The Tiger and the Wolf (7 page)

He and the Horse delegation had been gifted one of the
smaller huts to curl up in, presumably leaving some of the more
wretched Laughing Men to shiver outside in the dark. With so
many sleepers laid out close together around the circle of floor,
like interlocking pieces of a puzzle, the cold of nightfall did not
touch them; and besides, Asmander had a gift for sleeping well,
yet waking when he needed to.

He was on his feet in an instant – some of the Horse were
already about, judging from the vacant spaces on the floor, and
there was no sign of Venater at all. No surprise there: from the
sound of it, Venater was one of those doing the fighting. The
pirate had been awake still when Asmander retired, conversing
in guarded, hostile tones with the Malikah of the Laughing Men.
Asmander was only surprised it had taken the man so long to
get into trouble.

In nothing but a loincloth, his stone-toothed
maccan
sword in
hand, Asmander hurried up into the morning light.
There were three of them pitched against Venater. Three
men, though, and it was plain that amongst this tribe the men
were given no place of honour or respect. Nonetheless, they
were game fighters, from what Asmander could now see, teaming up to try and bring the big southerner down.
It was all in friendly contest, that much was plain. When they
were in human form, their hands were empty of weapons. Still,
the Laughing Men possesed jaws that could grind bones and
fights like these were seldom won or lost without blood being
drawn.
Seeing that there was no real danger to Venater, and that the
Laughing Men had not decided to butcher their guests,
Asmander just stood back and watched his companion fight.
He moved like strong waters, this old pirate: deceptive when
he was still, unstoppable once he struck. Sometimes he wore his
human shape, with sallow skin gleaming in the bright sunlight.
More often he was Stepped into the true form of his soul, the
savage creature he called the dragon. Long and black, he was, as
heavy and powerful as when he walked on two legs, and his
scales were like black pebbles. His blunt head gaped wide in
threat, showing a horrific array of curving fangs, and he could
rush with a terrible swiftness even on those sprawling, ungainly-looking legs.
The three Laughing Men tried to surround him, to nip at
him from behind while he chased whoever was before him, but
Venater was an old warrior, wise to such tricks. More than that,
there was no part of him that was easy to attack. Asmander
winced as one would-be ambusher was lashed across the muzzle
by the sharp whip of Venater’s tail, while one of the others got
too close and was hooked about the foreleg by the monstrous
lizard’s claws. Instantly Venater was a man again, lifting the startled hyena up and flipping the animal over his shoulder. The
Laughing Man Stepped in mid-air and managed a creditable
landing on hands and knees, whereupon Venater kicked him in
the stomach and sent him rolling away. The third hyena leapt for
him, aiming to connect with his chest, but Venater had Stepped
again, dropping down to his lizard shape so that his enemy
sailed overhead.
With calculated indolence, Venater turned to face them, blueblack tongue lashing at the air. Then he was a man once more,
trying to lure them closer, and Asmander met the stone force of
his gaze, recognizing the challenge there and waving it aside.
Another time, perhaps.
Seeing him there, Asmander was swept up in the memory of
when he had first set eyes on the pirate; remembering when the
two of them had fought.
Back then, Asmander’s father had taken a warband of the
clan’s warriors out with the specific intention of ridding the
Tsotec estuary of its most troublesome pirate. The Dragon were
ever troublesome vassals of the Sun River Nation, and more
than one had turned outlaw and raider in the past, but Venater
had been the boldest in living memory, striking even within
sight of the prince’s own palace at Tsokawan.
The warband had tracked the pirate Venat – as he was known
when his name was still his own – to one of the innumerable
estuary islands. There, they approached under cover of the
murky water, Stepped into the long, ridge-backed shapes of
crocodiles. There were two score of them, and the pirates were
less than a dozen, and mostly drunk. The fight as a whole was no
great victory to carve on the walls of the mighty, but Venat . . .
Asmander remembered him leaping up, roaring his defiance,
the stone blade of his
meret
cleaving spears in two and splitting
shields. He had been as drunk as the rest, but that had not
stopped or even slowed him. And Asmander, who had newly
found his role as Champion of the River Lords, knew that the
moment had come to test the shape of his soul against this foe.
He had Stepped into that fleeter form, the obsidian of his
