Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  Occasionally the monster was Mack Ferran, grinning wickedly as he thrust the Wolfshead blade into his son again and again. Trent would stand there beside his father, watching on impassively as Drew cried out for help with each sword blow. Down came the sword, down and down again. He couldn’t decide which night terror he feared most – the beast or his father.

  The only respite he had was during the waking hours, when he allowed himself to think back to happier times with Ma and Trent. He’d always been a homeboy, staying close to the farm whenever possible and helping his mother with any chores she had. If he was in her company, he was happy, listening to her stories of a time gone by when she’d worked in Highcliff. He imagined racing Trent on horseback across the fields and meadows – and invariably losing. Mack Ferran rarely featured in these daydreams.

  He couldn’t help but compare his own childhood with that which Hector had experienced. Drew’s family had always struggled – the Cold Coast wasn’t the most hospitable environment to grow up in, but it had been full of adventure. They’d lived right on the edge of the wilds, and Drew and Trent had thrived in that world. Hector, on the other hand, had spent his life up to this point living in luxury, wanting for little. Different as their lives had been Drew felt an affinity with the young Boarlord that brought a smile to his face. He was going to miss him.

  Baron Huth had expressly said that he didn’t want Drew and Hector to travel together. If one were to head north then the other must head south. On the off-chance that Hector was found by somebody while travelling to his planned destination there was a slight possibility that he may yet be able to explain his disappearance from Prince Lucas’s convoy in the Dyrewood. If he had the fugitive Werelord with him, then all hope was lost. These final few days would be the last the boys would spend in one another’s company. The Boarlord decided that his son was to head north to Sturmland to stay with Duke Henrik. The White Bear of Icegarden owed him a good deed and, with no love lost between Henrik and Leopold, he expected the favour to be happily repaid. With their fate decided, the two young men were left to spend their remaining time together.

  Their friendship grew stronger and deeper in the following days, hiding within the walls of Redmire Hall. Drew would reminisce about his life as a farmer’s son, tending flocks and braving the elements, and talked earnestly about his love for his brother and mother. Hector’s own mother had died in childbirth when the twins were born, so apart from his old nurse he had never had a maternal figure in his life. He enjoyed Drew’s tales immensely, tasting the other’s childhood vicariously through his stories of growing up.

  Hector tried his best to further educate Drew in the politics of the Werelords and the Seven Realms. Drew listened intently, asking questions all the while, writing up a mental checklist of who to avoid and which kingdoms, duchies and principalities to steer clear of when he finally left. The list was becoming exhaustive. Hector also went into a little more detail about his own studies as a magister, and Drew better understood the role the Boarlords and their healing hands had in noble society. Traditionally the Boarlords had always provided magisters to the lords of each of the Seven Realms, although magisters could also be found in other races. As well as being custodians of the knowledge of life, they also held the greatest wisdom on death. Hector took Drew through to Redmire Hall’s ancient library, which was filled from wall to wall with books of every shape and size.

  He directed Drew to a fragile tome that dealt with ancient prophecies – as a magister it was his duty to protect these artefacts. The Werelords put great importance on the old predictions and firmly believed that each would come true. Hector explained how as an apprentice he would sit and leaf through them, reading about marvellous events that might come to pass. He hoped to explore the library of Highcliff, which had the largest collection of prophecies in all of Lyssia. If he were ever able to return, that is. A smaller selection of manuscripts covered the grey area known as magicks, both old and dark. These were Hector’s favourites.

  Magicks, he explained, were as old as the Great Feast itself. There weren’t good or bad varieties, as such – that was down to whoever wielded the knowledge. Power didn’t kill; people killed. Many of the old magicks were cantrips, illusions, ancient sleights of hands and pyrotechnics that could amuse Werelords who were guesting in their distant cousin’s courts. Most of this knowledge had died out many centuries ago, leaving magicks more of a myth than a physical possibility. The use of magicks, like the working of silver, had been outlawed throughout Lyssia for many decades, although it was known to be practised still by the occasional brave soul. Though Hector could in no way channel the spells, he had been fascinated by them since childhood and had pored over these old books on many a rainy, and indeed sunny, day.

  Of these few remaining volumes that held the old secrets, a couple covered the business of necromancy, the dark arts. Again, Hector explained, this in itself had been slighted down the years, its reputation tarnished. The magisters of old would use necromancy to speak to the dearly departed who had passed away, by means of catching the soul and spirit before it vanished to heaven. This allowed grieving families a last chance to say goodbye to their loved ones, and provided an invaluable service to the royal courts in long-forgotten times. When Hector spoke of it with such warmth and affection, it didn’t sound quite as scary to Drew as the thought of speaking with the dead might have done in the past.

