Irina and the White Wolf Page 3

  Robin couldn’t help but stare at the rough hessian cloak the King wore.

  ‘Is it yours?’ Harmon asked. ‘May I borrow it?’

  ‘It belonged to my late father, Your Majesty,’ said Robin. ‘Of course you may. It would be an honour.’

  The King mounted Skyloch and the great stallion flared his nostrils. As he prepared to leave, Jibade returned with a leather satchel of food. ‘Tell the Queen I will return soon,’ Harmon said to his manservant.

  ‘One moment, sir, that I may saddle my horse also –’

  ‘No, Jibade. Today I travel alone.’

  ‘But Master –’ Jibade’s words dissolved as he saw the look on Harmon’s face. It was unheard of for a royal to travel unaccompanied. Still less, however, did anyone argue with the King.

  Chapter Six

  An Unexpected Visit

  Clear blue skies greeted Irina like a miracle when she awoke the next morning. Not only had the weather taken a turn for the better, beside her lay a small bread roll. The thin crust was cold from its journey in Amicus’s beak, but when Irina bit into it, there was soft warmth in the centre.

  ‘New bread, dear Amicus! Thank you. You must have flown to your old friend, the baker’s wife?’

  The sylvan cooed softly and flapped his beautiful wings.

  Overnight, Irina had come to a decision. Despite Baruch’s warnings, she and Durrell would travel north-east to the Valley of Carmine Rock in search of Gunda, the white wolf. Irina was young and strong, and Durrell, now healed, was faster than most wolves and horses. Irina’s other charges were also well enough to fend for themselves, at least for a short time. Baruch had been right – those wolves that had survived Vilmos’s magic would be stronger than ever.

  She rolled up her blankets and her cooking pot and prepared her pack. After she’d filled her water pouches at the river, she bound Baruch’s map with a piece of twine and hung it around her neck. There was no sensation at all in her littlest finger. Tomorrow the tip might have to be removed. But not today. If only she had thought to ask Baruch for a remedy. The idea of cutting her own flesh made her squeamish.

  Irina had just dipped a feather quill into Baruch’s vial of ink, ready to set words to paper, when a noise startled her. The feather fell from her fingers, leaving a black droplet on the snow. There, less than ten paces away, stood a tall figure clad in a cloak of coarse hessian.

  ‘Are you finally sending word, Irina?’ said her father, King Harmon. ‘Your mother has been inconsolable from missing you.’

  Her heart thumping, Irina leapt to her feet and curtsied before the warrior King. She felt like she’d been caught doing something underhanded. ‘Father. It’s an honour you have come to me in person. I have missed you so.’

  ‘Adriel returned without you and I wanted to see that you were safe.’

  At this news, Irina’s heart soared. Her mare was alive.

  The pair embraced, and when they parted the King examined his daughter from head to toe. ‘Your face is older. You are unkempt.’

  ‘It’s been a long, lonely two years in the forest, Father.’

  ‘And the wolves? Have you restored them to their true natures, as you desired?’

  ‘Many perished, but I have managed to save twenty,’ Irina said, lowering her eyes. ‘They are stronger for surviving Vilmos’s magic, but the she-wolves are barren and if I don’t do something, their line will surely die out. There will be no more wolves in Ragnor.’

  ‘So what do you intend to do?’

  Irina took a deep breath and confessed her plans. ‘Today I travel to the Valley of Carmine Rock in search of a white she-wolf who can carry on the lineage for your kingdom.’

  King Harmon grimaced. ‘Is that what you were going to write?’

  ‘Well – that’s part of it. Yes.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Irina could see her father wrestling with his thoughts. She knew what he wanted to say.

  But then the great warrior King surprised her. ‘Let’s talk, Irina, I’m sure you have much to tell me.’

  Irina rekindled the fire and unwrapped her cooking pot so she could heat some water. She had no food to offer, and her eyes lit up when Harmon unrolled a long piece of cloth containing bread and cheese and boiled eggs.

  ‘That is the cave where I was raised by the she-wolf, Sheka,’ she told her father. ‘With Amicus watching over me.’

  Harmon tried to imagine his daughter being fed by the milk of a wild animal.

