Irina the Wolf Queen

by Leah Swann

  ‘If those soldiers know that exit, I'm done for,’ Vilmos said to the rats. ‘I hope I'm fast enough.’

  Inside the bag, the sylvan, whose name was Amicus, awoke. The bird saw Irina's sleeping face above him, barely lit by Vilmos's torch. He heard the would-be magician swearing and cursing to himself as the bag bumped against his back. Very carefully, the bird eased himself past Irina, careful not to scratch her skin with his claws or beak. When he reached the lip of the bag he squeezed out and began to stretch his wings.

  Vilmos felt feathers at the back of his neck. ‘Get back in there, you horrid buzzard!’ he shrieked, reaching round to stuff the bird back into the bag. Pecking wildly, Amicus writhed out of Vilmos's grasp and flew into the shadows, beating his powerful wings and looking back at Vilmos as if to taunt him.

  Captain Kellen grimly led his men down through the trapdoor and into the foul tunnel. By now the Queen was awake – and screaming. The Captain was glad he had left four men to guard her. Mothers think they can do anything – and this particular mother could wield a sword better than many men. He didn't want Queen Chloe going after the villain herself. The soldiers held her down while she bit their hands and thrashed about, terrified for her baby.

  ‘Irina!’ she cried. ‘Let me go, you brutes! Let me find Irina!’

  Pitying her, the soldiers loosened their hold. The Queen shook their hands off and reached for the nearest soldier's sword but he stopped her by grabbing her wrist.

  ‘Help me, for Jun's sake,’ cursed Meinhard, a young soldier with the face of a boy. The others surrounded her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty,’ said a more senior soldier. ‘But I think it's best if we tie your hands.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ shouted Chloe, watching Meinhard hand him a rope. ‘I’m a Junsong warrior! My child is gone and you want me to rely on that stupid donkey, Kellen?’

  ‘Kellen knows what he's doing,’ said Meinhard, thinking he was soothing the Queen. He was wrong.

  ‘You’ll all lose your jobs!’ she screamed. ‘Let me go, you wicked brutes.’

  Outside Pavel Castle, King Harmon mounted his horse and prepared to return to Ragnor. Little Prince Andor had followed him out. He was fascinated by the warrior-king and his magnificent stallion, Qabil, who was a rich golden colour with a light mane and tail. His own father had beautiful dark steeds, black, brown and midnight blue; while the House of Ragnor rode horses of gold and chestnut. The allied kings always knew each other in battle.

  ‘What are you doing here, young Andor?’ Harmon said to him. ‘Where’s your nurse? Don't tell me you've escaped her again?’

  Grinning, the boy nodded.

  ‘Well, you'd better go and find her, or she'll be in trouble with your father.’

  ‘Don’t like nurse. I only want my mama,’ said Andor, whose mother had died not long ago.

  ‘I can understand that, son,’ said Harmon. ‘But she's a good nurse, and she loves you. Now where are those pesky servants of mine?’ Impatient to return to Ragnor, Harmon looked over his shoulder into the stables, where his servants were loading the horses. Andor was staring up at a bird in the sky, a carrier pigeon. The pigeon swerved downwards, swift and light and unerring in its aim. The King's hands tightened on the reins.

  ‘One of Raizel's,’ he said.

  The pigeon lit on Harmon's wrist. The King unrolled the small piece of paper attached to the pigeon's foot, read it and gave such a loud bellow of rage that little Andor jumped in fright. Harmon tossed the note away and kicked Qabil's sides with his huge boots. The great golden horse broke into a gallop.

  ‘Quick!’ yelled one of the servants. They dropped their parcels and swung themselves astride their horses to follow their master before he disappeared into the forest. Qabil was much faster and stronger than their own horses.

  The boy picked up the piece of paper and held it in his fingers, his eyes wide. He was too young to read, but he knew the note featured just a single word. He stared at the letters, trying to decipher their meaning.

  Vilmos.

  Sweat poured off Vilmos as he raced through the darkness, knowing the way out couldn't be far now. The soldiers would be following and he felt sick with nerves, wondering what would happen if he were caught. He remembered Jibade's warning.

  ‘I’ll just have to keep running,’ he said. ‘What about you, Iniko, and the Wizards of Knartesc? Will you help me now?’

