Page 7 of The Wolf Queen

Give into the blade, that’s what he’d said, let it dictate where it goes. The idea of that had seemed alarming to me when I was a child, because of how I’d struggled to hold my wooden practice sword and the way it had swung around wildly when I lifted it. But a growing sense of control never changed one deep innate sentiment. The burning need to obliterate the enemy, be it a practice dummy or a tree that I bashed at out on the moor, my horse placidly cropping grass, flicking her ears at me as I trained. The body might have been weak, might still be brought down by frailty, but the mind never was. So I twined mine with theirs, feeling that sense of connection, of purpose, of need as I did so, feeding my own, making us more than we could be individually, and we focussed on the target and took it down.

Some of the heavier uprights had resisted rot and I directed Axe at them, knowing his powerful strength could take them down. Weyland kicked what was left of the door in and Gael and Dane smashed up what was left of the walls. We didn’t have an especially noble purpose in mind, just creating more kindling for the cookfire, but… it didn’t matter, because we were doing something together, finally.

Every smash of their massive fists or rake of their claws had me visualising Callum and his Reavers on the end of them and, at those mental images, my mates roared their defiance. I was supposed to be anchoring them through this experience, but I got caught up in that rush, that destructive, joyous feeling that comes from going on a rampage, laying your enemies low.

“Careful.” Selene appeared at my shoulder. “It’s seductive. It always will be. You can’t afford to get too caught up in it, otherwise the five of you will make a beeline for the capital, full of piss and vinegar, only to get your heads lopped off. Breathe.” I did that. “Breathe again.” My lungs obeyed without a conscious thought from me. “This is how it works; what you need to do. It isn’t so much a matter of bringing their wolf out or facilitating them taking the half-wolf form, but making them believe that they can.”

My focus shifted to the long line of men standing on the edges of the field, watching what was happening with frank interest. That’s what I had to do. Wars, battles, fights had all been won against unassailable odds before. The men at my father’s court loved to sing of them when drinking. But there was one thing that tied each one together: belief. If I could stir our men, make them see what we could do, make the proposal plausible enough for them to invest in then… My hand went to my lower abdomen; the ache there a constant, never subsiding. Perhaps I could create a world where all of my future children, and everyone else’s, could be safe.

Chapter6

So how did we come to be standing in a forest, near a Granian garrison, as the sun began to set? We’d practised all day, working with larger and larger groups of people, until my head hurt and my whole body shook, but General Rath was satisfied we had something we could use in any fight.

Before we could contemplate going to engage in conflict, someone needed to scout out the proposed battlefield first. Rath had been about to direct one of his men to go, but I had volunteered myself and my pack. I knew Grania better than any one of our company and, despite being sure that my father would’ve been horrified about the idea of using that knowledge against my homeland, I didn’t care. Hartley Garrison was one of the less staunchly defended locations on the border and, therefore, the perfect place to cross.

For a Granian soldier, being a part of His Majesty’s army was considered an honour, but a northern placement was not highly sought after. While it was where the army was actually needed, to protect the borders, more often than not it was focussed on retrieving cattle that enterprising Strelans had nipped over the border to steal.

Hardly the battles recorded in the great sagas, and unlikely to accord soldiers the glory they dreamed of.

The big garrisons were staffed by third sons of aristocrats, getting some battle experience under their belts before returning to the southern states to perform largely administrative roles. But this place? Hartley was too small to warrant such noble leadership, because basically it was a convict camp.

Men who had committed a crime but were able-bodied could spend time in prison at His Majesty’s pleasure, or could ‘volunteer’ to do a stint on the border at one of the smaller garrisons. The officers, such as they were, would not be received in polite company, as they were little other than prison wardens. Father always complained about what a lax job Hartley did in protecting the border, so this was where we went now to do a little reconnaissance.

We were in fur right now, our wolves more than willing to come out. On four paws we travelled, lightly, silently, across fields and through trees to stop on the edge of the forest. The trees were not allowed to grow thick too close to the garrison, lest they hide interlopers like us. We stared across the grass, the wolves’ eyes picking up things that our human ones wouldn’t.

Like the man approaching.

He was doing something he shouldn’t, that was clear. The stooped shoulders, the furtive way he looked over his shoulder, made me think he was trying to escape. But what Granian would try his luck in Strelae? The wolf made a small chuffing sound, then got to her feet.

We melted back into the shadows, as the man was coming straight for us. He couldn’t have seen us, had not even been looking our way. He wouldn’t have been able to do much if he had though. But when he got within the embrace of the trees, his spine straightened, as if he’d shed a burden.

Or was about to.

A bag was pulled from inside his grubby coat. He was not the epitome of the well pressed and polished soldier that frequented my father’s court. This man’s hair was long and stringy with grease, his clothing stained and hadn’t seen a bar of soap for some time, but he didn’t care about that. He moved forward quietly, silently enough, to the human ear, until it became clear he wasn’t alone.

“You got it?”

The newcomer’s voice was coarse and ragged and his eyes were wild as he stared at the first man’s bag. It was red-stained—blood, I quickly realised, my wolf’s nose working as I caught that coppery scent.

“Got it, and we need to be quick about it,” the first man muttered, that furtive look back. “Sarge will have my arse—”

“The directives of an unbeliever mean nothing, brother,” the second man said, putting his hand on the first one’s shoulder and they both went still for a moment. “Come.”

The second man steered the first down a pathway, and we moved as one, trotting along at a distance, then sliding into the undergrowth when the first man looked backwards. But his focus wasn’t on us, I realised. I shifted inside my wolf, trying to direct her eyes, to shift her focus, for I saw that, just like outside my father’s estate, there was a small spring. Stone hadn’t formed around it like at my former home, but had been placed carefully, and etched into the rock were the same sorts of carvings I’d seen that day with Axe.

“Brother,” two other men said in greeting, stepping forward, one with a cheap metal medallion hung around his neck.

I knew what this was.

The church had been particularly useful to Granians when they invaded Strelae, because at the centre of our religious pantheon was a devilish creature. He had horns like a bull, and the toothy grin of a shark, all the better to eat you up.

And the pelt of a wolf.

The wolf that ate the world.

Back in the old, old times, before the church became an institution, the superstitious forebears of my people had seen the darkness that fell every night and conflated it with the wolves that sometimes attacked the fires they huddled around. The wolf that ate the world swallowed it every night, but was forced to regurgitate it every morning by the goddess Hrist, she of the Bow. That relief that you’d made it through another night stirred religious fervour, becoming a key part of religious doctrine that still continued, because priests were nothing if not practical.

They could preach until the cows came home that you must be godly, with little effect. But the threat of the Devil coming to take you away if you didn’t? That kept bums on seats in church pews. Granian priests had seen the horror the wargs of Strelae could wage on the battlefield and then took to the pulpit in earnest. This was not a land grab by the Farradorian Empire. The invasion was a fight against the Devil himself.

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