The Tiger and the Wolf by [email protected] Page A

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.’
Later, he came upon Venater as the man washed. ‘Finished with
your playing?’ he asked.
    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