Drew nodded his agreement as his mother squeezed by, looking to say her goodbyes to her other son. Beyond the doorway, a light rain had started to fall.
‘Try not to lose any more of them. And look after your ma,’ his father added as she passed.
The old man patted his hip, checking his hunting knife was at home in its sheath. Drew handed his father’s longbow to him before picking up the quiver of arrows that lay at the foot of the stairs. He’d rarely had to use any of these weapons on the road, certainly not in recent years anyway. There had been a time, when the boys were toddlers, that bandits had stalked the coast road, and bows and blades were a necessity for travellers. Eventually the local farmers and road traders had come together to form a makeshift posse that dispatched the brigands. Those that weren’t slain or hanged in Tuckborough had fled to pastures less feisty. Now the most dangerous encounter they might face would be a boar, big cat or wolf. Still, old habits died hard for the ex-soldier. Trent followed his father out into the drizzle, wrapping his scarf tightly about his face and pulling up the hood of his cloak.
They both climbed into the cart, and Drew followed them to pass up the quiver of arrows. Amos gave a whinny of excitement, feet stepping in anticipation, aware that they were about to be off. Drew stepped up to pat the horse’s nose with an open hand, but the beast pulled back, uncharacteristically arching his neck with a nervy snort. Clearly the horse was also on edge, and Drew guessed he was picking up on the same unsettled atmosphere.
‘Gee up,’ called Mack Ferran, snapping the reins in his hands and spurring the old shire horse on. With ponderous heavy footsteps the horse stepped out, pulling the great long wagon behind him. Drew stood clear of the vehicle, the huge wheels cutting up the mud as it went. As the drizzle slowly turned to downpour and a storm rumbled overhead, the wagon disappeared into the rain.
2
The Gathering Storm
The axe hovered briefly in the air, poised for the drop, its blade glinting in the lantern light. With a thunderclap and a simultaneous flash of lightning, it flew down, cracking the log in two. Drew returned the axe back to its bracket on the barn wall, picked up all the firewood from the floor and, taking the lamp from the beam over his head, he set off back to the farmhouse through the sleeting rain.
Once his father and Trent had left, the day had been up there with some of the most miserable Drew had ever experienced. The storm had been relentless, windowpanes rattling and shutters clapping as rain and wind battered the farm remorselessly. The yard was a quagmire of mud and water, great dirty pools clogging the ground underfoot. He could hear sheep bleating from their shelter beyond the barn, where he’d moved the flock earlier in the day.
Hoping that his bad luck with the animals had been put behind him, Drew had been disappointed to find the hex still firmly over his head. The sheep had proved skittish and unpredictable, almost impossible to herd when he took to the field. A week earlier the flock had come to him when he called, happily gathering around him. Seven days on they were different animals, the arrival of this invisible predator leaving them edgy and out of sorts. After trying to coax and cajole them to fresh pastures nearer the farmhouse for an hour, he had eventually turned to shouting to scare them into obeying his commands, something he’d never needed to do before. All the while he’d watched over his shoulder for any clues as to what was out there. By now there was no doubt in his mind that, whatever it was, it was something to be afraid of.
A day alone with his thoughts had not been the best remedy for Drew’s mood, which was darker than ever. Whatever had upset the sheep had also proceeded to play havoc with Drew, leaving him sick and fevered, and unable to eat his supper earlier. Elbowing open the front door, he stumbled into the hall, shaking the wet cloak from his shoulders and hopping about on one foot then the other, kicking off his boots. Barefoot and shivering, he trotted into the living room where his mother sat knitting in the armchair by the dying embers of the fire. He tipped his armful of kindling and wood into the scuttle on the hearth with a noisy clatter, placing a couple of pieces on to the coals of the fire. Crouched on his haunches, Drew remained at his mother’s feet, hands held out towards the fire.
‘How are you feeling, son?’ asked his mother, putting down the needles and bundle of wool. She leaned forward, stroking his damp hair affectionately. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, checking his temperature. He knew it was up.
