The Tiger and the Wolf (56 page)

Asmander watched the Tigers approach, sliding in shadow up
the hillside. He had Stepped to his human shape and calmed his
breathing, feeling the familiar grip of the
maccan
in his hands.
As they picked up speed, closing the distance, he rediscovered
his winged soul, spreading his great vanes so that he became the
cloud that blotted out the sun, his shadow like an eclipse,
screaming at them in his hoarse, harsh voice. And then there
was the Champion, crouching atop the rocks, exuding its invincible confidence, master of all the killers of the earth.

And they slowed, not one of them wanting to be the first, and
when they had slowed enough, they stopped. Probably they
thought they were still too far off for him to pounce on them,
though they were wrong.

There were some javelins hurled then. He danced aside from
two of them, then one came in that was sent high – enough to
land close to where Hesprec was. And so Asmander sprang up,
Stepping to catch it in human hands and cast it back, then
landed back on the Champion’s scythe-clawed feet. His return
throw had been wild and awkward, but he had still made an
impression.

Then one of them was suddenly human, a stern and handsome woman armoured in bronze plates, an axe in one hand and
a knife in the other. She had about her a sense of command,
and before that solemn gaze Asmander regretted his showmanship, and Stepped so that he could hear her with human ears.

‘I am come for my daughter,’ the Tiger Queen told him.
Asmander made an awkward face. ‘I know that.’
‘Why stand in my way, black man? Why do you harm my

people? What is this to you?’
‘It’s complicated,’ he admitted, keeping a narrow eye on
where those people of hers might be fanning out to. ‘I don’t care
for your daughter; I would throw her to you myself. But she is
beloved of one I respect, so I am here.’
In the Tiger’s face he thought he saw a spark of pride that,
even in defiance, her daughter had found strong allies. What she
said finally, though, was, ‘I am not afraid of you. Take as many
shapes as a sorcerer, and I am still not afraid of you.’
It was not what he had expected from her. It was not what
her followers had expected either, to judge by the sudden uncertainty amongst them. Asmander racked his brains to remember
what he knew of the woman. What had Maniye said . . . ?
‘You have heard the Wolves howl,’ he observed. ‘They have
come for her, too.’ There was a flinch in response, though the
woman covered it well.
‘Then stand aside so that we may take the girl before they do.
Or would you fight us on their behalf?’
Asmander grimaced. ‘Not any more.’
‘I do not fear the Wolf,’ she spat at him, though he heard the
hurt in her voice.
‘I would hunt Stone River for you, if I could,’ he decided, for
surely that would be the correct action. ‘But what little honour I
have left is committed to another’s service. So fight me, Queen
of Tigers. I shall come down to you.’
He relinquished his greatest advantage, just slipping to the
ground rather than leaping down amongst them. The Tigers
were still bunched uncertainly there, held back by what they
were hearing and seeing. He had them spellbound.
And their queen gestured them away. ‘I am not afraid of you,’
she repeated.
‘I do not want you to be,’ he confirmed. ‘I want you to fight
me. That is what I am meant for. I have tried other purposes in
my life. I have proved ill-suited for them.’
He got a smile from her then, just a faint one, but it was well
worth the effort. Then she was before him, settling into a fighting stance with the ease of long practice, knife held low, axe
across her body. He followed suit,
maccan
sloping at at his shoulder, his right foot back, knees a little bent.
He had the reach, but she struck as he tried to use it, her axe
hooking his weapon away and then the dagger darting in. He
gave ground, back and sideways, trying to use her own hold on
the axe haft to drag her off balance. She was a step ahead,
though, the knife still driving for him, persistent as an angry bee.
He swept a foot towards her legs, forcing her to step away, and
followed up with a strike cleaving at where her neck and shoulder met, moving to complement the
maccan
’s weight and balance.
She passed through those moments of the duel as perfectly as
a dancer, eyes always on his face, matching aggression with
aggression, yet calm as still water. He could not land a blow on
her.
It was an admission of defeat of sorts, but he was the first to
Step.
He took the Champion’s shape, leaping abruptly so as to
come down on her with his talons. Instantly she was a tiger
ducking beneath him, so that when he landed she was almost
behind him, a woman once more and her axe hacking towards
his neck. He was a crocodile then, belly to the earth and lunging
forwards with open jaws. She vaulted him, came down on his
back as a tiger with her claws drawn in. She lost her grip a
moment later, the Champion kicking her off and pursuing. He
took a rake across his flank and another along his snout. For a
moment he had her, the deep bite of his jaws fixed at her neck,
his clawed hands hooked into her striped hide. There was
bronze beneath that fire-and-shadow fur, though, and then she
was a human woman twisting from his grip, her knife drawing a
shallow line across his leg.
The Champion loved her, Asmander could feel. Not he himself, not his human heart, but the Champion was smitten. It
wanted to kill and devour her, but it was love nonetheless.
Then the rest of the Tigers were there. In that moment, when
she had been within his jaws, their loyalty had overcome their
honour and they rushed forth. Abruptly he was surrounded.
Their queen stepped back, face a mask of frustration and anger,
but she did not call them off.
He fought; of course, he fought. The Champion gutted one
with a rip of his claws. Old Crocodile’s jaws closed on the leg of
another, as his armoured back shrugged off the blow of a
stone-studded club. He spread leather wings and cowed them in
his shadow, forcing them to fall back. Then Aritchaka tackled
him from behind, wrestling and reaching until she had his throat
gripped in her arms, bearing down his suddenly human body as
another fought his hand, contending for a hold on the
maccan
.

