‘You’ve killed my boy!’ she cried, waves of a mother’s grief exploding from her.
The monster raised a thick black claw, waggling it in a show of disagreement, before pointing it at her. Its voice gurgled, a malevolent laugh that belonged to the dark places of the world.
‘For you. Came. For you …’
Tilly’s eyes widened. She staggered forward, sword flailing wildly, but the creature powerfully swung out its arm, claws meeting her as she ran, the sword tumbling from her grasp. The impact sent her flying through the air towards the kitchen. She landed on the table with a sickening crunch, sending crockery tumbling to shatter on the tiled floor.
*
Twitching and shuddering, Drew could only watch on as the monster sent his mother crashing into the kitchen. As it followed her, all he wanted was the strength to rise and attack the beast, bring it down, tear its throat from its body. But he was paralysed by an unfathomable weakness that had now consumed him.
The creature slowly advanced into the kitchen, drawing out the inevitable. It stepped through the chaos, wind cloaking it with rainwater as it shambled up to the table. A huge clawed hand trailed playfully along the wood, blood dripping on to the surface.
Tilly Ferran whispered the word ‘No’ over and over, again and again, but she knew this was her end, knew there was nothing she could do to stop the monster. The beast shook its head, stinking drool falling on to the table beside her head.
‘I thought … I thought I was safe from you,’ she mouthed, though the words found no volume. ‘I thought you’d never find us.’
The animal snarled a grin, leaning in towards her and mouthing a single word as it opened its mouth.
‘Never.’
Then it closed its jaws round her throat.
Indescribable anger and fear raged through Drew’s body as he watched the nightmare scene unfold. He closed his eyes, willing his limbs to move but was instead assailed by a feverish spasm.
It started in his guts, as before, but worse. Much worse. He felt his insides tearing now, fighting not to pull free from his body, but twisting about and finding fresh homes. His bowels seemed to rise from the pit of his belly and shift further back, while his lungs grew threefold, great gasps of air racing into his chest. As the lungs grew, so did the rib cage, straining at first before cracking and popping. His chest expanded as his ribs took a new shape. The pain was unbearable. He wanted to yell out loud against the pain, but nothing came other than a silent scream.
He gritted his teeth as he felt a pressure grip his skull like a vice. The strain increased, Drew thought his eyes might burst from his sockets. He felt his gums beginning to tear as his teeth seemed to work themselves free. His arms came up before him, but he could only stare in horror as his hands distorted, stretched and elongated, with his nails tearing from his fingers into great long claws. Hair shot from his flesh, up his arms, from his chest, and he felt his mind threatening to slip away. His skull cracked under the pressure, and his jaw dislocated when a muzzle broke out.
His eyes hazed over, yellow and baleful, as he looked up from where he crouched. A semblance of Drew’s mind remained, locked away inside, unable to fathom this horrifying transformation. He was looking on, a witness to what unfolded, as if suspended from the ceiling above. Fur bristled along his spine as, hackles raised, he watched his enemy, the intruder’s back turned.
He let out a low growl, almost inaudible over the sound of the storm, but the monster heard him. It turned, slowly, blood staining its muzzle as it looked back into the sitting room. Disbelief appeared on the monster’s face. It faced the boy, or what had been the boy, warily.
Before the creature could move Drew instinctively leapt forward. He cleared the distance between them in one bound, crashing into the beast’s chest and the two tumbled to the floor in a ball of flailing claw, tooth and fur. The monster tried to defend itself from Drew, but the beast-boy was taken by a furious hunger, a rage that was unstoppable. The monster, though clearly stronger and a seasoned killer and fighter, let slip its guard in the panic, and Drew’s jaws snapped over its skull. He yanked the beast’s head back in a sharp savage motion, and with a ragged tear the flesh came with it. Letting loose a screech of pain, the monster struck back, a clawed fist hitting Drew hard in the chest. The force of the blow sent the boy tumbling back, crashing into a dresser in an avalanche of crockery. His strength escaped him when he tried to get up, the jangling pain of broken ribs adding to the shock of being winded.
