Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  Under the duress of constant questions and punishment, clenching his teeth and holding his tongue, the only time Drew betrayed himself was when the torture reached such sickening heights that his body had begun to change. His jaws had thrust outwards, his teeth had snapped, his eyes had yellowed. Vankaskan had needed no more proof that Drew was a werecreature, a therianthrope, but what kind? He couldn’t yet tell, but he had the time, methods and means on his side to find out.

  Drew couldn’t be sure, but thought they’d been travelling for two days and two nights. There had been three wagons that made up their convoy, that much he’d noticed when he was transferred to his own. A large, opulent-looking vehicle stood at the front of the company, obviously the carriage of Prince Lucas. There were maybe three dozen mounted soldiers who made up the Princeguard, their horses flanking the wagons. Even if Drew had been able to escape, the soldiers would have cut him down in moments. He’d given up on plans of escape. Now he was concentrating on survival.

  The only respite he’d had from the Ratlord’s constant experimenting and extraction techniques had been the intermittent arrival of Hector, Vankaskan’s aide and apothecary. It was clear the youth had been sent under strict instruction – he wasn’t applying salves, ointments and balms to Drew’s wounds out of the goodness of Vankaskan’s heart. The Ratlord wanted to use the boy’s skills with herbs and drugs to help speed up the healing process, so he could set to work once more on Drew as soon as possible. Though Drew realized the purpose, and what fresh pain would inevitably follow, he was still grateful beyond words for Hector’s care and attention.

  Hector wasn’t present during the actual questioning – he was left to ride on the footplate at the back of the wagon, beyond the locked door of the cell. Whenever Vankaskan’s sickly wheezing became too much for him, he called the boy through to prepare him another dose of medicine, which he promptly knocked back before ushering him away. When his work was finally done and Drew was bloodied and close to unconsciousness, he summoned the boy in and left him to work his magic on the prisoner, only to return when Drew was on the mend once more. Then the horror started all over again.

  Drew noticed the bolt on the door of the wagon opening. Squinting through bruised and blackened eyes he looked up to see who was entering. To his relief it was Hector. The youth entered, the door slamming and being bolted behind him. His satchel was slung low on his shoulder, bottles and balms clinking against one another as he settled on the floor beside Drew.

  Hector opened the satchel and started his ritual of unpacking jars, packets and porcelain tubs, unbundling packs and mixing pastes with his pestle and mortar. He didn’t look at Drew and the work his master had carried out, instead concentrating on the job at hand.

  ‘Hector,’ said Drew quietly, through cracked lips.

  Hector’s eyes widened, clapping straight on to the captive before darting a glance to the door.

  ‘You can talk?’ he said, leaning close.

  ‘I’m not an animal,’ replied Drew, coughing.

  Hector moved forward, unstoppering a bottle and pouring a milky liquid down the other’s throat. Drew choked, spluttering, as the fiery cream rolled down his throat, instantly warming his insides.

  ‘My master said he suspected you were indeed mute, as he’s had no luck getting you talking. Speak to him, for goodness’ sake. If you answer his questions, he’ll stop his investigations.’

  ‘Investigations?’ Drew managed to exclaim. ‘You call this an investigation? Who are you trying to fool, Hector? He’s torturing me to within an inch of my life, then sending you in here to patch me up. He’s a monster. He’s the animal.’

  ‘Please, you mustn’t speak that way,’ said the youth nervously, looking back to the door.

  ‘Will you go and tell him I’ve spoken now, then? Is that how it works?’

  Hector shook his head furiously. ‘No, no, no. That’s not my place. I’m simply here to look after you once my master has carried out his investigations.’

  ‘Stop calling it that,’ said Drew. ‘It’s torture. And you’re helping him.’ He flexed his broken fingers, which were already beginning to set and repair themselves. ‘And you’re doing a good job of looking after me. I’m very grateful,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Please don’t,’ said the apothecary, colour flushing his cheeks.

  ‘Why do you work for him? What on earth possesses you to stay in his service?’ Drew craned his head so he could secure eye contact with the boy, but Hector was doing his best to avoid his gaze. Drew realized he had hit a nerve, and now had to see this through and get some questions of his own answered.

