The Wolf King (1)
“Why?”
It was bewildering. She had known he hadn't died, of course — but never had she imagined their reunion would come about like this.
“Was the dragon hunt enjoyable? I imagine it must have been.”
From atop the dragon's head, he curled the corner of his mouth into something like a smile.
“You were slow in treating your wounds. The feast must have ended while you lingered. All that remains now is one dragon, breathing its last.”
A low growl rumbled through the air. Reacting to Narinhoon's voice, perhaps, the dragon twisted its long neck — yet unlike before, the motion carried no menace.
It couldn't open its jaws. A thrown spear, driven in like an iron nail at an angle, pinned upper and lower jaw together.
Grrrraaaah—
Vesta had no gift for reading a dragon's heart, but even he could tell she was on the verge of collapse.
“You're loud.”
CRUNCH!
Narinhoon stomped down on the spear. The dragon writhed, letting out a moan of pure agony.
Ashtien's brow furrowed.
“The orc from that day.”
She recognized his face. The memory of that day was not one so easily forgotten.
“Your memory is remarkable, Khan. To think you'd know me even in this state.”
His tone was almost gracious — but the emotion beneath the words was something else entirely. There was no trace of laughter in it.
It was Ashtien who cut the exchange short.
“I have no time to waste on idle talk with you.”
“The sentiment is mutual.”
Narinhoon seemed barely to register Ashtien at all.
“The centaurs are coming.”
Clouds of dust rolled in.
“It's the dragon!”
“The Khan stands there!”
“That's the warrior beside the Khan — and who is that orc?”
“He's standing on the dragon's head, he is—”
The centaurs gathered, hundreds strong. Every last one of them was a knight in all but name.
“Decent numbers, I suppose.”
Was he simply unafraid of those hundreds of pairs of ferocious eyes? He offered his assessment with perfect composure.
“I find myself curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“Whether that host came prepared to battle a dragon — or whether it is nothing but a swarm of ants crawling in to feast on a corpse, without a shred of resolve at all.”
Having said his piece, Narinhoon looked down at Vesta.
“And what is your read on it?”
Vesta didn't answer. He only threw the question back.
“What state of mind did you come here in?”
“You already know the answer.”
—You mean to fight here and now?
“Prepare yourself.”
Ready yourself for battle. Steady your breathing, check the state of your blade. That was what Narinhoon said. Vesta's reply was ice.
“The moment I raise my sword, you die. Not by my hand — by that army's.”
There was no room for doubt. The host would march. The centaurs would grind Narinhoon into the earth.
There was no chance he would walk away alive. Could he even manage a proper response?
Vesta acknowledged Narinhoon's skill. The man was an extraordinary fighter — his talent and willpower were astonishing, even to Vesta's eyes.
But he was not strong enough to stand against an army of centaurs.
'No one could be. It's impossible for anyone.'
It wasn't a matter of his falling short. It was simply that a man cannot become a dragon.
—Even if he brought an army of his own,
He still couldn't hold back the centaur legions. Vesta felt the affair drawing toward its end.
“It's over, Narinhoon.”
There would be no battle.
“Over, you say.”
And yet his face showed no resignation. His smile bordered on a sneer — a mockery, in other words.
“It's a bit early to be declaring things finished, isn't it?”
“Early in what way?”
The one who spoke was Ashtien. Narinhoon's bright yellow eyes slid toward her.
“Early indeed. Nothing has been decided yet. The fight hasn't even begun. On what grounds, then, do you proclaim it over?”
“So. You consider this a contest worth fighting?”
“It appears so.”
Vesta couldn't understand it. The man held a certain losing hand, and yet he could not keep the unease from showing.
“That is some confidence you have.”
Narinhoon's life hung in Ashtien's hands. A single word from her would see the centaur army lay this whole region to waste.
Perhaps she wouldn't even need to give the order. With no need to borrow another's hand, Ashtien herself could simply step forward and end it.
“You've outlived your hour to die. Did no one prepare a place for my retainer to meet his end? You have kicked aside your own fate and defied heaven's mandate.”
“It has been a wretched life, true enough.”
“You are a defeated king.”
