It was the wrong move, judging by what followed. There was a sharp, cracking noise as the boy arched his back, a sudden, violent movement. This was enough to send the Wylderman bouncing up and off him, crashing to the ground beside. Drew jumped to his feet, shoulders hunched, arms outstretched. Whitley could make out the yellow of the boy’s eyes beneath his mop of shaggy hair, but the rest of his face was lost in shadows. His fingers flexed, nails clicking.
‘Nobody bites me,’ Drew growled at the Wylderman, revealing his own pointed teeth. Quick as a flash he darted forward, slashing at the other with his hands. Whitley caught a glimpse of Drew’s fingertips, nails like sharp claws, tearing and ripping.
Drew was aware that his senses were heightened. His blood was up, racing through his body like lightning. Every nerve was on fire; he felt better than ever before. He recognized the feeling burning within, the animal that was coming to the fore. As tempting as giving in to it was, he knew there would be no coming back if he let go now. He was far from master of his own actions while he was transformed, still struggling to understand what he became, let alone control it. He might even be a danger to his companions, let alone the Wylderman who now backed away from him in fear. It took all his discipline to contain himself as he closed in on his enemy.
Curling his fist, he launched a fierce punch at the man, catching his opponent on the chin. He heard a crack as knuckle connected with jaw, saw the man go down, pole-axed. He stooped over him, waiting for him to try to rise. Instead the Wylderman lay unmoving on the floor, unconscious, his chest laced with clawed ribbons.
The other tribesmen were almost upon them. Cries like dogs, cats, owls, boars – all kinds of animal calls – closed in.
Drew shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The rage within began to subside as he reached down and helped Whitley to his feet.
‘How are you?’ he asked, checking the young apprentice, who wavered from side to side.
‘Not good,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll live.’
‘Well, quick now, get on Chancer while I see to Master Hogan,’ Drew whispered. As Whitley grabbed the horse by the reins, Drew scrambled over to the scout, who lay slumped in a bed of bracken.
‘Get gone,’ said the old ranger, barely audible. The colour had drained from his face and his lips were pale and bloodless. Whatever poison had been used, it was working its dark magic on him. His breathing was thin and reedy as he fought to get the words out. ‘Slow you down. Get on to Dymling Road. Chancer do rest. Go.’
Drew nodded. Then, struggling with his weight, Drew picked the scout up, ignoring his protestations, hefting him over his shoulder before slinging him across the saddle in front of Whitley. The apprentice grabbed his master’s belt buckle with one hand and snatched a clump of the horse’s mane in the other. Taking the reins from the younger boy, Drew set off back along the trail, following their original route, pulling Chancer behind him as swiftly as he could.
5
The Dymling Road
It wasn’t long before they hit the Dymling Road. As it happened, they had only been half a league away when they’d set up their fateful camp. Their clumsy escape through the forest had been thankfully brief. The screams and calls of the Wyldermen on their heels had given Drew and Chancer all the encouragement they needed, forcing them on in search of safety. Once on the road they were able to break into a forced run, the horse slowing enough to allow Drew to keep pace with it.
The Wyldermen had chosen not to give chase, much to their relief. It appeared to Drew that the old roads of the Dyrewood were not a chosen passage for the wild men. Whether the Dymling Road was too close to civilized settlements for their liking was hard to say, but they clearly weren’t prepared to pursue them along it. After a stumbling run that must have lasted an hour, Chancer had slowed to a trot and then an exhausted walk. At the first opportunity Whitley had suggested they set up camp to address their predicament.
Drew knew the apprentice was suffering from bruises, to both body and pride. He had struggled to conceal the shame and embarrassment at being unable to help when the Wylderman had attacked. Admittedly, when they had first encountered Drew, Whitley had indeed been frozen with fear, but during the fight in the forest the apprentice was crippled with pain from the fall. Drew did what he could to repair the other’s confidence, but it was something the apprentice would have to conquer alone in time.
