The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Sitting on the rock on which he had sharpened his sword, Rafen gazed at his hands. Slowly, he touched the warm phoenix feather within his hem. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth; he wanted to spit and spit, but it was a matter of loyalties, not bloodlust. The Phoenix had called him to fight.

  “I think I see it now,” he said to Erasmus. He raised his eyes to the greenery above. Zion was not displeased with him. He felt it in the air, in his veins, in the beating of his own heart.

  “No one ever said it would be pleasant,” Erasmus said.

  “No,” Rafen said, after a pause. “What did you mean when you talked about the Sianian Wolf?”

  “A handful of peasant prophecies speak of the Sianian Wolf,” Erasmus said, gazing at Rafen. “The Wolf is a leader of the Sianian peasants, sent by Zion with a soul after his. And that Wolf is you.”

  “How do you know?” Rafen queried with suspicion.

  Erasmus laughed. “You already feature in prophesies,” he said in his strong peasant’s brogue, “and you can transform into a wolf at will. That in itself is rare enough. If we combine that with your nature, your fighting abilities, and your recent action, I think we find the Sianian Wolf. There’s nothing unusual about being in a prophecy, Rafen. Most everything that’s come to pass in Siana has been prophesied. Zion tells us His word and keeps it, and that is what makes Him the God of all.”

  “I’m already the Fledgling,” Rafen said, staring his knees. “How can I be both Wolf and Fledgling?”

  Erasmus smiled and gave his sword an experimental swing. “Many of the folk prophesied about have a quiver-full of titles. They are never just one thing. It’s common enough. If you think of Her Highness Etana Calista Selson—”

  Rafen started at her name as if he had stepped on a thorn.

  “—she was called, in the Phoenix Tongue, which I can’t speak, Flower of the West, Lady of Siana, Princess, Sixth Secra, Helpmeet of the Fourth Runi, and Healer. The roles have differences, but are related too. As Flower of the West, she represented the Western peoples; as Lady of Siana, she was head of all Sianian women; as Princess, she was heir; and so on. Her Highness also had a title that included everything: Secra. All her roles were drawn from that. You’ve only found two of yours, Rafen. You might have more.”

  Rafen dug his fingernails into the grooves of the tree trunk behind him.

  “Aren’t the Wolf and Fledgling different?”

  “No,” Erasmus said. “Both are from Zion, both have a heart after Zion’s, and both are helpers of the Sianian folk. It is one and the same, when you know the prophecies.”

  “Father never told me about this,” Rafen said, looking down.

  “Only the peasants ever knew about the Wolf,” Erasmus explained. “That’s why you never heard of it. When you were named Fledgling, most of the peasants there that day probably wondered if you were also the Wolf. They share the same characteristics.”

  “I don’t feel like anyone special,” Rafen said through gritted teeth.

  “Good,” Erasmus said with finality. Rafen’s head snapped up to look at him. “You’re not anyone special,” Erasmus said, and Rafen wondered vaguely if this Wolf thing was all a joke, if Erasmus was going to break the spell and laugh at Rafen’s presumption. “Thousands of folk have been prophesied about. Thousands of leaders fill history. There’s always a hero. And everyone dies the same.”

  Rafen flinched.

  “Zion is the special One,” Erasmus said, rubbing his chin pensively. “He makes all heroes and keeps them going. Without Him, we have nothing. With Him –” Erasmus’ eyes became flinty “– we can give the Lashki a beating.”

  Rafen’s lips twitched into a smile.

  Chapter Seven

  No

  One Special

  “Let me go!” the eight-year-old peasant boy screamed, trying to break free from the Tarhian.

  As a wolf, Rafen had never realized what the Tarhian soldiers patrolling the countryside actually did. Much of it was confiscating weapons and immediately hanging their bearers; however, even more frequently, they bullied. They ran through a starving family’s only cattle for entertainment. They broke into a peasant’s house and ate all the food he had before lighting the building on fire and watching it go up in flames. They drowned a child before a mother’s eyes.

