The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

The Seventh Friend

By

Tim Stead

Being the first book of The Sparrow and the Wolf

© Tim Stead 2014

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.

This book is dedicated to
my parents in whose home I grew up to appreciate books and love stories.

Author’s Note

I would like to thank all those who helped to make this book happen, all the patient readers whose comments, praise and criticism
made this better than it otherwise might have been.

Special thanks to Le Minh Hoai for the excellent cover.

You can find more about me and my work at
http://www.timstead.info

Terras: A Generality

I have deliberately entitled this volume ‘A Geography of the Six Kingdoms’, even though it is traditional to refer to only five. This recognises that the Green Isles, a long misunderstood realm, are indeed united in a kingdom, although quite different in structure and governance from the other five.

The whole is a continent, a large mass of land surrounded by the ocean on every side. There is no precise estimate of its size, but most authorities agree that it is at least four thousand miles wide, and allowing for the southerly extension of the aforementioned Green Isles, it encompasses three and a half thousand miles north to south. There is no agreed name for the continent, so with the liberty of doubt I shall settle on the one shared by Avilian and Berash: Terras.

It is traditionally a land of divisions – east and west, men and beasts, kingdoms that jealously protect their borders – so much so that not a great deal has changed in a thousand years. The greatest division of all is the Dragon’s Back, a mighty range of mountains reaching an elevation of twelve thousand feet in places, which cuts down from the uninhabited north, splitting the three kingdoms of the west from the three of the east, and eventually subsiding into the sea to form those mountainous and pretty remnants that we call the Green Isles. They are, indeed, the Dragon’s Tail.

The Kingdoms range along the southern coast from East to West as follows: Afael, Avilian, Berash, and then the mountains, after which Telas, Durandar, and finally, to the south of these latter two, the Green Isles.

To the north of Telas and Durandar lies the Great Forest, and to the north of Afael, Avilian and Berash lies the Great Plain. These are the so called beast realms where the Benetheon of Pelion holds sway. It is to be noted that the prevailing westerly winds and the high peaks of the Dragon’s Back are responsible for this climatic division, the west being wetter by a considerable degree than the east.

If one could travel still further north, one would discover the Ice Lands – a place where few, if any, animals dwell, plants and trees fail, and the winters are almost without light and warmth of any kind.

In population it is the east, and Avilian that dominates. This single kingdom holds a third of the human burden of Terras, close to a million men women and children. Berash is a third of this size and Afael holds six hundred thousand. The remaining million are divided between Telas (five hundred thousand), Durandar (three hundred thousand) and the Green Isles (about a sixth of one million). There having been no census carried out in most regions these figures are necessarily estimates, but are well supported by calculations of land area and population densities.

Extract from: A Geography of the Six Kingdoms

By the Learned Scholar Simras Hecshal

Sage Advisor to the Royal Court of Berash.

Narak ran for the pleasure of running. The full moon silvered the canopy above him, transforming the trees into limned pillars of darkness that he wove into swift patterns. They were his canvas and running was his art. His feet drummed steadily on the leaf litter, making the uneven forest floor as smooth as a king’s highway beneath him, beating counterpoint to his heart. He felt every muscle move, every sinew stretch and slacken, every breath course cold down through his mouth, fill his lungs and escape again.

Birds and other night creatures called faintly in alarm at his passing, rustled urgently in the low bushes, shrank from his presence. They ceded the forest to him.

An owl called, mournful, questioning as he turned, sweeping left, bearing north, moving to where he knew the forest floor fell away down to the river.

Scent illuminated the darkness. There were sharp, bright notes. Here a deer had crossed his trail, fresh, recent, and with a fawn. The smell was sweet with the promise of meat, the iron taste of blood, but he did not turn again. Here a fox, musty and clever, on a hunt of his own, perhaps. Emotion stirred at the fox’s scent, a memory from long ago. He remembered sadness and loss, but it was all part of the night and he wove that, too, into his running.

The trunk of a fallen tree, thrown across the path in some great forgotten storm loomed from the dark. Suddenly his feet were not running, but stretching, reaching into a pause, leaving his heart to beat alone for a moment. He soared high above the obstacle, flying, feeling a moment of cooler air and drawing it down into his core, making it part of him. It was as though he remembered every movement before it occurred, expected each footfall. It was as if the world moved to the beat of his heart. It was all so right, so true.