Hogan was in a bad way. With Drew as his assistant, Whitley had seen to his injuries, starting with the remains of the arrow that was buried in his shoulder. As an apprentice scout, Whitley was versed in woodcraft and forest lore and the lessons had covered herbs and poisons. The young scout told Drew he had seen the arrows the Wylderman had used up close, and remembered all too well the barbed flint arrowheads. Such arrows were outlawed in the kingdoms of so-called civilized societies. A good archer could take out a target with a sure shot. To leave a barbed arrow in there that would tear the flesh loose if the victim tried to remove it was brutal in the extreme.
Taking the old man’s dagger the apprentice had to cut around the wound, working at the flesh until there was room for fingers to be hooked deeper and around the flint blade. The two blanched, Drew keeping the scout held still while Whitley struggled to prise the head out. By now discoloured veins and arteries criss-crossed away from the wound as the poison found its way into Hogan with ease. His skin was cold to the touch, his throat and neck mottled with blotchy red patches, inflamed and sore.
The scout had passed out in agony as the arrowhead was removed, and was yet to reawaken. Cleaning the wound with water, Whitley bandaged it with a strip of cloth torn from the scout’s jerkin. But even without an exchange of words both Drew and Whitley knew that the treatment Hogan needed was beyond the apprentice’s limited knowledge.
They’d got the scout back on to Chancer then, using what ropes they found remaining in his backpack to tie him into his saddle, slumped forward like a drunk. From that point they’d set off on their march in silence, leading the horse along as they walked through dawn and onwards towards midday.
Now, hunger gnawing at their stomachs, they chose to stop and rest. Drew had discovered that Whitley’s life a few weeks ago had been at a more relaxed pace, safe within the boundaries of Brackenholme as he went from tutor’s lessons to craft class. This trip with Hogan had been a first foray into the woods for the young apprentice and was intended to be a simple training trip to become aware of the surroundings and what life as a scout would consist of. The dramas that had unfolded had taken Whitley completely unaware and the youngster was struggling to keep up.
Whitley rummaged around in the backpacks for the remains of the rations. There were a couple of strips of dried salted bacon, and one roll of rye bread left; tearing it in half and handing it to Drew along with a piece of bacon, the two sat on the ground eating hungrily while Chancer stood over them, snorting softly. Drew tossed Whitley the waterskin and the apprentice took a couple of big gulps.
‘I think we could be in Brackenholme by tomorrow if we keep to this pace before nightfall,’ said Whitley. ‘It’s another ten hours’ ride from here.’
‘We’ll be there before midnight,’ returned Drew, picking crumbs from his cloak.
Whitley looked puzzled, staring up at the faint sun through the low clouds for bearings. ‘Not sure how you work that out,’ said the apprentice. ‘I reckon we’re ten leagues away – there’s no way we can make it before sundown.’
‘I never suggested we’d be there before sundown,’ corrected Drew. ‘Midnight and you’ll be at the gates of your city,’ he said. ‘We’re not setting up camp and breaking the journey tonight.’
Whitley obviously wanted to protest but thought better of it. If Hogan was going to stand any chance of survival, they had to get him to safety as soon as possible. That meant marching on until they got there.
‘At least we’re on the Dymling Road now, anyway,’ said Whitley. ‘That should speed up our progress. I just hope the Wyldermen don’t come
after us.’
‘I doubt it tonight, Whitley. We’ve put some leagues between their territory and us already. I can’t imagine they’d follow us again. The night is when they like to hunt, and we’re way beyond their borders now. We’ll get you to this Brackenholme place tonight, I promise you.’
Whitley nodded solemnly. ‘Oh … and thank you,’ he added. ‘It was very brave, what you did back there. You saved our lives.’
‘It was nothing, really,’ said Drew sheepishly. He wasn’t used to compliments, and felt uncomfortable. Particularly when he wasn’t even sure himself what it was within him that had saved them all.
‘I owe you my life, and I’m indebted to you,’ continued the apprentice, head bowed in gratitude.
Drew rose, wrapping the winter cloak around his torso. He looked down to his bare feet. Living in the wilds for heaven alone knew how long had left him with toughened feet, but the exertions of the last few days had done some damage. The soles of both were scratched and pitted, lacerated by rocks and branches. Whitley spied his examination.
