by Leah Swann
Irina laid her hand on the head of a huge male wolf with a black mark above his pale eyes, and uttered another strange sound. ‘Father, I give you Hibah, as your personal bodyguard and leader of these wolves. I’ve told him you are his commander.’
Harmon was about to say that he didn’t want a wolf as a bodyguard, when the beautiful creature padded over to him, great muscles rippling under the silky fur. Hibah was almost as big as Durrell, the same height as the King’s chest. He pressed his muzzle against Harmon’s heart, and the King couldn’t help but be impressed by the power in the wolf’s skull, its denseness and weight. The wolf looked up at him with loyal eyes.
‘Well,’ Harmon said, at a loss for words.
Hibah lay down at his feet.
‘Warm, isn’t he?’ said Irina, with a smile, watching as the wolf won the King’s affection. ‘Remember, Father, this isn’t a usual pack of wolves; they have a special bond. Each has a name. They will guard the kingdom until I return. Unless, that is, you forbid me to go in search of the white wolf . . .’
No-one except Graydon, Skorpag and Chesca saw what occurred that day in Iniko’s chamber. Years later, when the story became a legend of Ragnor, people said Vilmos’s body was wrapped in bandages soaked in a potion made from the powerful ingredients the apprentices had brought. Others claimed the potion was heated over a flame, and its burning gas made its way into Vilmos’s lungs, jolting them back into life. Still others believed the potion was poured into Vilmos’s mouth, and then he leapt to his feet and shouted Queen Chloe’s name. But no-one could really say for certain. It was whispered, by some, that during Vilmos’s long sleep he travelled to the terrifying Realm of Knartesc, the place that frightened even the Dragon, and honed his deadly skills there. No-one saw and no-one knew exactly how Iniko and the three apprentices revived Vilmos, but revive him they did. And when the magician returned to life, he was even more powerful than before.
Chapter Nine
The Forest of Mazes
Father and daughter faced each other for some time in silence. King Harmon wondered why he wasn’t ordering Irina back to Ragnor Castle where he and Chloe could keep her safe. That’s what I should be doing, he thought.
‘Please, don’t keep me in suspense!’ Irina cried.
The King took a deep breath. ‘I will not sway you from your path. As much as I want to, I find that I can’t.’
For the second time that day Irina’s heart soared and she clapped her hands with joy.
‘Your courage and determination have impressed me, Irina, but you will need help on your journey.’ Harmon gave her a purse filled with coins. Then he sat down and examined Baruch’s map and added a few extra directions of his own. ‘Travel north. When you reach the petrified odom tree, turn east. Make sure you do not go any further north.’ Harmon shuddered. Further north was Usi Cave and he didn’t want Irina anywhere near that place.
‘Yes, Father. But please explain to me this petrified odom tree.’
‘It’s a tree that was struck by lighting and turned to stone. You will recognise it instantly. After you turn east, you should find a good road to Yew village.’ Harmon squinted at the sky. ‘You’ll make it by sundown, if Durrell is as fast as he looks.’ He kissed his daughter on the forehead, feeling an uncomfortable pinch of sadness. It seemed every time he was reunited with Irina, it was only to part again.
‘Father, I must ask you one more favour: my finger is infected but I cannot bear to touch it.’ She held out her hand and the King examined the blackened fingertip.
‘I have learned a few things apart from being a warrior, you know,’ he said. From his satchel he produced a powerful salve which he applied to the affected finger before binding it with muslin. ‘There, that should help.’
Irina’s elation grew. She embraced her father, said goodbye, then climbed onto Durrell’s back and pushed her gloved hands into his fur. Astride the mighty wolf, she gave King Harmon such a radiant smile that he had to smile in return. Irina put her head down and the pair sped off, leaving tracks in the white snow, Amicus flying high above.
Harmon smoothed over the wolves’ paw prints with his boot. ‘Chloe won’t like this,’ he said with a heavy sigh. He untethered his stallion but didn’t get into the saddle. He thought he would walk for a while; he had an important stop to make on the way. And he was in no hurry to return to Ragnor Castle and face his wife. He uttered the command Irina taught him, doubtful that the wolves would follow. He was wrong. Hibah led the pack up to him, and they assembled in an orderly fashion.
