The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (21 page)

Olam returned his bow. “
Em wra ach ulf
.”

“What does that mean?” asked Grady, who until now seemed content to sit back, watch, and listen.

Toban answered, “It’s from the old wolf. There is no—what is the word?—translating. It is a simple ‘welcome to my home’ spoken back before we became kin with our Surabhan bothers. By that, I mean those who have shared our home for the past three centuries, not all of Aleras’moya. We find most of your kind… distasteful and vulgar.” Toban curled his lip.

“What! You actually
eat
Surabhan?” Elspeth asked. She had just returned from fetching water.

Toban laughed. “No. We do not eat men, at least not in this age. When I say ‘distasteful,’ I mean we do not like their manner: always concerned with conquest; caring more for trinkets and pageantry than they do for their own kin; drawing lines in the sand and spilling the blood of their young over it
. You know, that sort of thing.”

“Yet you do protect this land, don’t you?” Elspeth said.

“We call this ours because it puts line to paper in the minds of your leaders. In truth, we have no border. We stay because it is safe. Your armies have no need of this land of grass and rock. Yet, mark my words, if there were ought of any value to them, they would be on us like flies on a day-old kill, and we would have to move on. We will not die to protect a blade of grass. Wolves we may be; fools we are not! As for being territorial, our sacred canon states that all lands should be free to travel and settle on, providing the land is cared for, respected.”

Olam nodded in agreement. “Wise words, sir
.”

Toban stood and turned towards the trees. “We will drink from the stream, and then we must be off. You should come to Illeas’den while we figure the plans of these neighbours of yours.”

Olam looked at Daric, Grady, and the others. Everyone nodded in agreement. “We accept your gracious offer, sir.”

“Good. Ready yourselves. We will leave in five minutes.” Toban laughed to himself. “This is going to be… interesting.”

*  *  *

The travellers followed Toban up along the shallow eastern edge of the grassy verge. It was still early, yet the day already seemed old. Walking in the shadow of the Illeas Ridge was some welcome relief
. It was going to be another hot day. Before long, the soft grass gave way to hard shale. The wolves broke from encircling the travellers and lined up in single file to climb the last steep rise.

Gialyn followed at the rear of the pack. Best to keep out of the way of the elders
. It looked as though they were in deep discussion over some point or other. It might have been interesting, but more likely not. Gialyn ambled lazily at the back of the line and chatted—yes, chatted—with one of the wolves. Mott appeared to be younger than most, but how do you tell? Apart from a little grey around Toban’s chin, there was no real sign of age amongst any of them.

The young wolf was happy to point out landmarks. Gialyn couldn’t help but smile at the wolf’s laidback, matter-of-fact chatter. Mott spoke like any other young adult. He could be talking to someone back home in Geddy, for all the difference it made. Gialyn felt a small stab of shame that he might have expected any different. The wolves clearly didn’t see of themselves as a curiosity. Gialyn resolved to treat Mott and the others like any other “person.”

“That is Illeas’coi,” Mott said, nodding his head towards a clump of trees on the far side of the rise, “or at least the start of it. It follows the Cu round to the south and along the bottom of Am’bieth. It eventually joins with Herann’coi. We do our hunting there. But hunting is mostly ceremonial now.”

“Why is that?” Gialyn traced the path with his eyes, following the Cu—the grassland—south until it disappeared behind the western rift. “I wonder why we didn’t just follow that instead of going through the marsh,” he mumbled, not expecting the wolf to answer
.

“Because of the Raithby,” Mott said, “or the Am’firth, whatever it is called east of the marsh. There is no bridge at
Am’bieth. The nearest is on the southern road, almost at the Eurmac Canyon. It would add weeks to your journey. And as far as the hunting goes, we farm now, or at least our Surabhan cousins do. We have goats and pigs and cows, just like anyone else.”

Gialyn felt his brow crease
. The idea of wolves “farming” seemed somehow stranger than wolves talking. “How—uh—how do you manage that, if you don’t mind me asking?” A vision of wolves planting seeds with their teeth came to mind.
No, that cannot be it.