Stone River glared back at his followers, willing them to descend
on Broken Axe and clear the way to reach Maniye. They would
not. Some would even look him in the eye, and still not rush to
support him. Even Kalameshli would not come at his bidding.
Their faith in him had been unravelling ever since the girl had
run away, and every twist and turn of the trail had eaten into
Akrit’s place in the world until the footing beneath him was suddenly treacherous.

Kill the girl
, that was the answer. Even if another’s hand held
the knife, the girl must die at his order. He would show the Wolf
and the entire world that he was not to be denied, not even by
his own blood.

But Broken Axe still stood in the way, and though he was a
smaller man than the Cave Dweller had been, he cast a longer
shadow. Broken Axe, whose name was known to all the Winter
Runners and many beyond: the great hunter; the Wolf who
walked alone.

Every legend needs an ending
, Stone River decided, and hefted
his bear-killer.
He went in with a savage scything cut. Broken Axe Stepped
swiftly, ducking forwards under the stroke – so close that the
iron edge must have split some hairs on his back. He struck
Stone River’s chest with his forepaws, going for the throat,
knocking the man to one knee. Axe came at him again, fangs
glinting, and Stone River met his leap with the bear-killer’s haft,
throwing him off and lurching back to his feet.
He was already bringing the falx down. Broken Axe’s wolf
shape seemed to leap straight into the oncoming blow, and for a
moment Akrit thought it would be as simple as that. His enemy
Stepped back to human, though, the handle of Axe’s hatchet
staying Stone River’s stroke, and Axe’s free hand curling about
the shaft. Against the pivot of Akrit’s own grip, Axe pushed the
falx up and back, yanking it half out of his adversary’s hands.
Akrit tried to pull back with the one hand he still had on the
weapon, but Axe pushed forwards, twisting violently, so as to lay
the shaft across Stone River’s shoulders and neck, bending him
forwards.
Akrit Stepped: either that or be at the mercy of the hatchet.
He left his falx in his enemy’s hands, turning even as he found
his wolf feet, to chew at Axe’s hamstrings. He got a boot in his
muzzle for his pains, but he dodged aside from the hatchet-sweep, drawing a little blood with his teeth as he snapped at
his enemy’s hand.
Then Axe was a wolf as well, pale with a dark flash about his
shoulders, bucking up to get his jaws to the back of Akrit’s neck.
Stone River beat him to it, and for a moment they were chest to
chest, twisting as each tried for the throat of the other. They
slipped sideways, and went tumbling over and over down the
hillside, scattering the rest of Stone River’s rebellious pack. Then
Broken Axe was a man again, trying to pin Akrit down with a
human’s greater weight, his blade coming up.
Akrit squirmed out of his hold, teeth ripping into Axe’s forearm. The hatchet went spinning away but, quick as water, there
was a bronze knife in the man’s other hand. It drove in, once,
twice, and snapped against the iron that lay within Akrit’s
Stepped form.
Stone River returned to his true shape, getting a hand about
Broken Axe’s neck and throwing him downslope, towards the
trees. His hand found a familiar shape in it: his falx had come
downhill too, ready for its master to reclaim.
He lunged with it, finding his enemy unarmed and still
regaining his feet. The attack was hurried, though, the long
weapon tangling with the outlying branches of the trees, and
then Akrit had a wolf at his throat again.
He beat the animal away with a solid blow from the falx’s
haft, but already Axe was a man once more, his arm snaking
about the weapon, his weight dropping suddenly to remove it
from its owner’s hands for a second time. His other hand found
