The Wolves of Gryning: Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Gathering Together
The years passed quickly. Besegrare was busy restoring Gryning and he kept his court open always, fording questions from travelers and denizens of the North. They approached him with a multitude of problems.
"Money," said one, "To rebuild our village, burned by the Mad King."
"Food," said another, "To replace our crops, trampled by the Mad King."
Many were the visitors to Gryning and their plights were much the same. But Besegrare was nothing if not a gracious king. He paid off many debts and assisted personally in as many matters as possible. And then one day came an emissary from Inthil, a courier, and the look in her eye was wild. Her fur was ragged from the many days of running, and her chest trembled with the first few uncertain breaths of rest.
"My king," she said, dropping to a knee. "I bear news of great danger, and a request for aid. The people of Inthil face a mighty foe, and would fall if not for your intervention."
"Danger?" Besegrare regarded her carefully. He thought little of the danger, for in her own way she had charmed him. He found himself unable to look away. Through the thinness of her frame and her torn clothes he saw a strong beast, lithe and powerful. It took a considerable strength to be a courier. And she wore that strength well, wore it quietly. She had a warm face full of roguish cheer, and it struck him so that he could hardly speak. When she spoke next, his spell was broken, and he found himself scrambling to focus.
"Great danger. There's no telling how much of the Kingdom is in danger if it is not stopped now."
"Your journey," he said, finding his words. "It must have taken long. You come from Inthil?"
"From Inthil I hail, though my birth was in Himmska."
"You are well travelled. What do they call you?"
"They call me Nashil."
"Nashil," he repeated, feeling the word in his mouth. How it rolled over his tongue like honey! Nashil, that last little movement of the word like the flick of a fish's tail, the beat of an owl's silent wing. He held it for a moment there and let himself wonder over it. He thought it a good name.
"It means 'She who runs.' A more literal translation would be 'She who moves swiftly.'"
Nashil spoke carefully, for she had come far, and she was worried. She had heard that this was a king who cared about his people, who was brave and cunning. Who had slain the Mad King Molokhn.
"It's fitting," he said, "For a messenger. Tell me Nashil, about this foe of yours. What is it you say we are up against?"
"We face a powerful sorcerer," she said. "Who calls himself Vacka, the Hand of the Dark. Already he's laid waste to the towns near the Bay of Tears. Inthil, too, was badly hurt. He has left and retreated into the Hills, but we fear he will be back again. And soon..."
Sorcery? Besegrare felt a chill grip the base of his spine. There had been no talk of sorcery for years, generations even. There were no sorcerers in the North. And were they elsewhere? Had they not been driven from the face of the world? He asked her as much.
"As you believe, so did we. But I was there, and I saw what he can do. It's no trickery."
She swallowed hard after saying it and left Besegrare to think on it. He seemed for a long time to have finished the conversation, for his mouth he shut tight and his eyes he let close. Only his chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.
"What kind of magic does he work?" he said, letting the words out like a viper, slithering slowly out the cave of his jaws, over teeth and tongue. For by now the king knew exactly who the foe was, had seen him before. He waited for Nashil to confirm what he already feared.
"The very worst kind of magic. He commands power over the dead."
And now Besegrare grew very quiet, such a silence as he'd never known before. And for the second time in his life he was truly afraid, afraid as he'd been to face his own father. His foe had visited him in a dream. It was a particular dream and it returned to him night after night, as it had done each night for months. In this dream a wolf had emerged from the Bay of Tears, cresting the waves like the prow of a sturdy sailing vessel. His fur was as black as the night sky, and his eyes were yellow and bright, two small reflections of the moon. The wolf appeared to walk on the waves, supported by nothing more than the pads on his feet. Then he saw the clutch of a finger around the ankle, a finger of sinew and bone without flesh. He saw the groping, twisting hands of the dead catching his heels and lifting him upward; the mass of corpses splashed up above the waters, clambering upon each other with arms outstretched. To the shores they carried him, bearing him forward at an alarming rate. The wolf lifted his hands. A dark glow surrounded him and permeated the soil of the shore. It took root and carried through the ground and summoned up all that had been forgotten. Legions of ancient dead erupted from deep within the world, caked with frost and dirt. He watched helpless in his dream as they laid siege to Inthil. They burned it to the ground and slaughtered all who ran. In his dream he saw the black wolf close his eyes and wave his hand above the carnage, and all the freshly slain beasts staggered back to their feet. They waited until every last building had fallen before taking their dead and shambling numbers elsewhere. He saw in his dream the passage of time, and the entrance of the dead finally into the woods, marching North.
Besegrare knew what the dream meant, and of the truth of what the she-wolf spoke.
"Let us gather our forces," said Besegrare. "In three days time we will venture to the Hills and together we will face this foe."
