Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Many Wings had taught me much, and I was a very keen student. She had hoped to shield me from the struggle but I wanted to repay their kindness. We killed many Volarians together, my wolves and her hawks, striking where they were weakest, fleeing before they could strike back. For months we harried them until their line of march became a red smear across the ice. But there were always more, and, though I searched for him, I never caught Tokrevʼs scent again. Two winters ago they stopped coming. We thought we had finally convinced them to leave us be, but it seems they went across the great water to torment your people instead, for which we are sorry.”

Vaelinʼs gaze went to Kiral who gave a short nod. She hears no lie… as I heard no lie from Barkus.

“They will come again,” Astorek went on, eyes intent on Vaelin. “In greater numbers still. But now we have you, Ravenʼs Shadow.”

The hut where Alturk had chosen to seclude himself was a mean thing, little more than a slanting shack in a small clearing away from the main settlement. The door gave way easily under Vaelinʼs boot, releasing the fetid odour of an unwashed man mired in overindulgence. Alturkʼs substantial form lay on a bed of furs, snoring loudly, surrounded by the walrus-tooth flasks their hosts used to store pine ale, all empty. The slumbering Alturk gave no indication of having noticed the intrusion, something that changed abruptly when Vaelin emptied a bowlful of ice water over his shaggy head.

The explosion of rage was instantaneous, the Lonak surging upright, war club in hand, teeth bared in a snarl. He paused at the sight of Vaelin in the doorway, confusion flickering across his dripping face. “Do you choose death now, Merim Her?” he demanded in a hiss.

“Sorbeh Khin,” Vaelin stated, the Lonak for a formal challenge. “You are no longer fit to lead the Sentar. They are mine now. If you wish to keep them, fight me.” He turned and walked into the clearing where the Sentar waited, looking on with shared expressions of grim understanding. Kiral had explained Vaelinʼs reasoning and, to his surprise, none had raised an objection.

“Faithless dogs,” Alturk growled at them as he emerged from the shack, going on to harangue them in Lonak in a short but vehement diatribe that appeared to leave all singularly unmoved.

“You no longer hear the word from the Mountain,” Kiral told him. “You make yourself, varnish. This man gives you a chance to prove otherwise.”

Alturk gave no reply, consenting only to sneer at her before fixing his unsteady gaze on Vaelin, grip tightening on his war club. “Where is your weapon?”

Vaelin spread his hands, showing the absence of a dagger at his belt, his sword also gone from his back. “Why would I require a weapon? You offer no threat.”

Alturk stared at him in fury for a moment longer, then began to laugh, throwing his head back and casting hearty peals of mirth into the trees as he tossed his war club aside. “I should thank you,” he said when his laughter finally subsided. “Not every man gets to make his dreams real.”

He came at Vaelin in a crouching sprint. Their time among the Wolf People had done much to restore his frame and, for all the pine ale in his belly, his speed was impressive, leaving only the barest time for Vaelin to sidestep the charge and deliver a punch to his jaw. Alturk grunted in pain but didnʼt falter, replying with a swift round-house blow. Vaelin blocked it with both forearms and drove his elbow into the Lonakʼs exposed face, following up with a rapid series of punches to the face and belly, dodging Alturkʼs counterblows as he drove him back, every punch landing with unerring precision… Until the Lonak caught one in his fist and hammered a blow into Vaelinʼs temple.

He reeled from the impact, the world suddenly a blur as he struggled to resume a fighting stance. Alturk didnʼt afford him the opportunity, however, sweeping his legs away with a kick and driving another punch into his face. For a moment the world went away and Vaelin could see only a vague shadow, surrounded by glittering stars…

“You,” Alturk grated, looming closer, meaty fist drawn back for another blow. “You made my son varnish. I see him every night, I watch him die every night, because of you, Merim Her.”

“I spared a boy,” Vaelin replied, spitting blood, feeling his left eye swelling shut. “You killed a man… A man who made his own choices.” He saw it then, a flicker of something in the Lonakʼs eyes, a spasm of expression on his craggy face. “You knew,” Vaelin said in realisation. “You knew he had betrayed you long before you killed him.”

Alturk snarled again, drawing his fist back farther. Vaelin hawked and spat blood into the Lonakʼs eyes, buying enough time to twist and deliver a kick to the side of his head. He surged upright as Alturk staggered away, charging forward to drive his head into the Lonakʼs midriff then jerking it up to connect with his jaw. He followed with more punches to the face, Alturk sagging more with each blow, arms flailing as he tried to ward off the assault. Finally Vaelin sent him to his knees with a right hook to the jaw.

Vaelin paused, chest heaving, his fists leaking blood onto the forest floor. “Nishak told me,” Alturk said in a dull, weary voice, gazing up at him, blood streaming from numerous cuts. “I… didnʼt listen.” He lowered his head, slumping in resignation, muttering, “I make no request for the knife.”

Kiral appeared at Vaelinʼs side with Alturkʼs war club in hand. “Strike true, Tahlessa,” she said, offering the weapon to Vaelin. “He deserves a quick end at least…”

She trailed off abruptly and straightened, her gaze going to the south. From the pained expression on her face he knew her song must be sounding a powerful note. However, this time he didnʼt need to ask the meaning, for he could hear another warning, pealing across ice and forest, undeniable and implacable. The Sentar stirred in discomfort, exchanging fearful glances, for no wolfʼs howl was ever so loud.

Vaelin turned to Alturk as the howl faded, finding him now on his feet, the defeated slump vanished from his shoulders, his gaze fierce with certainty. “Iʼll need that,” he said, gesturing to the war club.

Vaelin glanced at Kiral, expecting her to voice an objection, but her expression was one of grim, if reluctant assent. “Wise Bear has some healing skill,” he told Alturk. “He can stitch your cuts.”

Alturk merely grunted. “Had I been sober, you would be dead now.”

Vaelin sighed the smallest laugh and tossed the war club into his hands. “I know.”

The Volarian was dying, she could see it; his skin hanging from the bones of his face like a desiccated mask, eyes dull with defeat and recent suffering. Nevertheless, he had told his tale in an unwavering voice, the tones clear and strong, a man of centuries-long experience in oratory. “The Empress will confront you with only a third of the fleet,” he said to the assembled captains of the Queenʼs Host, called to council on her flagship. “After you have defeated them she expects you to sail into the Cut of Lokar. The full fleet will move from the south to cut you off. That is all I know.”

Reva watched as the Shield examined the detailed chart on the table. They had convened on the main deck of the Queen Lyrna , no cabin being large enough to accommodate so many. The sea was calmer today, though still fractious enough to make the boat that had carried her here pitch alarmingly, shipping water with every passing minute. Reva found life at sea not much to her liking, even after she overcame the initial bout of sea-sickness the confines of ship life were trying in the extreme, as was the recurrent ache whenever her thoughts strayed to Veliss and Ellese.