‘Not too bad, Ma,’ he lied, fighting back the cramps that rolled and shot through his belly. He looked up at the mantelpiece. Below his father’s Wolfshead blade was a brass carriage clock. It was almost half past ten in the evening, well beyond the time that his father and Trent would normally be home. He had to assume that they had fallen foul of the weather.
Standing and stretching, he managed to smile as best he could to his mother. ‘Do you fancy a brew, Ma?’ he asked, making for the kitchen. A hot drink seemed to be the only thing he could keep down at the moment.
‘That would be lovely,’ she called after him. Filling the kettle with water he placed it over the big old stove. Whereas his brother clearly followed in his father’s footsteps, Drew took after his mother, sharing her peaceful demeanour and easy-going nature. He always figured his mother must have been wasted in her youth as a scullery maid in Highcliff serving the king; her sharp mind and quick wit could have made her a great scholar if the opportunity had been there for her.
Leaving the kettle on the stove, Drew wandered back into the sitting room, settling cross-legged on the rug by the fire.
‘Still not hungry?’ his mother asked, concerned again.
‘No, can’t eat anything, Ma. Sorry,’ he replied, aware that his mother had spent hours preparing the roast dinner for the evening meal earlier. Unable to eat, he had lain in his bunk in his bedroom, leaving his mother downstairs to eat her meal alone. The table still remained set, the cutlery for Pa and Trent laid out, plus his own.
‘There’s no need to apologize, my dear,’ said his mother. ‘I know how it is when you feel ill.’ She looked intently at him, as if reading his thoughts. ‘And I hope nothing else is troubling you.’ She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you didn’t mean to lose that sheep.’
Drew nodded. It was true he’d been worried about that, but now something else was disturbing him. He’d attempted during the day to unravel what had been going on with his parents’ heated arguments but his mother had proved adept at dodging his subtle lines of questioning. Although she’d provided no answers she had, however, revealed some clues.
To his relief, it didn’t appear to be his fault. He knew his father was annoyed at the loss of a prize-winning ram, but his mother had made it clear in no uncertain terms that he had done nothing wrong, and he believed her. She would sooner stay silent than tell a lie to either of her boys. Nor was it something that stemmed from a disagreement between his parents. Whatever it was, the clues suggested that it had something to do with the flock’s strange behaviour, but that was all he could work out. With his father dismissing his theories earlier, Drew was surprised to find out that he also thought something was wrong.
Drew was pulled back from his thoughts by the rapid rat-tat-tat of the rain on the windowpanes, making it seem as though the glass might shatter at any moment. Picking up another log, he threw it into the fireplace to join the others. The flames leapt high, the fire burning hungrily now, spitting, hissing and popping. Drew walked across to the huge bay window. Over the storm he could hear his sheep bleating, wailing with worry. Should he go outdoors to check on them? Surely they’d be safe in the paddock? The moon, full and bloated in the night sky, broke through the storm clouds, casting an eerie light over the farmyard.
Drew suddenly felt the fever take him anew, like never before. A wave of dizziness washed over him, as the blood rushed from his head. He grasped the heavy curtain with a trembling hand, knuckles white as he gripped the fabric to stop himself falling. His breathing rasped in his chest, laboured and
shallow, as rivulets of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. Drew wiped his forearm across his face and his sleeve came away sodden, clinging to his flesh. What kind of illness could have this effect on him?
He fixed his eyes on the moon, trying to focus, trying to clear his head of the painful sensations that now assaulted his body. His skin crawled, a fevered itch spreading its way over every inch of his flesh like wildfire. Nausea assailed him, his chest heaving, his lunchtime meal threatening to make a break from his stomach. The world turned round Drew, spinning on the bright white axis of the moon. Focus on the moon.
Focus on the moon.
His body seemed to calm, the pains passing as quickly as they had come. His flesh cooled, the sickness past. What was happening to him? Outside the rain was subsiding, gentle now and almost tranquil. The sheep had quietened, suddenly calmed. Drew released his grip from the curtains, putting his hand to his clammy throat and massaging it softly. The peace he felt was unnatural, unnerving.
