The Tiger and the Wolf (22 page)

A day later, a band of the Horse Society stumbled into the
Many Mouths village, led by two Coyotes and a Crow, and in
their midst were three strange figures, two southerners and a
Plains woman – and Akrit knew the time had come.

‘I expected tents, for some reason,’ Asmander remarked. ‘Or
maybe huts.’ His eyes flicked over the artificial hillscape before
them, studying the earthworks raised by the Many Mouths.

‘Or holes in the ground,’ Venater said, easily loud enough for
Shyri to hear, but even he sounded slightly impressed. There
were plenty of northerners outside and staring as the travellers
approached, and a handful of sleek grey wolves were trotting to
either side of the newcomers as an impromptu honour guard,
but to Asmander this did not look like a place where real people
lived. The mounds that the northerners built upon had the same
sense of ancient weight and scale as the ruins of the Old Stone
Kingdom. This felt more like a place for the dead to be interred
rather than for any sane human beings to inhabit.
Of course, the
cold rather adds to that. I wonder if dead northerners actually get
warmer after life departs.

‘It’s not Atahlan,’ he said bravely, ‘but I confess it’s quite a
sight.’
‘No fear among them, either,’ Venater stated.
‘You mean no walls?’
‘They don’t care about keeping men out, nor beasts. I reckon
any who come uninvited would find out why.’
‘They say the men of the Crown of the World believe that
only the blood of their enemies will bring spring again,’ Shyri
declared.
‘If it would do that, I’d open some throats myself,’ Asmander
responded.
The crowd was growing, even as they wound their way
between the smaller mounds. Ahead of them was one far greater
than the rest, the domain of a leader as plainly as was the Kasra’s palace at Atahlan.
‘What has brought you to the Many Mouths at such a time?’
enquired a Wolf man, stepping forward from the pack. ‘Or do
the Horse go wherever they wish across our lands?’ There was a
confrontational tone to his question that Asmander found himself warming to.
Eshmir pressed her hands together. ‘I come to honour the
High Chief of all the Wolves. I come with gifts from the Horse
Society.’
The Wolf spokesman spat, apparently placing little value on
this. Asmander was watching the rest of them though, seeing
that this man spoke for some but by no means all of them. He
sensed divisions, factions, observing the way that the northerners clumped and eddied.
Two Heads Talking kept his shoulders hunched, avoiding the
massed Wolf gaze as though this would make him invisible. He
leant in towards Eshmir and murmured, ‘This one is Water
Gathers, son of the chief.’
‘We know your father must pass on,’ the Hetman said simply.
‘We bring the respects of the Horse, as one so great makes his
last journey.’
There was precious little grief in Water Gathers, Asmander
reckoned, but at least this seemed to be the right thing to say.
The majority approved, and the chief’s son went along with
them, giving ground grudgingly.
The Horse people had brought their own tents, and that
would apparently have to be enough. Under Two Heads’ direction they pitched them at the foot of one of the smaller mounds,
whose residents were known to him. His trade-wife made the
climb up to the hall above to trade for news and for hospitality.
Asmander was keenly aware that they were not quite guests, not
yet, nor strangers either. He had a sense of having only a tenuous place in the world here, surrounded by unseen laws that he
might break with the least mis-step.
That night, he huddled about a fire with Venater and Shyri.
‘Our hosts do not like us,’ he noted.
‘That’s fine,’ the pirate growled. ‘I don’t like them.’
‘You don’t like anyone.’
Venater shrugged.
‘Yet these are the fabled Iron Wolves,’ Asmander considered,
‘and here we are.’
The pirate grunted. ‘Good luck, then.’
‘I think we’ll not just throw out a purse of coin and buy ourselves a warband or two. I think it doesn’t work like that here,’
Asmander decided.
‘Worked that much out, have you?’ Venater’s look was derisive. ‘Let me guess, old Asman didn’t give you much to go on.’
‘My father has faith in my initiative.’
This time Venater said nothing. Shyri looked from one to the
other.
‘Someone tell me what you’re both not saying,’ she said at last.
‘It’s a small matter.’ Asmander made a dismissive gesture.
‘With so many enemies around us, no matters are small matters.’
‘So you think them enemies too?’
She laughed, uttering a brief high yap of a sound, always disconcerting to hear from a human throat. ‘Of course they’re
enemies. Everyone’s an enemy until you make them a slave or a
friend. And friend’s harder.’
‘How lovely it must be to be a Plainslander,’ Asmander
remarked. ‘Such carefree lives of constant happiness.’
‘Happy indeed,’ she agreed. ‘For it is not I who am sent here
to beg. Such security you southerners must know, that you
invite in even the Wolf to keep the peace.’
‘These things are known,’ Venater murmured.
‘Enough from you,’ Asmander told him, more sharply than
he meant, but the older man just chuckled.