Looking up from where he lay in a heap, Drew saw the creature rise from the floor, towering over him again. Ragged breaths escaped from its mouth as moonlight streamed in through the kitchen window, illuminating the damage Drew had dealt it. The right-hand side of its face was missing, revealing torn sinew and cartilage slick with black blood. Bare skull caught the light, a crescent of bone that arched round the eye socket like a bright white sickle. Flesh hung in tatters from the side of its mouth, the teeth in all their glory vanishing into the shadows of its jaws.
Snarling, the monster let the remainder of its lips peel back, emitting a gurgling growl. Raising its hands it let its claws play against one another, long black talons that clicked and clacked with anticipation. It hunched its shoulders as it took a step closer, its legs crouching, muscles flexing, as it prepared to pounce on the boy. A noise from the front of the house made the beast stop, its head twitching up, bobbing, as it listened intently. It looked back at the strange helpless creature at its feet, spitting blood at him in anger before turning and diving through the kitchen window. Sheet glass fell from the frame as the beast vanished into the stormy night.
Struggling to regain his composure, Drew fought to get to his feet, grasping a leg of the kitchen table with one clawed hand over the other until he stood tall. While he climbed he could feel his body shifting, twisting again, as his human self returned. The hairs that covered his body receded, disappearing beneath his skin, and his bones and muscles reverted back to their natural state. Last to crack back into position was his muzzle, and he felt his face slowly return to normality as he looked down on his lifeless mother.
Laid out as if on a mortician’s slab, Tilly Ferran stared up at the ceiling through dead eyes, blood spread from her throat over her chest. Unable to hold back the tears, Drew bent low, taking his mother in his arms and lifting her head until they were cheek to cheek. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed in silence.
When Mack Ferran stepped through his house a short time later, it only took him a moment to register what had happened. Turning the corner of the upturned living room he looked through the archway into the kitchen. His wife of twenty years, the only true love he had ever known, lay sprawled on the table. His son stood hunched over her, her head in his hands, limp as a rag doll. She was dead, her throat torn ragged. The boy’s jaws and hands were slick with blood, and when he looked up to face his father he had a wild, animal look that cried of madness and murder.
Mack’s eyes glanced to the Wolfshead blade on the floor. Crouching slowly he let his right hand slip around the hilt, his fingers feeling their way before clenching into an all too familiar grip. All the while he fought back his fury, keeping his composure. He straightened as Trent dashed into the house, skidding to a halt behind his back.
‘Put her down,’ said the old soldier, raising the sword out before him, the blade motionless as the wind and rain still whipped through the ransacked house.
Drew trembled, his head shaking, uncomprehending. Why was his father holding the sword to him?
‘Father …’ he gasped. His voice came out low and bestial, struggling to escape through his still-twisted throat. His face twitched and spasmed as his dislocated jaw grated back into place.
‘Put. Her. Down.’ His father stepped closer, two, three steps.
Drew looked from his father to his mother, trying to comprehend his father’s actions. Surely he couldn’t think that Drew was responsible for this? Tears streaked down his face. His eyes darted
towards Trent, his brother’s face a mixture of fear and confusion at the scene before him. ‘But, Father,’ Drew said, bloodstained lips trembling.
‘Stop saying that,’ the older man screamed, his sword beginning to quiver in his hand now as he struggled with his rage.
Drew wanted to be sick, wanted to collapse. What should he do? He tenderly released his grip and laid his mother’s head back on to the table from the cradle of his arms. ‘An animal …’ he started to say, but could not complete the sentence.
His father leapt forward, covering the distance in a swift bound, sword scything through the air with deadly accuracy. The sword tore into Drew’s shoulder blade, cutting deep and fast. Wailing, the boy stumbled back, scrabbling barefoot over broken glass as his father now stood before him and his mother. Trent watched the drama unfold from the archway into the living room, jaw slack as the horror played out.
‘You’re no son of mine,’ his father spat, eyes red with tears as he snarled and choked on his words. ‘Monster!’ he screamed as he lunged forward once more.