  ‘I have no say in the matter. The king ordered me into Lord Vankaskan’s service. Believe me, this brings me no pleasure whatsoever. However, I’m bound to my master now, and must do his bidding regardless of how unsavoury it sounds.’

  ‘Why you, Hector? Why does he need you? And please don’t say, “I was only obeying orders.” You have free will. No man should be a slave.’

  ‘You really know nothing of how King Leopold runs his court?’ gasped Hector, astonished. ‘What the king says is law. You step out of line, you’re gone.’

  Drew scoffed. ‘Now, now, Hector, that sounds like rebellious talk to my simple ears.’

  ‘I’m in his service,’ the youth went on, ignoring him, ‘because my family are renowned as healers and herbalists. I, too, am a Werelord. My father is the Lord of Redmire; his lands border the edge of the Dyrewood – indeed he’s an old friend of Duke Bergan. The knowledge is passed on through the family from father to son, mother to daughter, and as such we have been physicians to the Royal Court since before recorded history. As my father is too ill to travel any more, it’s been my duty to take his place in Highcliff. It didn’t take long for the king to appoint me to look after Lord Vankaskan.’

  ‘And Vankaskan?’ asked Drew, intrigued by the new information. ‘What’s his story?’

  Hector stopped what he was doing for a moment, obviously considering whether he’d already said too much. He looked at Drew once again, taking in his injuries. ‘As you heard Bergan say earlier, Vankaskan is one part of the Rat King,’ he conceded. ‘Not a real king, you understand. It’s an ironic title they were given by the old king, Wergar – you’ll find “rat kings” in most any sewer, where a mass of rats have gathered and a number of them get their tails in a tangle. They’re forced to live out their lives bound together as a feuding cooperative. I think that’s how Wergar viewed Vankaskan and his siblings, and the name stuck. He and his four brothers share the title in Vermire, a city to the far north-west of here. I’ve been there a few times and a harsher, more inhospitable place you’d struggle to find anywhere.’

  Drew had indeed heard of the city from his father as a boy, but hadn’t paid a great deal of attention. He knew only from what scraps his Pa had passed on that it wasn’t a place you wanted to visit in a hurry.

  ‘So “the Rat King” is the collective name for the five brothers. There’s Vankaskan, the eldest; Vanmorten, King Leopold’s right-hand man; the twins, Vorjavik and Vorhaas; and Vex, the youngest, who isn’t much older than you or I. Between them they rule their lands together, which sounds democratic, but isn’t. They bicker and fight like the worst of siblings, and often betray and change allegiances with one another.’

  ‘They sound great,’ sighed Drew, shifting on the floor to try to get into a more comfortable position. Hector pulled a blanket down off the bed, rolling it and placing it against the small of Drew’s back, affording him a touch more comfort. This brief show of kindness had a profound effect on Drew, but he kept silent. His trust could not be given so easily under these circumstances. Hector finished mixing his salves and, taking a flat wooden spoon, started to scoop and smear the ointment on to Drew’s wounds. Drew shivered at the contact, icy against his raw skin. The warming liquid he’d swallowed earlier was still burning his insides, reminding him of the feeling of drinking his father’s rum on rare family get-togethers.


  ‘So Vankaskan is ill?’ asked Drew.

  ‘He’s old,’ replied Hector, ‘and he’s indulged himself with all manner of foul habits down the years. His body is diseased, and the only thing that staves off the onset of decay is the medicines I pass to him.’

  ‘I’d switch the medicine to coloured water if I were you. He’d never know before it was too late,’ jested Drew bitterly. Even Hector managed to laugh at the gallows humour.

  ‘So if you’re a Werelord,’ Drew went on, ‘what kind are you? This is all new to me.’