maccan
becoming his teeth, the jade of his spurs his claws, and
he had rushed from the midst of his father’s warriors to do
battle. They had wanted to stop him, but he was a Champion.
They dared not lay hands on him, not even Asman his father.
And the fight – so fierce a contest! Venat had struck at him
with his bone-breaking tail and claws strong enough to tear
open bronze. He had snapped his teeth against the scaly quills
of Asmander’s hide, that were reinforced with the cotton and
stone of the armour he wore. A shallow bite would have been
debilitating, a deep one fatal, for the dragons of the estuary were
venomous as well as merely savage. Legend said that dark spirits
of the early world had created them to be as inimical to all other
beasts as it was possible to be.
Asmander had let speed become his ally, leaping to drive his
claws into the great lizard’s back, always a step aside, a step
ahead. He had known exactly the risks he ran, and he ran them
gladly. He had never
lived
, as when he had lived next to the
death that dwelled in Venat’s jaws.
And at last the man was beaten, sprawled bleeding and cursing, shifting from writhing lizard back to man, and eventually
just staring up at Asmander with hate-filled eyes, expecting
nothing but death. And death was what he deserved: no noble
robber of the stories, he, but a villain, a murderer, a rebel against
prince and nation.
Asmander had placed one clawed foot on his defeated enemy’s neck and waited for his father’s command.
It had not come, and for a moment he had thought – he
remembered this clearly –
Is he dead? Am I Asman now?
along
with all the little attendant thoughts that whirled and spun in the
wake of that huge one. But then he had cocked his head, while
keeping one eye on his prize, and seen his father standing
amongst his men, staring at his son with such an expression . . .
Pride, yes, but there had been depths to that expression, as
clouded as the river. Anger that Asmander had so risked himself;
calculation at how this proven asset that was his son might now
best be used. And
envy
. Asmander remembered that plainly. The
envy never left his father’s face, from that moment on, that his
son should be so honoured by the gods as to be a Champion,
whilst he . . . he grew older and no stronger, and some day this
boy before him would bear his name.
But Asman was a man of politics, above all. He had lived his
life navigating the hazardous waters of the Sun River Nation’s
powers and factions. Not for nothing were his people known
also as the Patient Ones.
‘What, then?’ he had asked his son. ‘Will you stay your hand?’
In his Champion’s shape, the youth could not answer, but he
bobbed his head once, indicating his submission to his father’s
will.
‘Notorious pirate,’ Asman declared, ‘you are defeated, your
followers slain.’ Around them, their corpses stood as mute witness, some stabbed with jagged spears, others ripped by long
jaws. A couple of the victorious attackers had retained their
crocodile forms, coasting silently through waters now red and
salty with blood.
Venat had glowered murder up at him, but Asmander’s talons
were tight and sharp about his neck, holding him to his human
form, a great sickle-claw poised ready to descend on his face.
‘You will be bound and noosed,’ Asman declared. ‘You will be
brought before Tecumander, heir to the Daybreak Throne.
There, you will die in the pool of the Crocodile, ripped into
pieces by our mute brothers.’
The pirate’s mouth twitched, as though he wanted to spit, but
was too wary of that hovering claw.
‘Or, as you are a man of skill and courage, however misused,
you may suffer yourself to be stripped of all you are – yes, even
your name – and sworn to the service of my clan, to earn back
your honour until such time as you can once again call yourself
a man. Think on that choice as we carry you back to Tsokawan.’
‘I’d rather die,’ Venat had finally got out.
But he had not. Despite his defiance, when they had stood
him before Old Crocodile’s pool, he had bowed the knee and
relinquished his name. Even then, he had stared at Asmander
with a blood-red promise of revenge. The look he gave the youth
now – these few years later, during which everything within the
Sun River Nation had changed – was its close cousin.
Asmander was glad. It was a melancholy truth, but he had
always been more at ease with hatred than with love. He knew
where he was with antagonism, with challenge, with people who
would rip out his throat if he bared it to them. He liked the
Laughing Men on first sight for just that simple, honest quality.
It was people who smiled and simpered and flattered him that
meant him the more harm, he knew well.
Some day
, he reflected, as Venater returned to his fighting.
‘Have them wash their wounds well after,’ he advised the
spectators. ‘He has filthy teeth.’

