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Chapter 26: The Exile

It had been a difficult road for the exile. His life had taken him across many kingdoms, had shown him more than most beasts could ever expect to see. Yet he walked in sorrow, shunned by his own company, sent out of the kingdoms of wolves. Gryning had been the best of those places he'd seen, the place where he'd lived in the most comfort. Even that time had come to an abrupt end. Did any beast deserve to be forgotten by his kin? You've earned this, he thought, trudging along the dusty street. You deserve worse for your sins. This? This is getting off easy.

Somehow, it didn't feel easy.

The exile raised a hand against the harsh rays of the sun, his body hot and tired. He was unequipped for the heat of the South. Taking shelter in the dwindling shadow of a belfry, he crouched down and drew his robe about himself. The Shoals was no place for a beast of dignity--especially not a wolf such as himself. Still, the place suited him; as a wolf, beasts here were apt to leave him alone. The Shoals was a quarter for poor folk, beasts whose ancestors must have drawn some damn short straws. A full coat of fur and complete possession of one's faculties was something of a rarity down here. Stink rolled from the trash heaps in the alleys, and ash floated through the air from the burning piles of dead. Makes me sick. Burning the dead had been a practice of religious significance to most wolves--not during his time, not under his king--but he would not deny the dignity of a proper burning. He had thought it strictly a wolf's practice. Not the way they do it. Not like this, set alight in the doorsteps of their homes. Ashes, can't they find a proper burial pyre for these beasts? For those in the Shoals, the death toll meant that burning the bodies was something of a necessity. It was nothing more than efficiency. The beasts here were too poor for healers, and any sort of plague was capable of emptying entire streets in a single fell swoop. Most of the beasts he'd seen here bore traces of sickness. Necrous flesh, infected wounds, pus-filled cysts crusting the edges of eyes. Even the young were afflicted, missing teeth and tails and claws. Pestilence rampages free.

The exile stood out. Never mind that he wasn't falling apart at the seams--Brand was no city of wolves, and what precious few lived here kept well away from the Shoals. Rather the Lantern District, or the Fielders. Even Stonemason's Quarry was better than the Shoals.

Yes, but you belong here, don't you? The exile felt a pang of remorse like a barb in his heart. The sun was rising rapidly now, his shade disappearing. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping the tattered robe closer, trying to keep the heat off with its cover. The robe, torn and faded, had seen better days. Then again, so had he. No use wallowing in it.

But he could find no use in anything else.

The exile got to his feet and made his way North--towards what, he didn't know. His life had become directionless, and he floated wherever the wind took him.

"I ain't sayin' ya can't. I'm just sayin' ya could get hurt."

Thess held her hands together, a pleading softness in her voice. Valdigt felt hot and tired. Her muscles ached. It was a good feeling. She had not fought a duel, friendly or otherwise, in months. And duelling, she'd learned, was quite popular in the Lantern District of Brand. These were rich and pampered beasts she was dealing with, beasts who lived off the labor of others; most of them had never even held a weapon in their life, let alone fought with one. To them a duel was a terrific sport. The duels were hosted in the arena, a huge domed structure linking the Lantern District with the Shoals, a much larger and messier quarter. Any beast with a strong arm, a strong will, and a reckless spirit was welcomed into the arena. The beasts of Brand would bet on the outcomes, and the winners were entitled to a small portion of silver for their efforts. More than that, the winners often became something of celebrities. A duel between someone like herself--a newcomer, and a wolf at that--and a popular favorite would be something to draw crowds. Valdigt had just defeated Ghiryion, a crowd-favorite, the huge buck a then-undefeated buck who'd migrated to Brand from the Forest of Ancients. The she-wolf's victory had been something of a shock. The crowd had been stunned, some of them going wild--a newbeast taking down Ghiryion!--but many grumbling disappointment and unrest. Anything that mixed fighting and gambling was bound to raise some hackles. She thought she'd seen a glimmer of malice in Ghiryion's eyes as he stormed out of the arena, defeated.