  ‘I’m a Boarlord,’ replied Hector, raising his right hand before Drew to reveal a gold signet ring on his middle finger. It shone with the image of a boar’s head. ‘Like all of my family. Admittedly I don’t have the power or control to fully transform, although my father used to be able to in his youth. Not all Werelords are in command of their abilities. It tends to be those of the purest stock who can fully transform into their wereselves: the king, Duke Bergan and the like. I don’t mind one bit. I’m not an aggressive person, and I think you need that kind of essence to trigger the change in the first place before you can have a hold over any animal instincts.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Drew, genuinely amazed. He wondered what loyalties connected the Werelords, if any. Perhaps his best hope of escape would be to appeal to possible allegiances with his own confession. ‘Duke Bergan said I was a … therianthrope?’ he admitted.

  ‘You spoke with Duke Bergan?’ asked Hector, surprised.

  Drew cursed himself. Had he betrayed the Bearlord? ‘Yes, but only briefly,’ he admitted. ‘Just before you arrived in my cell in the Garrison Tree. I don’t believe he was intentionally trying to mislead the prince or your master. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Hector. ‘If I can promise you anything, it’s my silence. I give you my word.’

  ‘And Prince Lucas? I noticed he hasn’t been back here to join in Vankaskan’s questioning. Is he in the fancy carriage up front?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the young Boarlord. ‘You won’t find him back here until you start supplying answers to my master. The minute you’re talking, don’t worry – he’ll be present.’

  ‘He’s a Werelion, like his father the king?’

  ‘Yes, very much the image of his father in most aspects. Possibly a little more volatile and used to getting his own way, he’s not to be crossed. His temper is terrifying. He beat me so hard once that I blacked out. He calls me “Piggy” and, believe me, it’s no term of endearment.’

  Drew wanted to say he felt for him, but, despite the trust he’d displayed, Hector was still his captor, allowing him to lie bound in agony. ‘Are we out of the Dyrewood yet?’ he asked instead. Strangely, so long as they were under the great boughs and branches of the ancient forest he felt protected. The idea of the open road to Highcliff chilled him to his core.

  ‘Nearly,’ said Hector, giving Drew one more draught of the warming elixir. ‘I think we’ll be out of here in the morning. We’ll be setting up camp for the evening in a couple of hours. I’ll see about bringing you some food, though I can’t promise anything.’

  The wagon came to a halt once more. The two could hear booted footsteps making their way down the road towards them from one of the carriages in front. It was Vankaskan, returning. Hector quickly started to pack his components away in his satchel. Drew sighed, trying to mentally prepare himself.

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Hector.

  ‘See you in a few hours’ time, I guess,’ managed Drew, but he couldn’t smile. He felt sick with dread at what was coming.

  Before Hector left he turned back. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Drew,’ the bound youth replied. ‘It’s Drew.’

  Hector nodded, smiling sadly. As the bolt went on the door, he stepped to one side. Vankaskan hauled himself up on to the footplate at the back of the wagon, wheezing as he came. He carried his instrument case with him, pushing it ahead and sliding it across the floor along the boards. Clambering into the wagon he looked his apothecary up and down.

  ‘Move it, boy. I want hare stew for dinner. Get to it.’ Hector bowed low and hopped out of the door, as a member of the Princeguard stepped forward and slammed the door shut behind him, the bolt slamming into place on the other side.

  The Ratlord shambled forward, towering over Drew on the floor. Reaching down he gripped on to the rolled blanket that Hector had placed in the small of Drew’s back for comfort. Giving it a swift tug he yanked it free, throwing it into a heap in the corner. He unclasped the locks on his case, reaching in to withdraw a wicked serrated knife.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’

  8

  Bonfires and Bandits

  Hector lay by the fire, curled up in his bedroll, staring into flames as the burning logs crackled, popped and hissed. Tiny sparks fluttered up into the air, high into the night sky, escaping embers dying out as the wind whisked them on their way. He could not sleep. Try as he might he couldn’t shake from his thoughts the image of Drew lying prone in the wagon. Clambering out of his blanket he rose and stretched, picking up his satchel. A soldier who was standing on watch nearby looked across. Hector tried throwing him a smile, but the man stared straight through him, as if he didn’t exist. To these soldiers he was Vankaskan’s puppet, his lapdog, nothing more.