‘What a curious procession,’ said the King. He still wasn’t convinced the wolves understood him. They didn’t appear savage, but Harmon felt sure they weren’t tame, either. He set off, the image of Irina and Durrell flying over the snow ever-present in his mind.
Later that afternoon, as the pale winter sun sank low in the sky, Harmon and the wolves arrived at a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a hut made from kenda saplings bound with rope and lined with thick clay. The King knocked quietly and peered inside. Within, the wise-woman, Raizel, and the seer, Baruch, stood by a copper pot hung over a blazing fire. The pair looked up in surprise. Not even Raizel had foreseen such a visit. She curtsied and Baruch bowed.
The King bade his wolves sit still and entered. ‘It is I who should bow to you, Raizel,’ he said. ‘I do not believe I have apologised to you for being right, when I was wrong, all those years ago.’
Raizel nodded. The furs wrapped around her head concealed all but her glimmering eyes.
‘Not only that,’ the King went on, ‘years ago, thinking you were the magician, Vilmos, I shot you with my bow and arrow. I also banished you from Ragnor Castle when you told me the truth. I dismissed your predictions as silly fairy-talk, when your wisdom far outshines mine. Forgive me, wise-woman.’
Raizel nodded again, pulling the furs away from her mouth to speak. She smiled, and her face folded into a thousand tiny wrinkles. ‘Your Majesty, it is also true that you’ve acted on every missive I’ve sent you and that you did what a good King must do: you protected your kingdom.’ Her low, husky voice was unusual; a womanly voice that was as deep as a man’s. ‘Not only that, you have honoured your daughter Irina’s tasks, even when you haven’t understood them. That is wisdom. That is the awareness that there are greater powers at work.’
‘Thank you, Raizel. But I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you. It is often on my mind.’
‘Your apology is received with gratitude, Your Majesty. Think no more of it. Now, please join us for our simple meal. Even kings must get hungry.’
And so the unlikely trio settled down and ate together. It was the first time in the history of Ragnor such an event had occurred. Deep into the night, the King and the two elders spoke – about truth and courage and wisdom – and about what would happen if Ragnor’s ancient prophecy was not fulfilled.
Andor was sure Captain Kadar was invincible. He was in awe of the soldier’s silent strength and effortless swordcraft. Dutifully, he turned up for his daily jousts, but his anger smouldered like a glowing coal in his chest. King Niklas noticed, but he also observed Andor studying books on warcraft, with diagrams showing the correct postures, and strategies for attack. In Niklas’s library, Andor had found a volume written by Sef, the seer of the west, who said there was a path to becoming a peaceful warrior.
Early one morning, Kadar entered the Throne Room by a different door. He pulled out his sword, ran up behind Andor, and crashed into him with his shoulder, intending to push him over. But Andor had sensed Kadar coming and was able to stay on his feet, using the Captain’s force to help him to swivel around and push Kadar to the ground – much to the Captain’s surprise.
Andor hadn’t time to draw his sword. Anger surged through his body – how dare Kadar ambush him like that! Was he deliberately trying to humiliate him? He belted Kadar in the ribs, wanting to hurt him. Kadar gasped and dodged, and when Andor was off-balance he seized his chance. He flipped the Prince a
nd regained the higher position, pressing his sword to his throat.
‘Victory will always be mine,’ he hissed in a voice too low for King Niklas to hear.
The King, however, was watching closely. ‘Enough!’ he called, and the Captain and Prince got to their feet.
‘This was not what we agreed!’ Andor shouted, red with rage.
‘You must learn to react to surprise,’ said Niklas. ‘In a real battle your opponent won’t wait politely until you are ready.’
The Prince turned to Kadar. ‘Leave! I will not joust with you today.’