The pirate gave him a sour look. ‘Travelling with the Horse is
piss-dull. I like these people. They live well.’
Asmander smiled a little, hearing his own thoughts mirrored.
‘They cut you a little, I see.’
Venater’s bared chest and back bore a scattering of fresh
scratches, a few of which still bled. For a precious moment he
looked almost shifty, but then he laughed.
‘Not them. It’d take more than those dogs.’
‘Then . . .’ Asmander reassessed the damage: trophies of a
different sort of combat. ‘You lay with the Malikah?’
‘Only because you were too scared of her.’
‘Not my type,’ said Asmander, and then he grinned, shaking
his head. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘She appreciates a strong man. They don’t seem to have any
around here.’
‘And you?’
Venater shrugged, then winced ruefully. ‘These things are
known: beware a woman as strong as you are. I never ended a
night with so many bruises. Are the Horse finally finished talking?’
Asmander had seen the Society delegation gathering, and he
shrugged. ‘Something’s happening, anyway.’
The pirate growled. ‘I never thought I’d find a people who
talk more than you River Lords do. We should just take one of
those boats and go.’
‘And then you’d paddle? Or would that be just me pressing
on the oar upstream, all the way to the Crown of the World?’
Asmander asked him wryly. ‘No, they know the back of the
Tsotec, and we do not. And they will sell us fit clothing for
the cold, once we are there. All lives interweave, as the Snakes
tell us.’
Venater spat to show exactly what he thought of that but,
soon afterwards, Eshmir the Horse Hetman was approaching.
‘We’ve exhausted the hospitality of the Laughing Men?’
Asmander suggested brightly. ‘No more chuckles; they want us
gone?’
Her expression was awkward. ‘Something of the opposite.’
Seeing the tense anticipation that descended on him she was
quick to add, ‘Not trouble, but they have invited you on a hunt.’
‘Me?’
‘Others as well, but the Malikah very much wishes for you to
run with her hunters.’
‘She wants to see the Champion,’ Asmander divined.
‘I am sorry,’ she confirmed.
‘Why?’
‘You do not seem to wish to show it. Since leaving Atahlan,
you have not Stepped . . .’ Her face was a study in concentration
as she tried to navigate the hidden reefs of Sun River custom.
‘It is not for play,’ he told her. ‘Most certainly it is not to
impress
. The Champion of the River People is a shape not lightly
taken. But for a hunt? Yes, a hunt is serious business. It is fitting.’
Her relief was palpable. ‘I was not sure . . .’
‘We are a complex people in the Nation and we care about
many things,’ Asmander said softly. ‘But the Champion knows
what is important in life. And sometimes that makes living with
the cares of people difficult. Especially the Patient Ones.’

