by Tim Stead
Extract from Meditations on the Great War
By the Erudite Master Galian Terbustate
Vice Prefect of the Royal College of Historians at Golt
2. Wolfguard
A distant star flickered outside the night gate. As Narak approached Wolfguard the spark slowly resolved itself from an inconstant fey-light among the trees into a solid and very real lantern hung on an iron hook just to the left of the door. Within the jurisdiction of its light he slowed and four legs became two. His hearing faded to the dull, muffled sense of a man, scents vanished, and the night about him became dark, the air cool against his hairless skin. His mind cleared.
He strode naked to the broad oak door. It opened of its own volition as he stepped close, revealing a passageway about twice as wide as a man is high, lined with granite blocks. It sloped down into the hillside, the path dimly lit by lanterns at regular intervals. A few feet within was a chair, and slumped in the chair was a sleeping man of middle years, dressed in black.
The door shut softly. Narak paused by the chair and carefully picked a pair of breeches out of the man’s arms, which he put on quickly, and taking the cloak draped over the back of the chair he fastened that about his shoulders. He considered walking on and leaving his steward asleep, but he knew that Poor would not be amused. He was a serious man.
Narak touched the steward on the shoulder and shook him gently.
“Wake up, Poor.”
“Deus, forgive me,” the man was awake in an instant, starting up from the chair.
“Forgive you? For what? You were tired, you slept. Is that not the way of it?”
“Indeed, Deus, but I should have been awake to greet you…”
“It is no matter. You were there,” he said. “The clothes were there. It is what I asked for. Do not reproach yourself.”
“As you wish, Deus.”
Narak smiled. “Leave the chair,” he said. “Walk with me.”
Poor, or Porandest Filamon to give him his full name, was a man without humour. It seemed to Narak that he never smiled, never laughed, never did anything at all out of a sense of joy. The man was grim. He was, however, a most excellent steward. Narak could not remember a single time that he had failed in his reasonable duty. Poor was poor company, to be sure, but Narak would not have changed him.
“Is there any news?” he asked.
“None, Deus. All has been quiet.”
He asked out of form, mostly. He had been gone only three days, and if anything important had occurred during his absence Poor would not have been asleep and would have told him of it at once. But he felt that Poor liked him to ask, so he did.
“Then I will dine in the lair,” he said. “I will bathe first, so arrange for hot water. Ask Caster to join me in half an hour. Make the wine a good Telan vintage, you choose, and we will have venison.”
Poor hurried off to do his bidding, and Narak continued to walk, following the tunnel down into the heart of Wolfguard, the home that he had built for himself a thousand years ago. It was bigger than it needed to be, and at the time of its building he had been careful of his own mortality. He had made it a fortress, a huge tumescence of earth and rock that squatted below the forest, filled with turns and traps, mazes and blinds. For every passageway there was an overlook, a point from which a concealed man could shoot arrows at the unwary, or pour hot oil on their heads.
There was even a most ingenious device that he had designed to be an underground moat. Seven great cisterns were filled with rain water, and channels could be opened to flood the lower corridor that ringed the central areas. It was not possible to enter those inner areas without passing through the corridor, which was lower than any part of the habitation, apart from the lair itself. Any attacker would have to swim down into black water, in the dark, hoping that he could find the way out on the other side before he drowned, and hoping that nobody waited for him with weapons drawn. In fact, nobody needed to wait, for great stone doors could be lowered on the other side which took ten men to lift. It was a perfect death trap. Once it was sprung there was only one exit from within, and that led down into the labyrinthine cave system that lay below Wolfguard.
None of it had ever been used in anger.
There were seven levels to Wolfguard, wrapped about with a double helix of descending passages. The highest were close to the surface, some even had windows, and this was where the men and women that served him had their homes. Everything was well appointed to the point of luxury. He had considered this at the beginning – that those who served him should want for nothing. They were to be nobility, as befitted the servants of a god.
He had grown less pompous with age, and any remaining pretensions had been beaten out of him by the war. He had lost so much in the war. Never the less, he was glad that the people of Wolfguard lived well. He did not regret the building of it.
The second and third levels were mostly empty now, the fourth and fifth were used for storage, and the lower levels were his own, housed his private rooms, the kitchens, the wine cellar and the lair itself which was the lowest of all.
He found the lair lit as though for a festival and the sight of it brightened his mood. Hundreds of lanterns, their flames at rigid attention in the still air, crowded the ceiling like stars. A great fire blazed in the centre of the room, warming the cold stone, the smoke funnelled away through a cunningly shaped hole in the roof. By the fire there were three chairs, a table, and the floor was scattered thickly with furs. Narak’s feet sank into them as he crossed the room and he relished the luxury.
