Chancer stopped suddenly in his tracks, whinnying and taking a nervous step backwards. Whitley’s fists clenched around the horse’s mane, looking up the trail ahead for Hogan: no sign. The beast snorted, agitated. His eyes rolled in their sockets, a fearful terror gripping the poor animal. Whitley looked all about as the horse began to jostle and back up, retreating from some unseen threat. Time and again he threw his head back, dark brown mane swatting the apprentice in the face. The youngster kept hold in a white-knuckled grasp. The woods seemed to spin as the mount began to circle randomly, leaving Whitley little chance of seeing what it was that had spooked the horse. Chancer was a sturdy fellow and, as Hogan had said time and again, had to be treated with respect. ‘Lose control of your mount, lose control of your life,’ had been the mantra. As such, and as with all scouts, the bond between beast and rider was a special one.
‘Whoa, calm, boy,’ called the apprentice, craning down close to Chancer’s pricked ears. Releasing one hand, Whitley patted the horse’s neck heavily, desperate to calm him down, but the animal flung his head back with a whinny. The back of the beast’s skull impacted hard with Whitley’s head in a mighty crack. The apprentice tumbled from the saddle like a sack of bones, seeing stars as the forest floor rushed up swiftly.
The moss-covered earth provided Whitley with a thankfully soft landing. The youngster’s right shoulder blade took the brunt of the tumble and the shooting pains that followed brought Whitley back to full consciousness instantly. Struggling up, the apprentice just had time to see Chancer’s dark brown tail swish in the shadows as the horse vanished into the Dyrewood’s darkness.
For a moment, Whitley wondered what the sound of drums was that thundered through the woods, before realizing it was the sound of blood rushing through both ears and a hammering heart. The apprentice’s eyes darted about nervously. What had scared the horse? Was it Wyldermen? Or maybe the beast: their prey? Was it still out there or had it gone after the poor animal? Whitley hoped it was nothing, hoped Chancer was just spooked. Maybe the horse would return when it had calmed down. The apprentice looked over the undergrowth for Hogan but, after such a fall, the young rider couldn’t tell north from south.
‘Some scout you’re turning out to be, Whitley.’
‘Master!’ Whitley called out into the vast shadows, struggling to stand on an ankle that now hummed with pain. After attempting to apply pressure to it, the apprentice collapsed once more to the mossy floor. Sprained. Pulling up dirty breeches and rolling down a sock Whitley looked at the ankle – it had already started to swell up.
Whitley was about to shout a complaint to Hogan but instead stopped suddenly, sensing something awful. The apprentice looked up in time to see the undergrowth part and a creature step out of the darkness. Whitley tried to call out in alarm, but a thin reedy croak was all that came forth as the youth desperately backed away, hands scrabbling in the mulch. Ahead, some kind of monster advanced.
The creature seemed almost human, walking on its hind legs. Its hair was dark, wild and shaggy, hanging over its face and shoulders. Its hands twitched, long fingers revealing wickedly curved dirty claws that clicked against one another in anticipation. Its face was invisible in the shadows, but for the glow of its amber eyes and the glistening of its sharp teeth, which seemed to flood its face with a cruel smile. A low growl emanated from its great heaving chest, muscles rippling beneath its dark skin.
Whitley’s retreat halted suddenly as the young scout backed up into a tree trunk with a thump. There was nowhere left to turn. Where was Hogan? Surely it wasn’t supposed to end like this? Whitley’s life was an adventure just waiting to happen. The tale had only just begun. Tears flowed freely down the apprentice’s face as the beast’s mouth opened, arms outstretched and claws flexing. Whitley turned away.
It was at this moment the apprentice realized, with regret, that this was no storybook, and there were no heroes.
2
The Beast and the Apprentice
Hot breath snorted against Whitley’s face, spittle spattering one cheek as the monster let out a feral snort. With the beast closing in for the kill, Whitley prayed for a swift end.
Still it had not struck.
