Queen of Fire (Raven's Shadow 3)

“Thank her for her knowledge,” Vaelin said.

The woman inclined her head at Erlin’s words then asked a question of her own. “How do you intend to defeat the Seven when others could not?”

Vaelin glanced over to where Wise Bear held counsel with the other Gifted, all gathered round as he imparted another lesson from his bottomless well of knowledge. “Tell her we have powers of our own. If she would see them, she should come with us.”

Erlin listened to her reply and forced a placid smile. “She will, but only if you name her leader of the army. Her people won’t come otherwise.”

“We already have a leader.”

“I suspect it won’t matter if you name two. The tribes rarely speak to each other except to exchange insults. I profess myself amazed they’ve managed to spend more than a day here without finishing what the Volarians started.”

“Very well.” Vaelin gave a weary nod and bowed to Mirvald before turning back to Wise Bear. “I await her wise commands and, with her permission, will now consult with my captains.”

• • •

“How do we find them?” Marken asked. “Hidden in such a host?”

“The Rotha woman said they move as one,” Vaelin said. “I suspect if we find one, we find them all. Even so it will be no easy task in the midst of battle.”

“My song may guide us,” Kiral said. “But the tune is so uneven now . . .”

“No.” Vaelin shook his head to clear red-tinged memories of Alltor. “Singing during battle is best avoided.” He turned to Astorek. “Could your mother’s spear-hawks find them?”

“Commanding a beast becomes difficult when the killing begins,” he said. “The sound, the scent of blood, makes them either fearful or hungry. It requires great concentration to ensure they attack the enemy and not our own people. To maintain enough focus to seek out a particular prey would prove difficult, perhaps impossible.”

“I can find them,” Dahrena said, her tone soft but certain. “Their souls are like black pearls in a sea of red.”

“You have flown enough during this enterprise,” Vaelin stated.

“There is no other way, as I suspect you know, my lord. Besides”—she reached for Cara’s hand—“I have friends to share the burden.”

“More than one,” Marken added, moving to her side. “Doubt my old bones are fit for fighting in any case.”

“So you see, my lord.” Dahrena met his gaze with a bright smile. “Our course is set.”

• • •

“Remember, they need to be taken alive,” Vaelin told Astorek. “Until Wise Bear touches them, they must not be killed.”

The Volarian nodded as his wolves moved to take up position alongside Vaelin and Scar. The army had mustered to the north of the ridge, marching through the night to arrive before the onset of dawn. Dahrena would remain atop the ridge with Cara and Marken, their cats prowling the cliff-top with twenty of the Wolf People’s most trusted warriors.

Vaelin went to Dahrena, the others retreating to a respectful distance. Her anger seemed to have dissipated and she clasped his proffered hands without demur, returning his kiss and letting it linger.

After a moment he drew back, speaking softly, “I have asked too much of you . . .”

She put a hand to his lips. “No more than you ask of yourself. We came to make an end, and I hunger for it. I want to go home, Vaelin. I want to go home with you and that can’t happen until this ends.”

He touched his forehead to hers and clasped her hands once more before moving back and striding towards Scar and the wolves.

• • •

The Witch’s Bastard had chosen his campsite well; the only cover was provided by the shallow river running through the valley floor. He led Scar at a walk through the waters, the banks just high enough to conceal his tall frame. The wolves moved ahead, keeping to the sides. The predawn gloom was fading fast by the time he paused a mile short of the camp and requested Alturk take his Sentar in a wide sweep around the Volarians.

“Lorkan will go with you,” he told the Tahlessa. “Carve a hole in their picket line.”

“Can’t wait,” Lorkan said, forcing a smile, his new-found courage now plainly faltering despite the presence of his cat.

“The first break of dawn,” Vaelin told Alturk, extending a hand. “Not before.”

Alturk stared at his hand for a moment before briefly clasping his forearm. “My son’s name was Oskith,” he said. “It means Black Knife, he was aptly named.” He glanced over at Kiral, crouched in the current and playing a hand through her cat’s damp fur. “As was my daughter. I would have her know this.”