Drew raised his hands in a vain attempt at defence, but the sword flew straight to his belly, sliding in and through his stomach, right up to the hilt. Father and son were face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Drew’s eyes blinked in disbelief as his father’s eyes narrowed, his grisly job done. He released his hand from the sword hilt and let his son stumble backwards into the cold shadows of the kitchen.
Drew’s fingers reached for the handle that sat flush to his stomach, stained dark with blood. He felt the tip of the blade scrape into the brickwork behind him from where it extended almost three feet from his back. His fingertips played over the decorative pommel, a steel Wolfshead glaring up at him in an emotionless stare.
Mack stepped back to his wife, taking her still-warm hand in his own before dropping to his knees. It had come to this. This boy who he had raised, this monster, taking the life of the most precious thing in his world. In his worst nightmares he’d never dreamt of this moment. The boy was an aberration, a monstrosity. Justice had been swift but he could never forgive himself for allowing this to happen. He looked at his wife, her ivory skin coated crimson with her own blood. They had known, and still they had been unable to stop it.
Trent stepped forward and patted his father’s shoulder, just the once initially and then repeatedly, more insistent. At first Mack thought they were pats of consolation, of shared grief, but he quickly realized as the pats became frantic tugs that the boy wanted his attention. He looked up.
Trent stared wide-eyed across the kitchen, his hand stretched out and a trembling finger pointing towards his brother, who stood silhouetted by the shattered kitchen window. Still stood. The wind whipped around him as he teetered, bloodied, blade firmly lodged through his midriff.
Mack rose, knowing what had to be done. How could he have forgotten? All those years in the king’s service and his mind had slipped. He turned to his son as Drew watched on, speechless and stunned.
‘Boy, go fetch me the poker,’ he said. Trent simply stared at his brother who by all rights should have been dead but stood wobbling on his legs like a newborn lamb. His father grabbed him by the coat, shaking him. ‘The poker from the fire, boy. Fetch it. And be quick about it!’
Drew watched his brother dart into the living room. The whole thing was surreal, all of the night’s events escaping explanation, a twisted dream. The beast, his mother, the transformation that had taken him. His own father had run him through with a sword. Surprisingly the pain from the sword seemed diminished somewhat, dull compared to the bone-breaking injuries the monster had dealt him. He should have been lying on the floor in a pool of his blood. Yet somehow he still lived, the Wolfshead blade slicing him like a stuck pig, and now his father wanted the old poker from the fireplace. Drew used to play with that poker as a boy, fascinated by the fancy metalwork that ran the length of it up to the now-banned silver handle.
But this wasn’t a dream. Drew fought the nausea that welled up inside him. His father had attempted to kill him once already tonight and looked determined to try again. The next time he was bound to succeed. Drew’s decision was made.
He clambered up on to the window frame, before looking back just the once. His father stood there, obscuring his mother from his view.
‘Hurry, boy!’ yelled Mack Ferran as Trent snatched up the poker from the cluttered chaos of the living room.
Drew hovered on the glass-peppered windowsill, half-naked in tattered clothing that flapped in the wind. His eyes glinted as his father stared at him with an unfaltering gaze.
‘Give it to me,’ Mack called as Trent stumbled through the broken furniture and thrust the poker towards him. He grabbed it by the pointed end, raising the silver pommel over his head before turning back to the boy who used to be his son. Drew had killed now, would kill again no doubt. He had a taste for blood.
But it was too late. The window was empty, now simply framing the rain that lashed in. Mack Ferran slowly lowered the poker and shoved it through a loop of leather on his belt. His other hand settled on to the hunting horn on his hip, palm closing over the cool ivory as he crossed over to the window. He peered through the rain that flooded the muddy yard outside. Beyond, in the black night sky, the moon stared down, full and white.
The boy was gone.