"Ya don't think they're gonna letcha keep winnin' do ya?"

"Nobeast is letting me win."

"Aye, so ya say," Thess pondered the she-wolf's expressionless face, "So ya say. Come on, what's gotcha so soured? That's a bag of silver ya won, ain't it? Ya oughta be smiling!"

Valdigt wasn't listening anymore. She was focused on a face in the crowd, a face that was trying quickly to fade away. No. You're mistaken. He couldn't be here...

"Hello? Val? What's goin' on in there?" Thess tapped the girl's temple, and she snapped back into focus.

"It's nothing," she said. "Let's head home. I'm feeling tired."

"Not too tired to clean up, I hope," Thess dabbed her hand on her tongue and rubbed a spot of dirt off the wolf's muzzle. Then she took her hand and lead her away through the crowd. Valdigt tried avoiding direct eye contact with the beasts in the crowd. She didn't care about any of them--neither those who cheered nor those who reviled her. She only cared about one thing, and thinking about it lit a thrill up her spine like electricity. She could make a name for herself doing this. The talent was hers. All that remained was to capitalize on it. Would the other beasts be in her favor? She hoped the answer was yes. Valdigt tightened her grip on the otter's hand and followed her out into the street.

It had been pure luck that he happened to be in the arena when she turned up. The quick shortcut that it provided through town made it something of a hub, for all types of beasts. And though the rich sponsored the duels, and stood the most to gain, the popularity of the fights was such that all kinds were drawn in--poor folks, drifter, nomads and nobles, sailors and traders. The exile was well aware that he'd blend into this crowd well, so long as he drew his hood over his face and kept away from the balconies where the nobility sat.

He had been cutting through when his attention was caught by a familiar face--a rat, named Fherre, who had fallen in with him numerous times since he'd first migrated to Brand. Fherre reached out to catch him by the arm and pulled him aside, into a dark, smoky corner. The rat wore gold hoop earrings and a soiled shirt tucked into loose pantaloons. A cigarette drooped from the lazy corner of his lips.

"Eh, where ya goin' so fast? I ain't seen ya in weeks! Got any gossip fer ya ol' pal Fherre?"

"No gossip," the wolf said, shaking his arm free of the rat's grip. Fherre crinkled his rounded features and wagged a finger.

"Ain't lyin', is ya? I can smell a lie a mile away."

"I can smell you a mile away, Fherre. Don't you have something better to be doing right now?"

"Why, but of course! I'm here to earn. I'm talkin' about real coin!" Fherre rubbed his hands together, his nose twitching madly. "I could getcha in fer a cut, if ya want. Whaddya say, eh, Dhaka?"

Dhaka, thought the exile. He grimaced. Never let a rat choose a name. The word came from the Untish tongue in the Ternish desert. Fherre had told him it meant "secret one," and he'd agreed to use it. But since adopting the new persona, he'd felt more at ease, if only for the shameful name it had replaced. In his own thoughts he generally thought of himself as 'the exile,' but he knew that he couldn't cling to that as an identity. Dhaka would do.

"I've no interest in petty schemes," Dhaka said.

"Ya got me painted wrong. I'm talkin' real coin--nothin' petty." Fherre leaned in close, cupping his hands like he was sharing a terrible secret. "Think yer the only wolf in Brand, do ya? Not anymore."

Dhaka perked up, his ears stiffening, his tail rigid.

"Who?" he demanded, a fear gripping him. Someone out for revenge? Flame knows I deserve it, but I won't let them get me without a fight. He grabbed Fherre by the shoulders. "Tell me everything."

"Easy, ol' pal."

Fherre shrank back a step, suddenly nervous. He pulled out of the wolf's grasp. "What's gotcha worked up?"

Dhaka glared from under his hood. You'll do yourself no favors, acting out like this. You were exiled, not marked for murder! He shook himself, regaining his composure.

