The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (20 page)

*
  *  *

Bre’ach gazed down the slope at where the fool Surabhan hid. Why didn’t they just surrender
? They were outnumbered. Turning to his father, he whispered, “Why not just ask them for the scroll?” He didn’t understand what all this business was with the older man. It was that idiot boy, the one travelling in a good shirt, who saw him looking at it.

“Fool of a boy
. And have them place greater importance on it, should they escape, knowing that it is the reason we gave chase?” Bre’ach’s shoulders sank as his father looked down on him with that expression of his, the one that said he would never be good enough. His father was good at that look. Sometimes, Bre’ach wondered if it was his only one. “If you’re to make leader one day…” Si’eth broke away from staring down at the Surabhan to give him
that
look again. “
If
you make leader one day, you must use what is in your head as much as what is in your hand. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father. Sorry,” Bre’ach said, but it wasn’t what he wanted to say
. He wanted to say, “Stop treating me like a fool,” or “How am I supposed to learn anything when all you do is complain?”—something like that.

*
  *  *

Si’eth repeated his shout. “I would speak with your leader, Surabhan. Not with his henchman.”

“He is not our leader,” Daric replied. “We don’t have a leader. But if any were to take the mantle, then it would be mine to hold.”

Olam searched right and left, craning his neck to see over the stream and beyond the trees to the southeast
. There was nothing that spoke of ambush. What were these Salrian’s up to? As competent as Daric was, Arfael still lay unconscious, and this… talk appeared to be heading for stalemate. “Can’t wait here all day,” he whispered and then calmly walked out from under the trees. Slowly, he crossed the few paces or so to where Daric and the others were under cover. “I believe I’m the one of whom you speak, sir,” he shouted up towards the Salrians. “Whom am I addressing?” Of course, he knew very well what the man’s name was, but the Salrian wouldn’t know that—a chance to catch him in a lie, maybe.

The Salrians immediately took aim at Olam. “What are you doing?” whispered Daric, who was now barely half a pace in front.

“Looking for answers, the same as you, my friend,” Olam said. “I assume you have a plan to get the children away. The other two are ready.”

Daric smiled. “Just you get ready to duck. I don’t think this man came all this way to talk with you. When it starts, if it starts, Elspeth will join the others and run south.” Daric shuffled between Olam—who was nodding surreptitiously at his plan—and the tree trunk, ready to pounce forward should an attack come.

Olam raised his chin to the Salrian. “So, my friend, as you are not willing to start, what would you like to talk about on this fine morning?” Olam said.

Daric coughed and held back a laugh.

“I was curious about your little exhibition, Surabhan. I was wondering how you came across such a trick.” Si’eth continued passing back and forth.

Olam suspected a trap
. No, he knew there was a trap, but from where. For now, he could think of nothing else to do but play along. “I’m not Surabhan, good sir. I’m of Eurmac and of Moyathair and take no man as my leader.” Olam stood tall and defiant in the face of the Salrian. “Again, I ask you, sir. To whom am I speaking?”

The Salrian shuffled and folded his arms; he didn’t appear to like Olam’s tone. “What is your purpose, old man? Why are you travelling through Illeas’cu?

“My business is my own, sir. If this is parley, then my title I will give freely. I’m Olam O’lamb, Emissary to Arlenoch of Illeas’den, fourteenth Alpha of the Rukin, and guardian of the truth.” Daric looked up at Olam with a creased brow and more than a puzzled gaze. Olam held back a smile and whispered. “I made up that last part.”

Made up or not, Si’eth seemed to ponder Olam’s words. “I’m Si’eth Uldmae, captain of this troop. Other than that, I have no titles. I am, however, impressed with yours. Are you here for duty or pleasure?”

“And there he goes again, talking about nothing. This is going nowhere. What is he planning?” Olam whispered. Daric shrugged.

Olam opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he heard
, “Get off me,” and “Leave me alone,” shouted from the trees. Gialyn and Ealian walked out into the open, hands raised, with the points of three Salrian swords at their backs.

“About time!” Si’eth groaned loud enough so even the travellers could hear. “All right, then, whoever you may be, let’s have done with this. Lower your weapons and stand at surrender.” Si’eth raised his hands in the air, as if complaining at the time it took his men to capture two children. Grinning in triumph, he edged around his line of men and began to walk down the hill. He hadn
’t taken three paces before the sound of distant howling broke from the cusp of the grass verge.

Near on a mile away, Olam saw the grey-black silhouette of two dozen wolves set against the bright white of the northern morning sky. All at once, as though commanded by the howl, the wolves began to run at pace, still in a line, down the slope towards their camp.

Si’eth backed off. “Hostage! Take the old one hostage! He is known to them.” He bellowed at the three Salrians guarding Gialyn and Ealian.