Because he could not sleep, the night found him later outside
their tents, in a chill that seemed to have banished even the Wolf
tribe to their hearths and halls. Above, the sky had the hallucinatory clarity of a scene viewed through a drop of water. He felt
that he could count every star.

When he heard the scuff of someone approaching behind
him, he was not surprised to find Shyri there.
‘I begin to think I must have killed you back in the ruins,’ he
said softly. ‘No ghost ever haunted a man more diligently.’
‘Yes, yes, it’s all about you,’ she replied dismissively, arms
folded. But then her next words were, ‘So, the father who sent
you, he loves his children, yes?’
‘It is a great honour to have a Champion for a son.’
‘He takes great pride in it, no doubt.’
‘He is a proud man,’ Asmander told her.
‘Having a son greater than yourself, that sounds like the sort
of honour that could rub badly against a man’s pride,’ she
observed. Her attempt at an innocent expression was pitiful.
‘You have been listening to Venater too much.’
‘He doesn’t like your father.’
‘Being liked is not my father’s aim in life.’ Asmander immediately wished he had not said it. The cold here seemed to draw
words out of him as though speaking hard truths was the only
way he could keep warm. ‘Venater has his reasons. My father
took his name from him.’
‘I thought
you
did that.’
‘Well, Venater doesn’t like me, either.’
She regarded him doubtfully, taking a step closer. She
reminded him of someone stalking small game, trying to get as
close as possible before it spooked.
‘Let me guess, your own father is a paragon of mercy and
kindness,’ he suggested.
She snorted. ‘Mercy and kindness are things the Laughing
Men have no use for, longmouth. And it’s the least of a girl’s
worries, where I come from, to know her father.’
‘I envy you,’ he murmured.
‘Then you don’t know my mother. I’d trade her for your
father any day.’
He found he was grinning, despite having come out here with
the express purpose of indulging his melancholy.
Then: ‘Lie with me,’ she said.
He gave her a very appraising look, and she laughed at him.
‘Longmouth,’ she said, ‘it is freezing, and the Horse tents are
worth nothing. Come lie down, and share your warmth, at least,
instead of pissing it out into this big sky. Or do I go fit myself
into Venater’s armpit instead?’
‘Ah, romance,’ he said drily, and took her hand when she
extended it to him. ‘Let the three of us entwine ourselves then.
Perhaps we can scandalize the locals.’

Akrit
knew
, somehow, when he awakened. There was something
about the pale, flat light of morning that told him so, as certainly
as if a spirit had whispered the knowledge in his ear.

‘Today.’ As he broke his fast with his own hunters and
Otayo’s family, the knowledge would not be kept inside. ‘It will
be today.’

Seven Skins’ oldest son nodded soberly.
By the time the sun had cleared the horizon, most of the
Many Mouths had gathered. The foreigners were there, too,
standing in a close-knit group with their guides a few steps
away, as though ready to deny any association with them at a
moment’s notice.
Coyotes and Crows
, Akrit thought derisively, but even such
scavengers had their uses.
Casting his gaze about, he met the eyes of Water Gathers,
Otayo’s younger brother. The hunter was staring at him with a
flat, patient dislike.

Good.
We understand one another.
It must have soured the
cub’s milk when Stone River had come to pay his respects. No
doubt but that Water Gathers reckoned himself as great a man
as his father, fit to live in his hall and call himself High Chief.
Akrit wondered whether Maninli’s son had it in him to kill a
guest of his tribe. Would he brave the ill fortune that such an act
would bring, if it would secure his future?