  Vilmos swung the bag around to stop Irina bouncing so hard against his back, but he soon found it exhausting holding the baby in one hand and the torch in the other.

  Surely Harmon won't break his own laws to have me killed, he thought. But he'd lock me in the dungeons for a start. Would he whip me?

  The thought of dungeons and whippings spurred Vilmos on. He pressed Irina to his chest, gulping for breath. He was ecstatic when he saw fine threads of sunlight in the darkness ahead, where the outlet of the tunnel was covered thickly with ivy. No sign of any soldiers. He crouched down and shuffled through the small opening on the hillside, sweeping aside the rats on his left and right, hastily scrambling to his feet. Running through the forest, he glimpsed the sylvan flying in the shadows.

  That bird's watching over the baby, he thought, struggling to keep a straight course over the hilly and stony ground, occasionally crashing a shoulder or elbow into a tree. He could faintly hear the soldiers’ shouts in the distance. Out of breath, Vilmos scanned the forest for a hiding place. On his left, the trees rose up along a steep incline studded with rocks, where there was a dark opening. A cave.

  He clambered up through the rocks and went inside the cave. He put the bag that held Irina on the floor, shook his stiff shoulders and stood still, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The air of the cave was warm and thick and smelled of meat and fur.

  Something alive is in here, he thought, straining his ears.

  He heard rustling, the sound of breathing, the pad-pad of feet. What was it? Some kind of four-footed beast? Very slowly, he twisted his neck and shoulders to one side and then the other, looking about him. What creature dwelt here in the cave? He wiped his damp palms on his trousers.

  Quietly, his heart clubbing his chest, he turned around and came face to face with a magnificent she-wolf, light streaming in from the cave's mouth causing her eyes to glitter. At that very moment, he heard the soldiers’ dogs barking. Dogs! He couldn't hide from dogs. They'd follow his scent here and he would be trapped. He must run. He lunged downwards to grab Irina but the she-wolf bared her teeth and growled, taking a step towards him.

  ‘No! I will take her!’ said Vilmos, and lunged again. This time the wolf jumped up and crashed against him, her forepaws landing heavily on his shoulders. He fell and knocked his head hard against the cave floor. The wolf hovered over him, her lips curled back in a fearsome snarl. Vilmos shouted with terror.

  Baby Irina began to cry. The she-wolf nuzzled her gently, before picking up the bag with her teeth and carrying it behind a boulder where she had her cubs.

  Vilmos took the chance to get to his feet and run out of the cave as fast as a demon; he leapt onto the rocks and climbed up as though he had wings in his feet. Fear beat like a pulse through him, the dogs were close, and he heard the soldiers shouting, ‘Head for the cave!’

  Vilmos reached the top of the rocky outcrop and hurtled down the other side, almost falling at the bottom but picking himself up just in time to run hard through some open grasslands. There were no trees to climb, no bushes – nowhere to hide. He ran and ran. He heard the roar of the river before he saw it. This was no small creek but the great River Thel that ran through the island of Ragnor and fed its lakes. It was wide and fast.

  The river! he thought. If I can just make it to the river!

  There was a copse of willow trees near the water's edge and he hurried towards it. Nearby he spotted an old wine barrel half-filled with firewood. He tipped it over, pulled out the wood and rolled it to the bank. He sat inside the barrel and used his hands to push hard so that it swiv
elled into the river. The fast current picked up the barrel and Vilmos clutched at the sides as the water carried him downstream towards the great waterfall and the Mojag Bog.

  King Harmon rode Qabil hard through the forest till the horse was slick with sweat. In the distance, he heard men shouting and dogs barking. Raizel too was riding through the trees towards the river. In the dim light of the forest she was hard to make out, a swiftly moving, shadowy figure, her hair hidden by her hood, the bulky hessian sack tied to her front.

  Harmon saw the lone figure holding a bundle.

  ‘Vilmos!’ he cried, his heart cold with rage. He drew an arrow from his quiver and raised the bow to his shoulder. ‘Careful of that bundle,’ he told himself. ‘Aim for the shoulder.’

