The Sight

  There was a flash of white through the air. Gart felt the breath pressed clean from his lungs as he was knocked to the ground. Larka swung round at the wolf that was trying to fend off Skart’s talons and in one stroke delivered such a furious blow across the muzzle that it spat at her and fled.

  Larka looked invincible as she stood there, her yellow eyes blazing, every muscle in her body straining with purpose. She sprang at Tsarr’s attacker, and in an instant they had driven him off too. She and Tsarr turned towards Jarla, but to their horror, they saw that the she-wolf was on the ground, and the two rebels were standing over her, clawing and biting at her throat.

  ‘No,’ gasped Tsarr.

  His pounce knocked one of the rebels over and Larka took the other, her teeth going straight for its gullet. The bite wounded it badly and as it also turned and ran, its companion joined him. Gart was left alone. He had got up again, but as Larka saw him advancing on Bran her voice rang through the wood.

  ‘Don’t move a muscle, if you value your life.’

  Gart froze and Larka prowled towards him. Tsarr was craning over Jarla, licking her muzzle tenderly. Jarla’s blood was already thick on the grass.

  ‘Why have you done this?’ cried Larka furiously. ‘Did Morgra send you?’

  ‘Morgra,’ snarled Gart, ‘what does a rebel have to do with that filth? You know more of Morgra than we. For you also claim to have the Sight. You are the same as she.’

  ‘But what harm has this creature ever done to you?’

  They were both looking at Bran, and the child was utterly petrified.

  ‘You dare ask,’ said Gart, ‘you a wolf, a Varg, protecting a human. It is against all the laws of the Putnar. Against all the laws of nature. Morgra is already seeking our leader because of this legend. The Night Hunters are on the move once more. And you ask what harm this creature does?’

  Larka dropped her eyes almost guiltily, but there was another moan from Jarla. Larka turned furiously.

  ‘Go, get out of here.’

  Gart looked hungrily at the child again and when he spoke his voice was hard and cold.

  ‘I will go. But first, don’t you want to know about your parents, Larka, about Huttser and Palla?’

  Larka sprang and knocked Gart on to his back. She stood over him, her jaws open and her tail high, her powerful front paws pressing down on his chest, her muzzle swaying slowly back and forth over his throat. She might have pressed him into the earth.

  ‘My parents,’ she hissed. ‘They are alive?’

  ‘For now,’ growled Gart, ‘they are being held with us in Kosov.’

  Larka felt a sickening feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Your father was some use to us for a time,’ growled Gart scornfully, ‘spying out Balkar and humans.’

  ‘Humans?’ cried Larka.

  ‘A few are settling beyond the valley.’

  Larka’s heart thundered. Then what she had seen. It lay in the present.

  ‘Then we found out Huttser and your mother were the real spies,’ said Gart. ‘They are still alive, Larka, but only until Slavka decrees their end.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  There was little fear in Gart. He was a fighter and now he was resigned to his fate. But first he delivered Slavka’s message, coldly and with defiance. When Larka heard it she began to shake furiously and Gart felt her torment quivering through his own body as he lay beneath her paws.

  ‘So you see,’ whispered Gart, eyeing Larka’s teeth, ‘you have a choice, Larka. Sacrifice yourself and the child, or say farewell to your parents for ever.’

  Larka hissed at Gart and as her muzzle came closer, he could feel her hot breath stroking his fur. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Do it, then, Larka. Get it over with. Are you a wolf or not? At least I have done my duty as a true Varg.’

  Larka wanted to seize the rebel in her teeth, to shake the life out of his throat, for his stupidity. It wasn’t just her parents’ fate that hung now in the balance, she wanted to scream, but the fate of all the wolves, of all the Lera. The legend was coming true. She had seen it. But Larka knew Gart would never believe her. As she stood there, she was like some ancient prophet destined never to be believed.

  As Larka thought of Huttser and Palla she opened her jaws, yet something within her held her back. Gart was strong and proud and he was right, he had risked his life to do what he felt was best. Why should he die for it, what justice would quiver through the leaves below Tor’s heaven if she killed him?

  Larka sprang off him.