  The Ratlord was not prepared to share his caravan with the apothecary, noble or not. The young Boarlord was left to sleep rough outdoors in the shadow of his master’s great long wagon. With eight wheels it was the same size as Prince Lucas’s, although it wasn’t adorned with the same over-the-top finery that the boy insisted decorated his. The king’s son wouldn’t travel without his luxuries, so his forty-foot royal carriage cut a most unusual sight in the darks of the Dyrewood. Carved lions painted in gold rampaged along the sides, rising up over the wheel arches, rampant and roaring.

  Vankaskan’s carriage was a fortified monstrosity: thin arrow slits as opposed to the prince’s ornate windows, and a sturdy, studded metal frame holding it together, in contrast with the choir of trumpeting angels that danced along the prince’s roof. They were as dissimilar as one could imagine, the Ratlord’s ‘battlewagon’ a truly frightful sight.

  Hector’s master had joined the prince in the royal carriage for drinks that evening. Although the men did not have a great deal in common and would surely avoid each other’s company in court, they each recognized that out here, on the open road, miles from civilization, they were about as kindred as spirits could get. They shared brandy and tobacco, and traded stories about the gossip and goings-on behind the throne that they were privy to. Hector shuddered. They both repulsed him, but he felt almost as trapped as Drew was. This would not end well.

  Hector wanted away from this world, away from the foul acts he’d been forced to assist in. A life in servitude to a wicked master was no life worth living. Treating Drew and listening to the wild youth’s words hadn’t simply struck a chord with the Boarlord; a bell was now pealing in his soul as his conscience cried out at him. He was born to heal, born to help. This went against everything the lords of Redmire stood for, all that he’d been taught to honour. But what hope was there for him? He’d been a coward all his life, and he’d remain so until his death.

  He walked up to the wagon that Drew was in. The night grew even darker as clouds passed over the half moon that hung in the sky. Two members of the Princeguard stood talking by the footplate. He recognized one as a captain of the guard; Perry was his name. They looked at Hector as he approached.

  ‘A pleasant evening, is it not, gentlemen?’ he offered, searching for any kind of conversation to spark his mind into life. The two men looked to one another, then fixed him with a cold stare. These men were hired to the prince’s staff directly from the army. They were as cherry-picked as the king allowed – the very best soldiers were directly recruited into the Lionguard, the king’s own personal infantry and bodyguard. As such the prince’s men were
a varied bunch: less noble than the Lionguard, more unruly and capable of random acts of cruelty. With the prince as their commander-in-chief this came as a surprise to nobody.

  ‘You might want to stay by the fire, my lord,’ said Captain Perry as politely as he could manage. The soldier didn’t respect him, the boy knew that only too well, yet at the end of the day the grizzled old campaigner still knew his place. ‘We’re still in Wylderman country until we get out of the Dyrewood. I’d hate to have to see your coffin shipped back to Redmire.’ The threat in his voice was barely disguised. Nodding, Hector turned to walk away.

  An arrow hit the wagon only a yard away from his face, splintering the weathered wood with the impact. Before he could react the air filled with the sound of missiles in flight as the night sky rained an attack from all directions. As two more arrows hit the wagon, Hector stumbled back into Perry’s shoulder. The captain’s sword was drawn as he leapt from the side of the second soldier, who now lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from deep within his hip. The man screamed with pain, gripping the shaft with bloodied knuckles.

  ‘Wylderman attack!’ Captain Perry barked out an order as his men leapt into life. Some of them immediately ran straight for the woods where the sounds of a melee ensuing broke through the darkness. Others ducked for cover, unslinging their crossbows and returning fire at an invisible enemy. Wounded men crawled along the ground towards the caravans, seeking safety.

  Despite the chaos Hector felt a pang of something. Hope. And not just for himself. Stepping over the fallen soldier he jumped up on to the footplate, tugging the bolt back from its holdings.

  ‘Stop that,’ gurgled the soldier. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. Hector ignored him, flinging the door open and rushing inside. Drew lay curled in his forced foetal position on the floor, looking up from beneath a blood-matted fringe.