? ? ?
He inspected Orven’s guardsmen in the afternoon, mainly to assure the Lord Marshal of his appreciation for returning them to martial readiness with such alacrity. Throughout the Long Night he had maintained the stern discipline and rigid adherence to routine that characterised the Mounted Guard, the beards grown on the ice soon sheared off and every breastplate scraped clean of rust.
“How goes the training?” Vaelin asked Orven after surveying the ranks and exchanging ritual pleasantries with the men. They spoke up readily enough, all veterans of the march from the Reaches and Alltor, regarding him with an implacable respect he knew might never fade. Even so, despite the generous fare offered by their hosts, many retained the gaunt aspect of those exposed to the worst extremes of climate.
“Fighting on foot is hard for those accustomed to the saddle, my lord,” Orven replied. “But it can’t be helped. The Lonak sometimes join in with practice. I think they find it amusing, or have little else to do.”
Vaelin glanced over to where a cluster of Sentar stood watching one of the Wolf People skin a recently caught walrus, taking note of the fact that Alturk was not among them, nor had he been for much of the Long Night.
“Concentrate on close-order drill,” he told Orven. “You’ve seen how the Volarians fight, whole battalions moving as one. I’m sure it’s a feat the guards can match.”
Orven straightened, his fist going to his breastplate in a customarily perfect salute. “Indeed we can, my lord.”
? ? ?
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.”