  ‘Go, go back to your leader and give her my message. Tell her that she is wrong. That it is not the Sight that is evil, no, not even Man, but Morgra and Wolfbane. And tell her, too, that we are not the same, Morgra and I.’

  Gart opened his eyes. He had expected his end and a great lightness came over him, as though he were floating beyond his own body. The wolf got up and looked strangely at Larka. ‘How fine she seems,’ he thought. Gart was touched by a guilty memory, too, a memory of what Slavka had made him do to his friend Darm. He was about to speak again, but Larka turned her head coldly.

  ‘And tell Slavka that if she lays a paw on my parents she shall suffer for it.’

  As he padded away Gart kept looking back at the white she-wolf and wondering to himself. But Larka had swung round to Jarla in the grass. Tsarr shook his greying muzzle sadly.

  ‘It’s hopeless, Larka.’

  ‘Jarla,’ whispered Larka, ‘I am sorry. I didn’t come in time.’

  Jarla was straining painfully, the fur around her throat torn and bloody.

  ‘But let me try to heal you, Jarla,’ said Larka suddenly.

  ‘Let me use the Sight.’

  But Jarla’s breath was growing fainter.

  ‘No,’ she growled, ‘it’s too late for me, Larka.’

  Larka could feel somehow that Jarla’s life force was vanishing.

  ‘Larka,’ Jarla gasped, ‘Larka. There isn’t much time. I want to ask you something. I want you to promise me that you will care for the human. That you will do all in your power to protect it. And that one sun you will return it to its mother, for only she can truly understand it.’

  Larka whined tenderly.

  ‘No, Larka,’ gasped Jarla, ‘promise me. Swear it. By the

  Sight.’

  Larka remembered bitterly the pact they had all made as young wolves. ‘What point,’ she thought helplessly, ‘what point is there in making promises we never keep?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  Jarla closed her eyes, and as the death rattle hissed from her broken body they heard another meaning, a meaning without words whispered from her dying voice. It was a sigh, a sigh of gratitude and relief. Larka’s howl echoed around them and Bran turned his head as he heard it. Something stirred in the child’s unconscious mind, some ancient memory.

  Tsarr rested by Bran that terrible night, licking his wounds as Skart hopped and fluttered about them and Larka went off alone to think. Tsarr and Skart were worried, and they could see that Larka had been given an impossible choice. Larka’s heart was full of shadows as she prowled through the wood. She had promised herself, promised Jarla to protect the strange little human. But now her parents were in terrible danger, not just from Slavka, but from the legend, too. Morgra was on the move and Larka knew now that it was in Kosov that she would try to fulfil the verse and open the pathways to the Searchers.

  Perhaps she could reach them first and spirit them away. But could Slavka really make her parents fight each other to the death? Larka shuddered as she thought of it, but again that image came to her, of their snarling faces on the ice. She wanted to save them, to stop it all. But if she took Bran to Kosov as Slavka demanded, then had not she herself become Morgra’s servant? It was as though Morgra was asking Larka to join her.

  It was dawn when Larka rose on her paws and wandered over to Jarla’s body. She shivered as she saw that already the secret workers of the wood, ants and termites and beetles, had come scurrying fr
om the undergrowth and begun to feed on the carcass. Even as they supped they fought each other, clambering over each other’s tiny bodies. But as Larka thought of how Skart had talked with such hatred of Kraar and the flying scavengers, she felt confused. Was not the wolf a scavenger too, like these little things? Did not everything scavenge on everything else?

  ‘Larka,’ said Skart quietly, ‘what are you going to do?’ Larka’s eyes flickered. For a moment her parents’ angry voices seemed to echo in her ears, but Tsinga’s cry came with her memories, out of the barren snows, across the tender grasses. ‘Love each other, Larka, love each other or perish.’

  ‘I am going to rescue my parents.’

  ‘But, Larka,’ cried Tsarr, ‘shouldn’t we wait? The Sight is growing in you still and we have more to teach.’

  ‘I have learnt enough,’ snarled Larka almost scornfully, ‘I have been learning all along without even knowing it. And what use is this power if my parents are to die? All my life I have been running, running from fear and betrayal. But I am not the Betrayer. I shall not betray Huttser and Palla, and I shall no longer be afraid.’