‘You know, you should wear Master Hogan’s boots. He has no need for them at present.’
‘No, I’ll make do without. The damage is already done.’
‘You’ll get a pair of boots soon enough when we get to Brackenholme,’ said the apprentice, untying Chancer from where he’d been tethered.
‘I don’t intend to go into Brackenholme,’ replied Drew, joining him.
Whitley looked puzzled again. ‘What do you mean? Of course you are. We’re going there, with Master Hogan.’
‘I’ll accompany you to the gates or whatever border you have to your territory, but I won’t enter. I don’t belong in there. I belong in the Dyrewood.’
‘Sorry, but that’s just rot,’ said Whitley. ‘These woods are dangerous, and I don’t care how long you’ve been roughing it out here, you need to rest and recover in a safe place.’
Drew sighed. The problem he faced was whether Brackenholme would be a safe place for him. After what had happened back on his family homestead, there was probably a warrant out across Lyssia for his arrest, possibly even for his execution, regardless of his innocence. There could be soldiers looking for him across the realm. It wasn’t worth risking. He’d take his chances in the great forest.
‘Like I said, I’ll help you get there, but we’ll part on the border, Whitley. Please don’t press me on this,’ he went on, patting the apprentice on the shoulder and looking into his eyes. The younger boy chewed his lip as Drew gave him a squeeze. ‘My mind is made up.’ He turned and set off along the road with Chancer in tow.
Whitley followed, deep in thought. After a few minutes, he found his voice, striding a few steps behind Drew as he caught up. ‘You do realize that Master Hogan was taking you in, don’t you? You were his prisoner. Our prisoner.’
Drew didn’t stop walking, just kept on along the path, leading the horse.
‘By rights,’ went on the apprentice, ‘I should turn you in to the Watch.’
‘But you won’t,’ said Drew. ‘You won’t do that, Whitley, because you understand that I’m not an enemy. Not to you, Master Hogan or even your people. Whatever misunderstandings we’ve had are behind us. You’ll let me go and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s what Master Hogan would want me to do,’ went on Whitley, troubled by perceived loyalties. ‘He mentioned how you were to be taken to Duke Bergan. He was going to sort things out, decide what was best for you.’
Drew turned and glanced back at the other boy, a look of anger on his face.
‘My will is my own. I decide what’s best for me, not some stranger or lord.’
‘But you’re a prisoner!’
Drew stopped, letting go of the reins. He held his arms out, exasperated. ‘Whose prisoner am I?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I don’t see any manacles, any ropes that bind. I see a man, possibly mortally wounded, strapped to a horse, and a boy who is scared of his own shadow. Am I your prisoner, Whitley?’
The apprentice’s blood rose in his cheeks as he was stared down. He held his gaze, staring right back at Drew, jaw clenched and teeth grating. Finally he looked away. Drew sighed, shook his head, took the reins and set off again.
They marched in silence a while longer. The atmosphere was cool, not a word passing between them for the next few hours. The fogbanks and mists remained, causing no end of stumbling and slipping as the boys failed to see the terrain clearly. Thankfully, there was no missing the old Dymling Road itself as it cut a great straight line through the woods, with other road traffic being non-existent but for squirrels, birds and boars.
As the day drew on, the quiet time allowed Drew the first chance he’d had in some time to gather his thoughts. Over the few months living in the forest he’d been able to lose himself, get away from the terrible things he’d witnessed back home. He’d almost managed to forget the awful events that had followed with his father. Occasionally those memories had crept back in, niggling at the back of his mind as he remembered his mother and brother, but his life in the wilds had allowed him to disengage from that past life. Now he was being forced to face those demons head-on once more and he didn’t like it, not one bit.