  Was it entirely pointless bullying? The presence of the occasional philosopher with the groups of Tarhians raised Rafen’s suspicions. Perhaps they were searching for more than fun. Perhaps they were after information.

  While drinking at the river, Rafen had heard disturbances nearby. He had run to peer through the holly trees surrounding a clearing nearby. Two tall, horse-faced Tarhians had a disheveled boy by the collar. At first they repeatedly released him and let him run a few steps only to snatch him back by the neck. Now one Tarhian gripped the wild-eyed child’s arm while the other held a large stone above his head, letting his fingers slip.

  It was so familiar. Rafen remembered the guards forcing him to eat horse dung in the Tarhian barracks. The wave of hair rushed over his skin, and he broke out of cover on four paws, barking madly. The two Tarhians froze, holding their positions: one grasping the boy, the other the stone. Then the one holding the stone let go. Everything was a blur for a second. Rafen leapt, shooting himself into the boy’s chest, throwing him backward. The stone thudded to the ground. The Tarhians clamored angrily.

  Beneath Rafen, the boy lay dazed. The stone sat benignly in the dust precisely where he’d been standing. Rafen scrambled to his paws and leapt clear of the child, whirling around to face the cursing Tarhians.

  One tore his pistol from its holster, and the other whipped out his sword. The pistol cracked, and Rafen narrowly avoided a bullet as he leapt for the shooter’s throat. The man shot again, seconds too late. Rafen felt the wind of the bullet in his fur as he flew toward the blue collar. His teeth tore through the fabric like it was cobweb and sank into what was beyond, and he thought he would be sick. The Tarhian shrieked; then his cry stopped short. Pulling himself free, Rafen fell to the ground.

  A swish and a sting down his side.

  Enraged at the prickling blood beneath his fur, Rafen pounced, growling at the second Tarhian. He hadn’t gotten far enough back to get height on the jump, and snapped desperately at the Tarhian’s thigh. His teeth cut into flesh. He worried it momentarily before throwing himself sideways to avoid another swipe from the sword. Despite his training, the unnerved Tarhian’s fighting was reduced to wild swinging. Rafen dodged a third blow, skittered behind him, and exploded from the ground in a terrible leap aiming for the back of the neck. The Tarhian screamed, casting his sword into Rafen’s trajectory. Rafen barely had time to dodge it. As he landed, the Tarhian fled into the Woods to the left.

  Huddled at the foot of a large cottonwood tree, the eight-year-old stared at Rafen, eyes glazed, tear tracks glittering on his cheeks. Rafen scampered over to him and sniffed, nuzzling the boy with his snout. The boy’s fast breathing stirred Rafen’s fur. There was no injury. Rafen rushed away to the river where he would wash his mouth and transform.

  Plunging into the icy water and disrupting a scavenging wood stork, Rafen tossed his head around repeatedly, drinking and rinsing. When his mouth was finally clean, Rafen allowed the hair to recede, his limbs to grow, and his face to resume normal size. He pulled himself out of the river, sodden in the filthy peasant clothes too large for him, shaking horribly as the dying man’s scream repeated itself in his head. The eight-year-old stood on the bank before him, his pale eyes wide.

  Wordlessly, the boy pointed to Rafen’s side. Rafen glanced at his shirt. The dirty brown fabric was stained with blood. Lifting it, Rafen examined the stinging, skin-deep cut.

  “It’s fine,” Rafen said.

  The boy nodded.

  “Where are your parents?”

  The boy indicated vaguely behind him.

  “Beyond the Woods?”

  “Aye.”

  “South of the Woods?”


  “Aye.”

  “I’ll take you to them. If you like.”

  “Thank you. What is your name?”

  “Pedro,” Rafen said.

  “No. You are the Sianian Wolf.”

  Rafen swallowed, unsure of what to say.

  “My father will tell you,” the boy said as Rafen led him through the Woods. “You ought to ken who you are.”

  Rafen retorted through clenched teeth, “I know who I am.”

  “You should have seen yourself.”

  “If I should have seen myself, Zion would have put my eyes somewhere else,” Rafen said.

  “Don’t gab like an old woman. You should have seen. You ripped his throat, and there was blood.”