  ‘But the rebels want to kill the human,’ whispered Tsarr, ‘and want to kill you. And Kosov. Morgra is on her way—’

  ‘They shall not touch a hair on its head,’ growled Larka.

  ‘Nor mine. Not Morgra, nor the rebels. And if Slavka fears the humans so much, perhaps Bran will help me defeat her.’ Yet Larka shivered as she thought of the soldiers she had seen gathering on the edge of Kosov.

  ‘But you have not yet mastered the Sight. You—’

  ‘Peace, Tsarr,’ said Larka quietly, ‘Skart told me once that a child picks up blame from others, for things that were not even their fault. That is true. But if I do nothing now, if I simply use the Sight to glory in the freedom of the skies and hunt wild, will I not always blame myself? We must know what we should or shouldn’t blame ourselves for. I love my parents Tsarr and if I betray them, will not that kill something inside me? Then would I ever be able to love again? And you are forgetting I am a wolf too, Tsarr, and there is strength in my claws.’

  The hackles on Tsarr’s neck quivered and Skart nodded quietly. The pupil was becoming the teacher.

  ‘And remember,’ whispered Larka, ‘the family. By saving my parents, perhaps we may find that hope again. If the verse is coming true, then should we not fulfil the rest of it?’ Tsarr growled, for he was thinking darkly what Larka already knew in her heart and yet her bold words stirred hope in him too.

  ‘But how will we carry the child?’ said Skart.

  ‘I will take it on my back,’ growled Tsarr suddenly and he lifted his muzzle proudly to Larka’s.

  ‘Then we go,’ cried Larka, ‘we go now.’

  Tsarr padded towards Bran and lay down beside him. The child reached out with its paw and tugged at his coat but it still sat there, looking at Larka.

  ‘Let me try,’ said Larka suddenly.

  The white she-wolf walked over and licked the strange little creature in the grass. Then, very slowly, she sank down beside it. Bran reached out again for the soft fur. He seemed reassured by Larka and Tsarr pushed him gently with his nose. Suddenly Bran began to scramble onto Larka’s back. Carefully the she-wolf rose on her paws as the child clung on to her.

  ‘Come,’ she cried, ‘summer is close and we haven’t much time.’

  Tsarr and Skart gazed back at the white wolf as she stood there in the forest with the strange little human on her back. Skart opened his great wings and took to the air, and Larka and the human cub began their race into terror. In that moment Tsarr and Skart realized that they would follow Larka wherever she chose.

  The rebel wolf whimpered pitifully and his parched tongue lapped at the blood around his own muzzle, as he lay on his side in the grass. He had drunk nothing in suns and he was exhausted with the Balkar’s constant beatings. Though his blood tasted thick and sweet at least it gave him a bitter moisture. He lifted his head wearily as he saw Morgra striding towards him. It was one of the rebels that had sprung on Larka and the child, that night with Gart. Returning scouts had captured him on his back way to Kosov.

  ‘So,’ hissed Morgra as she sloped up to him, ‘you are still alive. Then let us go through it again. You set out to kill the human, but you failed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the rebel wearily, ‘the she-wolf stopped us.’

  ‘She-wolf?’

  ‘Larka.’

  As the Balkar saw the hatred blaze across Morgra’s muzzle they all felt a chill eating into their bones. When Morgra spoke again her voice was as still as death.

  ‘The child,’ she seethed, ‘Larka is with the child.’ There was a terrible hunger in that voice.

  ‘Who else is with her? Is there a grey Varg and an eagle?’ Morgra hissed as the rebel nodded. The sun rose in the sky as Morgra went on questioning him; torturing the truth out of him. Evening was coming in as she pushed her scarred muzzle into his face once more.

  ‘Again,’ whispered Morgra, ‘Larka has the human and you failed to kill it, but now Slavka has threatened to kill her parents unless she delivers it up?’

  The wolf began to snarl, but as soon as he did so, one of the Night Hunters stepped up and bit savagely into his flank.

  ‘I have told you,’ snarled the rebel in agony.

  ‘And the Gathering Place is in the valley of Kosov?’

  ‘Yes. Below the human citadel.’ Morgra’s muzzle came even closer.

  ‘Human citadel?’