He entered a side chamber. It housed a granite cistern seven feet to a side that served as his bath. It was already full of steaming water. He stripped off his clothes and climbed in, lying back and enjoying the lightness of his floating body, the heat and the steam. He allowed himself to relax and slough away the wolf, becoming again just a man, shedding the dreams of blood and the wild spirit of the great forest.
When the water began to cool he dried himself and dressed, choosing comfortable clothes of soft cottons and fine wool. He was pleased to see that while he bathed the table had been laid with cold meats and fruit, and that the wine stood ready. He picked up a full glass that had been poured for him and sipped.
“You start without me, Deus.”
It was Caster, the sword master. Narak could barely remember a time when Caster had not been his friend, or his teacher. He strode across the room and they clasped arms in the warrior fashion.
“Only to slake my thirst, Caster. It is good to see you.”
“And I am glad to see you, also. All is well with the forest?”
“Yes. Good. All is good.” His voice lacked conviction, and he was surprised that he had not entirely shaken off the melancholy of the old wolf’s death, but he knew it would fade. He led the way back to the chairs and the cold food set out on the table. “You have been busy?”
“I have, Deus. I went back to Berash to see how honest the rumours of war might be, and to prepare my own estates there in case things become serious. But it was an uneventful trip.”
“The rumours?”
“There is certainly some ill feeling between the kingdoms, but the Berashi King sees no profit in taking on the might of Avilian. The Duke of Bas Erinor has sent peace offerings, so I think it will blow over.”
“Good news, then.”
They sat and Caster poured himself a glass of wine while Narak picked at the cold meat. It was cured in just the way he liked it, quite dry with a smoky flavour. He wrapped a piece of fruit in a small cloak of meat and pushed it into his mouth, savouring the textures and flavours as they escaped across his tongue.
“There is something here for you,” Caster said. He was holding up a folded piece of ragged parchment.
“For me?”
“Yes. It was under the wine jug. It has your name upon it.”
He took the paper from Caster’s hand and looked at it. It did indeed bear his name in its simplest form, the word ‘Narak’ wri
tten across the front in a child-like hand. The letters were printed in a manner that suggested the pen had been held in a fist. Who would write so, he wondered? To summon him thus with the most naked form of his name was bold indeed. All knew him as Wolf Narak, and after that as many titles as the supplicant cared to bestow – the lesser the writer the greater the praise. This was addressed as to an equal.
He flipped open the paper and read what it said inside. Just seven words. No form of address, no signature, but seven simple words in the same fist awkward script.
THEY ARE KILLING DOGS IN BAS ERINOR
What could it mean? It was a simple enough message, but woke a sinister memory with its stark words. The Seth Yarra had killed dogs in Afael.
“Did you bring this with you?” he asked Caster.
“No, Deus. It was beneath the wine jug when I lifted it.” Caster was immediately aware of Narak’s change of mood. He answered promptly, and with clarity.
Narak stood and walked to the door.
“Poor, come at once.”
The steward appeared within seconds. He had long ago perfected the art of standing at a point in the corridor where he could not hear what passed within, but would catch any summons that might come.
“Poor, did you place this on my table?” Narak showed him the outside of the note.
“Deus, I did not.”
“You are certain?”
“Deus, I am certain.”
Poor looked offended to be asked twice, and Narak knew at once that the steward had nothing to do with it. He was a blunt and honest man, and a lie would not just be out of character for him, it would be a betrayal of his position. Poor was not responsible.
He opened the note and read the words again.
“Summon those who brought the cold meats and the wine. Do so at once.”
He walked back across the room to where Caster waited, still poised to sip his wine, the glass inches from his lips. The sword master looked worried.
“What is it?” he asked. Narak handed him the paper and Caster read the words, examined both sides of the message, held it up to the light as though it might hold some better secret within the parchment itself.
“It makes no sense.”
“I fear that it may.”
Caster shook his head and handed the note back, finally putting his glass to his mouth he swallowed more than might have been considered genteel.
Poor returned with two serving girls from the kitchens. He somehow looked stern and worried at the same time. The girls looked terrified. They stood between Poor and Narak with their hands clasped and their eyes lowered. He held up the note.
“Look at this,” he said, and they did, raising eyes just enough to know what it was, looking at it a moment too long to suggest guilt. “Did either of you leave this paper on my table?” he asked.
One shook her head; the other – the bolder of the two – answered him. “No, Deus.”
“Which of you placed the wine jug on the table?”
The bold girl looked up again, met his eyes for a moment. “I did,” she said reluctantly.