His fore legs took the impact as he struck the ground, passed the weight to his hind legs, and he raced on, feeling the land give way, begin to bend downwards. He eased his pace, weaving tighter threads around the trees, dancing, almost, down the valley side.

At the river he stopped, listened to its song, heard its laughter. The river always mocked, but it was a kind mockery, a liberty taken by an old friend, long forgiven, never forgotten. He dipped his muzzle into the cool water and drank. The cold liquid brightened his throat, spread to his chest, but he was warm from running and it did not chill him. It was a delight, like a breeze on a sultry day, like sunlight after a long dark.

He raised his head and stood still, as unmoving as the rocks, eyes wide, ears cocked, waiting for every sound, every particle of light, every mote of scent. He felt the lightest of airs ruffle the fur down his back, bringing with it an entire book of the forest; animals and their lives, their deaths, their fear, all scents painted above the trees, the leaf mould, flowers, grasses, and in the very last the scent of snow.

The night was perfect, and he was perfect in it, a true part of its glorious synthesis. How could he ever want to leave all this?

He trotted into the river. Shallow and swift, he bounded through what depth there was out of sheer exuberance, splashing joy and contentment into the air, laughing as all wolves laugh, with his body. On the far side he stopped and shook the moisture from his coat, distributing happiness and water into the night.

He caught another scent, familiar and strange all at once. Another wolf. A pack? He turned his head and followed the lure, up the far bank of the river, across a broad clearing full of cold stars and moonlight, plunging into the comfort of the forest again. Now he ran as a hunter, led by the nose, taking a winding trail that mirrored the steps of the one he tracked.

The scent carried an unfamiliar acidity – a wrongness. He was coming up fast on the other wolf and he slowed to a trot, casting about for something that would tell him more, head low to the ground. There. He had it. Corruption, infection, a wound gone bad, and something else.

He stepped into the same space, a deferential step, not aggressive, not challenging, but a gesture of greeting. The other wolf knew he was there before he showed himself. It knew him at once. It knew him as all wolves knew him, by scent, by look, by the authority of his presence. It bent its legs in obeisance, snarled its submission.

He, in his turn, understood. This was an old wolf, a weak wolf; one who could no longer run with the pack. Cast out. Ribs showed through the thinning fur. He smelt the ulcerated sores that would not heal, and in its eyes there was a shadow. Even at night he could see it. This animal was dying.

He touched the old wolf’s mind with his own, using that part of him where all wolves dwell. He absorbed everything the wolf was, its fear, its hunger, its pain.

Do not fear, Grey Father, you are my-pack now. You are safe.

The thought eased the old one’s mind, and he relaxed. His poor condition became more evident as Narak drew close. The old wolf was barely able to stand on shaking legs. For such a one as this, hunting would be a pathetic search for grubs and beetles, the forlorn hope of carrion and the time to eat before the crows chased him away. It was a long downward spiral, a fall into damnation that no wolf deserved. The Grey Father was near the bottom of that fall. For a long time he had been unable to find enough to eat and his muscles were wasted to knots about his bones, his eyes were dim, his teeth hurt whenever he bit down on anything.

And yet this shadow of a wolf still clung to life, scraped along the jagged edge of misery because it knew no different. Life was life, and however worthless, it was all that the old wolf possessed.

He made a decision and reached out again, touching the wolf, taking away its pain, lending it strength, making it again something of the wolf that it once had been. He could see that wolf, the young, strong hunter that foreshadowed this remnant; tireless, keen eyed, unaware. Nothing changed, of course. The old wolf was still an old wolf. Its muscles were still wasted and the sores that plagued its body still seeped away its vitality, but it felt strong again. It felt whole.

He could see the illusion of life filling it up, limbs straightening, head lifting.

Will you run with me, Grey Father? Will you hunt?

The response was almost comical. The skinny old wolf bounded like a cub, revelling in its new strength. Spinning once, it stood poised and ready, head cocked, waiting for his lead.