  ‘The ruined dens. Hidden in the mountains above.’ Morgra suddenly felt a great sweep of energy pulse through her.

  ‘It must be,’ she cried. ‘Very well. Kill him.’

  The Night Hunters next to the rebel looked relieved for even they were sick of the torture. But as the Balkar stepped forward again Morgra lifted her head.

  ‘Stop,’ she whispered, looking up towards the trees. ‘Let Wolfbane.’

  As she named him the Balkar shivered and looked back too. None of them would go near the forest now and, in the Night Hunter packs, they spoke his name with terror. They had never seen him, but he was in all their dreams. Morgra closed her eyes. She was calling to him.

  In the trees beyond, a shape began to stir. Wolfbane twitched as he heard the faint whispering in his head. But he could not disobey her orders to stay hidden in the forest. She had kept him separate, away from the wolves, a spectral presence among the Balkar, a presence that had grown into its own legend.

  ‘Wolfbane. I have a present for you. Come to the edge of the wood, Wolfbane.’

  Below the trees the Balkar were driving the rebel upwards, snarling and snapping at him. He was literally dragging himself along the ground on his forepaws as his broken back legs trailed helplessly through the grass. As he pulled himself into the trees and they heard a growl among the branches, the Night Hunters slunk back whimpering. It was a pathetic sight. Such strong and healthy wolves snivelling like whipped curs, their tails between their legs. They looked anything but First Among the Putnar. Suddenly there was a terrible howl from the trees. Then silence.

  Morgra growled delightedly and Kraar fluttered up beside her.

  ‘Mistress,’ cawed the raven, ‘do we move again, Mistress?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Morgra, ‘Kosov is close. It lies but suns to the south. And the citadel, Kraar. The lost citadel is found again. But we must reach them soon.’

  ‘What of the Night Hunters’ search, Mistress,’ said the bird, ‘for the child?’

  ‘Idiot,’ hissed Morgra, ‘did you not hear? Haven’t you learnt to trust the legend yet? Besides, Slavka has given Larka an ultimatum. If she is anything like Palla she will try to help them and bring the child to this Gathering Place. But if she reaches the rebels before us, I fear for them both.’

  Kraar opened his hood feathers stupidly.

  ‘It is ironic, is it not?’ Morgra went on coldly, ‘beneath the Stone Spores I offered them Wolfbane’s protection, and now again we shall work to protect dea
r little Larka.’

  ‘And her parents?’

  ‘The family,’ Morgra hissed scornfully, ‘no more obstacles will obstruct my way to the altar. So far Huttser and Palla have evaded the curse, but they shall perish, Kraar. They shall perish with the Greater Pack, when we are ready to attempt the howl.’

  The raven opened its oil-black wings.

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Have you not seen them too, Kraar? Waiting, waiting and watching? The Searchers are hungry.’

  The bird shuddered excitedly.

  ‘So go, Kraar,’ cried Morgra suddenly. ‘It is time. The free Varg are going like sheep to the valley of Kosov and the Searchers shall be their nemesis. But your kind must be there for the feast too. Your cries must wake the dead.’

  12 - The Searchers

  ‘The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.’ Samuel Beckett, Murphy

  Two magnificent grey Varg were prowling through the grass as they made for the Gathering Place in the valley of Kosov. But suddenly they stopped and started to growl fearfully. Everywhere there were human tents spread out across the fields in front of them. When Slavka and Huttser had seen them or when Morgra had spied them in her cave there had only been a few, but now there were hundreds.

  ‘What do they want?’ growled one of the wolves.

  ‘I don’t know,’ whispered his companion fearfully, ‘but the valley lies beyond.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Nor I, but we must learn what Slavka has to say.’

  ‘But some say a family comes to our aid, from a distant land. A family of arctic wolves, and that to find them we should follow the Northern star.’

  His companion shook his head scornfully.

  In the valley Slavka lifted her muzzle and growled with satisfaction. From every side wolves were drifting in from the forests in a steady stream that converged to form a shifting lake of grey wolves.

  They were coming in their packs from the mountains and the forests, and now many of the wolves stood apart from each other, the families whispering nervously among themselves. But Slavka would teach them. She would separate them all into male and female contingents and train them in the combats. They would be proud and strong and free.