The three, who had not long dragged Elspeth from behind the fallen tree, took a step towards Olam. Elspeth drew a blade from her thigh-sheath and cut one of them across the face. Daric and Grady where already stood. In a whirl of frantic thrashing, they disarmed the other two. Olam club
bed the last one over the head. The short Salrian dropped his blade and fell to his knees. Moaning, he didn’t know whether to rub his head or mind the cut on his cheek.

Taking their weapons, Daric and Grady pushed Elspeth and the others into the trees. Olam followed.

For a long moment, the three disarmed Salrians looked at them, as if wondering what to do now. Grady bared his teeth and raised his bow. The three turned on their heels and ran up the slope towards Si’eth, who was currently dividing his attention between them and the advancing wolves.

“Well done, Elspeth!” Grady said.

“It’s not over yet, you two,” Daric said.

Olam felt a hand on his shoulder
. He’d been watching the wolves’ progress, wondering what, if anything, he could do. As if hearing his thoughts, Daric said, “I fear it is up to you my friend. Are these beasts truly known to you?”

“Not exactly,” Olam said. “I met a leader of theirs once, called him friend, and learnt some of their custom and greetings. I was expecting to address them at length, not in a running battle. Little can dissuade a wolf from a chase.”

“Oh dear!” Daric pushed his fingers through his hair. Obviously, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“They won’t kill without reason, Daric. We should have time to explain ourselves
. Just don’t provoke them.” His look took in Grady, too. This was going to be hard enough without the old soldier grinding his teeth at them.

Both men nodded, if reluctantly, and Olam turned his attention back on the wolves. The Salrians had broken formation and were desperately climbing up the sandstone ridge. Olam gave a short chortle. “I wonder if wolves can climb,” he whispered. The question was answered immediately
. Half the wolf pack turned and ran back up the sloping verge, doubtless to a point where they could continue their pursuit of the Salrians—it seems they couldn’t climb. The rest, twelve in all, continued their advance on the travellers’ camp.

“Arfael,” Elspeth suddenly shouted, as if Olam hadn’t already considered him. “Arfael is still out there
. We can’t leave him.” She certainly was an honourable sort, if a little inexperienced.

“He’s too big to drag,” Daric said, “but she’s right
. We can’t just leave him there.” Grady nodded. Olam was already squeezing past him, making for his friend. The other two followed. “Hope you’ve got something up your sleeve, Olam,” Daric whispered when they were away from the others. “We won’t last long against these beasts.”

CHAPTER 15

The three took position around Arfael: Grady to his left, Daric to his right, and Olam stood square in front of him. Daric was going to take that position, but Olam felt he must
. Arfael was
his
friend, after all.

The wolves were close now, barely two
hundred paces away. Close enough to hear their padded footfalls and wrenching growls.

Olam knelt. He pushed his fingers into the hard turf and tried to open his mind. Waves of colour flashed across his eyes. Silver-grey silhouettes darted from a misty curtain: a running wolf, a staring eye, a jarred vision of Daric, the trees, and back to the curtain. The colour dissipated. He tried again. A slap cracked the link at the back of his mind. The eyes closed, the curtain fell away into darkness—and then, nothing. Olam didn’t need fifty years of experience to know the link wasn
’t going to work, not on these wolves. He stood, raised his arms wide, and shouted, “
Em wra ach ulf!
”

Olam heard Daric and Grady gripping hard on the weapons in their hands. They both looked nervous. By the expressions on their faces, neither had a clue what Olam was attempting, never mind understanding the words he
’d shouted. He would have explained, but there wasn’t time.

However, Olam was pleased to see the head wolf’s ears pricked up—which was surprising
. He wasn’t even sure he remembered the words correctly. The beast slowed down, and the others followed his lead. The pack trotted the last thirty paces in an almost prancing step. Each one of the twelve scanned diligently left and right and made a good job of staring into the trees, from where Gialyn and the others were probably watching. They stopped three paces in front of Olam and began to spread out. The lead wolf took a step forward. Then, to gasps from Daric and Grady, the wolf began to speak, in common, no less. Olam supposed it was one thing to hear of wolves talking and quite another to see it for yourself.

“Who are you to call yourself ‘friend?
’” the wolf asked. He began pacing round the travellers, eyeing up the camp. “Who are you to make the welcome of Illeas’cu? And di—did you try to…
calm
me,
wizard
?” The wolf exaggerated the last in a none-too-friendly manner.

“Wizard?” Daric mumbled to Grady. His friend just shrugged. They were stood at Olam’s side now.

He told them to stay quiet and lay down their weapons. They did so, slowly, eyes still fixed on the wolves. Daric and Grady raised their empty hands as they each backed off a step.