“And when you placed it there did you place it upon the table, or was there something beneath it? Was this beneath it?” He showed her the parchment again. Narak found it reassuring that she did not answer at once, but closed her eyes in an effort of concentration.
“No, Deus, I placed it upon the bare table, on the wood.” She spoke with certainty.
Narak looked down at the note again. He had to be sure.
“I do not wish to threaten you,” he said to the girls. “But I must be certain of you, of what you tell me, so I will tell you now that if you lie to me you will lose my favour and be banished from Wolfguard. Do you understand? The truth will bring no consequences.”
They nodded, and it pained him to see the fear in their eyes.
“You are both certain that you have never seen or touched this paper before?”
Both shook their heads in vigorous denial, and the bolder said; “No, Deus. Never.”
Narak smiled at them. “Thank you, I believe you” he said, and turned to Poor. “Please bring the main meal now. We will dine immediately.”
Poor chased the girls out of the door.
“They told the truth,” Caster said, sitting down. “But if they told the truth, then how did the note come to be on your table?”
“I must think on it,” Narak said.
The food arrived, hot and aromatic, filling the lair with savoury invitations. The girls who brought it, the same two, placed it on the table before Narak on two chargers with due deference, and then withdrew. He nodded and smiled to let them know that they were still in his favour, though his mind was working all the while.
The message itself disturbed him. Dogs were his only eyes in the cities, and only once before had they been slaughtered in numbers. By Seth Yarra. In Afael.
Who? That was what bothered him most. Someone had known the exact moment to place the parchment there, between the serving girls leaving and Narak entering the room, and they had wanted him to know that they knew, that they could see into Wolfguard and knew when the room was unattended. It was an intrusion into his most private space.
It could have been a mage. Mages of several kinds could work such a trick, but the timing would be beyond most. The matter of the script, however, persuaded him otherwise. He suspected the Bren. If he was right, if Pelion’s children were sending him notes, then it was a grave matter indeed.
Narak was hungry. He forced himself to eat, but the food gave him no pleasure. His appetite was blunted by a deep sense of foreboding that he could not shake.
Conversation during their meal was desultory. He was not good company tonight and time after time he found himself slipping into silence, his eyes fixed on some point not within the room, his knife hanging lose in his hand. Caster did his best to keep the mood light, but all too often he stared wordlessly at Narak, unable to discover a phrase for the moment. He was too old a comrade not to feel the worry that troubled the wolf god.
The atmosphere grew so thick with unspoken words that Narak could not bear it.
“I am distracted, Caster,” he said. “There are things that I must do, and I fear to delay too long. Please stay and enjoy what you can.”
Having excused himself he went out, passing Poor in the corridor. The steward was startled to see him so soon. It was Narak’s custom to make an evening of it when he returned from the forest, but tonight he could not. He climbed the short slope to his private study.
Narak loved this room. He lit the lamps and closed the door, taking the time to appreciate it all over again. It housed his books, his favoured chair, and mementoes of a long life. He ran a hand along the leather spines of the collected volumes, sat in the chair. It was a large brown leather piece that he had purchased a couple of centuries ago from a craftsman in Telas Alt. It was not pretty, but it was probably the most comfortable chair ever devised, and cradled him like no other.
He sat quietly and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and he repeated the chant taught to him long ago by Pelion himself.
Petan Shafal Ah. Petan Shafal Ah.
The chant meant nothing. Pelion had told him that it meant nothing, but it took the place of thought, allowed him to focus more easily on his breathing, to send the world away for a while.
He unleashed his aspect, became the god. It was as though he had been bound in a mirror, and now was released. He was both the man and the wolf, retained his clarity of thought and gained his wolf hearing, nose and sight. He felt free and powerful within himself, looking at the darkness behind his eyes with something that was not an eye, and what it saw was not light, but something else.
He was in the Sirash.
Narak had tried to describe the Sirash to Caster, and to others. Even his fellows of the Benetheon did not share the experience well. It was like swimming, and like flying, but unlike either. He saw nothing, but there were lights there – lights that were not lights, and curr
ents, and slopes, and it felt like oil. He had no presence, but he was anywhere he wished to be.
Drifting allowed him to gain control. Like everything else in the Sirash it was the opposite of what it seemed. When he was accustomed to the movement he glided over the top of it, imposing himself on the tides, riding them. He found a wolf, a welcoming spark of consciousness, and settled for a moment behind its eyes. It was in woodland close to the edge of the great forest. He turned and looked down through the thinning trees at tilled fields; a bonfire pushed a tower of smoke into still air. The sharpness of the wood smoke came to him through the wolf. He saw a haystack, a house in the distance with a small courtyard, surrounded by green fruit trees. This was Berash.