  Irina saw distaste briefly cross his face. She sensed he wasn’t interested in her past, that he only wanted to rule over her present. He’s such a powerful King – he’s used to controlling everything, she thought. Well, he can’t control me. She supposed his fears for her had driven him here instead of sending a servant. What she didn’t know was that Harmon had grown more sensitive over the years, and was better at managing the wilful and the headstrong. In Irina he recognised a character as determined as his own.

  ‘You wished to repay a debt to your wolf-mother for saving your life,’ he said. ‘I understand that. But surely now your work is complete. It is time to return to your real family at Ragnor Castle. For two winters, I have left you alone with the wolves. I have not interfered once, though your poor mother has suffered.’

  ‘I am your daughter and your subject,’ Irina said. ‘Because of that I will do as you ask – but please, please don’t ask me to return just yet.’

  ‘The Valley of Carmine Rock lies across a dangerous sea. It would be a bleak journey. Perilous. You would have to travel through the Realm of the Skylings. You might never return.’

  ‘That’s possible, Father,’ said Irina. ‘But not likely. You forget that I wasn’t raised as a soft princess, always kept safe within the castle walls. I drank the milk of a wolf and grew strong. When I was small, I went hunting and saw them kill. I am not afraid.’

  Harmon smiled wryly, remembering the one time Irina should have been afraid: when she knelt on the battlefield and bared her neck before a huge wolf with blood on his teeth. He remembered his own terror. That moment couldn’t have lasted longer than a minute, yet it had seemed to go on forever. He shivered at the memory. He watched his daughter devouring the provisions he’d brought. She certainly didn’t look like a ‘soft princess’, half-buried in her furs and tattered clothing, her eyes glittering beneath the thatch of wild, raggedy hair.

  ‘I know you are not afraid,’ the King said finally. ‘But perhaps you should be.’

  ‘I dreamed of the white wolf last night, Father. I know you follow the commands of your dreams. Would you ask me to abandon mine?’

  ‘I have never understood your dreams.’

  ‘These wolves are a part of me that I cannot explain. If they die out, something in me will die out too.’ She struggled to find the words to express the truth of this to him. ‘I will always love you, but if you stop me, you might look at me one day and wish you’d said yes . . .’

  Chapter Seven

  The Gift

  Andor and Captain Kadar stood twenty paces apart in the Throne Room. Andor steadied himself on the wooden floor, spreading his feet a shoulder-width apart, bending his knees slightly. He was so tense he felt like he was a pulled bow. Kadar stared, unsmiling, his face as square and sharp as a wood carving. His upper lip curled, and his teeth gleamed like polished pebbles.

  King Niklas issued the command and the two men drew their swords. Sunlight from the windows glinted on their blades. ‘Attack!’ roared the King and Kadar swung into action. Andor was too slow to attack; all he could do was try to defend himself against the ceaseless blows before Kadar struck his sword from his hand. Andor was astonished.

  ‘Pick it up, son,’ said Niklas. ‘Take your places. This time, Kadar, wait for the Prince to attack you.’

  The blades clashed once more. Kadar’s victory made Andor more determined. You won’t get me again, he thought, moving more swiftly than he ever had in his life. Kadar struck repeatedly with his blade, faster than a volle
y of hailstones, and again and again Andor found his sword knocked from his hand, Kadar’s blade at his throat. Finally, the young Prince held up his hand in surrender. Every muscle in his body ached. He was trembling. ‘Enough,’ he groaned. ‘You are a mighty swordsman, Captain Kadar.’

  ‘I’ve devoted my life to it, Your Majesty,’ said the new Captain of the Guard proudly. He inclined his head. Secretly, Kadar thought there would never be a day when the young Prince could win. Everyone knew he was too gentle-natured.

  ‘Tomorrow then, we meet again,’ Andor said.

  The Captain bowed, sheathed his sword and departed.

  Still panting, Andor turned to his father. ‘Do you truly want me to fight that man until I can beat him? I don’t think I am able.’

  King Niklas raised his head from where he sat slumped in his throne. The scar on his throat throbbed worse than ever. ‘You will fight Captain Kadar until you defeat him. On that day, will you become King.’

  Irina waited anxiously for her father’s reply, but he carried on chewing his bread, staring off into the distance. The wolf-girl thought the silence would never end. She watched his jaw moving and tapped her fingers impatiently. When the last crumbs disappeared between the King’s lips she prayed he would speak. Still he did not. She sighed.