The wolf nodded towards the trees where the others were still hiding. “Tell your young ones to come out. I will see you all.”

Olam bit his lip and looked across the line of wolves before turning and waving the others forward. “Come out, you three, please, and with no weapons, Elspeth.” He was beginning to understand the character of his companions quite well, especially Elspeth. The three walked out in single file. Elspeth first, of course, followed by Gialyn and Ealian. At Daric’s bidding, the three positioned themselves between the two
soldiers
. They, too, raised empty hands to the wolves.

The twelve wolves made an arc with the travellers in the centre. Their leader squared up and sat a pace in front of Olam. Looking up with brilliant, cool-grey eyes, he asked, “Will you answer my question, Surabhan?”

Olam opened his palms in a manner of pleading and dropped his gaze to the ground as if submitting. He hoped he remembered it right. A mistake now could prove costly. “I’m Olam O’lamb, son of Alindair, kin of Eurmac. I was friend to Arlenoch, the fourteenth Alpha of Illeas’den. And I was not trying to calm you, sir. Please believe me. The gods be my judge, I was trying to communicate friendship.” Olam bowed deeper, his palms still open.

The wolf stood silently. Eying the travellers up and down, he actually appeared to be considering what to say. The other wolves began to whisper amongst themselves. Their leader quickly silenced them with a snarling bark. It must have meant “quiet!” in wolf tongue, or maybe something more severe. The pack immediately faced forward and held their heads high in silence. They stood at what could have passed for military attention. Daric would doubtless be impressed
. Not only could they talk, they were well disciplined, too.

“Arlenoch died twenty years ago. I was young, so I may be mistaken, but I do not remember anyone called
Olam
…
O… lam
?” The wolf chewed around the name; clearly, he hadn’t met many Eurmacians. He began to pace again. “Do you have any other claim of kinship, something other than the name of a long-dead friend?” the wolf asked with a tired tone, as though he didn’t believe a word yet had to enquire by the edicts of some ancient ritual or law.

Olam pondered the question. Remembering the old Illeas’cu welcome had certainly paid off. Now if only he could think of something else.
Maybe they know Elim?

“There may still be friends of mine in Illeas’den. Do you know—”

A deep groan interrupted Olam. Arfael reeled on the ground, reaching his hand up to rub his sore head. Daric stepped forward and offered a hand. Arfael took his arm and placed a heavy hand on Olam’s shoulder. Bracing themselves against the big man’s considerable weight, both Olam and Daric stood firm while Arfael steadied his shaking knees. With a nod of thanks, Arfael turned and then quickly raised an eyebrow at the sight of the pack.

Arfael’s reaction paled in comparison to that of the wolves. Their leader dipped his head almost to the ground. With his tail between his legs, he backed off, positioning himself within the rank of wolves. The line wavered as every wolf fidgeted and gaped wide-eyed at Arfael. Each bowed, doing a fair impression of respect—or was it fear? They settled into what looked like silent adoration. None took their eyes off Arfael, not even to look questioningly at one another. Eventually, the silence was broken as one wolf after another began nervously growling. The sound grew louder. Clawed feet scratched at the ground. Jaws snapped and heckles rose.

Arfael reached for Olam’s staff.

Olam placed a hand on his wrist. “I do not think they are going to attack, friend,” he said.

Daric and Grady pulled Gialyn and the others in close. Both men stood with their backs to youngsters, arms wide, ready to defend. “What are they doing, Olam?” Daric had to shout above the din.

One of the larger wolves took a pace forward and broke into a fearsome howl. He raised his call to the heavens, or so it seemed. Indeed, it did sound almost… worshipful, not a threat; it didn’t sound in the least bit aggressive. As though that were a cue to begin, all twelve wolves joined in the cry, including their leader. Each took their part in reciting an awful, mournful song, almost a dirge or requiem. The howling lament—if you could call it that; it had no melody to speak of, but still seemed structured somehow—astonished Olam and filled his mind with questions. He was almost sad when the wolves stopped
. He would have loved to study it for a while.

The lead wolf slowly came forward. Directing his comment to Arfael, he spoke, “You are of Gan’ifael, are you not, of the tribe, Kel’mai?” he said. For a moment, his lip seemed to tremble at asking the question. Strange that a wolf should be nervous—or shy?
No, not shy. Shocked, the wolf was in shock.

Arfael, who was still rubbing his head, looked to Olam for answers.

“Beg your pardon, sir. We know this man as Arfael, a good friend of mine for many years.” Olam put his hand upon Arfael’s shoulder.

