It was clear to anyone looking at it that the arm had been recently injured but was on the mend. It was bruised and discoloured but beyond that one wouldn’t have guessed that it had been broken only a few days previously. Hogan tipped his head to one side, running his free hand the length of the bound arm. The boy didn’t flinch, just kept drinking greedily, gulping at the waterskin. No pain, no injury – what kind of powers of healing did the boy have? Hogan glanced back to Whitley, who was finishing off the stew, and then quickly covered the arm with the cloak. It was unnatural, but not inexplicable. The healing combined with the bestial outbursts he’d witnessed already on their journey made him eager to get the boy to Duke Bergan at once.
The old scout went and sat by Whitley, both of them on the opposite side of the fire to their captive guest. Reaching into his saddlebag, he grasped the Wolfshead blade by the pommel and pulled it out in a smooth motion. He held it to the dim light of the campfire before driving it into the earth, blade first. Rummaging back through his bags, the scout withdrew a tatty, bundled notebook, tied round the middle by a length of cord. Leafing through the pages to the latest entry, the old man set about updating his journal, adding to his notes on the captive boy with a sharpened piece of charcoal.
The young Wylderman sat staring into the fire, unblinking.
‘Do you think he speaks the king’s tongue?’ asked Whitley, watching the boy.
Hogan packed tobacco into a thin reed pipe before taking a light to it from the fire’s embers. ‘Doubt it,’ he replied. ‘You can keep on trying to speak to him, if that’s your wish, but I fear it’s wasted on him. He’s a wild man, Whitley; they have no need for language. There’s little that you or I have in common with his kind.’
‘What’s he really going to do to us, though, Master Hogan?’
‘You’d like to cut him free and find out? He nearly skinned you the other night, child, so I’d resist any further foolish talk if I were you, you hear?’
‘I’ve already said, Master, he had his chance and he didn’t kill me,’ protested the apprentice. ‘He just watched me. He could have killed me as easy as blinking if he’d wanted to!’
Hogan drew hard on his pipe before letting a trio of smoke rings drift over the camp. ‘Whitley, it simply isn’t worth taking the chance. I believe you when you say he held back from attacking you, but what we have here is a most unusual young man. When the blood gets up in him – you saw it yourself – he takes to changing, and you and I know only too well what that means. If it comes down to it, he’s more like Duke Bergan himself, although a different breed altogether, and more mongrel than noble for that matter.’
The young Wylderman still sat staring at the fire, apparently in a world of his own.
‘When I was a lad, there were more of them about, but they’re fewer in number these days thanks to Wergar’s campaigns.’ Hogan chewed his lip, thinking back to times long gone. ‘Not entirely sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing, mind you, but that’s another story.’ Hogan was aware that Whitley knew all about the Wolf’s exploits, it being a topic of conversation rarely far away back home in Brackenholme. Duke Bergan made sure that all the children of the woodland realm were well versed in the history of the Werelords. Not surprisingly, Whitley had been a more than attentive student.
‘Anyway,’ Hogan continued, ‘if anyone knows what to do with this young fella, Duke Bergan’s the man. You should ask him yourself when we return home. A wiser and more generous liege you’ll never find, mark my words, and I’ve served a few. It’s not my place in life, Whitley, to do the thinking with such matters. If politics and people-watching appeals, then you’ve chosen the wrong profession. A scout’s lot is more often than not solitary, peaceful and thankfully removed from human affairs.’
‘I know, Master Hogan,’ replied Whitley, nodding firmly. ‘Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about it. I know what I’m turning my back on, but this is the life for me. And as long as I’m your apprentice I intend to soak up your knowledge like a sponge.’
‘Like a moss, child. Like a moss. You’re not in Brackenholme now, you hear?’ The old woodsman winked at the youngster as he puffed on his pipe.
‘Let me free.’
Both scout and apprentice looked up, startled. The young Wylderman had spoken. Not just a word, either, but a sentence. Hogan was on his feet in a flash and reaching for his huntstaff. He skidded up to the feet of the bound young man, staff at the ready.
