by Amy Cross
Copyright 2018 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published in September 2012
as part of Lupine Howl: The Complete Second Series.
This edition: May 2018
Having escaped from the nightmare of the Library, Jess and Duncan set out on a desperate mission to bury Excalibur. Soon, however, they discover that a deadly power is starting to make its presence felt, creeping through reality itself and devouring everything in its path.
While Jess faces fresh horrors alone, Duncan's past is uncovered and the truth about his love for Anna is laid bare. Meanwhile, Thomas Lumic grows stronger and the Ancient Wolf prepares for a final showdown, while Duncan once again finds himself drawn into a fate worse than death.
Destiny of the Last Wolf is the fourth book in the Lupine Howl series. Originally published in serial format in 2012, this revised edition brings together parts thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen of the story and ends on a cliffhanger.
Table of Contents
Part One
Excalibur
Part Two
Ordinary Werewolves
Part Three
Lovers Beware
Part Four
Broken Spirits
Destiny of the Last Wolf
(Lupine Howl book 4)
Part One
Excalibur
1,800 years ago
The knight walks slowly to the center of the town square. He has traveled thousands of miles in preparation for this moment. In his mind, there is absolutely no doubt that he will succeed. His strength is unparalleled, his determination has been tested, and his pride is great. As he traveled to this place, he never stopped imagining what it would be like to finally arrive; to finally face the stone; to finally be the one who achieves what so many men have failed to do. He can already feel the glory, and he can even hear - in the back of his mind - the roar of the crowd as they applaud their new hero. It hasn't even occurred to him that he might fail.
He cannot fail.
"Fucking idiot!" shouts a man from the crowd.
The knight blocks out the cry. He knew that there would be some who would mock him, who would not believe in his abilities. Many men have been here before, to attempt this feat, and all have failed. But the mockery of these fools will only make his final victory sweeter, because he will soon be able to wield the power that men have craved for centuries. Once he has the weapon in his hand, he will seek out that man who called out from the crowd, and he will remove his head. And then the festivities will begin, and a new age of English domination will begin.
"Get on with it," says a short, balding man standing next to the knight. "There's three others here to try today, and the crowd's getting restless."
Before them, the sword stands proudly, its blade embedded in the lump of gray stone and its hilt shining in the afternoon sun. No-one knows how it got here, but the sword has stood in the same place for many years, certainly as far back as anyone can remember. Tens of thousands of men have traveled here to try their luck, to pull the sword from the stone and assume its full power; of those tens of thousands, none have succeeded. For the crowd, the ritual humiliation of these aspirants has become just another form of entertainment. Most believe, now, that there is no man strong enough to reclaim Excalibur from the stone in which it sits.
The knight steps forward, and he slowly places his hands on the hilt. Around him, the crowd falls silent. The knight focuses, staring at the hilt, waiting until he feels the right moment. He knows that pulling the sword from the stone is as much about mental power as it is about physical strength. He needs to bring his mind and his body together, in order to form an unstoppable force that will rip the sword out. He has practiced the process many, many times and now, finally, the moment has come. He feels everything settle, and finally he is ready. He pulls on the hilt, and the sword slides effortlessly out of the stone.
There are gasps from the crowd.
Excalibur is free.
"Hang on!" says the short man, stepping forward. "That's the wrong sword."
The knight turns to him. A kind of cold rage is swelling inside his body. The idea that this insolent little man would dare to even look at him during this, his moment of triumph, is beyond comprehension.
"Do you know who I am?" the knight says. "I am the new ruler of England. I have in my hands -"
"You have in your hands a fake sword," the man says, grabbing the sword and showing it to the crowd. "This is not Excalibur!" he shouts. "Look! It is a fake! If it were Excalibur, would I be able to do this?" He slams the sword down across his knee, breaking it easily into two halves.
The crowd falls silent.
The man turns back to look at the stone, at the slot where the sword used to stand. "But if this isn't Excalibur," he says, confused, "then where the bloody hell did Excalibur go?"
***
The boy runs through the forest as fast as he can. He's terrified. Convinced that he'll be captured at any moment, he hasn't even dared to look back since he started running during the night. All he can think is that he has to get away from the village, to get away from anyone who might know who he is or what he's done. Racing between the trees, leaping over a fallen tree, he allows nothing to get in his way. No matter how far and how fast he runs, he feels he will never be safe again.
Suddenly he catches his foot on a twisted tree root, which sends him flying through the air. He lands hard, slamming into the forest floor with such force that for a moment he can barely breathe. But adrenalin forces him back onto his feet quickly, and he looks around for the sword.
It's there. Nearby.
He runs over and picks it up. He knows he must never, ever let it out of his sight. Even as he tripped just now, his focus was not on avoiding injury but on making sure he didn't let go of Excalibur. Yet the force of the impact gave him no choice. At least he was lucky, this time - there seems to be no-one behind him. Stopping to catch his breath, the boy realizes he's alone in the forest. He ran and ran and ran, and now he is finally away from all of them.