Rising from her chair, his mother rushed over, ‘Are you all right, Drew?’
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I feel ill. I think it’s the sheep being in distress. I’m picking up on it, and there’s nothing I can do.’
His mother chewed her lip, her brow creased as she stroked his cheek.
‘Ma,’ asked Drew, taking a deep ragged breath. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.’
Her face looked so sad, Drew thought, the frown that framed her face ageing her before his very eyes.
He smiled.
‘I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Ma,’ he said, then, as she started to protest, ‘Please don’t deny it. I’ve seen you and Pa. There’s something you’re keeping from me. I know I’m right, but hear me out. I need to say this. I just want you to know that I trust you. Whatever it is, whatever you and Pa are worried about, I know you’ll do the right thing. I just hope, whatever it is, there’s something I can do to fix it.’
He was surprised to see tears stream down his mother’s cheeks at his words, rolling freely as she smiled and sobbed.
‘Oh, Drew,’ she said, her voice breathless. ‘Always so thoughtful, so understanding. You don’t know what that means to me. Please believe me when I tell you that no parents ever loved their child as much as we love you.’
Drew was slightly taken aback and with a sadness in his heart doubted she genuinely spoke on behalf of his father.
‘I wish I could be strong like Trent, and let Pa see that I’m worth something more. Are there two twins more different in all of Lyssia?’ He smiled weakly. ‘But I never meant to upset you, Ma,’ he said. ‘Really, I didn’t!’
His mother laughed at his words, hugging him. ‘I know you didn’t, you silly boy, I know you didn’t.’ She squeezed him tight. The storm outside seemed to stop, fading away for the moment. The rumbling of thunder had gone, even the rain had subsided. The world seemed silent.
‘Don’t try to be like Trent,’ she added quietly. ‘There will come a time when your pa and I need to tell you more. But you do need to know … that you’re not like your brother.’
Drew’s eyes queried the strange statement, although the full understanding of her words was totally beyond his reach and comprehension. Just then the kettle began to whistle on the stove in the kitchen, low and slow at first before building towards a crescendo. The hairs on the back of Drew’s neck stood on end. His mother wasn’t finished.
‘You are different.’
He wanted to know more, to ask her what she meant, but as he opened his mouth the small panes of glass that made up the bay window suddenly shattered in a hail of flying glass as the frame buckled and exploded into the room.
3
The Visitor
The storm raged with a renewed fury, bellowing in the sky over the tiny farmhouse. As the curtains whipped about, caught and torn on crooked shards of broken glass, wind roared in through the gaping chasm of the demolished window.
Turning his back into the glass while dropping to the ground, Drew had sheltered his mother from the explosion as best as he could.
‘Are you all right?’ he called over the din.
His mother nodded quickly, eyes shooting towards the window. She looked shaken and scared, but beyond some scratches on her face seemed unharmed. Drew slowly helped her to her feet, surveying the situation.
The great bay window now blanketed the floor with hundreds of tiny pieces of splintered wood and shattered glass. The odd piece of timber swung from its brackets attached to the window frame, broken and ruined. The bookcase that had flanked the window lay on its side, empty and smashed, its far-flung books flapping as the wind clutched at their pages. Rain continued to drive into the room, harsh cold spittle that spattered Drew’s face.
Helping his mother back into her chair he began to step over the damaged furniture, making his way towards the window. The fallen bookcase would be best put to use as a temporary hoarding over the hole until the morning came. He’d have to dig out his pa’s toolbox from the cellar, but once his father and brother returned they could all set about putting things back to normal. Still, the situation unnerved him.
His eyes searched the room, an important piece of the puzzle missing. The hairs on the back of his neck trembled, a shiver still coursing down his body and making his whole frame tremble. Something wasn’t right. Squinting into the darkness, Drew couldn’t see what had caused the impact. He had expected to find a great tree branch jutting into the house, but the lack of any obvious cause both surprised and worried him. Surely the wind alone couldn’t cause such damage? He took a further step towards the window, still searching for evidence. The fire roared against the storm before suddenly giving up the ghost, chased from the room.