King Niklas gave a brief nod, and Kadar withdrew. Drawing his cloak around his shoulders, the old King said to his son, ‘Don’t you see that Kadar has done you a favour? You just learned how strong and quick you truly are.’
‘That was the strength of anger, Father. The strength of humiliation. Is that the strength fit for a King? I can’t learn to fight your way. I must find my own way.’
‘You are right. Your anger weakened you just now. You wanted to hurt Kadar, instead of thinking about how to win – you should have got him in a chokehold and grappled with him. Use your head, Andor. Stay in control. And be patient – you’re making progress. Don’t you realise you could defeat almost any man in the kingdom?’
As soon as his father said this, Andor realised it was true. His slender body had acquired muscle; he moved with ease and confidence; his feet were more firmly rooted to the ground. ‘Father, I’d like to visit Sef, the seer of the west. Do you grant me permission?’
Niklas looked into his son’s face, wondering whether to tell him what was on his mind. Day by day, more and more of the King’s strength slipped away. Sometimes he wondered how long he had to live. I can’t tell him how unwell I am, he thought. If I do, he will think it’s his duty to stay, and he must be free to go. Niklas stood and pulled his cloak even tighter around him. ‘By all means, Andor,’ he said. ‘Visit Sef and pay my respects. Learn what you will. Just . . . don’t be away for too long.’
Andor heard something new in his father’s voice, but before he could say anything, Niklas had already swept by him, heading towards the doors that led to his private chambers.
Travelling north-east, Irina, Durrell and Amicus reached Yew Village late that afternoon. They stopped at the village inn, but the innkeeper was nervous about the wolf. He insisted that Durrell be tied up in the stables like a horse. Reluctantly, Irina led her wolf-brother into the barn, where a dusty rug hung down from the opening instead of a door.
‘I’m sorry to be parted from you,’ she said, slipping a rope loosely around the wolf’s neck. Durrell growled. He had a fear of nets and cords since being caught in one as a pup. He hated being tethered like a domestic beast. As Irina left, she heard him pacing restlessly in his stall.
Inside the main room of the dim, candle-lit inn was a clay table and several benches, all dug out of the earth. Men sat on the benches, smoking pipes and drinking beer from leather jacks. They stared at this strange young woman with her untidy hair and furs, the rare forest bird on her shoulder glowing like a snowdrift. Smoke streamed from a fire in the corner, and every breath stung Irina’s throat. But it was warm inside, and for that, she was grateful. She strode past the men, ignoring their stares, and presented the innkeeper with a silver coin. In return, she was given a bowl of hot cabbage dumplings. She sat by the fire and hungrily scooped up the dumplings with a ladle. They were soaked in spicy gravy and tasted so good she ordered another bowlful.
Later, the innkeeper showed her to a tiny room. Many of the doors in the inn just had curtains, but Irina was delighted to find that hers had a door – and an iron key!
‘Let’s not take any chances,’ she said to Amicus, locking the door. ‘No doubt these men wondered what price you’d bring at the market.’
She kicked off her boots and lay down on the soft hay bed, and in moments was fast asleep. Not even Durrell howling at the moon through the stable window woke her that night.
It was still dark when the innkeeper’s wife knocked on the door. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting a bowl of porridge at the wolf-girl. ‘Eat this and go. Your wolf has been spooking the horses.’
Irina thanked the woman and ate the porridge hurriedly, grinning at the thought of Durrell worrying the horses. She didn’t mind leaving early. The sooner the better, she thought. To reach the Blue Cliffs of Margaran they had to pass through Rondel, the darkest forest in all of Ragnor, and better they do that in daylight.
Irina was on Durrell’s back, with Amicus nestled on her shoulder and fresh supplies in her pack, before the sun’s pale fingers parted the mist. They continued north-east on the stony road. Before long, they left the road and headed through the snowy meadows towards Rondel. The forest was not big – Harmon had said it would only take a few hours to cross – but it was famous for the tall dark trees that grew in maze-like patterns that seemed to go on forever. Back when she lived with her stepmother and father on the farm, Irina had heard stories of people who had gotten lost and gone mad, wandering hopelessly around Rondel’s mazes.