Would I, if he were in my hall?
Akrit gave the thought some
honest consideration.
I would broach it with Kalameshli, at least.
There would be a great gathering of the tribes at the equinox.
Perhaps the Wolves would kneel to a new leader then. Akrit tried
to weigh the odds: a tested warrior and chief backed by a
respected priest, set against Seven Skins’ son with his youth and
his children.
They will not choose.
He could already see how it would go.
They will hold back and the longer they do so, the further apart they
will grow, until no man will kneel to a High Chief at all. Then all
that work in bringing the Wolf together must begin again.
So I must prove myself: I must either win the fealty of the Tiger or
destroy them. I must do this even if the girl is gone. And it must be
this year. Another winter will be too late.
Up on the chief’s mound, Maninli’s wife emerged from his
hall. Seeing her face, Akrit knew it must be time. A ripple of that
grim knowledge passed through the crowd. The man they had
respected and loved would not be leading them into another
spring.
He himself emerged into the cold air, padding past the
woman who had been his wife and lifting his shaggy head to
sniff at the morning. As a man, he had been cadaverous, eaten
away by time and the curses that time brings. As a wolf he was
old, but still sound. As the years had bent his human body, withered it and gnawed at it and crippled it, his soul had stayed
strong, and all the winters that had burdened him had slid off its
grey flanks. The beast whose shape he had Stepped into was in
its prime, broad-chested, heavy-shouldered. There was a pack
out there in the fields of winter whose chief would face a hard
choice tonight, to fight or to yield. Akrit would stake a great deal
on that yield, for Maninli was a leader no matter what form he
took.
For a moment, as he passed his wife, Seven Skins Stepped
back, revealing an eyeblink of a stooped, shuffling old man, his
naked form showing every fold and crease, the fragile cage of
his ribs where the skin was stretched over them, the belly distended and lopsided with the tumour of his disease. His fingers
trailed through his wife’s hand: one last touch, one last moment
of humanity, before he passed.
Then he was on four feet once more, descending from the
mound and already moving to a subtly different beat: not the
Stepped man but the mute beast. Within him, Akrit knew his
human mind would be sloughing away. All the likes and dislikes,
the memories, the thoughts that had made him Maninli Seven
Skins would unravel like loose threads until only his true soul,
the core of him, would be left. By the time he reached the
mound’s foot he was moving faster, a beast that finds itself trespassing in a human place, eager to be gone.
His people made way for him and the grey wolf that had once
earned the name Seven Skins bolted for the outskirts of the village. He did not look back, but was away over the snow in an
easy lope: free from pain, free from care. Akrit had expected
harsh grief, but instead that sudden bounding progress lifted his
spirits. His old friend’s soul was finally free of its mortal prison.
‘My father has passed!’ It was Water Gathers’ voice that disturbed his thoughts, of course. Maninli’s hunter son was striding
into the empty space left by his father’s passage. ‘He has gone to
join his mute brothers! Shall his soul go alone? Or shall the Wolf
watch over him, and bless him in his new life?’
Akrit’s eyes were narrow, and his hand was on his knife-hilt.
This was a bold move from Water Gathers, but then he was just
as much in need of deeds as Akrit himself. While the chief of the
Winter Runners had concerned himself with the ritual of passing, it seemed his rival had been making plans.
‘My father was a great man!’ Water Gathers went on. ‘He
defeated the Tiger. He subjugated the Crown of the World and
brought it under the Wolf’s Shadow! Shall he pass on like any
common man, or shall we send a message in blood, so that the
Wolf knows to watch over him – so that the Wolf knows how we
value him?’
And how far are you going with this, boy?
Akrit wondered, feeling that familiar tightening within him that spoke of bloodshed.
So Water Gathers wanted to wet the Wolf’s jaws with blood.Very
well, and it was his right to call for it. But whose blood was
another question.
Do you dare try me here, boy?
And he knew that
he should stop thinking of Water Gathers in such a way – the
‘boy’ was not so much younger than himself. It was a boy’s