Then it appeared.
The shadow seemed to build from the floor upwards, a low murky shape that stood out from the darkness with a definition all of its own. Drew staggered back. As it rose, first to the height of Drew’s waist and then taller, it seemed to grow outwards at the same time, filling the gaping hole that had once been the bay window. Drew stumbled, the strength in his legs failing him, almost losing his footing as he backed up. Wood and glass clattered to the floor around the creature as the remains of the window fell from its frame.
Outside the lightning flashed, adding a brief glimpse of illumination to the scene. Upon seeing the beast, Drew’s first thought was that it was a bear of some kind, but who had ever heard of a bear being bold enough to walk up to a farmhouse, let alone leaping through its windows? It quickly became clear that the creature was far removed from anything that he’d ever seen, sharing little in common with the animals that inhabited the Cold Coast.
A thick coat of oily black hair covered its heavy frame, a foul-stinking pelt that bristled with muddy rainwater. Heavy forelimbs swung down from its hunched shoulders, viciously clawed hands scraping the splintered floorboards around it. Smaller legs were bent double below, supporting the body above, threatening to spring the great mass forward at any moment in a mighty bound. What appeared to be a long fleshy tail wound out from the base of its torso, snaking back through the rubble towards the window. It stood some eight feet tall in all, dominating the darkness of the room.
Whatever horror the body of the beast had created in Drew and his mother paled in comparison when the fearsome head rose slowly from the black nest of fur on its chest. The long snout came into view, tapering towards the end where a cluster of long, sharp teeth jutted out from curling blood-red lips. Its breath rolled into the room before it, making Drew gag at the stench. The foul air carried the scent of rotting flesh and disease, the stink of death and decay, sweet and sickening. Its ears were small and pinned back to its head, almost hidden among the glistening dark coat. Two pale red eyes flashed from pitch-black sockets, narrowing with wicked glee as it stared back at its prey.
It opened its mouth wide, throwing its head back as it bared its teeth, a long black tongue lolling an
d snaking from its maw as saliva spattered down to pool with the rainwater.
Drew’s stomach was in turmoil as he stared at the monster. His heart raced, the burn of the fever still gripping his body but now fuelling something, feeding his will. Spurred into activity, he leapt to the fireplace between the beast and his mother, reaching up and unclipping his father’s Wolfshead blade from the chimney breast. It felt heavy and awkward in his hands, but he held it wavering before him, palms gripping the hilt of the sword. He felt his mother’s trembling hand on his shoulder, her fear passing over him as she stood up to shelter behind him.
The creature seemed to chortle, loud, low and guttural, as it clambered over the overturned furniture and further into the room.
‘Get out!’ cried Drew over the wail of the wind, swinging the sword before him to try to ward it off. The beast raised a hand, batting the sword aside, stepping ever closer. Drew’s bones and muscles burned, a sudden sharp pain racing wildly through his body to clench his heart. Losing control he lashed out with the sword, lunging towards the monster blade-point first. The sword disappeared beneath its arm, hitting home somewhere in the monster’s midriff. It recoiled, staggering. Lowering a clawed hand to its bloodied side, it examined the dark black liquid with no small degree of concern, before glaring back at its attacker. A huge hairy arm scythed out, quick as a flash, arcing across the room to tear Drew’s chest. Blood flew from a trio of razor-sharp cuts as Drew collapsed against his mother, the sword tumbling from his grasp with a clatter on to the floorboards.
‘Drew!’ called his mother, but the cry was in vain.
His body shook violently, picking an unfortunate moment to seemingly give up its battle against the fever that had haunted him. Tilly Ferran let out a scream of despair as her son tumbled from her arms to the hearth, his poor body convulsing. She snatched up the blade.
Rise of the Wolf Page 2