The Laughing Men hunted many types of prey, singly and in
packs, but the great prize of the Plains was the wild aurochs.
They had been tracking a solitary bull for days before the hunt,
an old beast without a herd, yet strong and aggressive enough to
warn off even lions. Now it stood in the chest-high grass, brooding and chewing, lifting its great head at every flight of birds or
change in the wind. Looking on it, Asmander had the sense that
the beast knew well what was to come, and welcomed it. The
soul in that hulk of a body wished to move on with honour, and
preferably with some blood upon its horns.

Venater did not care for the hunt, but the possibility of
Asmander making a fool of himself was eternally attractive, and
so he had come – with the Hetman and a handful of the Horse
Society – just to watch. A good score of the Laughing Men were
there too, half a dozen of whom would hunt alongside the
southerner. These were the young and the strong, four women
and two men, their skin fresh painted with streaks of white and
gold.

‘How do I look?’ Asmander asked, grinning. He had the same
adornment, the colours particularly striking against his darker
skin.

‘Like a badly decorated pot,’ the pirate replied. ‘All you need
is a little red, but that’s what those horns are for.’
The Malikah sent a stern glance towards him and, to
Asmander’s astonishment, Venater fell silent. The entire venture
was almost worth it just for that.
‘There was a tribe, once.’ The ruler of the Laughing Men
drifted closer, her eyes fixed on their wary quarry. ‘They were
the people of the Aurochs, and they were strong and fierce in
battle.’
‘So what happened to them?’ Asmander asked, as was obviously required.
‘They betrayed their own souls. They took their mute brothers and penned them, and kept them for their meat, and so they
grew weak, and we fell upon them and destroyed them. But now
we have cattle, and so do all the peoples. All of life is profiting
from the misfortunes of others.’ She grinned, feral and fierce. ‘In
your hunt, Champion, know that the souls of the Horned Men
live still, forever reborn into these mute bodies, forever knowing
that they once had language and understanding. Know that, by
shedding this old one’s blood, you move him one step further on
in his journey. Perhaps one day he will be born as a man again,
when his soul knows that he has atoned for the mistakes of his
people.’
Asmander nodded, eyes fixed on the great beast in the middle
distance. Did he feel a shock of contact, meeting that far gaze?
‘My hunters will drive him and channel him, but the honour
of the kill is yours – if you can take it.’ The Malikah was watching him intently.
Asmander rolled his shoulders. He was here bare-chested and
without armour. Stone mail would not save him against the
sweep of those horns, only speed of action.
There was no signal, but abruptly the Laughing Men hunters
had all Stepped and were racing off into the grass, where their
progress was visible as a rushing tremor cutting a curving path
that would overshoot the bull, then draw back to herd the beast
towards Asmander. The spectators were slowly falling away,
abandoning him to his skills.
He looked back once, meeting Venater’s gaze. The pirate’s
expression said eloquently,
Well, look what you’ve got yourself into.
His
maccan
was a comforting weight dangling from its wrist
strap. He saw the bull’s head come up, scenting the approach of
the hyena pack, and yet one dark eye was fixed on him alone.
‘Old Crocodile, fill me with your peace, let me wait in the
calm of your waters, let my strike be sudden,’ Asmander murmured to himself, because soon words would be denied him.
The high yipping cackle of the hunters carried to him over the
grass. Abruptly the bull was in motion, just an amble at first,
shaking his head in irritation, but then the pack must have
appeared from another quarter, warding the beast away from his
escape, and abruptly he was gathering speed.
‘Serpent, you who pass below all,’ Asmander said, now hurrying the words a little, ‘guide my prey’s soul swift to its new birth.
Or my soul. Or mine.’ Then there was no more time for prayer,
and he Stepped.
The Malikah and some of her people had stayed close enough
to witness this moment, but he was oblivious to their reaction as
his human form lunged forwards into that of the Champion of
the River People. As he had said, it was not done for show.
He was no larger than human, in that form, and lower slung,
his body canted forwards and balanced by the long stiff spine of
his tail. His hide was something like scales, but longer, more
delicate, and if he shook himself just so, they would rattle like a
snake’s tail, like the coursing of the rain.
He stepped forwards on two feet, each with its killing claw
held delicately off the ground to keep it sharp. His hands – and
they were still hands, just – were also barbed weapons, as was
the deep bite of his jaws. There was something of the crocodile
to him, and something of Venater’s dragon-lizard, but mostly he
was himself, an impossible animal. No man had ever hunted one
such as he. His was a shape that existed only as a thought in the
mind of the world, a memory of the great spirits for whom the
span of all human years was an eyeblink, and irrelevant.
The bull was coming on fast now, with the pack nipping at its
heels, infuriating it. Asmander stalked forwards with all of Old
Crocodile’s patience, with the Serpent’s steady gaze. Inside, he
felt as though he was only partly in control: the Champion was
a second soul in him, passing through his life for the brief spans
that he called upon it. No man could truly hope to own these
killing limbs, this speed, this strength.
The dreadful anticipation that rose within him was that of the
Champion, and to Asmander it was a like drug, a joy, a truth.
The Champion saw the world so much more clearly that, each
time he took this form, he did not want to let it go.
The bull saw him, that sleek reptile shape knifing through the
grass, and turned its path away, tossing its head at a hyena
unwise enough to get too close and sending the hunter yelping
away. The aurochs was fast, moving at the limits of the pack’s
ability to herd it, but Asmander was faster. And he could leap.
There was nothing else in the world that could leap as he could.
Three long steps towards the aurochs’ turning flank and then
he sprang, sailing clear above the grass to tear into the animal’s
hide, hanging there with four sets of claws before ripping a long,
shallow gash down the bull’s ribs and kicking himself away. He
landed in a crouch and the bull turned on him, in fury, in recognition, its horns lowered. Asmander faced it down, head
thrust forwards and jaws agape, screeching out his challenge.
For the length of a drawn breath, the world stood still: the
aurochs and Asmander, whilst the Laughing Men looked on in
wonder.
Then the bull charged without warning, its colossal weight
and strength in furious motion, horns like lances and the ground
shaking under its approach. Asmander felt a thrill of anticipation
– never fear, for the Champion did not know it – and then he
was skipping aside, leaving that sinuous motion to the last possible moment, and another leap carried him to the bull’s
hindquarters where he tore another patchwork of bloody lines.
Still he did not bite: to bite was to commit, to fix himself in
place to a quarry that could still very easily kill him.
He jumped off again, and this time the aurochs lumbered
onwards, following the line of its charge until the Laughing Men
materialized out of the grass to head it off. When it turned, it
was wearier than before, its dark hide painted with blood.
It met Asmander’s yellow gaze.
Once more, my friend.
This was why Asmander had valued the
rage and hate of Venater more than the words of his own clan or
his prince’s court. This was the kind of honesty that he sought
in a crooked world. The bull wanted to kill him. The bull wanted
to live. Asmander valued its hostile regard more than gold.
With the hideous cacophony of the Laughing Men at its
back, it stamped and scuffed at the ground beneath it, and then
it came for him, without hope but with honour – and how many
men could say as much in their last moments?
This time, Asmander almost left it too late, seduced by the
sheer power and beauty of the behemoth bearing down on him.
The Champion knew its place, though, and swung him to the
bull’s forequarters, one sickle-claw dug into its throat, one
hooked behind its shoulders. And, as the bull bucked and
plunged to dislodge him, he brought his jaws down upon the
back of its great neck with all their strength, shearing through
the dense thickness of muscle and severing the chain of bone
along which ran the aurochs’ life.
When they reached him, the spectators, the Malikah, Venater,
they found him in his human shape again, with the other hunters keeping a respectful distance. He was sitting by the huge
mound of the bull’s body, one hand on its bloodied side, feeling
as though he had lost a friend.