Was it playing? Fighting nausea and blind panic, it took every ounce of the apprentice’s willpower to risk opening an eye. The creature loomed large overhead, blotting out those patches of blue sky that were visible above the treetops. Its arms were outstretched, hands open, clawed tips flexing. It swayed from left to right as it surveyed its prey, yellow eyes narrowing to slits. Whitley took it in, but could feel unconsciousness about to take hold. The apprentice stared into the beast’s eyes, since little else of its face was visible. As the blackness began to draw in, the monster’s eyes seemed to soften, almost relax, as its arms fell limp to its sides. It crouched on its haunches, head cocked to one side. The apprentice’s last recollection was of the monster doing the strangest of things.
It folded its arms.
Drew wasn’t sure how long he sat there watching the unconscious boy. Judging by his slight frame, he couldn’t have been much younger than him, maybe a year, if that. And judging by the green and brown outfit he was probably a forester’s son. Someone’s son, he remembered painfully. To anyone arriving on the scene, the boy looked quite dead, what colour there had been in his face now drained clean away.
Drew couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. The boy looked peaceful, as if enjoying some pleasant dream. It occurred to him that this was the first civilized person he’d seen in … well, he didn’t know how long. He didn’t count the Wyldermen as civilized, let alone human. He’d tried keeping track of the days when he’d first stumbled blindly into the Dyrewood, but after the first month of chalking off days with flint on the cave wall that had become his home he’d lost track. That seemed a very long time ago, and certainly the harsh winter weather had come and gone since then. It hadn’t been his intention to find refuge in one of the most godforsaken and feared parts of Lyssia, but when he’d heard his father’s hunting horn releasing the dogs that night, he’d had little choice but to go where he knew they wouldn’t.
Somehow he’d stumbled from the farm at Cold Coast to the edge of the Dyrewood forest with the Wolfshead blade still embedded firmly in his stomach. Although the wound ached, a scab had already formed over the top of it. The cut itself, where jagged inches of flesh had been torn apart, had already begun to knit itself back together again. How this was possible he might have pondered a while longer, had the sword in his stomach not demanded his attention a little more urgently. What should have been a fatal wound now held about as much discomfort as a severe case of gut rot.
Drew had grasped the hilt between both his hands and pulled, once. The sword flew out, a fresh gout of blood following it as it came. A new pain struck him as the wound reopened, a dizzy spell washing over him. But before long a strange healing overcame him and the blood stopped flowing. Then he’d heard the horns and instinctively run towards the dark cover of the forest, the Wolfshead sword now his only protection.
He’d used what moon he could see as a guide. But it held a spell over him, enthralling and sickening him at the same time. His flight had been staggered by bouts of spasms, attacks that had repeatedly ravaged his body. None had been as extreme as the remarkable transformation that had taken him in the house, but each of them had been debilitating. At times he had dropped, pole-axed with the pain, as the cramps had hit him. On other occasions, slight changes had threatened to run away with him as claws and teeth had grown and elongated before slowly returning to their natural state. His body seemed to be in a constant state of flux, battling with the monster that raged within, wanting to break free. He couldn’t remember when he had gained some sort of control over himself – his memory was as tattered as the clothes in which he’d fled. But now, seemingly months later, he was here.
Drew hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He’d stumbled across the boy while hunting; with his blood lust up, it had been a
ll he could do to actually resist attacking him. The boy must have had a weak constitution if the appearance of Drew had caused him to black out. Unless his appearance really was that threatening …
Drew unfolded his arms and looked at his hands. The skin was cracked and filthy, his palms grubby and soiled. He looked at his fingertips. Yellowed, cracked nails had hardened and grown through his time in the Dyrewood. The hair on his head and body was matted and clung to his skin with mud and dirt, concealing any skin beneath as a wild animal’s would. When he hunted, he felt his whole body change, adapting to the chase. His senses heightened, his muscles grew, and his nails became claws. He was built for the hunt.