"I just need to know. Let's leave it at that."

Fherre shrugged. "Not much to know. Some she-wolf blown in from outta town. Say she's gonna duel Ghiryion."

"A duel?"

A wide-toothed grin split the rat's face. Dhaka could smell a stench like rot, the rat's teeth stained black from chewing lanesh. "Aye, a duel. Any minute now too--Cant'cha hear em out there? That's an excitable buncha beasts. Good for bettin'. Popular vote says Ghiryion, but a she-wolf's a wild card. Who knows? Me, I don't much care. I'm here to score some coin, yeah? That's what we all want, round here, and ya want my advice, find yerself a bit o' silver and put it up with ol' Fherre. I ain't tryin' to cheatcha. Just earn a fair dinner. Maybe ya win big too."

"I'm not much for betting."

"Eh, no? I woulda pegged ya. Lost big?"

"You could say that," Dhaka patted the rat on the shoulder and left, pushing his way into the gathering crowd. He could hear calls and shouts from other beasts trying to broker deals, gathering coins and pouches and handling bets. In the middle of that raucous crowd, Dhaka was able to see the moment they stilled, the moment their focus turned to the arena. The beast Ghiryion had entered. He was a huge buck, tattooed all over, and wearing nothing but a light skirt around his waist. He lifted a massive spear above his head and bellowed, the crowd erupting in a rippling cheer. While he stood, huffing loudly, spear ready, his competitor stepped out into the ring of dirt, and a new round of cheers swept the audience. The wolf was a new face, and a new face almost certainly meant blood. Death was forbidden in these duels, but heavy damage was not--and if a beast didn't survive a terrible blow, could the competitor really be blamed? Those who duelled knew the risks they played with. The audience knew this too, and grew eager for blood. They didn't know what to expect with a wolf. A wolf might not play fair. The match could sour quickly. Whatever happened was sure to be exciting.

But it was the moment that the crowd began to cheer for her that Dhaka the exile grew silent, and took a step forward.

"It cannot be," he whispered.

Though she'd made a name for herself as perhaps Gryning's fiercest competitor, Valdigt found herself unprepared for the cadence of the duel she now fought. Duels between wolves were quick affairs. Time and energy were not spent indiscriminately. Blows were struck or parried with speed, efficiency, and then the wolves would draw back to study their opponent. In the duels she was used to, there was often more waiting than actual fighting. So when the buck launched himself at her with no forethought, Valdigt was forced to think on her feet.

Ghiryion ran towards her, a roar in his throat, his spear raised high above his head. He swung it down, sweeping a diagonal arc; Valdigt barely managed to step aside, felt the heavy splitting of air beside her. Ghiryion's momentum brought him forward, spearhead crashing into the ground. He grunted. She stepped behind him, sword poised, but found herself for the second time unprepared. Without turning, the buck butted the spear backwards, the solid wood catching her in the belly. Valdigt was thrown back, breath driven from her, and nearly dropped her sword. Cheers erupted from the crowd around them. Bastard, she thought. This is how it's going to be? Ghiryion roared again, lifting his weapon into the air and slamming it down. She rolled just before it hit, dust and dirt spraying her. Ashes, but he's quick!

Valdigt scrambled to her feet. His speed and ferocity were too much, forcing her to move quicker than she was used to. None of her usual grace would do. This needs pure skill. Ghiryion swept the spear down at her legs, but she leapt backwards. He was carried off balance and stumbled to a knee, giving Valdigt the opportunity she needed to bring her sword up. Crucial mistake, she thought, seeing his exposed back. He turned and their eyes locked. For a second Valdigt froze, then struck. The moment's hesitation was all that he needed. Her sword collided with the butt end of his spear, and the solid wood sent shockwaves from her wrists to her shoulders. Her arms went numb, slack, and she was forced to withdraw a step. Valdigt tried to catch her breath; Ghiryion would allow her no such luxury. He thrust the point at her and she turned it away with the edge of the blade--once, twice... The third stab tore the fabric of her sleeve, narrowly missing her flesh. You'll have to move faster than that if you want to win. The ferocity and speed of his offense did not let up. He struck over and over, every counter sapping the stamina from her. Given his size, Valdigt was certain with enough time he'd prevail. Think, she told herself. And quickly!