Mott laughed. “I suppose it does sound strange at that. We share duties where we are able. Guarding the flocks against wilders—foxes, badgers, hawks and such—is our main task. Some of the wolves are big enough to pull carts, and four together can turn a plough quite well. Course, we’re not as big as Darkin, but we do all right.”

“Darkin?”

“Yes. Darkin are our southern cousins. They are much bigger than Rukin and mostly black. They are the real
Battle-Brothers
. Rukin were scouts and runners; Darkin are fighters. I do not think they pull carts or farm. They live at the southwestern corner of Crenach, almost at the Eurmac Canyon. From what I hear, they have not calmed much since the last war. And they are bigger than ever, though how that happened is a mystery. They are the first
Battle-Blood
clan, and they stayed separate long after the peace. You are lucky you didn’t stumble upon their territory, Gialyn.”

The thought of wolves bigger than Mott and the others made Gialyn gulp. He had never seen a wolf bigger than Toban. Standing straight, his head almost reached Daric’s shoulder, and Gialyn’s father was by no means a small man. “Oh, well, must remember to keep away from there. Southwest Crenach, you say?”

Mott laughed. “Do not worry. They are not killers, not anymore. At least I don’t think they are. They are just… unfriendly.”

And with that admonition, Gialyn stopped. They had reached the top of the bank, and nobody was moving. Daric, Grady, and the others stood shoulder to shoulder across the narrow path at the very top of the hill. They were all looking down. Gialyn edged his way to the side to see what the fuss was. What he saw was not a disappointment. Illeas’cu was a remarkable sight.

Vivid patchwork blankets of serine farmland spread fully to the northern horizon, hedged in an unnatural order with straight lines of arbour and bramble. The pale-green lines of the early corn and the solid yellow hue of oil seed quilted the base of the valley. Well-spaced orchards dotted the lower edge of the ridge where the ploughs wouldn’t reach. In the centre, a lake of crystal blues and greens lay at the mid-ground, edged up against an arcing rock face running along the northern shoreline, cradling the lake with enormous stony hands. Speckled lines of birch and maple and oak flirted with the ridges of grey-white stone that lay to the west and northeast, their form reaching out beyond the horizon, as though framing an extraordinary picture. The entire valley, as far as the eye could see, gave an impression of an immense well-ordered garden.

The travellers followed Toban and Aleban down through tree-lined paths, stretching east towards the far edge of the lake. The broad-leafed canopy was so complete it was as if they w
andered into a tunnel. At its end, bramble and thicket took the mantle of border, as the path wound around eastwards along the outer face of the lake’s rocky scarp. A gently sloping lane rose northwards for another half mile. Until eventually, they came to the southern gate of Illeas’den.

Gialyn and the other travellers stood for a while at the entrance. Expressions of wonder and bewilderment covered their faces as they gazed around the wide courtyard. Children and wolf cub
s played on a small green. Mothers, both wolf and Surabhan, gossiped by a well. Old men in rocking chairs and grey-chinned wolves chatted on verandas. Wolf and cart carried produce along the wide streets, while men, labourers most likely, shared food with their wolf workmates. All went about their daily routine with no thought of how strange a union they held.

Toban turned to the travellers, especially Arfael. “If you do not mind, follow me to
the Hall of Wolves. It is large enough for all. The only other place is the inn, and it is a bit early for that. You are likely to cause a bit of a fuss, my friend.” He gave a smile and a nod to Arfael. Aleban looked at him and huffed, as if his leader had just made a monumental understatement or a wolfish joke. “Please, keep walking. And do not worry.”

As it was, Toban appeared to be the only one worrying. Daric and Grady sniffed and looked at each other as though puzzled by Toban’s manner. Olam didn’t look as though he’d heard anything. His eyes darted from one scene to the other, jaw wide enough to catch corn flies. Arfael just nodded. Elspeth stood by him. She seemed strangely protective of their large friend. Gialyn wondered how that had happened. But of course, Arfael’s chivalry would play well with Elspeth.
And she wants to be a soldier! Strange how she appreciated being treated as the damsel
. Ealian picked his fingernail with a twig!