strategy, though: brash and heavy-handed. Akrit found that he
was more than ready if Water Gathers called him out.
And ill
luck, for sure, to send a son after his father in such a way, but I’ll do
it gladly if you make me.
For a moment, their eyes met, and Akrit could see him working up courage, finding out whether he had it in him to try and
send Stone River to the Wolf. They sensed together the precise
moment that Water Gathers’ resolve failed him, and instead he
cast about him, looking for another victim.
Naturally enough, his eye lit on the little band of the Horse
Society. ‘See!’ he called out. ‘See what Wolf has delivered to us.
The Horse come to us with gifts. Let them make a gift of blood
for the Wolf’s jaws!’
It was a stupid idea, Akrit knew. Why alienate the Horse Society when their traders might make the difference between life
and death? But some of the Many Mouths were already calling
out their support. Their faces were hard with grief for their lost
leader, the man who had guided them for two generations. Time
and old age were enemies they could not offer to the Wolf in
sacrifice, after all.
Otayo was not happy, but he was not a hunter either. Being
Water Gathers’ older brother would count for nothing. Even the
young priest, Catch The Moon, was nodding along.
The foolishness of it was goading, and perhaps that was even
part of the plan. Akrit would not speak out – it was not his place,
not with so many of the locals set on the idea. And perhaps this
was what Seven Skins had meant when he said the foreigners
were important. Perhaps their blood in the Wolf’s jaws was all
that the future needed.
So should I cheer them on?
But Akrit stayed silent and watched.
Water Gathers’ hunters were closing in on the foreigners,
who had bunched together, hands reaching for weapons. It surprised Akrit just how many were in the impromptu warband.
Certainly most of Seven Skins’ own followers were making their
new allegiance plain.
His own retinue were looking at him, but he held them back
with the smallest gesture.
Let this play out . . .
There was a flurry of motion. The Crow man that the Horse
had brought with them was abruptly in the air, a confusion of
black wings as he bolted for the skies. For a moment Akrit
thought he had made it, but someone had a bow to hand, and a
moment later the heavy bird had jerked in the air under an
arrow’s impact. He lurched to one side, one wing still beating
madly, and then spiralled to the ground, spilling feathers. The
Many Mouths tried to bind his neck to keep him from Stepping,
but what fell to earth was already a corpse, the man’s spirit
flown where his body could not.
The two Coyote, the foreigners’ other guides, were keeping
their heads down, quiet and submissive and making no protest
about the imminent demise of one of their patrons.
Wise, wise,
but then Coyote were always survivors – and cousins of a sort, just
enough to be more ‘us’ than ‘them’.
‘I leave the choice to you, Horse woman,’ Water Gathers was
shouting. ‘I give one of yours the honour of going to the Wolf as
a gift of blood and fire, so that he will watch over my father in
his new life. But choose swiftly. My pack are hungry.’
One of the foreigners was coming forward, pushing his way
out of his fellows. It was the dark youth, the most exotic of
them.
‘You may have my blood.’ It took Akrit a moment to understand what he was saying: he spoke the language but in a strange
way. ‘You may have my blood, yes, but only if you fight me for
it. It must be taken, not gifted.’
‘What makes you think you can set terms?’ Water Gathers
demanded.
‘Do you know what a Champion is in these lands?’ the southerner demanded. ‘I am a Champion of the River Nation. Come,
which of you will take my blood?’
Akrit stayed silent, but his pulse quickened abruptly.
Seven
Skins’ vision: is this what he meant?
And before he could think too
much of it, he was calling out, ‘It’s only right, is it not? Challenge is the lifeblood of the Wolf.’
Water Gathers’ head snapped round, glowering. ‘What say
have you? I am chief here.’
Akrit grinned, or at least he bared his teeth, because of course
the man was not chief
yet
, and abruptly his support was ebbing
away, his hubris suddenly unpopular.
‘I have no say, of course. I am but a guest,’ Stone River went
on. ‘But I have led the Winter Runners for many years and I
know what it means when a man refuses a fight.’ The trap closed
neatly, leaving Water Gathers inside it. There were many things
that would lose a man the confidence of his people, but none cut
so deep as cowardice.