  Harmon got up and strode to where Skyloch was tethered to a tree, his rough cloak skimming the snow. He opened a satchel tied to the horse’s saddle and withdrew a long, thin object wrapped in cloth.

  ‘Long ago, before the Isle of Ragnor was divided into three,’ the King began in a serious voice, ‘there were female warriors. As you know, your mother, Queen Chloe, is a descendant of those women. In the House of Ragnor no woman has wielded a sword for many generations. That said, I realise it is in your blood.’ Harmon unwrapped the long thin parcel and handed her a leather sheath. Irina expected it to be heavy and found to her surprise that it was not. ‘You fasten it like this,’ the King went on, drawing the leather straps around his daughter’s waist. ‘Now, Irina the Wolf Queen, unsheathe your weapon.’

  Irina’s eyes widened as she grasped the sword’s handle. The delicious smoothness of polished seashells met her skin. Drawing out the blade, she gave a cry of delight. It was truly exquisite: delicate yet strong, almost weightless, and burnished to pale gold. Ignoring the pain in her little finger, she held the handle firmly and swung the blade across the branch of an overhanging fir tree. A pile twigs and needles instantly fell at her feet. The blade’s sharpness left her breathless.

  ‘I know you can handle a bow and arrow,’ said King Harmon. ‘Now let me show you how to handle a sword.’

  Chapter Eight

  A Dark and Secret Ceremony

  During the night while the Narrowlanders slept, a trio of tricksters made their way to Iniko’s underground palace beneath Lake Onkar. For years, the soldier, Skorpag, the shopkeeper, Graydon, and the maid-in-waiting, Chesca, had been training in evil magic under Iniko. They arrived at the basalt palace, carrying secret offerings requested by the Sorcerer, and were immediately shown to a cold, dark and glittering room. In the centre of the room was a table, and on the table was a body covered with a cloth.

  ‘You recall my old apprentice, Vilmos,’ said Iniko, pointing to the body with one knobbly finger. ‘Were it not for Irina, Vilmos and his mighty wolf army would have defeated King Harmon. By now we’d have the Book of the Junsong. No-one living has ever held the Book, nor read from its pages of magic and prophecy.’

  ‘But I’ve seen it quoted on the walls of buildings,’ said Chesca. ‘And they say Raizel, the wise-woman of the south, possesses a bound copy.’

  ‘Only fragments,’ said Iniko. ‘There are bits in our spellbooks, too. Old Baruch has a page buried somewhere in the Valley of Carmine Rock. But if I could find the entire Book, my power – I mean, our power – would know no bounds.’

  ‘Why is the Book so powerful?’ asked Chesca.

  ‘Because of the magic it contains,’ said Iniko, softly. ‘And the words themselves . . . Legend has it that the Archangel dictated it to Queen Joaquinna when she was hiding in the cave with her daughter during the War of Kuiril.’

  ‘But we don’t follow the Archangel. We follow Knartesc.’

  ‘We can bend the secrets of the Junsong to the ways of Knartesc. The Venerated Dragon will guide us. Imagine having these words of hidden knowledge at our fingertips. The secrets of heaven and earth.’ Iniko’s eyes narrowed and he flared his huge nostrils.

  ‘What about that great seer of the west, Sef?’ asked Skorpag. ‘What does he know?’

  ‘Sef is a peace-lover from whom we have nothing to fear. No-one will use the knowledge in the way we can.’ Iniko took a step forward and, in one sweeping movement, dragged the cloth from Vilmos’s grey and rigid body. The arrow stuck still out of his side, its stiff red feathers bright in the dark room.

  ‘Well,’ said Iniko, turning to the others, ‘show me what you have brought.’

  Skorpag reached inside his vest and brought out a crystal jar filled with something that looked like shimmering, coloured air. It was the palest yellow-green, distilled from the first new leaves and buds of spring. This greeny yellow colour was never still, forming itself into the shape of butterfly wings before dissolving again. It shone with childlike purity in the gloom. ‘Light from the life principle,’ said Skorpag.

  Graydon removed the cloth covering his jar. Within, a piece of bark harvested from a tree that had been struck by lightening twitched with an eerie blue glow. ‘Light from the death principle,’ said Graydon.

  Finally, Chesca unwrapped her long scarf. Inside lay thousands of strands of soft new hair, yellow down from ducklings, puppy and kitten fur, tadpole tails, fragments of eggshell, and the minute parings of babies’ fingernails. ‘A token stolen from every newborn creature in the Kingdom of the Narrowlands,’ said Chesca.