  The boy sounded admiring, awestruck. Feeling strangely dizzy, Rafen wanted to run. This was the second time he had done this, and someone was going to find the corpse and kill him for it. The Tarhian’s son would do it – his brother – his father – his friend… Rafen put a hand to his reeling head.

  “If you had been at the rebellion,” the boy said, “they would never have lost.”

  “What rebellion?” Rafen asked hoarsely.

  “The admiral led it,” the boy said. “Aye, it was after we thought the royal family was killed. The admiral brought men in anyway, and he fought in the marketplace. Then an Ashurite philosopher arrived, and he beat them down with lots of others.”

  Rafen felt his heart stop. “And the admiral,” he said, “where is he?”

  “Gone. Vanished. You will lead the fighting now.”

  Rafen’s mind was buzzing. Alexander was still alive. Why would he lead a rebellion if the royal family were dead? If everything were lost, why would he fight so soon after the crushing blow? Alexander was a fighter, and he wasn’t one to die without trying. Still, he wasn’t rash, he wouldn’t be rash unless he had some motivating force. The Tarhians and philosophers roaming the countryside gave Rafen a flicker of hope. What were they searching for? Who were they searching for?

  “You said ‘we thought’,” he gasped. “We thought – then – then the Selsons are not dead?”

  The boy looked at him with wide eyes, as if he were insane. “We do not know,” he said, spreading his hands. “Perhaps they are alive. The admiral said to the Ashurite before he fled: ‘I know’. He said he knew the truth.” The boy smiled a very innocent smile. “I’m sure the king is alive,” he said.

  After twenty minutes in which Rafen plied the boy with questions, they at last broke through the trees on the edge of the Cursed Woods. Across from them, a thatched cottage stood. A farmer in a torn shirt of indiscriminate color picked up a bundle of wood by the doorway.

  “Father!” the boy shouted.

  The farmer turned. His weathered face lit up – and then he was rushing toward his son like a madman, his legs and arms waving in every direction. He grabbed the boy in an embrace like an attack.

  Rafen turned to leave.

  “Wait,” the man said.

  Rafen looked back. The boy pointed at him, gesticulating excitedly. “Father, the Wolf! Father, Father! I saw him do it, he did it, he helped—”

  “You are the Sianian Wolf?” the man said reverently.

  “I… I don’t know,” Rafen said.

  “If you be both wolf and man, who are you?”

  “Me” was a stupid answer, so Rafen bit his lip and kept silent.

  “Thank you,” the man said, indicating his son. “He has been gone two days. Please share a meal with us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rafen said. “I can’t risk it.”

  His thoughts had already flown back to the patrols that would soon be hunting him.

  “I’m sorry too,” the man said, staring at him intently, his head bowed.

  Rafen turned, pushing back through the red cedars, his mind revolving around what the boy had said in the Woods. Had Erasmus lied to him?

  *

  Rafen remained in his clearing for the next day. He erased any tracks he left anywhere. More Tarhians were roaming the countryside, and they played fewer games. That night, Rafen only slept for an hour or two, fitfully at best. He became rigid with fear when he heard something stirring near him in the darkness. Yet it was only Ahain, the clawed loner of his pack. Ahain liked to follow Rafen, because he was more merciful to him than the other wolves were.

  On the second day, Erasmus trained him at this same spot, and the first opportunity Rafen had, he asked him about the eight-year-old’s words.

  “Is it true?” he said. “What do you know about the rebellion?”

  “There was none,” Erasmus said shortly.

  He lunged forward to engage Rafen in a duel. However, Rafen had grown nimble; he jumped lightly away, keeping his blade up.

  “There was,” he said. “And you know about it.”

  “It means nothing,” Erasmus said, thrusting again.

  Rafen dodged with a whip-like movement; his blade was now glowing orange. “You’re lying,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re lying to me.”

  Erasmus swore under his breath. “You will regret you ever asked,” he said in a low voice. “I was there.”

  Rafen flushed with excitement. “You fought with Alexander?”

