Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

37. Not a Shaman

Familiar mist pulsated at the edges of Volya's vision, though it was centered on Naktim and the Shaman. She faced the Shaman with her mouth bending into such a pained grimace, that Volya couldn't look away to search for his mist-wolf. The other women squatted in the tall grass. Some were crying, some seemed deader than boulders. The ghost island Volya had seen before was gone. The river flowed as unimpeded as it did in the modern times.

"All misfortunes that the Exile had foretold came to pass, Akrum the Sacrifice," Naktim said bitterly.

"Yes," the Shaman—Akrum—echoed.

"Day by day, we, the Walkwe, sheltered the fugitives from the other tribes. Until it was just us left in the world."

"As was foretold."

Naktim tossed her head at Akrum's interruption. Millenia ago, she already used Marina's technique, spearing a man, who should have kept his mouth shut, with her gaze.

"The refugees' tales were always the same, grimmer than winter," she said. "The Horselords took women for their wives and killed every man they could find, from a toddling babe to a wizened sage."

A sigh erupted from Akrum's chest, but Naktim scrutinized him without compassion through swollen eyelids. If anything, her voice hardened as if he, too, were an invader, who came to rape and pillage.

"We obeyed the Exile's command and came to seek refuge with the Spirits, so that the Walkwe tribe doesn't end on this day."

"The Spirits welcome you."

The fire that was only starting in Volya's first vision, tinged half-the-sky with scarlet. Smoke dimmed the sun to a pale disk. The howls echoed through the hills, at the wrong time of day.

Naktim tilted her head and listened in. A tear streaked down her cheek. "We're paying the blood price."

The wolves by Akrum's feet stirred, lifting leathery noses to the sun, nostrils flaring. They remained silent. Goosebumps ran up Volya's arms. The distant howls didn't come from the wolf's throats. They were the battle cries of the Walkwe men. They fought, either covering their women's escape, or because that's how they chose to die.

It's a sacrifice, the last sacrifice, the mist-wolf said. Volya glanced up to see his shaggy head in the clouds.

Akrum's wolves swirled restlessly, gray, russet and white, like they were also made of the mist, but didn't join into the heartrending chorus or leave Akrum's side. Volya felt gutted by this treachery, despite telling himself that he had no right to accuse and that they probably had their reasons.

"I'll open the Sanctuary to the Walkwe women," Akrum said, "and see that the new order is established, as my father had foreseen."

Naktim pinched her lips. "The Exile." She sounded pedantic before pedantic was a thing.

"My father wouldn't have been exiled, if the Walkwe believed his truth-saying." Akrum's jaw jutted out as if to underscore his point. He was painstakingly young, Volya realized, much like himself, though he didn't flounder nearly as much as Volya did.

Naktim was justa as young and stubborn as Akrum. "The Walkwe can't undo it. The Exile walks the night-sky now."

"That he does," Akrum agreed. He turned to the river a little abruptly. Mist swirled with him.

Volya's viewpoint tilted side-to-side, but he managed to keep Naktim in his peripheral vision. Were he in Akrum's shoes, he wouldn't have turned his back on that woman.

"As all the Walkwe men will be tonight," Naktim pointed out. She obviously meant it only for Akrum's ears, but her voice quivered with anger so strong, her face reddened so deeply, that Volya doubted that the rest of the survivors had missed her scorn. The women stirred, some making gestures like, cut it out, Naktim.