He ran again. This time he hunted in earnest, winnowing the scents of the forest, sorting the fresh from the stale, picking one from many. He did not run as he could, but paced himself to the old wolf’s limits. They ran together. They ran as a pack along the course of the river, moving upstream, keeping the sound of the water to their right. The dark trees rolled past again, but now they were spectators and he resented them. He shut out their questions and focussed on the scent, the right scent.

He found it quickly, and gave voice, a gruff, low bark. He increased the pace of the run slightly. This would be a good hunt. They ran on, silent now, rapidly closing on their prey because it was unaware of their pursuit. The scent brought an image to his mind, a small deer, a creature not more than two and a half hands high with a good turn of speed but little stamina. It was easy prey for a master hunter, a beast that relied mostly on stealth and its small size to protect it, but those would not be enough tonight.

As they closed he swung away from the scent, ceding the kill to Grey Father, increasing his pace to move around their prey. Confusion would kill it better than sharp teeth and tireless legs.

In the end it was neatly done. He sprang from cover just a moment before the old wolf, turning the deer towards its death, and the killing bite was not missed. Grey Father executed his part with some skill, and again he saw the wolf that had once owned that used up body.

They stood together in the satisfaction of the kill, panting in unison, feeling the brotherhood of the hunt as all wolves do.

Eat. It is your kill.

Grey Father looked at him, surprised. The old wolf longed to eat, but the law was clear. The dominant wolf ate first. It was the first law of the hunt.

I make the law. Eat.

The old one did not hesitate a second time, but tore at the carcase, releasing the hot blood, bathing his face in it, swallowing chunks of red life.

Narak stood by while the old wolf ate. He was not hungry. As he watched he felt himself watched in turn. The trees were an audience, as if the night itself leaned over and peered down upon them. He shook himself to banish the feeling, which was close kin to guilt.

Why have I done this thing? Why do I doubt what is within me? He struggled with thoughts that were too big for his wolf’s mind, which stretched and overflowed in every way. For wolves there was the law. It was simple. The rules were few. To breach the law was to incur the momentary anger of the pack. The law said what is dead is dead, what is lost does not return, and there is no place for sentiment. The law was about life and death, strength and weakness, but it was not enough, not for him.

Grey Father had stopped eating. In truth he had not eaten very much at all. His stomach had shrivelled after so long without a proper meal, and now he stepped back, licking his reddened chops with a long tongue, relinquishing his place at the kill. Touching the old one’s mind, Narak felt satisfaction, pleasure, the comfortable pressure of a full gut, and the glow of pack-belonging.

Sleep. We will sleep together and be warm.

The old wolf obediently turned a few times and settled into the dry leaves; an ancient ritual. Narak followed suit, laying his back against the other, allowing the warmth of his body to be shared. He reached out for the last time and touched Grey Father’s mind, bringing sleep, a weary, deep sleep; the sleep of the hunt. Eyes open, Narak stared at the night, and listened as his companion’s breathing deepened. He lay quite still and allowed time to pass unchallenged. Dreams came, simple dreams, dreams of the hunt, dreams of strength and running, dreams of blood, but gradually they faded and the dreams became dreams of sleep, and then of nothing at all.

He waited until the old wolf’s body had begun to cool and stiffen before he stood. His heart was filled with a melancholy that he knew would pass. Death was part of a wolf’s life in the way that any journey must have a destination; any river must have a source and an end in the sea. Only he, only Wolf Narak, was apart from death, immune to time and age and decay. It was a lonely thing.

He stood for a moment, looking back on the still form of Grey Father, in the judging silence of the trees, in the mocking laughter of the river. You are not wolf, they said, you are not part of this. You are something else. But he remembered the light in the old wolf’s eyes as he lay down to sleep forever. Grey Father had died within the pack bond. He had died with a full stomach, without pain. No wolf could ask more of death.

I am not entirely The Wolf, he admitted to the forest. I bring with me the light of other days, the understanding of what I once was, what I still am, and I am the better for that.

What kind of god would I be without kindness, without compassion? There was no reply, but Narak knew the answer. He had travelled that road.

He turned from the sight of death and set off along the river bank towards Wolfguard at a steady, tireless run.