His own appearance was in marked contrast to that of the forester’s boy, who was decked in a hardy outfit for life in the woods. He certainly wasn’t a wild man and that came as a relief to Drew. A leather jerkin was buttoned up to below his chin, a woollen scarf keeping the cold from his throat. Drew put his hand to his own throat. Bare. He ran his hand over his chest. Also bare. He looked down at the rest of his body. Not a scrap of clothing remained, bar a thong of leather over his shoulder that held the Wolfshead blade.
He must have looked monstrous.
He would apologize to the boy when he woke up. It then occurred to him that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d spoken a word. He’d resorted to growling as a form of communication when warning wild animals away from his cave or his kills. He mouthed his name, feeling his throat with a hand as his voice cracked and strained.
‘Drew.’
It came out as barely a whisper. He coughed, his chest wracking with the unfamiliar exercise. A memory flitted through his mind. He dropped a hand down to his side and picked up a clump of damp moss. He reached calmly over to the boy, brushing the moss against his brow. His mother used to do this when Drew was sick. He remembered that. Locked away, he remembered it. And other things too, things he didn’t want to recall.
He patted the boy’s brow. He would make things right …
A wooden staff came cracking down with such lightning ferocity that Drew didn’t stand a chance. The heavy pole smashed into his forearm, knocking it clear away from the boy and no doubt breaking it in the process. He let out a roar of pain as he turned to his assailant.
The pole was already swinging once more, arcing through the air and hurtling back at Drew. He pulled back, scrambling, but wasn’t quick enough. The attacker had taken him completely by surprise. The last few inches of the staff connected with his forehead with a sickening crunch. He felt his head spin as he cartwheeled back on to the forest floor, temple torn and bloodied.
Quickly, Hogan stepped over his prone apprentice, between Whitley and the beast. A lifetime spent tracking quarries through the most inhospitable terrain meant the old scout had caught the creature completely unawares. He noticed Whitley stir on the ground. Relief. He turned back to the beast.
What kind of monster was this? When he’d spied it hulking over his apprentice he thought it was a wild dog or wolf. But now he realized it was human-like, walking upright on its back legs. It was with dread realization that he figured out what he was facing. Hogan had ranged and tracked through most parts of the western woods for Duke Bergan. He was charged with keeping the city of Brackenholme safe from harm and so there was little he hadn’t come across. On this occasion he’d assumed they were just hunting a simple wolf or wildcat, hence suggesting to his master that he take young Whitley. He wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing along his apprentice in light of what they’d encountered. He had to think quickly. The monster staggered against a tree, catching its bearings, turning its head in his direction, seeking him out through a blood-soaked gaze.
Take no chances.
Hogan wasted no more time, leaping forward with his huntstaff raised over his head like an executioner about to bring his axe down. It whistled through the air, catching the beast square on the top of its head. It collapsed to the floor in a heap.
Hogan heard Whitley stirring behind him as he crouched to better examine the creature. To his side, a Wolfshead blade lay in the earth. With increasing alarm the scout brushed the shaggy mane of hair away from the monster’s face and grabbed a clump of leaves from the floor to wipe the blood aside.
An icy chill spread along the scout’s limbs, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Beneath the bloody mask were the unexpected features of a young man.
‘Fetch my ropes from my horse, Whitley,’ he called back. ‘The good ones, mind. The strong ones.’
3
The Wylderman’s Words
Hogan glanced at the sky. Thunderclouds seemed to shadow the trio, a brooding grey canopy of rain and ill winds, as they made their way slowly through the Dyrewood, cutting a path for the Dymling Road. Bearing east, they were sure to hit the main woodland road before too long.
The scout eased his cloaked shoulders, feeling all of his fifty-two years. He remained alert to the dangers he’d encountered over his time in the vast and primeval forest, from bogs and quicksands to the numerous wild and often carnivorous animals. Still, there were areas that he’d never set foot in, so vast was the ancient woodland. Usually he liked it that way, as each new day more likely than not would reveal another of the great wood’s secrets to him. But he wasn’t feeling quite so eager about the prospect of further revelations now. He wanted to be back within the walls of Brackenholme as soon as possible, with both prisoner and apprentice in tow.