“I’d recognise a Kel’mai as surely as one of my brothers,” the wolf said. “But we have not heard talk of his kin, outside The Great Hall, for over a hundred years, save the reading of
The Scrolls of Illeas
, of course.” He said the last as though expecting Olam to understand what it meant. “Yet your kin is known to all the Rukin. The tales of your victories are read to us as pups. Your tribe is legend.” The wolf leader turned his gaze to Olam and asked, “How is it that you know nothing of this? You must know of the old unions, if what you say is true, if he is your friend. The Rukin and the Kel’mai were
Battle-Brothers
for centuries.”

Olam felt his eyebrows more with each word the wolf leader spoke.
Gods, this could be it. An answer.
He bowed again.
You must handle this with care, Olam. Thirty years of questions.
He cleared his throat twice before answering. “Sir, that is a long story, and I would be happy to tell you, but I’m afraid that he has no memory of what you speak.” Olam cleared his throat again. Very nervous. “If you know him, if you know of his people, then this truly is fortuitous. Arfael and I have searched for years in hopes of finding some answers to his heritage.”

“So he is cursed?” the wolf said. He didn’t look very surprised
.

“I do not think he is… cursed, no. And please, might we know your name?” Olam raised his palms in greeting, as is the custom in Illeas—he hoped.

Seems he was right; the wolf nodded back at him. “I’m Toban, fifteenth Alpha of the Rukin in the
Age of Illeas.”
Toban turned to the other wolves and singled them to stand down—at least Olam thought that’s what it was. The other wolves relaxed, anyway. Toban, himself, sat casually before the travellers. “Yes, we can answer your question, but later. This is not the time. And please, be at ease. We are not your enemy.” Toban glanced at the rock face, over which Si’eth and the other Salrians had escaped. “Speaking of enemy, what quarrel do you have with the Salrians? I have never seen them this far south, not since the war at least.”

“That is another long story,” Olam said. “May we get water? I have a mighty thirst after all this excitement.”

“Of course. As I said, you are amongst friends. Do as you will.” Toban’s look took in all the travellers, especially Arfael.

Elspeth and Gialyn, and even Ealian, returned to the trees to fetch water and some food. Daric sat on the ground in front of Toban, while Grady helped Arfael to the fallen tree
. The big man was still a little unsure on his feet. Olam remained standing in front of Toban.

“How did you come to call him Arfael? It is similar to Arlyn Gan’ifael. A
very
old family, if indeed that is who he is,” Toban asked.

“By his necklace. It is old and damaged, but I managed to read the beginning and end of it. He had called himself by another name before that. The villages near to where he lived referred to him as
Mo’duien
, old tongue for ‘big man.’ He didn’t like it so much once I told him.”

Toban nodded. “He should be treated with honour.”
Olam heard no doubt in Toban’s voice. “You say he has no memory of his deeds, or of the deeds of his kin. It would have been over one hundred and twenty years since…” Toban hesitated and then shook his head. “No, this is not the time or place for such talk. We must get you home and safe.”

Olam’s attention drew away from Toban towards the two wolves running quickly down the grassy slope. They were from the pack that chased the Salrians over the ridge. The two made directly for Toban without so much as a second look
to Olam and the others.

“This is Aleban, my second.” Toban introduced the first of the two as they came to a halt. Olam bowed respectfully, as did Daric and Grady. Aleban looked a little confused but didn’t press for answers.

He delivered his report. “They are through the trees and back towards the marsh. We followed for near a mile, but they’re gone. We saw signs of a camp. Was that yours?” Aleban looked to Olam for an answer.

Olam shook his head. “Our last camp lay half a day west, in southern
Am’bieth.”

“Then it was the Salrians. By the size of the camp, I would put their number at fifteen, maybe twenty. Not accounting for scouts.”

“There were only ten when we last saw them.” Daric obviously felt well enough at ease with the mysterious
talking wolves
to join in the conversation.

Olam thought it strange the others knew nothing of the Rukin, but then, of course, the wolves were
very
secretive. Despite their current acceptance, they were unlikely to welcome strangers. Olam remembered, at his last visit he’d had to camp two miles south of the village. However, that was only a simple trade meeting.
I wonder if Elim is still there. I must remember to ask if the opportunity arises. I must not ruin this!
He’d had no reason to visit for decades. If he had, Arfael would have known of his kin years ago. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Lose one friend because you were too busy helping another.
Fool!

“And what did you do to provoke their anger?” Aleban’s tone was short and ill-tempered.

Toban looked at his number two and then nodded in Arfael’s direction. The wolf leader had the wolf equivalent of a cheeky grin on his face. Arfael was sat with his back against the fallen tree. Only now did Aleban notice him. Like Toban, Aleban’s first reaction was to back away. Arfael was busy holding a wet cloth to his head and eating some bread. He didn’t notice all the fuss or Aleban’s bow. The second turned back to Olam and bowed again, almost to the floor. “
Em wra ach ulf
.” He recited the Illeas welcome with reverence.