  He fired the arrow, shouting ‘Fiend!’ as he did so. Hearing the King's voice, Raizel turned her head and her hood slipped, revealing her face. Too late, Harmon realised his mistake; the arrow pierced her and she fell.

  ‘No! No!’ Horrified, Harmon rode up to the wise-woman. He dismounted and crouched beside her.

  ‘Don’t waste time,’ whispered Raizel, her hand clamped to her bleeding shoulder, the arrow protruding awkwardly through her fingers. ‘Find Irina. The hare says to go north and search the caves. Go!’

  When King Harmon rode into Ragnor Castle a day later, he was falling out of his saddle with exhaustion, hunger and thirst. Kellen found him near the stables and saw that his master had returned empty-handed.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Kellen, bowing low.

  ‘How dare you come into my presence!’ shouted Harmon. ‘You failed in your duty!’ The King struggled to his feet. A groom led Qabil into one of the stalls, where the stallion could take a much-needed drink.

  ‘The caves. Did you search the caves?’ the King demanded.

  ‘There was one cave, Your Majesty,’ said Kellen. ‘Inhabited by wolves.’

  ‘Was it on a stony rise, just south of Thel?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  A desperate harshness entered the King's voice. ‘I looked in that cave, too. But there was no sign of a baby, living or dead.’

  Chapter Five

  The Swamp of Crying Babies

  After dusk, the sylvan Amicus watched the wolves leave their den. The bird followed as the she-wolf, Sheka, her mate, Torg, and three other wolves carried the cubs in their mouths. Sheka took Irina. They padded swiftly and silently through the forest. The bird shivered when he saw how the moon made the wolves’ eyes shine a strange, dark blue.

  Eventually the wolves descended a slope surrounded by trees and bushes and one by one disappeared into a dark opening. This was their winter den. No humans hunting for Irina would find her here.

  Amicus lit on the broad branch of an odom tree and watched closely. After a few minutes, Torg and the other wolves went out again to hunt while Sheka stayed inside. Amicus flew down to the mouth of the cave. Was the baby about to become the wolves’ next meal? It was too dark to see anything but when he heard Irina's familiar cry he knew she lived. But for how long?

  Inside the slimy wine barrel, Vilmos knocked his head and his knees as the River Thel rushed over stones and around bends. Once or twice he tried to fling himself out of the barrel but it was too slippery and he slid back in. Peeping over the edge he saw storms of whitewater swirling around dark rocks. And there was a tremendous noise where the water seemed to gather into clouds of foam and then vanish.

  ‘No!’ he cried, clutching the sides of the barrel. The noise ahead was a waterfall – possibly the huge Mojag Falls his father had told him about. He screamed and made a fumbling attempt to stand up and tilt the barrel over.

  It was too late.

  With a whoosh that seemed to leave Vilmos's stomach in the air above him, the barrel tumbled down the side of the waterfall, filling with water as it fell. Sheets of water whipped over his face and Vilmos gasped as he was tossed out of the overflowing barrel. He started coughing as water filled his mouth and stung his eyes. The current swept him to the northern bank and dumped him on some rocks.

  Panting and spitting, Vilmos rolled himself over to see where he had landed. The waterfall crashed to his left. He stared in wonder at the height of the falls, amazed that he had survived the drop.

  To his right was a deep green woodland filled with tree stumps and puddles that smelled of mud and salt. The wind made a strange crying noise as it passed through the trees. Wriggling off the rocks, Vilmos put one foot gingerly onto the grass – which, to his astonishment, sank beneath his feet. Water squelched up his trousers almost to his knees.

  This is no forest. It's a swamp, he thought. He was surrounded by floating clouds of weeds. Could this be the Mojag Bog? It seemed his father's frightening bedtime tales had been true. He looked about in disbelief. What had his father called it?

  ‘The swamp of crying babies,’ he said slowly.

  As if in reply, the wind passed through the swaying swamp trees, making a sound like human babies wailing. Vilmos saw that what he'd mistaken for stumps were actually tree roots flaring up from the mud, searching for air.

  He took another step and was relieved to find the water was no deeper. He started in a north-westerly direction. He had a vague plan to get himself to Usi Cave and seek protection from the Wizards of Knartesc. He knew King Harmon would search Ragnor for him relentlessly. Beside him was a glistening green log, covered in bumps. The hairs on Vilmos's arms stood up, even before he saw the yellow eyes. A crocodile!