So for three days they waited. Jethel, who had been made head of the guard, trained his wolves relentlessly. They ran the ramparts and battlements, sprinted up and down the stairs, and swung sword or spear till their arms felt like dropping off. Besegrare watched them going at it. Sometimes he liked to run with them, and on the first day he asked if there were any challengers who might face him in a friendly duel. In this he felt no shame, for duels had long excited him, and he saw them as sport; once lives were involved, he found he could not keep his hands from shaking, and his weapon would fall. Even his dueling implement, thick and carved from Kvalsdimm oak, sent a shudder through him every time he held it. But the thrill of duel was something he could not deny. The duels were quick and one-sided, for Besegrare had received a lifetime's worth of training, and under Molokhn the wolves of the guard had grown stagnant. Five years had passed since the end of that rule, but in those years Besegrare kept his own skill sharp. Only one beast that day had come close to besting the young king. It was against the she-wolf Valdigt that he stumbled, for she was quick as well as strong, and the blows she dealt with her mighty arms stunned his own, even when parried.
"You fight well," he said, after that first battle. And though he was king and she was subject, he humbled himself before her with a low bow. This bow she returned, a little stiffly, for she was proud and didn't care to be treated like this after a loss.
"What is your name?" Besegrare asked.
"I am Valdigt," she said. "First born of Jethel, who commands the guard of the Wolves of Gryning."
"Daughter of Jethel, I salute you. You fight with the strength of many beasts. But I never knew Jethel had a daughter, or a mate. Have you no mother?"
"No mother have I, nor mother have I ever known."
"And how have you been raised all these years?"
"My father keeps me and cares for me."
This seemed an adequate answer for the young king, but he wondered about her skill.
"Where did you learn to fight with such talent?" he asked.
"I train with my father," she said. "For many years he insisted I know how to handle myself."
"You don't wear the color of the guard."
"I run with the guard in my training, but I am not permitted to join. My father thinks it too dangerous."
"Don't put the thought away just yet," he said. "You may one day make a valuable addition to their ranks."
Valdigt was tall for a she-wolf, and her fur was ruddy, almost red. She was mild-mannered in her proud way, and kept her temper under lock and key. When it did surface, that quiet quell burst into a rage of tremendous power. But this happened rarely, and mostly she kept to herself, quiet and terse. Her sentences were succinct, and her voice she kept low and hushed. Besegrare found that he admired her attitude and her skill and on the second and third days they dueled again.
On the third day Besegrare noticed something had changed. She fought with more purpose than before. During their first duels her blows had rained swift and strong, but she fought too stiffly, rigid, and it had been her undoing. Now, she fought like a dancer, and her whole body relaxed. She spun and danced between the swipes of his blade and dodged everything he had. But when she swung, her arm looping around back and then over in a mighty arc, swinging back up again and catching the fur near his tail, it was all he could do to roll out of the way.
"So this is your true skill," he said. "You surprise me yet again."
To this she did not answer, but raised her sword.
"Very well," said Besegrare, getting to his feet.
The next swipe of her sword he dodged and the next he parried easily. She tried a feint to his left side but he knew it was coming, and his sword was out to block it - and he was on his back, her sword pressed against his throat. She held it there and stared into his eyes with such an intensity that he was moved. He had never met a fighter like her before.
"I yield," he said, and immediately felt the weight of her and her blade ease away from him. A great cheer went up amongst the guard, for though they loved and admired Besegrare, they had wanted one of their own to win. Valdigt was the closest thing Gryning had to a champion. And not even a member of the guard, he thought to himself. With an outstretched hand she helped him to his feet and he clapped her on her shoulder, grinning widely.
"I am at a loss for words," he said, "Your skill is impeccable, your strength beyond measure. Surely you must join us on our quest to Inthil. We could use a soldier like you."
But her father Jethel had been nearby, watching the duel with the rest. He came forward now, and he spoke commandingly to the king, for he had been blinded and forgotten his fealty. Yet the king did not forget Jethel's sins. He focused quietly on Jethel and watched to see what he would say.
"You will not take her!" he said. "She is too young, and the danger too great. You will not take my daughter away from me!"
Besegrare knew that this fight was not between himself and Jethel but between the father and daughter. So he snapped shut his jaws and said not a word. His own silence spoke for him. Valdigt stood between the king and her father and sheathed her sword.
"You do not own me, father," she said. "And as for too young? I am grown. These past years I have fought and trained alongside you. I am no pup, nor have I been for some time. Do you not remember the day of my birth?"
