The Wolf's Call - Anthony Ryan Page 0,177

the buttress to stand in full view of whatever waited beyond the wall. He blinked in surprise at finding the ground to the front of the bastion free of enemies, although he could see the dark mass of a poised army waiting in the gloom beyond, edged steel and armour catching the moonlight. Then he saw the boy.

He couldn’t have been more than twelve, dressed in the garb of the border folk. He stood close to where the glow of the torches on the wall faded into the shadowed plain. Seeing Vaelin he put his hands to his mouth, a shrill, delighted giggle audible in the otherwise silent air. Even from this distance Vaelin could see the manic gleam in the boy’s eyes, the joyful anticipation that comes from being presented with a new toy. Jumping with excitement, he darted forward, still giggling, bright, excited eyes fixed on Vaelin.

He felt the boy’s gift slide into him like a narrow-bladed dagger, sinking deep into his core and birthing an instant flare of rage. It started as a burning seed in his chest, causing his heart to race and temples to throb. He let out a gasp as what felt like a nest of hornets suddenly burst into life in his head, memories of every battle he had fought flicking through his mind in a blinding torrent. With each thunderous pulse of his heart he felt the pain and fury of every wound suffered and inflicted. His sword was in his hand, though he couldn’t recall drawing it. He felt his lips form a snarl as the rage doubled and then redoubled, consuming him. The world shrank, became a crimson mist of vague figures, the sight of which birthed a hate and a need . . . a need to kill.

He fought it, struggling through the fog to summon all the memories of joy and goodness he could muster. Dahrena’s smile, Dentos’s stories, Aspect Elera that day in the garden . . . His vision cleared enough to allow him the sight of Nortah. His brother stood with his bow fully drawn and aimed beyond the bastion. However, his face lacked the hard focus of an archer about to launch a killing arrow. Instead, Nortah stared at the boy below in frozen horror, lips moving in an appalled murmur. “Just a child . . .”

The rage reasserted itself then, returning the world to a hate-fuelling state, the snarl reclaiming Vaelin’s features as he lunged towards his brother, sword drawn back for the killing stroke . . .

An instant of purest white banished the world. Vaelin felt his back arch, the angle of it so acute he would wonder later why his spine hadn’t snapped. A thrum of power shot through his core and into his limbs, the sword falling from spasming fingers. The white faded and in the brief second it took him to fall into darkness, he saw Ellese, moving as if through thickened air, shoving Nortah aside, teeth bared as she drew her bow. Everything slipped away the moment she loosed, Vaelin hearing Nortah’s despairing cry as he slipped into the black.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

He awoke to the iron sting of blood in his throat and the ache of overstrained muscles. Gagging, he rolled on a hard floor, coughing out a red, globular mass. He gasped and retched for a while longer until the acrid taste faded from his mouth. Subsiding onto his back, he blinked until the tears cleared to reveal the ornate lattice of the temple ceiling.

“Here, drink.”

He blinked again, seeing Sherin kneeling at his side, a cup of water in her hands. He took it and drank, washing away the last dregs of blood from his tongue. Groaning, he sat up, wincing as every sinew in his body seemed to shout a protest.

“Eresa couldn’t quite believe that you lived,” Sherin informed him. “It seems you’re the first to survive her touch.”

Vaelin looked himself over. His hauberk and boots had been removed but his shirt and trews remained. He could see no obvious injury, and the ache was fast diminishing. “Did you . . . ?” he began but stopped when Sherin shook her head.

“Not this time. Despite some violent convulsions your pulse remained strong, so it seemed likely you would recover without my assistance. There’s a strange, hand-shaped mark on your back, which I suspect you’ll carry for the rest of your life. But otherwise . . .”

She trailed off at the sound of panicked whimpering, rising and moving