“Then live and tell her yourself.”

“That would make me a liar. Last night I sang my death song to the gods.”

Alturk rose from the water and crept up the riverbank at a crouch before disappearing from view followed by the hunched, shadowy forms of the Sentar. Vaelin saw Kiral watch them go, seeing the knowledge in her eyes and realised he would have nothing to tell her if Alturk fell. Few secrets can be hidden from the song.

A short way on he bade the tribes folk to halt, and, like Alturk, make their attack at the first break of dawn, striking at the camp’s northern edge. They were clumped together in their tribal groupings, obliging him to visit each one with Erlin. The six newly risen chieftains were all now under the impression they held ultimate command of this army and Vaelin thanked them all for the honour of allowing him to make the first attack.

He led the Wolf People on through the chill current, stopping when parallel with the main body of the camp. Whale Killer paused at his side with an affable smile before proceeding at the head of the warriors. They would circle around to the camp’s south-facing perimeter, like Alturk making their attack at the first sign of the sun ascending above the eastern mountains.

Vaelin’s gaze tracked the length of the river, now crowded with wolves, Astorek and the other shamans crouched among them, each strained face telling of the effort required to prevent a betraying explosion of snarls to the proximity of so many disparate packs. The wolves fidgeted but were mostly still, Astorek’s most of all. They had remained close to Vaelin for the entire journey, their gazes rarely leaving him.

He turned to Erlin and Wise Bear crouched nearby. “You will take no part in this,” he told Erlin, noting the hatchet gripped in his fist.

“I’ve fought on many occasion, brother,” Erlin replied. “It could be I’ve seen more battles than you.”

“Even so, remain in the rear. If the day goes against us, take yourself off, perhaps circle the world one more time.”

“And watch it fall to ruin as I do?” Erlin shook his head. “I think not.”

“You will be needed.” Vaelin met his gaze, feeling the guilt surge anew. I will not do that . . . “Stay in the rear.”

He turned to Wise Bear before Erlin could speak further. “Are you prepared?”

The shaman glanced to the east where the peaks were starting to take on the golden hue that heralded a new day. The sky was clear today, the air possessed of a pleasing freshness, coloured by a faint floral tint from the heather that covered the valley floor. “The green fire not seen here,” the shaman reflected with a faint note of regret then sloshed through the river to where Iron Claw waited. The great bear issued a low rumbling growl as Wise Bear climbed onto his back and turned him towards the bank.

Vaelin beckoned to Lord Orven and hauled himself onto Scar’s saddle. “If all goes well, there should be a decent gap in their ranks,” he told the guardsman. “Concentrate on the Varitai if you can.”

“I shall, my lord.” Orven gave a salute, standing straight as the current flowed about him. “At this moment I’d trade everything I own for a horse.”

Vaelin grinned and reached over his shoulder to draw his sword. “I expect there’ll be plenty to choose from when we’re done.”

He kicked Scar into motion, splashing free of the river and waiting as Astorek’s wolves took up position in front, the other packs swarming from the banks to close in on either side. Mishara padded through the throng and sank to her haunches at his side. Vaelin looked down to meet her gaze, wondering if Dahrena saw him through her eyes. Mishara merely blinked and licked her fangs before turning her attention to the Volarians.

The camp sat about three hundred paces distant, silent beneath the pall birthed by the dead fires of the previous night. Vaelin could see the pickets moving through the morning haze, their gait leisurely and free of any alarm. He waited as the sun grew warm on the back of his neck and his shadow faded into view on the ground ahead, a long dark arrow pointed at the Volarian host.

Nortah’s words came back to him as he took a firmer grip on Scar’s reins, You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?

He gave a soft laugh and kicked at Scar’s flanks, the warhorse issuing a shrill, joyous whinny as he spurred to the gallop. The wolves surged forward with them, keeping pace with ease and voicing a collective growl no doubt birthed by the excitement of their shamans. Vaelin saw the pickets start to react, running to form a ragged line as discordant bugles sounded throughout the camp, men stumbling from the tents and scrambling to gather weapons and armour.