Continuing their swift pace in silence, he was also able to consider his travelling companion in a little more detail. Whitley certainly looked younger than Drew, maybe by a couple of years, his face being smooth, without the telltale signs of puberty. Drew rubbed his hand across his own jaw, feeling the rough stubble that had grown through in his time in the wilds. Besides being younger than him, Drew suspected that life as a scout was going to turn out tough for Whitley. Like Drew, the other wasn’t a particularly well-built youth, and his travelling gear hung from him in such a way that suggested there wasn’t much meat on his bones. He’d have to fatten up and find some muscles if he was going to survive in the Dyrewood, Drew reckoned.
Hours went by and the daylight faded as dusk drew in, a chill appearing in the forest air as they continued their arduous hike. As they’d hoped, they heard no signs of pursuit from the Wyldermen, that danger long gone.
‘I’m sorry about what I said earlier, Whitley,’ said Drew, over the shoulder of Chancer as they flanked the horse.
‘Eh?’ replied the other, stirred from the lull he’d fallen into.
‘The things I said back there today. I was out of order and I apologize. I should never have said those things about prisoners and the like; it was foolish of me.’
Whitley shrugged, shaking his head. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about that, Drew, and you might have a point. I’m not going to turn you in when we get to Brackenholme. If you hadn’t come back and helped us, my master and I would have been in the cooking pot at the Wyldermen village.’
Drew grinned. ‘I don’t know about that, Whitley. I’m sure if push had come to shove you’d have fought back. You should have more faith in yourself. You’ve got a backbone – it’s just unfortunate you landed on it back there!’
The two boys laughed, big belly guffaws that they struggled to hold back. It felt good to find something to smile about after all they’d been through.
‘Believe me, Drew, I have a backbone all right. Don’t worry about me. You should ask my father – he’d testify to that. I just like to pick my battles carefully, is all.’
‘So tell me, Whitley,’ Drew went on, ‘how have you ended up in the service of Master Hogan? You don’t strike me as a scout, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Whitley gave it a moment’s thought, gazing wistfully into the gathering darkness. ‘I’m the youngest of two children in our family, and my brother, Broghan, works for my father, who is kind of important within the court at Brackenholme. My brother is ten years older than me. I reckon I was a bit of a mistake, if you know what I mean? Anyway, Father really has little need for me in court, as Broghan provides him with all the assistance he needs. I found myself at a bit of a loose end and, rather than throwing myself into the family business
, I’d always felt that the forest and the outdoors were the life for me. My parents weren’t especially taken with the prospect of me training with the guild of scouts.’ Whitley smiled at this, a light and breezy laugh emerging. ‘But Father felt that with Master Hogan training me I was in the safest possible hands.’
‘So what does working with Hogan involve, then?’
‘I have to study under a master first to earn my staff. That means fealty to Duke Bergan of Brackenholme and a few years in his lordship’s service. That’s really not an issue. To be fair I’ve no real interest in working in the court. I’d rather work for Master Hogan, given the choice!’
‘Not get on with your pa, then?’ asked Drew.
‘I guess you could say that I’ve had a privileged upbringing, and that choosing the life of a scout is a bit of a step down. My training has been … discreet to save face for my father. It’s difficult,’ explained Whitley, frowning. He changed the subject quickly. ‘So what are your plans? Do you have family in the woods? What’s your story?’
Drew didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t really know what to say; it was the first time the question had been fired at him and he hadn’t considered it.
‘No family, no. They’re gone. I’ll probably just head back …’
‘I’m sorry, Drew. I didn’t realize.’ The younger boy stared over Chancer’s mane, Hogan’s pale face hanging low over the saddle, the ranger hunched but secure. ‘Back to where, anyway? Where’s home?
Drew thought for a moment. Home had been a cave in the Dyrewood, a shelter from the elements. Home had been a cold floor and no door. He doubted he’d even find that place again if he tried. And the farm at Cold Coast certainly couldn’t be considered a safe place now. He had no idea where home was any more.
‘I don’t know, Whitley,’ Drew whispered. ‘I really don’t know. The forest I guess. The Dyrewood is my home now.’
‘Drew of the Dyrewood,’ said Whitley thoughtfully. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it, like Bergan of Brackenholme. You sound almost noble,’ said the apprentice, winking at the other to try to cheer him up. ‘Almost …’
Rise of the Wolf Page 6