  “Yes. The admiral himself admitted it was a rash thing – seventy peasants against the Tarhians and whatever other enemies normally are in the marketplace,” Erasmus said, gripping his sword tightly. “Yet he believed in his cause, so we fought.”

  “But you lost,” Rafen said. He almost didn’t care. He was far more interested in Alexander’s motivations.

  “We lost,” Erasmus said, eyeing him suspiciously. “In fact, we were crushed. I, along with the admiral, was one of the only survivors. The Ashurite Asiel led a band of philosophers against us. The admiral was the only one among us who did kesmal, so naturally, it was not a pretty ending.”

  “There were two hundred philosophers on King Robert’s fleet,” Rafen said. “What happened to them? Why didn’t Alexander use them?”

  Erasmus looked very tired as he stared through the greenery on the opposite side of the clearing.

  “Erasmus? What happened to them? What happened to Alexander?” Rafen pressed.

  “He left. He had a mission.”

  “Which was what?” Rafen asked, his sword vibrating in his hand.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “I know you’ve been lying to me,” Rafen said, his voice rising. “The royal family is alive.”

  “They are not, Rafen.”

  “Why would you lie to me about this? What has Alexander left to do?”

  Rafen found he was shouting. Erasmus looked at him coolly; yet in his eyes Rafen caught a flicker of fear.

  “I am not lying to you,” he said. “Alexander left, as a matter of fact, to find you. He passed through the Woods themselves and must have missed you by a hairsbreadth. He was aware that without someone who can harm the Lashki, we may never win Siana back. Before going south, he told me to send a message if I should happen to hear any whispers of where you were. I found you and contacted him. He never replied. Perhaps my message never reached him.”

  “So he planned to use me as a sacrifice?” Rafen demanded. His insides had gone cold at the thought of another fight with the Lashki. He recalled Erasmus telling him that he was the only one who could help Siana. In his heart, Rafen knew it was true. He had been ready to fight the Lashki that first day in the Woods, after the royal family had walked into the trap at New Isles. Yet his kesmal hadn’t been good enough, and still wasn’t, even though he had been training for some time. “Does Alexander not care if I die?”

  “You would not be alone,” Erasmus countered, his gaze hard. “He is raising an army in the south. We may well have over a thousand men at our disposal, when the time comes. His intention was that he and his men would come to you, to fight with you.”

  “You told me we were planning a minor revolt, something to get at the Tarhians,” Rafen said. “How much more are you hiding
from me?”

  “Nothing about the Selsons,” Erasmus said. “They are dead. Why would I lie about that?”

  Rafen froze for a moment, his neck forward and his teeth gritted. The answer came to him in a flash. He could see it staring back at him from Erasmus’ face.

  “Because you don’t want me to look for them,” he said. “You want to use me as—”

  “And do you not want to be used in the service of Siana?” Erasmus shouted.

  “NOT IF IT MEANS I HAVE TO BELIEVE MY FAMILY IS DEAD!” Rafen bellowed.

  “We have no confirmation they are alive,” Erasmus said with venom. “But you are right; I would lie to you even if they were because I know that you would give up the fight and run into hiding with them. Rafen, as Fledgling and Sianian Wolf, you—”

  “SHUT UP!” Rafen roared. “I AM NOT YOUR PUPPET!”

  And then he was gone, rushing through the trees, shoving aside branches, his feet thumping the mossy earth. Behind him, Erasmus’ voice rang out.

  “Rafen!”

  All Rafen could think of was the Selsons. He would sniff them out, hunt them down, do whatever it took to find them.

  The surrounding area had turned frigid, even for winter. He refused to believe what it meant. The smell of corpse leaked through the trees. The copper rod floated before Rafen’s mind, vibrating, with the blue speck at its tip. His heart bubbling frantically, he forced himself to run faster, even while the wind around him whispered that the Lashki was closing in.

  Maybe Erasmus is right, Rafen thought. If I fight him now, maybe I can end this mess.

  The air was dewy and humid, and though he felt the warmth of kesmal in him, his body was sluggish and unwilling to react. Both flame and transformation were eluding him. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If he fought the Lashki today, he would never see his family again.