He looks down at the sword.
It has been almost twelve hours since it all started. Late last night, by the light of the moon, he had woken suddenly in his bed, hearing some strange sound near the house. Going to the window, he'd looked out and realized that the sound was like metal vibrating. He'd felt no choice but to leave the house and go to the source of the sound. The sword was where it always was, where it had been since long before the boy was born: it stood in the center of the town square, stuck in the stone. Many people had come to try to pull the sword out, spurred on by the legend. And now the boy, who had never even thought to try for himself, wandered over to the sword, put his hands on the hilt, and effortlessly pulled it free. After that, his mind had started to race. He had no idea what to do, but he knew that he didn't want anyone to know what he'd done. Running across the square to the blacksmith's, he'd managed to break in and steal an old sword that was sitting around. He put that sword into the stone, to buy himself time, and then he'd run. Carrying the sword, he'd run and run and run through the night, and through the dawn, and through the morning until finally here he was, alone in the forest.
"What do you want from me?" he asks, holding the sword up. He feels as if, somehow, the sword is alive; as if it can hear him. He feels, too, that it's giving him power. He knows the legend: the sword can only be removed from th
e stone by the one true king, by the man who will go on to unite England and rule the union. But the boy is absolutely certain that he can never be that man, so it must be a mistake.
He stands in silence.
"My name's Arthur," he says to the sword. "I think you've got the wrong person." The sword doesn't respond. Arthur knows that it's crazy to think a sword could speak to him, but he feels he should try to help clear up the confusion. "I don't know why you came out when I pulled you," he continues, "but maybe you just want me to take you to whoever's going to own you. Is that what it is?"
He waits.
"Okay," he says eventually. "We're just going to keep on walking, and you'll guide me to the right place." And with that, he sets off walking, heading towards an uncertain land. He has no map, and no knowledge of what lies ahead. All he knows is that there must have been some kind of terrible mistake. There's no way he can ever be a great warrior. Excalibur is wrong.
Jess
Today.
"This," I say slowly, "is ridiculous."
"Ssshhh!" hisses Duncan, holding his severed tail in front of us. "This is a solemn and very emotional ritual. There's no room for your cynicism."
We're standing in a clearing in the middle of a forest. Duncan has dug a small hole, and now he's ceremonially placing his tail in a little wooden box - basically, a tail-coffin - which he plans to bury. He's even had a tiny headstone made, engraved with a simple dedication:
My oldest friend
My best friend
I'm used to Duncan making jokes about everything, even in the face of danger. But throughout this little funeral, he's been completely serious. He even seemed genuinely hurt when he realized that none of the people he'd invited to attend were going to show up. It's just me, and him, and his tail.
"Ashes to ashes," Duncan says, placing the tail in the box. "Dust to dust." He closes the lid before picking up the box, kneeling down and placing it at the bottom of the hole. "Would you like to say anything, Jess?" he asks.
"I'm sorry about your tail," I say helplessly, feeling that I want to contribute. "I mean, I know it's partly my fault that you lost it, and I really wish there'd been another way."
"It's okay," he says. "I've forgiven you."
I sigh. "I did save your life," I mutter under my breath.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he replies, carefully scooping up some soil and dropping it into the hole. Soon the grave is filled, and he carefully positions the headstone. "It's done," he says, standing up and stepping back. "No man should ever have to bury his own tail."
I look over at Excalibur. The sword has been left on the ground close to the grave. Duncan and I are on a journey to the Lake District, which is where Duncan has decided to hide Excalibur so that no-one can ever find it again. Ever since we encountered the Mariner, Duncan's been carrying his tail around in his pocket, but it was starting to smell and so he decided at the last minute that we should divert to the forest and conduct a small service while it's buried. To be honest, I feel like he's overreacting just a little, but I figure it won't hurt me to just play along. If I make a fuss, this whole charade will just take longer.
"Right," Duncan says, "shall we get going? That sword won't hide itself."
"Sure," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder for a moment, "as long as you're certain you're ready."
"I am," he says, apparently missing the fact that I was making fun of him.
I walk over to the sword and pick it up. Excalibur, it turns out, is a large, old, heavy silver sword with a fairly conventional and plain hilt. The blade itself is dulled and seems a little blunt, probably from all those years of being bashed about by whoever used to own it. Still, Duncan insists that it's an extremely powerful artifact and that it can still cause a lot of damage in the wrong hands.
"I'll take it," he says, reaching out a hand.
"It's okay," I say, "I don't mind carrying it for a bit. It's heavy. You've been carrying it all the way so far."
"I don't mind," he says, trying to grab it from my hands. "Come on, seriously, I'll take it."
"Seriously," I say, putting my hand on his and carefully moving the sword out of his reach. "I don't mind."
"Seriously," he says, trying to reach for it again, "I don't mind carrying it."