Narinhoon did not deny it.
“This child has grown stronger beyond any comparison to that day — what do you imagine the likes of you can do?”
And yet, even as she said it, something in her expression suggested she sensed something deeply wrong.
There was something in Narinhoon that lay beyond what the eye could see.
—That man's bow is not something human strength can draw. No orc's could be, either.
And yet he had drawn it. He had succeeded in drawing it.
—He drew a bow no man can draw. Which means he has stepped outside the domain of man.
The orc before her had been transmuted into something else entirely. Ashtien knew it by instinct.
“Have you awakened some shamanism in the meantime?”
Had the orc shaman of legend been reborn? Was Narinhoon Ibatar that High Orc of whom she'd only heard in whispers?
Narinhoon denied her question.
“Not at all.”
His gaze fixed squarely on Vesta.
“My enemy commands spirits. The flames he wields are maddeningly stubborn things — at times I felt as though I were facing a small dragon of my own.”
He was speaking of Vesta.
“To fight him, I needed a body that could endure flame.”
The moment his words ended, the dragon — which had been waiting for its chance — moved. It reared its neck up, trying to shake Narinhoon from its skull.
Exhausted as it was, a dragon was still a dragon. Its thrashing was nothing a human frame could withstand.
But Narinhoon remained calm.
“Neither spirit-craft nor shamanism.”
“......!”
Crrrack. The sound of Narinhoon's bones twisting echoed across the plain. Blood sprayed. Blue fur scattered on the wind.
Something enormous — something pressing down the dragon's neck with a single foot.
A shadow fell.
BOOM!
The massive shape stomped down on the rising neck, driving the dragon into the ground once more.
The thing that had crushed the dragon's skull beneath its feet was what had once been Narinhoon Ibatar.
'That's no orc. No man. You cannot call that thing human.'
It was no orc's skeleton. Blue fur grown long, the leg bones of a beast, arms abnormally elongated, and a snout like some great predator's — no longer anything one could call a mouth. The eyes. The ears. The teeth.
“A... werewolf?”
Yes. There was no other shape that could explain it.
Vesta spoke through cold sweat.
“Is that the hidden strength you were keeping?”
Even at the shoulder, it stood more than twice Vesta's height. Its weight made comparison meaningless.
As far as Vesta knew — and likely as far as Ashtien knew —
It was the largest wolf alive.
Vesta felt the imperious gaze of a being that had transcended humanity. Narinhoon Ibatar looked down at him.
“Stand back.”
“Ashtien...?”
Ashtien pushed Vesta behind her. He noticed at once — she was tense.
She was different from usual. She didn't retreat a step to cheer his fight from the sidelines, nor stop at offering whatever modest aid she could.
—I swore not to steal the trials given to this child. Not to rob him of his chance to earn glory. I promised myself that.
This went against her own conviction.
—This is different.
This she could not leave to Vesta.
“Vesta. That thing is no longer a being one can call human.”
—It isn't human. It is a spirit incarnate.
And a mighty one at that. Not some common beast a man might face, but a calamity with a clear and terrible purpose.
The others, too, had grasped the werewolf's danger.
“Protect the Khan!”
The centaurs began tightening their encirclement. Had Ashtien and Vesta not been there, they would have attacked on the spot.
Ashtien did not concede the point.
“Do those look like sheep to you? What arrogance. They are the ones who drove a dragon all the way here.”
—If they plant their feet on the ground. If they cannot breathe fire all at once. Then even a spirit incarnate cannot beat an army.
Thinking this, she nocked an arrow to her bowstring.
“That much I grant you.”
“You are the mightiest wolf this land has ever known.”
And against such a wolf, a hunter worthy of it would have to step forward.
The breath of a beast had crept into his voice.
“Yes. I will face you myself.”
“Ashtien!”
“Stay behind me.”
—But contending with you for the Steppe can wait until another day, Khan of the Wasteland.
“Nonsense.”
The sound of something cleaving the air. The roar of a vast body like the sail of a great ship, billowing without a moment's rest.
A sound already well known to her ears.
—It couldn't be.
Ashtien's eyes went wide as she lifted her head high.