1
The Storybook Scout
The woods were quiet but for the snapping of twigs beneath the horse’s heavy hooves. Hogan bowed low in his saddle, hands resting on his horse’s neck as hanging vines disappeared over his head. He watched them as he passed beneath, a canopy of green tendrils that reached down towards him, tantalizing and tempting to touch, their sweet scent intoxicating. He knew better, though. For almost forty years he had been a scout in the Dyrewood. He was the oldest working ranger in Duke Bergan’s service, in times of war leading troops through the Bearlord’s lands as swiftly and discreetly as possible. He was not one to make mistakes. Once clear of the veiled curtain of vines, he sat upright in his saddle, surveying the way ahead across the forest floor.
Hogan reined his horse to a halt. Squinting into the half-light of the woods, the horseman peered through the gloom. Here and there a shard of sunlight would break through the masses of huge trees, finding a way between the leafy branches to the mulchy ground below. Rock and root made their passage slow and treacherous, and deep banks of fallen leaves concealed boulders and fallen branches in the most unexpected places. Combined with the murderous curtains of wych ivy, the woods were a place for any man to fear. Hogan was unconcerned by these dangers, though. Today there was something else in the Dyrewood that was far more deadly.
Twisting in his saddle, he looked back the way he’d come. He waited. Gradually a figure on horseback appeared through the hazy light of the dark, dank forest. The youngster was slumping in the saddle, paying little attention to the path ahead, letting the mount follow the horse in front, and bringing the novice rider ever nearer the hanging trails of wych ivy.
Hogan rolled his eyes for a brief exasperated moment. Through gloved hands he clicked his fingers twice. His apprentice’s head whipped up at the sound, and not a moment too soon. Hogan pointed upward with his index finger, indicating the deadly ivy. The young rider tugged back on the reins, stopping the horse, and stared up at the plant with dread recognition. Satisfied that the danger had registered, the master set off once more, spurring his horse on with heels to its flanks.
Whitley stared at the trailing ivy with wide eyes. Gulping hard, the apprentice hunkered down low in the saddle and patted a hand against Chancer’s neck. Wych ivy was deadly to the touch, as any scout knew full well. Tiny needles peppered the emerald vines, each one laden with fast-acting poisons. Once the poison had worked its magic the wych ivy snared its victim and recoiled into the dark boughs above to slowly digest it. The regular diet of this plant was any number of birds or small mammals; a scout’s apprentice would make a fine and rare meal indeed. Tentatively the horse trotted forward, the rider hug
ging him tightly as they passed beneath the green tendrils.
The scout and his apprentice had been in the woods for a week now, searching for their prey. Admittedly, Whitley had little to do besides watch and learn from Hogan. In a perilous place like the Dyrewood, daydreaming was a potentially dangerous distraction. Ancient and vast, the great forest was the greatest in the Seven Realms of Lyssia, three hundred miles long in all and half as wide in places. Widely considered haunted, there were few who dared enter the woodlands, tales of the monsters and terrors within dissuading most. Wizened black trees lined the edge of the forest, gnarled twisted ancient trunks that splintered into the ground as if driven there like great stakes, marking the borderlands where civilization ended and the wilds began.
Beyond, where they now travelled, the lusher trees of the Dyrewood thrived, creating the leafy canopies that blotted out the sun. The occasional road wound its way into the forest, but they had remained virtually untravelled in recent years, routes that had once been well used now becoming overgrown and impassable. The apprentice had heard the stories about strange creatures within the Dyrewood, but these seemed to be no more than fairytales for little ones. The Wyldermen, however, were no such fantasy. Whitley couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live in such a forsaken place. Hogan had revealed some of the Dyrewood’s mysteries to his apprentice in their training, but for Whitley it didn’t mean the place was any more inviting.
As a child, Whitley had always felt destined for great things, craving adventure like the heroes in the storybooks. Save the villagers, kill the enemies – the apprentice loved those tales of the old knights. Whitley’s mother had said that they were just stories, myths and folklore, but the youngster had known otherwise. Whitley was remarkably well read and the names of some of those old heroes popped up in history books from all over the Seven Realms. Those characters were real. Heroes were real. The apprentice’s heart had been set on a path of adventure ever since.
Rise of the Wolf Page 3