The towering trees grew so closely together that sometimes Durrell had difficulty squeezing between them. Branches formed a thick canopy overhead. Winter had emptied the forest of life. There was no friendly birdsong, no splash of river, nothing but the cold, bare, snow-laden trees looming over them like giants. It’s like all the trees are petrified, she thought. A few bushes at ground level had dark leaves, while the rest were scraggy bunches of twigs, thick and prickly. Out of the corner of her eye Irina noticed something moving in the distance: a flash of green and a curved yellow beak.
‘I think I saw an Eikkidor,’ she whispered.
‘No matter,’ growled Durrell. ‘We’re not wounded and those flesh eaters will have no chance with us.’
But the sight of the death bird set Irina’s nerves on edge. One of her earliest memories was of being surrounded by Eikkidors, their dark wings beating over her, their foul, rotten-meat breath close to her face. Of course they would be here, she thought. Lost travellers dying of hunger or cold would be easy pickings.
‘Amicus,’ she said to her sylvan, as the afternoon sun began to fade, ‘please fly above the treetops and make sure we’re still heading north.’
‘I’ll try,’ the sylvan sang to Irina, ‘but there’s a strange power here and even forest birds can lose their way.’
‘Let’s stop. We have no choice but to wait. We’ll set up camp and start our journey anew in the morning.’ Irina jumped down from Durrell’s back, unsheathed her new sword and cut a space from the shrubby undergrowth big enough to house Durrell, herself and Amicus. She unrolled her pack and made a simple covering from her oilcloth between the branches of the trees. Then she gathered kindling and lit a fire, setting the pie she’d bought from the innkeeper’s wife nearby to warm. She’d also bought Amicus some dry seed, and a few pounds of meat for Durrell. She was glad that she’d thought of it; apart from the Eikkidor birds there was nothing in the forest for the wolf to hunt.
After the meal, Irina spent some time quietly remembering some of Raizel’s teachings, as she did every night. Inside her glove, her infected little finger continued to throb. She didn’t dare look at it.
Please help us, Jun, she thought, hoping the goddess of truth would hear her. Please help us get out of here safely tomorrow.
Chapter Ten
The Intruder
Irina woke suddenly, her arms and legs stiff with cold. She felt her hackles rising, and she realised she was growling softly under her breath. Had she heard something in her sleep? Where was Durrell, who usually kept her so warm? She looked about her, glad that her early days as a wolf cub had trained her to see in the dark. Her little finger pulsed with stabbing pain. The King’s salve had not healed it.
‘Durrell? Durrell . . .’ Irina’s voice trailed off and she sat up sharply. What was that shape, that shadowy, hooded form? She leapt to her feet, her hand grasping the hilt of her sword. ‘Who’s there?’ she cri
ed.
‘Raise your weapon,’ came a muffled voice, and Irina heard the sliding swish of a sword being drawn.
‘You would fight me? In the dark?’ She swung her sword protectively in front of her.
‘Don’t you care about your wolf?’
Fear gripped Irina. ‘Do you have him?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Give him back to me!’
‘You’ll have to fight me for him!’
‘But who are you?’
The stranger answered by swinging his sword down upon her own, and the fight began. Even with her excellent night vision, Irina had to rely on her instincts. The stranger was clever enough to remain deep in the shadows. He was fast and strong, but Irina got the feeling he wasn’t really trying.
‘You’re playing with me!’ she shrieked. ‘Do you fight just for the fun of it?’
‘Never taunt your attacker if you wish to live.’
The stranger swung downwards. Irina felt a sudden rush of cold on one side, and realised his sharp blade was slicing her cloak without so much as touching her skin! Her attacker took advantage of her surprise to knock the sword clean out of her hand. She collapsed on all fours and stumbled for the blade.
The trees seemed black in the faint grey mist. Her attacker wore a hooded robe over a helmet which partially hid his face. In one swift motion, he lifted his blade and brought it down in a huge arc somehow – as if by magic – slashing the blackened tip from her little finger.