‘Silent for three days and you speak now. You expect us to cut you loose? Is that it? Good lord, lad; you have got a tongue but it appears you’re witless.’
‘Let me free,’ the boy repeated, this time looking up at the scout. ‘Please, sir.’
The manners of the prisoner caught Hogan off-guard. At the most he was expecting a primitive command of the king’s tongue, but this was remarkable. How else might the young lad surprise him?
‘What makes you think I’m going to cut you loose? I saw what you are, remember? You may not have harmed my apprentice, but I don’t doubt for a moment that you could tear strips from the pair of us if the mood were to take you. Even if you didn’t kill us you’d no doubt go scurrying back to your filthy brethren to tell them of our whereabouts. No. Sorry, lad. You’re staying put. Your freedom is out of my hands, and instead in Duke Bergan’s paws.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said the boy, his voice fragile and cracking. ‘If you want to live, you’ll cut me free.’
‘Lad, that blow to the head you took must still be ringing some,’ said Hogan, crouching down to the boy’s side. ‘Threatening me in your position is a tad slack-brained, don’t you think? I don’t care much for whatever you are, but I know my knots can hold the wildest animals. I say it again: I’m sorry, but I’m taking you in.’
The boy strained, his eyes flitting this way and that as he looked into the darkness. ‘I swear, sir, it’s not me you need fear!’
From the deep, dark depths of the woods, faint at first, the call came; a wild cry like an animal in trouble. Hogan spun about, listening intently. Then it repeated, clearly distressed. Another broke from the forest, now a frantic, screeching caterwaul. The cries were getting nearer.
‘What does he mean, Master?’ asked Whitley, more than a little concerned now, looking about the woods, head twirling and eyes darting from side to side as the calls kept coming.
Hogan remained silent as he listened, but Drew replied for him.
‘They’re coming,’ he whispered. ‘The Wyldermen are coming.’
4
Fight or Flight
It only took the briefest of moments for Hogan to make up his mind. The stretcher that they’d been dragging the young man along on had slowed them to a crawl. Being pursued would make such travel impossible. He’d heard what happened to those captured by the Wyldermen in the Dyrewood, and had no intention of experiencing such a gruesome ordeal at first hand. Dropping to his knee, he pulled a dagger from his boot, cutting the bonds that kept the boy captive.
‘Whitley, see to the horses,’ he called to his apprentice as he worked at the ropes. Whitley didn’t move, frozen in fear, listening to the blood-curdling calls of the approaching Wyldermen. ‘Now!’ the scout shouted. Whitley jumped, before snatching up Argo’s heavy saddle and stumbling over to the mounts as quickly as possible.
‘Listen, lad, and listen good,’ said Hogan under his breath, his mouth inches away from Drew’s forehead as he sawed at the ropes. ‘You get one chance and one only. You let me down in any way, shape or form, and I cut you down. If I suspect you’re with them, I cut you down. If you threaten my ward, I cut you down. If I think for one moment you’re wolfing out on me –’
‘You cut me down,’ interrupted his prisoner, eyes wide with realization. ‘And my name is Drew, sir.’
Hogan nodded, cutting the last rope. ‘Looks like you and I have come to an understanding, young Drew.’ He ventured a hard smile that cracked his leathery face, then gave the neck of his short bow a rub befo
re slinging it over his shoulder.
Drew recognized that the man was good for his word and nodded his agreement, rubbing his throat with freed hands.
The scout and his apprentice had turned the camp over in moments, the remains of the stew had been tipped over the fire, dirt and soil kicked up and the last embers put to death. Drew looked back the way they’d come. He hadn’t ventured this far east in his time in the Dyrewood so this was all new to him. The chilling calls of the Wyldermen, however, were not.
‘Can I help?’ he called to the old man, following his footsteps as he finished saddling his horse, the young apprentice taking care of his own steed. The calls seemed strangely more distant now. Either that or they were quieter. Drew kept one eye on the woods.
‘Pick up your sword, lad,’ the man said without looking.
‘You trust me with it?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as that,’ said the scout grumpily. ‘Best you’ve some protection if things get personal, though.’