Toban took the centre route on their way to the large
, ornate building at the far end of the village. He was in no hurry. It was as if he wanted everyone to see who was with him. The wolves sat talking, and those about their business stopped and stared. Murmured whispers, even disapproving growls, came from the onlookers. Stares of confusion, bewilderment, and even anger, passed amongst the expressions of outright astonishment.

Despite all that, Toban seemed almost proud to be leading Arfael through the courtyard of
the Hall of Wolves. He strode in front with head held high, bowing to those of his kin standing aghast at the sidelines. A procession of wolves tucked in behind the travellers as they passed around the shallow pool in front of the steps. Near twenty Surabhan and twice that number of wolves walked slowly behind the group.

Gialyn caught some of their whispers, though he wasn
’t trying to eavesdrop. “Kel’mai” and “Arlyn” were the most common. However, by far the most troubling: “Has he come back?”

Toban climbed the steps of
the Hall of Wolves and waited while all the travellers filed in behind. The veranda was deep, high, and supported by elaborately carved colonnades of dark polished oak. The columns reached the full two stories to the roof and stretched a good three paces from the front of the hall. The entrance was a large arched door, similarly carved in polished oak. The thickly shorn wooden walls, painted in pale shellac, contrasted the bright-white trim. The windows were sash with eight panes in each, fit enough for the best Beugeddy manor house. The Hall of Wolves was looking more like the town hall.
Another question for later maybe,
Gialyn thought,
if someone else asks it.

Toban turned to address the followers. He barely managed a word before the baying and howling started. Shouts came from every quarter. “Have they returned?” some would say. And from elsewhere, “Is that Arlyn?” And more than one person—or wolf—asked, “Did you know about this, Toban?”

Toban bowed and waited for silence, occasionally raising a paw at those who persisted. After a long moment, he spoke. “I know you all have questions. I, myself, am barely a few hours into this tale. I will be talking to the elders shortly. When I know more, I will speak of it. Please be patient.” With that, he turned and led the travellers into the hall. Muffled, agitated murmurs followed them inside.

Several wolves and a few Surabhan stood just inside the entrance. They must have heard the fuss and come to meet their guests by the door. The wolves amongst them bowed low as Arfael passed, then immediately looked to Toban for answers. He nodded in acknowledgement of their query and carried on, saying nothing. Politics was a game of all sorts, so it seemed. Gialyn certainly got the impression that Toban was enjoying himself.

The high panelled entrance hall was plain enough. Indeed, it looked like a cloakroom, brass pegs lined up neatly on the sidewall and a bench for boots underneath. Two more wolves and another Surabhan were waiting in the anteroom. Toban walked directly to the woman stood on her own in the centre of an intricately woven circular rug. “Could you prepare food for our guests and make ready the rooms behind the kitchens: bedding, blankets, and water? Please, Sarai. You know what to do.”

Sarai was a Surabhan woman. A little beyond her middle years, she appeared handsome, rather than pretty. She reminded Gialyn of his Aunt Maddie from Bailryn, especially the grey hair that touched lightly at her temples and added an air of authority. If it were not for the apron, Gialyn might have guessed she was in charge. Certainly, by the way she scowled and huffed at Toban, she was nobody’s servant.

“What is all this?” she asked. “All this fuss, baying, howling, folk shouting questions in the courtyard. You have brought me trouble haven’t—” Sarai’s eyes widened as Arfael ducked into the anteroom. Unfolding her arms, she unconsciously began straightening her apron.

Toban smiled. “I think you have an idea, my old friend. I know you have seen inside the Sanctum. You must recognise him as a Kel’mai.”

Sarai nodded, not wanting to admit that she had seen inside the wolves’ sacred meeting hall. “Yes. I will—uh, I will see to the rooms.” She quickly gathered up two of her fellow Surabhans and headed towards what must be the kitchens.