Stone River’s face, the thumb groping for an eye.
Akrit dragged his opponent down on top of him, and he
ripped clear his strong iron knife from its scabbard and drove it
into Broken Axe.
He saw realization come to Axe, as the blade sank deep under
his ribs. The blood went out of the man’s face, just as it was
coming out of his body.
Akrit knew he should fall back then: less for fear of any last
trick of fists or jaws that his enemy might manage, but to give
Broken Axe a chance to Step, to let his soul go to the Wolf.
Instead he wrenched the blade sideways, sawing viciously within
his enemy, giving voice to his hate.
Axe’s hand was at his throat, but the grip was weak. Still,
there must have been strength left somewhere in the man
because, with a great shuddering heave, he became a wolf at last,
even with the terrible wounds Akrit was carving into him. Shuddering, he dropped off Stone River and fell over onto his side,
panting once, twice, and then no more.
Akrit lurched to his feet, the reddened knife held high. ‘Well?’
he demanded of his people, for surely now they were his forever
and forever. But they just stared with wide, frightened eyes.

In the distance, Maniye could hear voices as if echoing across
the far hills.There was the Laughing Men girl, Shyri, demanding
to know what she was supposed to do . . . saying that someone
was fighting and that he was fighting alone against . . .

And someone was in pain, the small sounds of a great, great
man sorely wounded, cursing through gritted teeth, hissing and
snarling – and sometimes the sounds were those of a vast bear
on the point of madness, and sometimes of a man just the same.

And Hesprec, that strange young girl’s voice that was still
Hesprec’s voice, was speaking calming words to both of them.
And the dog with its agitated
Yoff! Yoff! Yoff!
But there was no
answering
Matt! Matt! Matt!

And the hilltop, that real hilltop with the stones, in the world
of men and beasts . . . Maniye felt as though it was the one stationary point, and that all the rest of the wide world, from the
mountains to the southerner’s vaunted river, was being slowly
twisted about that anchor.

There were many great beasts she had passed now that she
could tread the road of possibilities between her souls: bears and
huge wolves, great cats and other hunting beasts never seen
before by human eyes. They were like ghosts. She could not
reach them or make them real, call out to them as she might.
Nothing was interested in answering her summons, and the
world twisted tighter and tighter about its centre.

Something must surely tear, and soon.
And, with that thought, something did.
The more she had sought a new soul, the more her two

natures grew restless. The further she had hunted away from the
Tiger and the Wolf, the more the animals within her had clawed
and howled to be let out.

And now, with a great heaving vomiting rush, they broke free
of her, shattering the bonds she had placed about herself, leaping from her shadow to become things in their own right. A tiger
and a wolf: the bitter mother, the callous father.

And they would fight each other: they would fight forever,
but first they would finish their work of destroying her. She was
where the Tiger and the Wolf were united: she was the halfway
creature that neither could bear to let live.

And so she ran across that uneven landscape, stumbling and
tripping over her two bare feet. Behind her loped the beasts that
had escaped from her mind, her own souls hungry to seize her
in their jaws and tear her in two.

And worse was what she knew herself to be: an empty vessel
that thought it was a girl; a soulless thing no better than the
Plague People in the stories. How could she be real when even
her own souls wanted to consume her?