Astorek found him grooming Scar in the small stable the Wolf People had allowed him to construct near the shore. As usual a gaggle of children had gathered to watch as he led the warhorse from his makeshift home, apparently fascinated by the strange four-legged beast, bigger than a moose but without antlers. They seemed to have no inclination to shyness, or awareness that Vaelin might not understand their babble of questions as they clustered around, small hands playing over Scar’s coat, occasionally retreating with delighted giggles at the horse’s irritated stamps and snorts. One little boy was more insistent than the others, tugging at Vaelin’s furs and repeating the same question with a puzzled frown.
“He wants to know why you don’t eat him.”
Vaelin turned to find Astorek standing nearby, watching the scene with faint amusement. Two of his wolves sat a short distance away, a male and a female of disconcerting size, their scent provoking Scar to a fearful shudder.
“They’re too close,” he told the Volarian, nodding at the wolves.
Astorek inclined his head and the wolves rose in unison to trot towards the ice, their usual placidity evaporating as they began to leap and nip at one another in a playful dance.
“He’s for riding,” Vaelin said, turning back to the boy as Astorek translated. “Not eating.”
This seemed to puzzle the child even more, his small features creasing into a scrunch of bafflement, so Vaelin lifted him onto Scar’s back, taking the reins and leading him on a slow walk towards the shoreline. The boy laughed and clapped his hands as he bounced along, the other children following in a clamour that didn’t need much translation; they all wanted a turn. After an hour or so of entertainment Astorek finally shooed the children away with a few short words. Although the Wolf People’s discipline of their young folk seemed lax, the instant silence that descended on the children told of an underlying authority that brooked no dissent and they had soon scampered off to find other amusements.
“His description of you was not wholly accurate,” Astorek said when the children had gone. “He said you would be fierce.”
“Your prophet’s words? You talk as if you knew him.”
“Sometimes I feel as if I did, I’ve heard his words so many times. Our people write nothing down but all shaman are taught to recite his message without fault.”
Vaelin led Scar back to the stable, fixing a feed-bag over his snout. The islands were poor in grain but rich in root vegetables and berries, harvested in the summer months and preserved through the winter. From his contented snorts and noticeably less denuded frame, it seemed Scar found the mix just as appetising as any bag of corn.
“My mother and father,” Astorek said, “bade me ask as to your intentions.”
“Intentions?”
“The Wolf People have awaited your arrival for as long as they can remember, knowing it would herald a time of great danger. And yet you spend every day tending your horse, whilst your companions play and the big man drinks his way through our stocks of pine ale.”
“Alturk is a . . . troubled man. And we have lingered here because Wise Bear advised venturing forth during the Long Night meant death. We are, of course, grateful for your hospitality.”
“You talk as if you intend to leave us.”
“We came in search of a particular man. Kiral’s song will guide us to him. When she hears a clear tune we will move on.”
“Leaving us to our fate, whatever it may be?”
“You put great stock in ancient paintings and long-told stories, especially since you cannot have been born to this life.”
Astorek gave a bitter laugh. “Is that it? You deny my people aid because you still distrust me?”
“Your people require no aid, as far as I can tell. As for you.” Vaelin took the bag from Scar’s snout, scratching his nose. “I’ve yet to learn how you came to be here, at this time, speaking our language without fault.”
“If I were an enemy, would not the huntress’s song warn you?”
He put the feed-bag aside and hefted a seal fur over Scar’s back, the warhorse voicing a rumbling snort of welcome at the increased warmth, then turned to Astorek, eyebrows raised in expectation. The Volarian’s gaze became downcast, his response a reluctant murmur, “I was guided here . . . by a wolf.”
• • •