I pause, staring at him. "Why don't you want me to carry it?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"You blatantly don't want me to carry it. Why not?"
He frowns. "Excalibur has certain... force," he explains a little unconvincingly. "Certain minds are more susceptible than others to this force, and it's best to play safe."
"So you think I'm weak and I'll somehow get taken over by the sword?" I ask.
"Not taken over," he replies, "just... influenced."
"And you won't be influenced?" I ask.
"I've got experience," he says. "Listen, I'm just thinking about you. The last thing we need is for you to get carried away with the power of holding Excalibur. I'd hate to have to fight you for it."
I pass the sword to him. "Fine," I say, "take the stupid old thing. It's rusty anyway."
He holds the sword up in front of his face. "I can see my reflection in the metal," he says slowly. "There's a certain... energy to the way the surface reflects the light. It certainly invites possibilities."
"Yep," I say. "Well, we might as well get going." I turn to walk away, but I stop when I realize Duncan is transfixed by his own reflection in the sword. "Duncan?" I say, "are you coming?"
"The power in this sword is immense," he says. "For centuries, men have fought and died just for the honor of touching it, even just seeing it. Whoever controls Excalibur is said to have the right to rule over the whole of England. This sword is said to offer a doorway to forces that none of us can even imagine. To wield Excalibur, even for just a second, is to hold in your hand the potential to become a ruler of all men."
I stare at him. "Are you okay?" I ask.
He turns to me and smiles. "Yeah," he says. "I'm fine. But if I wasn't fine, that's the kind of stuff I'd be saying. That's how Excalibur works. You stare at the blade for long enough, and it reaches into your mind and invites you to imagine yourself as the supreme power of the Earth. It's very tempting. I mean, it's probably very tempting for those who crave power and prestige. To me, it's just a bit of metal."
"If it's so powerful," I say, "why are we standing around yapping? Why don't we get going and hide it?"
"Good point," he says, looking at the sword again. "Maybe it wants us to stand around talking, so that we can get caught by whoever's looking for it. Maybe it's influencing us even now -"
"Come on," I say, grabbing his arm and forcing him to follow me. "So do you actually know who wants Excalibur this time?"
"Well," he says, "pretty much everyone who knows that it's real. But I've got a feeling that someone has a particular interest this time around. I even have a suspicion that we've been used, which is why I want to get this damn thing hidden as fast as possible."
"What do you mean, we've been used?"
"Because we're so smart," he continues. "Well, I mean, I'm quite well known for my intelligence."
"And I'm just your dumb little friend," I reply.
"You know what I mean," he says. "The point is, imagine if you wanted Excalibur but you weren't clever enough to find it. Or there was some other reason you couldn't go and find it for yourself. So you look around for someone who's really smart, and you trick them into finding it for you."
"Right," I say. "So you've been used. I'm pretty sure I haven't been used by anyone. Maybe they knew I'd be too smart to fall for it."
There's a pause as we continue walking. "Anyway," Duncan says eventually, clearly a little annoyed with me, "what we have to do now is hide the sword as fast as possible. Before whoever was behind all of this decides to come and collect."
I stop and look behind us. "Did you hear something?" I ask.
Duncan turns. "No," he says. "Why?"
I narrow my eyes a little, looking at the forest behind us. I swear I hear something moving in the bushes, perhaps watching us from a distance. Duncan was so busy talking, he was probably distracted, but I'm sure there was something nearby.
"Well well well," says a familiar voice nearby. I turn to find someone standing in front of us, and -
My mind goes blank for a moment.
A cold chill runs up my spine as soon as I see the face. I've seen some strange and shocking things since I met Duncan, but this... this is impossible.
"It can't be," I say, looking over at Duncan and seeing that he, too, looks shocked. I turn back to look at the figure standing before us. "You're dead," I say.
"I can understand why you think that," says Darla, grinning, "but I promise you, there's a really simple explanation for all of this." She pauses. "You're gonna laugh so hard..."
1,800 years ago
The village looks peaceful enough, at least from up on the rocks that overlook the broad plateau. Arthur has been traveling for days now, alone and with no companionship, and he's starting to think that perhaps the sword is subconsciously guiding him to where he needs to be. Assuming that he can't possibly be the rightful owner of Excalibur, he has come to the conclusion that somehow the sword is using him in order to get to where it needs to be. Perhaps it was tired of waiting in the stone, or perhaps it was simply waiting for the right moment. Either way, Arthur is certain that his role in the sword's story is set to be brief and supportive.
A few hours later, he wanders into the village, with Excalibur in his hand. He has no idea where he is, having never previously strayed more than a few hundred meters from his home village. But this place looks very different: it's larger, for one thing, and the people here seem busier. Few people even notice Arthur as he walks between the small, primitive buildings. One or two people glance jealously at the sword, probably thinking how much they'd like to own such a thing. But for Arthur, the only reason to be here is to find the one whose true destiny is to own this sword. Once that task has been completed, Arthur fully expects to go home and live a simple life.