The thought came to her in a flash, and she didn't have time to consider it. Ghiryion tried another lunging stab, and she did not counter. She turned, the point whistling by her, and dropped her sword. Valdigt grabbed the shaft of the spear with both hands. Using his momentum against him, Valdigt heaved Ghiryion's spear out of his hands. The buck slipped, yelped, fell face first into the dirt. She heard the crunch of his chin splitting. The she-wolf whirled the spear point around and pressed it against the back of his neck.

"Yield," she said. He opened his eyes and groaned, gazing up at she who'd defeated him. The crowd had fallen silent. Ghiryion made no move to surrender. She put her foot on his head and pushed it into the dirt, pressed the spear closer against his neck, and once more she demanded:

"Yield."

Ghiryion knew he'd been bested. He spat a runny stream of blood into the dirt.

"I yield," he grated, voice hoarse. Valdigt lifted her foot, removed the spear, and stepped back. She tossed his weapon onto the ground and retrieved her own. Then she wiped it clean, resheathed it, and took the moment to bow to her opponent.

"Well fought," she said.

Dhaka watched the two girls hand in hand, as they departed the arena. He was not the only interested beast, for he saw several others handing close behind, figuring what to make of this mysterious wolf. Her debut had been unexpected, her victory sudden, her departure immediate. Who was she? If only they knew her like I do, he thought. Dhaka you old fool, to think you didn't give Fherre any credit! When has he disappointed you in the past? Of course he knew that this was somebeast special.The girls exited the arena onto the main road through the Trade Quarter. Dhaka rarely ventured this far--too many unfamiliar faces, too much risk of a dagger in the back--but the girls were drawing all the attention from him.

He followed.

"Ahh, our star! How does she fare? She does amazing job, no?"

Shah bounded down from the gangway, the rat sweeping his arms out sideways as he bowed. Rats weren't known for their deference, nor were any of the beasts of the Southern Kingdoms. Bowing was a show of respect among wolves, and some of the foxes. When Shah bowed, it was a show of mock theatrics meant for the pleasure of Valdigt. But Valdigt said nothing, and it was Thess who spoke.

"Aye, she pulled it off," the otter said. "A real fighter, this one."

"You fight one of them deer?" Shah pressed her for details, his enthusiasm endless. "Strong beasts, big. I never suspect you lose, even to them. Oh no! Too strong, Miss Val. But tell Shah, just how big these deer? I seen you fighting in the prison. I do not doubt the skills of the wolf. Did he hurt you? What was it like?"

"Easy, let her breathe," Thess pushed him away slowly. "If you wanted to see you should've come."

For her part, Valdigt had nothing to say; Thess knew that was just what the girl was like. Betcha just about ready to blow with all this excitement, on the inside, that is. She couldn't guess what she was thinking, but knew it couldn't have been nothing. Could it? Her face suggested nothing.

"Eh, we got a visitor," Shah said, lifting an arm to point. "You invite this one?"

Thess and Valdigt looked back to see the beast of which he spoke. A stooped over wolf in a ragged robe was skirting the dock's edge, but his shambling gait was headed quite clearly for the Conqueror.

Another wolf? Thess thought. He's comin' this way. What sorta business can it be?

"Pardon my intrusion," the wolf said, and he bowed in the manner of the North. He removed his hood. Thess saw Valdigt stiffen, frown slightly. She returned the bow, and Thess nodded. The wolf raised his hands, palms up.

"May we speak?"

