’t just follow that instead of going through the marsh,” he mumbled, not expecting the wolf to answer.

  “Because of the Raithby,” Mott said, “or the Am’firth, whatever it is called east of the marsh. There is no bridge at Am’bieth. The nearest is on the southern road, almost at the Eurmac Canyon. It would add weeks to your journey. And as far as the hunting goes, we farm now, or at least our Surabhan cousins do. We have goats and pigs and cows, just like anyone else.”

  Gialyn felt his brow crease. The idea of wolves “farming” seemed somehow stranger than wolves talking. “How—uh—how do you manage that, if you don’t mind me asking?” A vision of wolves planting seeds with their teeth came to mind. No, that cannot be it.

  Mott laughed. “I suppose it does sound strange at that. We share duties where we are able. Guarding the flocks against wilders—foxes, badgers, hawks and such—is our main task. Some of the wolves are big enough to pull carts, and four together can turn a plough quite well. Course, we’re not as big as Darkin, but we do all right.”

  “Darkin?”

  “Yes. Darkin are our southern cousins. They are much bigger than Rukin and mostly black. They are the real Battle-Brothers. Rukin were scouts and runners; Darkin are fighters. I do not think they pull carts or farm. They live at the southwestern corner of Crenach, almost at the Eurmac Canyon. From what I hear, they have not calmed much since the last war. And they are bigger than ever, though how that happened is a mystery. They are the first Battle-Blood clan, and they stayed separate long after the peace. You are lucky you didn’t stumble upon their territory, Gialyn.”

  The thought of wolves bigger than Mott and the others made Gialyn gulp. He had never se
en a wolf bigger than Toban. Standing straight, his head almost reached Daric’s shoulder, and Gialyn’s father was by no means a small man. “Oh, well, must remember to keep away from there. Southwest Crenach, you say?”

  Mott laughed. “Do not worry. They are not killers, not anymore. At least I don’t think they are. They are just… unfriendly.”

  And with that admonition, Gialyn stopped. They had reached the top of the bank, and nobody was moving. Daric, Grady, and the others stood shoulder to shoulder across the narrow path at the very top of the hill. They were all looking down. Gialyn edged his way to the side to see what the fuss was. What he saw was not a disappointment. Illeas’cu was a remarkable sight.

  Vivid patchwork blankets of serine farmland spread fully to the northern horizon, hedged in an unnatural order with straight lines of arbour and bramble. The pale-green lines of the early corn and the solid yellow hue of oil seed quilted the base of the valley. Well-spaced orchards dotted the lower edge of the ridge where the ploughs wouldn’t reach. In the centre, a lake of crystal blues and greens lay at the mid-ground, edged up against an arcing rock face running along the northern shoreline, cradling the lake with enormous stony hands. Speckled lines of birch and maple and oak flirted with the ridges of grey-white stone that lay to the west and northeast, their form reaching out beyond the horizon, as though framing an extraordinary picture. The entire valley, as far as the eye could see, gave an impression of an immense well-ordered garden.

  The travellers followed Toban and Aleban down through tree-lined paths, stretching east towards the far edge of the lake. The broad-leafed canopy was so complete it was as if they wandered into a tunnel. At its end, bramble and thicket took the mantle of border, as the path wound around eastwards along the outer face of the lake’s rocky scarp. A gently sloping lane rose northwards for another half mile. Until eventually, they came to the southern gate of Illeas’den.