As the rain hammered down, his faithful horse, Argo, showed no sign of distress at the unusually heavy load. Hogan looked over his shoulder. Whitley sat huddled on Chancer, trying as best as possible to hide from the rain. The youngster had shown a resilience of character that, up until their encounter with their captive, Hogan hadn’t been sure existed. At no point in time had Hogan pandered to his apprentice on account of the other’s privileged upbringing; they were out in the woods now, Hogan’s woods, where he was the boss. But when all was said and done the youngster was an accomplished tracker and scout in the making and, if the apprentice’s already proven woodlore could be matched by field abilities, Whitley would make a worthwhile addition to Duke Bergan’s forces.
The scout looked down to survey their prisoner, who was being pulled along the forest floor behind him. The wooden stretcher he’d fashioned from saplings and branches was still holding strong, the young Wylderman strapped firmly to it. Vines kept the prisoner secured round everything from his ankles and thighs to wrists and throat. The first day of travel had been a painful affair for all as the lad had fought and struggled to break free of his bonds. Indeed, at times, he had raged so fiercely that Hogan had feared even his master knots might loosen and fray under the strain. Fortunately they had held firm. From thereon in, Hogan had seen to it that their captive’s water was laced with a mild sedative derived from an abundant ground ivy. The Wylderman was going nowhere.
Hogan didn’t know what to feel about the stranger beyond a burning desire to get him into the custody of Duke Bergan. The Bearlord would know what to do. Since Hogan had discovered that the beast was actually a young lad, his perspective had shifted somewhat. He felt a sense of remorse for having broken the boy’s arm in the melee three days ago, but at the time he had honestly felt that Whitley was in danger. Furthermore, this was no normal boy he had come across.
Hogan recalled the forest craft lessons he’d given Whitley back in Brackenholme. The Wyldermen of the Dyrewood were a reclusive tribe of men who lived in the darkest and most inhospitable parts of the old forest. Their society was violent, bloody and feudal, as far as the civilized folk such as those of Brackenholme could see, and it was an agreed fact that they were more beast than man. Dealings were non-existent between wild men and other forest folk, as previous attempts at diplomacy had led to bloodshed. Duke Bergan would be pleased to have one in his custody.
Whitley had proved to be astute at dressing the captive’s wounds, once the apprentice had recovered from the ordeal. As the young scout had prepared and administere
d poultices and balms to the Wylderman’s injuries, by the time their prisoner had regained consciousness his wounds were already on the mend.
Pulling gently on Argo’s reins, Hogan spied the night’s campsite up ahead. Barely touched by the rain, a large expanse of moss and bark stretched out before them beneath the boughs of a great spruce tree. He gave Whitley a quick call and they both dismounted with a thump. Hogan handed the youngster his reins while he surveyed the terrain.
They’d travelled ten long and arduous leagues since coming across the wild young man those few days back, managing only short distances each day due to both the awful terrain and the laden stretcher that they dragged along with them. Hogan believed they were out of the Wyldermen lands now. At least he hoped that was the case. A distant peal of thunder added to his already grim mood. Unhitching the stretcher from Argo, they set about making camp.
Dinner consisted of stewed strips of rabbit meat and root vegetables that the scout had foraged nearby. Whitley watched as Hogan fed the Wylderman, spooning the stew into the young man’s mouth. They’d dressed the prisoner in a pair of Whitley’s spare breeches and heavy winter cloak.
Hogan remained crouched on his heels as he held a waterskin to the boy’s mouth. He gulped at it, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the ropes that bound him about the throat, struggling to swallow as much water as he could. The scout let him have his fill. No need to be barbaric. He glanced down at the arm that had been smashed in their fight. At the time the flesh on the forearm had been contorted where the splintered bone had threatened to break free from the skin. It had turned Hogan’s stomach, but he’d had no choice but to bind him. That injury alone had caused the boy no end of pain as they’d travelled, but his growling complaints had gradually ceased. The old ranger had suspected that gangrene might have begun to set in by now, and he figured it would be lopped off when they got to Brackenholme. The scout pulled back the folded cloak. His jaw went slack.
Rise of the Wolf Page 4