Valdigt listened while the wolf explained himself. She hadn't recognized the name he'd given--Dhaka, a word from the Untish tongue in the Deserts of Tern, Shah had explained--but she recognized the face. Call yourself what you will, father, but I know you. Thess and the other crewbeasts wouldn't have known her connection to him, and they listened to his story with only passive attention. Valdigt was silent for the duration of his speech, but her attention was rapt.

The wolf who had once been Jethel finished his story.

"Exile teaches much to a beast," he said. "More than he may ever wish to know, as a matter of fact."

"Turn your blame, father. It was not I who exiled you."

"Father?" Thess asked, surprised. She reached out to take Valdigt's hand, but the she-wolf kept them folded in her lap.

Dhaka produced a box from his pocket, filled with cigarettes and a bundle of matches. He struck one carefully along the edge of a claw, held it to the end of one of tightly rolled cigarettes and inhaled. A stream of white smoke issued from his nostrils.

"No," he finally replied. "I'm not blaming you. I'm a sinful creature, and I know what I did. Exile is a fitting punishment. You've mistaken the purpose of my approach."

Valdigt dug her nails into her palms. The pain was the only thing keeping her from lashing out; she felt a violent urge to claw his face, to make him taste blood. Do you know how you hurt me? The dead are not the only ones who remember your crimes.

"There's no way to get around it, is there? I was a bad father. I'm aware of that, now. I'm aware of more mistakes than that, even, but I can't dwell on those mistakes anymore, can I? I feel great shame for the beast I'd become."

Valdigt knitted her brow together, bared her teeth, bit her tongue, then finally composed herself. She inhaled deeply and spoke:

"Why are you here?"

"Well... I'm not entirely sure. No, no, I'm sorry, I don't mean that. It's just that I saw you in the arena. That's it, I swear! Put yourself in my shoes. Here I am in Brand, hundreds of leagues away from Gryning, away from any kingdom of the wolves, and I finally think I've begun to make a new life for myself. Then I hear there's another wolf here, fighting in the arena. I thought to myself that it would be worth seeing another of my fellow beasts. How could I have known it would be you? And what was I supposed to do upon seeing you? Would you rather I had left you alone, and let you pass the rest of your life without me? I never thought that I would see you again."

"Neither did I."

"But of course, I understand that you may not wish to see me for long. You are angry at me -- frankly, I deserve that anger. Your king was wise to exile me. Do you not agree? Ahh, no answer for me there. Well it's true. I deserve your anger, and I deserve your hatred too. I've been a terrible father."

"I'm starting to think I have no father. Speak, beast, what do you need from me? Forgiveness? You need me to ease the weariness of your conscience?"

"I deserve that too," he sighed. "You can hate Jethel all you want. He's a deadbeast. I am he no longer, and I suppose that means you truly don't have a father anymore. No, young one, I didn't come for forgiveness. I just wanted a glimpse of the past. I just wanted one last look. Is it so ridiculous to believe I could still love you, somehow? Let me hold on to the image of that love. Pity me, and let me love you."

Thess and Shah were still sitting quite stiffly on either side of the she-wolf, but they waited through the exchange without interrupting. Their attention turned to her now, as she rose and stood before he father. She stooped forward and picked up her belongings, sword in one hand, pouch in the other. Pieces of silver rattled inside that pouch--her winnings from the afternoon's bout. Valdigt tossed the pouch to Thess.

"Use this to buy new supplies, and fresh clothes. Clean and dress this beast, and find him a hammock aboard. I'll not turn him back on to the streets. My father is dead indeed, but this beast I do not know, and I cannot turn a blind eye; let him earn his place among the hearts of this crew, if he may."

She slipped away down the stairs, vanishing into the gloom of the lower deck. Thess and Shah rose, the little rat attempting a low bow, nearly falling on the wolf called Dhaka. Thess watched him warily, and bowed just her head. The two left him for the city, and he sat stunned in the silence of the sea, smoke trailing from nostrils into the tranquil sky.