  ‘Very good, very good indeed,’ said Iniko, narrowing his eyes. ‘Now, let us begin!’

  King Harmon unsheathed his sword and raised it above his head. Unlike Irina’s light golden blade, the King’s weapon was made of heavy iron. It was carved with etchings that were blurred and fading and its hilt was studded with rubies. Despite Jibade’s polishing efforts, the King’s manservant only ever succeeded in bringing the ancient metal to a dull gleam.

  ‘This sword is known as Gravitas,’ said the King proudly. ‘It has been in the House of Ragnor for centuries, from before the time of King Uche.’

  Irina gazed at the magnificent weapon, before turning to her own. ‘Does my sword have a name, too?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, my dear. It must be tried in battle. You will find a name for it, one day.’

  Irina drew her blade from its sheath and held it in front of her. Instantly, she winced with pain. ‘My little finger is infected . . .’

  ‘Wear these,’ said Harmon, tossing her a pair of thick leather gloves. ‘The first thing I will teach you is to block. You must block the strike away from your body. Like this . . .’ The King demonstrated with his sword. ‘This is the basic vertical cut.’ He brought his sword Gravitas down through the air. ‘Use that against me, and I will show you how to block it.’

  Harmon showed Irina six offensive cuts and how to block them, and soon she was dancing around him nimbly, guessing his next move. She already trusts her reflexes, he thought.

  ‘I thoroughly enjoyed that, Father,’ Irina said, as they paused and re-stoked the fire.

  Harmon sheathed his sword and threw himself on the ground, taking a long drink from his water pouch. He rubbed his brow with his forearm.

  ‘I too enjoyed it,’ he said, eyeing his daughter with new respect. Not for the first time, he reflected on what a fine son she would have made, a true warrior to follow in his footsteps.

  ‘I don’t want to use my sword to hurt another human being,’ she added quietly.

  ‘I hope you’ll never have to,’ replied Harmon. ‘But sometimes we must fight, to defend a just cause.’ The King got up and boiled
water for tea.

  It was strange to see her father like this, away from court. Irina thought how much she loved him. Even if he wasn’t her father or her King, she would love him for his strength of character, and his honesty. She pulled out some strands of hair from behind her ear and began to plait them.

  ‘Baruch, the seer, visited me,’ she said. ‘He was on his way to see Raizel.’

  ‘Baruch!’ said Harmon. ‘I haven’t clapped eyes on him for years. He used to be an advisor to Niklas and old King Walter. I had no idea he was still alive.’

  ‘He’s very much alive,’ laughed Irina. ‘He boasted how strong he was, and proved it by digging a grave in the frozen ground. But when I asked him a tricky question, he pretended he was too old and sleepy to answer.’

  The King chuckled. ‘He doesn’t sound like he’s changed much. Tough as old boots, aren’t they, Raizel and Baruch. Maybe there’s something to their magic, after all.’

  ‘I believe there is, Father,’ said Irina. ‘Baruch did tell me some worrying news. He said Vilmos was carried by the rats to Iniko’s lair, and could be revived by unholy magic.’

  ‘Iniko,’ repeated Harmon. ‘I’ve heard of him and his spells, turning the Narrowlands people into barbarians. The Narrowlands king, Matoskah, is a descendant of Uche, like Niklas and myself. But sadly there’s no bond between us. For more than a hundred years, the only thing we’ve done with Narrowlanders is fight them.’

  Irina cut off her narrow plait with the tip of her sword, twisted it into a bracelet and uttered an incantation over it.

  Her father looked at her curiously. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Something Raizel taught me.’

  ‘Hmm. I forget that you’re descended from witches as well as warriors.’

  ‘Please give this bracelet to my mother. While the hair shines brightly, she’ll know I’m safe.’ She handed over the tiny plait. ‘And I have a gift for you, too.’ She stood and uttered a harsh, strangled growl. From the surrounding cave and hills emerged twenty wolves. Harmon saw how different they were from when he’d last seen them, rolling their wild eyes and snapping their fearsome jaws in battle. These animals seemed healthy. They moved swiftly, their coats were glossy, their eyes clear and focused. They formed a circle around Irina and paced, waiting.