‘I don’t really know how to use it,’ said Drew, pulling it out of the ground.
‘Then if I’m wrong about you that may be a blessing,’ finished Hogan.
The scout’s apprentice slung a backpack over one shoulder, giving the straps a short, sharp tug. The rain still hammered down on to the treetops overhead, the pattering providing a constant accompaniment.
‘Whitley, isn’t it?’ asked Drew, trying to catch his eye. The boy seemed nervous, and did all he could to avoid his gaze. Drew persevered. ‘Thanks for looking after my bumps and bruises, is all I wanted to say. I appreciate it.’
Whitley glanced over. Drew could see a fear in his eyes, the cause of which stretched back to their first meeting in the woods. His recollection of what happened back then was a haze, as if a red mist had descended before him. The nightmare had thankfully lifted before he’d caused Whitley any real damage. He couldn’t help but feel remorse.
‘No need to thank me,’ said the scout’s apprentice, finding a way past him to his master. Drew didn’t blame the boy for his distance. He’d have done the same if the roles were reversed. They both stepped up to the scout, who had finished preparing his horse. All three realized that the cries of the Wyldermen had apparently ceased.
‘This is how we do this,’ whispered Hogan, patting Argo’s saddle. ‘You two are up top on the horses; I’ll be on foot. Argo and Chancer are smart horses and if anything should happen to me they’ll be all right to take you to Brackenholme. We’ll be on the Dymling Road before we know it and that takes us home. They know the way. I’ll keep up just fine. If anything untoward does happen, you push on. Don’t stop – whatever you do.’
He took Drew’s hand and started to help him up on to the horse, when Argo bucked, objecting. Drew raised both his hands defensively, and took a step back from the startled beast. Hogan quickly got the horse back under control, bringing his face to his head and whispering into his ear. The horse steadied and they tried again. This time, Argo relented and let Drew clamber on. He was quickly followed by Whitley, who hopped on to Chancer.
Without another word, they set off, Hogan leading the way, huntstaff in one hand and Argo’s reins in the other. Drew crouched low into the saddle as overhanging branches swung and parted before them, and Whitley ducked likewise behind on Chancer.
The faster they moved, the more distance Hogan put between himself and the horses. Letting out the reins as their pace quickened, this was the best way of avoiding being trampled underfoot. Drew was impressed by the nimbleness of the older man as the scout hopped over logs, skipped beyond ditches and deftly avoided rabbit holes and roots.
Uneasy, Drew looked about as they pounded a march through the Dyrewood, checking over his shoulder again and again, searching for a sign of pursuit. Something wasn’t right. The boy glanced to his left and then right, eyes narrowed as they flittered across the undergrowth. Back to the left. There! Something moving alongside them, only yards away. Tracking them. Fast.
He had to warn the scout. He faced front once more, about to shout, but instead got a face full of conifer branch. By the time the branch had sprung clear and he’d spat the needles from his mouth, it was too late.
Hogan was already falling, tumbling forward towards the forest floor with the shaft of an arrow buried deep within his left shoulder blade. Not a fatal blow, but certainly enough to knock him clean off his feet. The reins flew from the old man’s grasp at the moment of impact, leaving Argo loose. The big horse kicked and reared on his hind legs, letting free a shrill whinny at the sight of his master crumpling to the ground.
Drew spun from its back like a leaf from the surrounding trees. His fall turned into a roll as he tucked himself into a ball and tumbled to safety. Strapped safely across his shoulder, he felt the cold steel of the Wolfshead blade flat against his skin as the world turned around him. Whitley fared worse as Chancer danced back to avoid the panicked Argo, who bolted into the forest. The horse sent the apprentice flying from the saddle to land on the ground with a crunch.
Springing to his feet, Drew fell into a run, bounding into the darkness of the trees, seeking the safety of the shadows. His time in the Dyrewood had honed his survival instincts. He’d hidden and fled from the Wyldermen before – he could do it again. He ducked and scrambled as he ran, putting space between himself and the chaos he’d left behind. Instinct said run. Instinct said save your skin. That’s how you survived in the forest. That’s why he was still alive. Only the strongest beasts of the woods lived. He bounded on, on all fours now, leaping and tearing through the bracken, low to the ground.