  The beast had seen him. It turned its vast head and opened its mouth, revealing double rows of sharp and stinking teeth. Vilmos edged backward. The crocodile watched him with those interested yellow eyes, turning his large body with sinister intent.

  ‘Knartesc!’ shouted Vilmos, calling out any name he could think of. ‘Jun!’

  The creature kept coming. Vilmos broke into a cold sweat.

  Go for the eyes, he thought. With shaking hands he clumsily broke off a few twigs from a tree root and when the crocodile was near enough, Vilmos plunged the sticks into the beast's eyeballs. It was horrible. The crocodile reared back and let out an unearthly roar. Vilmos shimmied up a tree and stayed there for a long time, listening to the creature thrashing about below.

  Darkness came suddenly to the swamp, almost as though a candle had been snuffed, and Vilmos had no choice but to stay clinging to the trunk of the tree, wet and miserable, until morning. When the sun finally rose over the bog, Vilmos didn't dare go near the water again. The bog was infested with crocodiles.

  I'll swing from tree to tree, he decided.

  As the trees were close to one another this was not hard; after an hour or so, a steep bank appeared and Vilmos climbed down onto it and ran for the sheer joy of leaving Mojag Bog behind. The babies in the wind seemed to cry behind him, ‘Come back to us.’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Vilmos. ‘I don't care if I never see that place again.’

  Following the river, he set off in what he hoped was the direction of Usi Cave. He found a bush full of crowclaw nuts and ate them gladly as the sun dried his clothes. At midday he slept and by dusk was guided by a bright moon. He kept walking most of the night, stopping for naps and wishing for a horse. He kept himself alive with nuts, apples and a rabbit he caught and roasted. By the end of the third day, he saw smoke rising from the enchanted fires that surrounded Usi Cave.

  ‘Thanks be to Knartesc,’ he muttered, and strode on; as he neared the fires he spoke the magic words that he remembered from childhood and was able to pass through unharmed.

  And there at the mouth of the cave, waiting for him, was Iniko, Sorcerer of the Narrowlands.

  ‘I have come to be your apprentice,’ said Vilmos, falling to his knees before the sorcerer.

  Iniko stood like a vision in the smoke of the fires. He wore a silk cloak that fell from his shoulders and grazed his polished boots. His nose was white, with nostrils the size of acorns. Above his nose were unforgettable eyes, streaks of blue half-hidden in pouches of white flesh. Wh
en he spoke, his voice was like a stone spoon clattering against iron.

  ‘So, the little executioner's son has grown up. And nearly stole the King's own daughter!’ The sorcerer's laugh had a nasty edge. ‘What a triumph that was not.’

  Knowing the sorcerer was making fun of him, Vilmos began to bluster. ‘I didn't do too badly. I mean, I did manage to kidnap her. And anyway, I got the idea from something you told me.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ Iniko's huge nostrils flared.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vilmos, squirming. ‘You said I would get more spells if I committed an act of revenge.’

  The sorcerer rolled his eyes, as if bored. He thought for a moment. ‘I accept you as my apprentice,’ he said. ‘But I don't want you in my Narrowlands castle yet; I will visit you here from time to time to provide your basic training.’

  Vilmos nodded. That was good enough for him.

  Chapter Six

  Irina the Wolf Baby

  Amicus wanted to see Irina for himself. Each day he flew down from the safe haven of the odom tree and hovered not far from the opening of the den, taking care to stay higher than a wolf could leap. Just that morning Amicus had seen Torg jump into the air and catch a robin in mid-flight. But the days passed, and there was neither sign nor sound of the baby. Amicus watched nervously while the wolves brought back the spoils of their hunt – rabbits and other small woodland animals – and ate them, tearing their bodies apart. The sylvan was worried. Why didn't he hear Irina crying?

  Needing advice, Amicus flew to Raizel's hut. He was shocked to find her little home in disarray. Raizel was in bed, her face a ghastly grey, and she was feverish and unable to speak. She seemed to be dying. Although she didn't say a word, Amicus sensed her trying to communicate. She fixed her gaze with desperate intensity on him and he felt her thoughts enter his mind.