Indeed he remembered, for it was both the happiest and most painful memory of the old wolf's life. On that morning with the sun and the mist he met his daughter for the first time, and saw clearly the direction of his days from then till the end of all thought and breath. But the gift of a daughter came with a price just as heavy, and on that morning his mate had been taken from him. That day had been only a year removed from the birth of the prince Besegrare, who stood now before him as king.
Now Jethel saw his daughter for what she was, what he had made her, and knew what time had come. But still he could not part with her.
"Do not make me say it again," he pleaded. "It will be very dangerous, and we do not even know if a sorcerer such as he can be defeated. You must stay in Gryning, where you will have the full protection of the fortress around you."
And so the time had come. The decision Valdigt made would prove for herself what sort of wolf she would become.
"I am going, father, no matter what you say. I owe it to my people and I owe it to my king. And to myself. But I would leave, bolstered by courage and your own love, if you would but give me your blessing."
Jethel clutched his head in his hands. He had grown old, more so than he'd noticed with the creeping years, for he'd been greying even at the time of Molokhn's death. It was his time to send off his daughter and leave his post as head of the guard. Besegrare knew this too, but he would not make the man act against his will. And so he said nothing, and waited. A silence followed that felt like infinity, like the turning of stone over many years.
"I cannot," he said, finally. "I know only that I must, but I cannot give you what you wish. I will give no blessing."
All Valdigt said after this was, "Very well." But she held her tongue grimly, and it was hard for her. Besegrare saw the sadness crouched behind her eyes. And then he asked,
"Will you follow?"
To which she replied,
"I must."
The Lord Khiifa was ruler of the People's Keep in Gryning. While Besegrare and those who served him lived in the Main Keep, the People's Keep was a popular place of dwelling for Gryning's more affluent citizens. Their conflagration gathered together frequently, and their leader was the noble Khiifa. His duties involved settling disputes amongst the keep, and overseeing the lives of all Gryning's denizens. He had no power outside the citadel, unlike Besegrare; but his position afforded him something of sway with the king, and he strode angrily into the courts, coat flapping behind him, to confront Besegrare.
"You cannot banish Jethel!" he cried. Khiifa came to an abrupt halt in front of the throne, his chest heaving with rapid breath. Besegrare did not respond immediately, but let his eyes wander over Khiifa. Then he stood.
"Jethel opposes my will," Besegrare stated, "And thus the will of all wolves. I cannot have him stand in the way of our safety."
"Don't be a fool. Jethel says nothing against our people. You know he doesn't!"
"You don't know the whole story. Are you aware of the beasts actions before my reign?"
"I know that you forgave those actions," Khiifa said. He pointed directly at Besegrare. "Have you forgotten so quickly? If you banish Jethel on those grounds, you must banish me as well! I killed plenty of beasts for your father. Jethel's no innocent, but neither am I."
"Watch your tongue, Khiifa. Don't think I won't banish you too! You think I am young, and reckless, and that I don't have the will to rule. I have made an example of Jethel. I'm not afraid to make an example of you as well."
Khiifa withdrew his hand, clenching it at his waist. He could see the steel in the king's eyes, and knew he spoke true. But Besegrare didn't stop there.
"What do you think will happen when you're gone? I've seen Thybion before, the way she hangs about the courts. I've seen her dealing with her circles in private meetings. You think I don't know what she wants? Your wife is greedy for power, Khiifa. Nothing much stands between her and the People's Keep , except for you. Do you really want to be banished just to see her take over your position?"
"You'll leave the Lady out of this," Khiifa cast his gaze to the stones.
"And you'll no more question my word."
"Who will captain the guard, if not Jethel?"
"I expect you'll find someone to replace him. Did you think I meant to leave the throne empty in my absence? No, Khiifa. Someone must keep the peace while I'm gone. I'd hoped it would be you. Don't make me question my decision now."
Khiifa could not argue against this. He bowed low, his hand on his sword, and said, "My lord."
After making the proper arrangement, Besegrare was ready to leave. In his absence Khiifa would take charge of Gryning, and relinquish the hold on his return. His wife, the Lady Thybion, would have her own taste of power, watching the People's Keep. It was a wolf named Seuthu who was chosen to replace Jethel. She'd served the guard for years, and had fought in several of Molokhn's campaigns. Besegrare knew the girl was responsible for atrocity as well, but she had been young and impressionable during his father's reign. If Khiifa trusted her, he would do his best to accept her as well.
Valdigt came along with the king and his group, and she was his finest soldier on the quest. Irda came along as well, having acquired the white sash of a Valent. His duties with the king coincided with his newfound duties as a Valent. In preparation for his duties he had studied many languages and the art of healing, as all Valents do; he would assist in any interactions along their travels, and in preparing poultices and pastes for the many wounds they feared to sustain. He carried also a small metal firetree, with which he prayed every night that they might go safely, and fight with all the power of the Flame.