Drew skidded to a halt, panting. He rubbed his eyes, blinking, shaking clarity back to his mind, to his head. What had got into him? This wasn’t him. He wasn’t some self-serving opportunist, a selfish turncoat who only looked after himself. He heard Whitley cry out behind in the dark.
Why are you stopping?
An inner voice, low, almost growling at him.
Run, fool.
He thought back to the care the young apprentice had shown in tending to his wounds. And the scout’s kindness in sharing their provisions. He may have been their prisoner, but they’d looked after him. Made him feel human again.
No, he would not run. That wasn’t him. He was no animal, no matter how long he’d lived among the beasts of the Dyrewood. He began to sprint back.
Whitley had hit the ground with a paralysing impact. Having landed heavily, the apprentice could no longer feel either leg, and shooting pains raced up the youngster’s spine. Bright lights played before his eyes and a deafening high-pitched note that blotted out the noises all around rang in both ears. The apprentice looked about.
Chancer stood close by, hooves hitting the floor skittishly as he danced on the spot, spittle rising to his lips as he fought panic. Beyond the horse Whitley could see Hogan on the ground, some ten yards or so away. Argo was nowhere to be seen, nor was Drew for that matter. The old scout rolled over, snapping off the broken shaft of the arrow that emerged from his shoulder. Through gritted teeth he shouted something at the apprentice, but Whitley couldn’t tell what it was. Hogan began to struggle to his feet.
Seconds later a figure leapt out of the darkness, barefoot and blackened with dirt. It was a man, short and heavyset, with a small hunting bow grasped in his hand. He wore a ragged animal skin over his torso, torn and tattered around the edges. A small quiver hung across his shoulder, and his free hand reached back towards it.
Whitley watched him as another arrow emerged, short of shaft with a wicked barbed flint blade on the end. Sharp black capercaillie feathers made up the flight. The Wylderman turned to face the apprentice, slow and menacing. His face was black with mud and inks, and his chest rattled with necklaces made from tiny animal skulls. He threw the youngster a bestial smile, revealing rows of ritualistically sharpened, filed teeth. Whitley felt burning tears as the villain began advancing. Behind him, Hogan leaned against the tree, groggy and unable to find his balance. Seeing
the danger his apprentice was in, he pulled his dagger from his boot and lurched forward, holding it before him and calling out. He stumbled as he went, feeling waves of nausea wash over him, his vision blurring. The arrow, had it been poisoned? That would have been true to form for the Wyldermen.
Laughing, the bowman turned to the ranger and pulled back on his bow, aiming at the old man’s belly. Whitley cried out, breaking the silence the trauma had induced.
‘No!’
What followed happened so fast that Whitley would later struggle to recall it properly. The Wylderman was standing there one moment, waiting to loose his arrow into Hogan, the next he was flying backwards through the air, the lithe figure of Drew having tackled him round the torso. The boy hadn’t so much as run into the clearing and taken the man down – he’d literally exploded from the undergrowth like a wild animal, hitting his target square in the chest. The bow had tumbled from the Wylderman’s grasp, snapped in two by the collision.
Both rolled in the earth, wrestling for dominance. The Wylderman snarled, taking Drew in a headlock, twisting the boy’s arms beneath his back with his free arm, pinning him down. Although Drew was slightly taller than the attacker, he lost out to the man’s superior physique, squat and heavyset. The boy kicked at the ground to prise himself free, but the Wylderman had him in a firm hold.
The hunter cried out into the night, a whoop of victory, hollering like a crazed bird. His call was met by others in the forest, different animal calls but each distinctly belonging to another huntsman, not nearby but closing. The woods now seemed alive with the noise of Wyldermen, their chase drawing to a close.
Whitley saw the Wylderman bare his sharpened teeth, and the apprentice’s eyes widened in horror. It was no secret that the Wyldermen possessed a hunger for flesh of all kinds. The tribesman bore down on Drew, biting him in the neck.
Rise of the Wolf Page 5