  In this time Drew also had a chance to get to know Vincent a little better. He readily admitted he might have misjudged the younger twin somewhat upon their first meeting; he’d seemed cynical and haughty, and there was an edge of disdain and envy in his voice when he spoke to his older brother. Drew knew all about what it meant to have a twin brother – even with Bergan’s revelations his bond with Trent had been as close as any brotherly love he could imagine. Not so with these two. Seven brief minutes might have separated them at birth, but they were a world apart from one another in personalities. Vincent was a more political animal, aware of all the comings and goings within the royal court, and appeared to have a deep sense of pride regarding what it meant to be a Werelord. Drew sensed his envy at the fact that, as the second born, Vincent would never taste the power that his brother might have as heir to the seat of Redmire. Since he’d discovered that his brother was preparing to take flight into some remote and far-flung corner of Lyssia, his attitude had appeared to lighten considerably. The fact that he now stood to inherit his father’s title probably played no small part in this, Drew thought.

  If anything, Vincent was going out of his way to be accommodating to Drew for the rest of his stay. The two brothers had pulled out all the maps and scrolls the library had to offer and, with their father and Drew looking on, had devised the perfect place for Drew to head to. Many miles south-east of the Dyrewood, beyond the Barebone Mountains, was an arid desert region known as Omir. It was here where the nomadic Doglords came from, the Werejackals. Inhospitable as the place sounded, it also appeared to be the only place where King Leopold and his allies wouldn’t follow. A man – or a therian – could get lost in such a vast place. And stay lost.

  Nearly two decades earlier King Wergar had led his army into Omir, engaging the Jackals in a long, bloody and expensive war. Leopold might have the crown now, but only a fool king would willingly return to the desert realm. The tales of Wergar’s deeds cast long shadows over Lyssia and the whole of the Seven Realms. Time hadn’t healed; the Lion’s animosity towards the Wolf was as strong as ever. Another Werewolf laying claim to his throne? That simply would not do.

  They were under no illusion: the king would want to see the last Werewolf put to the sword, and would not rest until he’d done so. In all of Leopold’s conquests and victories he had faced countless Werelords, but only one had truly ever stood in his way, and that had been Wergar. His hatred for the lycanthropes knew no boundary; he would want Drew captured and killed.

  In moments when he was alone, Drew reflected upon his plans to flee. His father
had always taught him to never run from a fight, instilled in him a belief that he should stand up for his fellow man. Surely the Mack Ferran he used to know wouldn’t have questioned Drew’s choices under these circumstances? He was all too aware that the men and women of the Seven Realms were oppressed, struggling under the king’s harsh taxes and brutal Lionguard. Lyssia needed someone to speak out for the people, to put an end to the injustice of Highcliff. But what could Drew do? If he stayed to face the king, he would be killed, without a shadow of doubt. No, he had to go, had to disappear east. Son of the Wolf or not, he was just a boy, and a helpless one at that. Someone else would have to take up that fight.

  The Boarlord’s tailors fitted new travelling clothes for Drew, which he immediately fell in love with. The only clothes he’d ever known had been tattered hand-me-downs from his physically bigger brother, Trent. This was the first time he could remember that he’d had clothes of his own, and he felt like a new man in them. A brown leather affair with a studded breastplate, his suit had been designed in such a way that if he were to change suddenly the buckles holding the armour would separate from the outward pressure, allowing the clothes to fall safely to the ground. They could be donned once more when he had returned to normal shape. On top of this he’d taken to wearing Duke Bergan’s green cloak everywhere as well, with the Wolfshead sword in its sheath at his hip. The cloak, though well made, was nondescript and certainly wouldn’t connect him to the Lord of Brackenholme, but it felt good to wear it, a gift as it was from the old Werebear. He was beginning to actually feel like a Werelord, even if he was never going to truly be one.

  On the subject of shape-shifting, even Baron Huth got in on the act, providing Drew with precious pointers on how to control and master his gift. He gave him suggestions and notes on mental and physical exercises he could carry out that would help him control the beast. Early each morning they would go through simple meditations, safely concealed from prying eyes in the private gardens to the rear of Redmire Hall. The moon was to be respected by Drew; it was an additional source of power and strength for a Werewolf. Although Drew was only an apprentice, and the old man had only scratched the surface of what it meant to truly control his lycanthropy, he had taught him well in the basics.

  Gerard, the head guard whom he’d met when he’d first arrived, took it upon himself to show Drew a thing or two with the sword, allowing him to train with the young guards in Redmire Hall’s small barracks. As Master-at-Arms and a veteran of Wergar’s crusade, he had fought alongside his liege, Baron Huth, in the few battles the Boarlord had been directly involved in. It wasn’t entirely clear to Drew whose side the old man had fought on, the Wolf or the Lion, and Drew decided that now probably wasn’t the appropriate time to ask. Gerard was a fantastic swordsman. He quickly taught the youth a great deal about the craft, from guards and stances initially and then onwards through the full gamut: blocks and parries, balance, evasion, cuts and strikes, every move Drew could dream of and then more besides. Mack Ferran’s lessons from Drew’s childhood stood him in good stead now, and were a credit to the old soldier’s skills with a blade. Drew was able to hold his own and even match the skills that most of the young guards already had, men who’d been taught to fight since they were born. Only Gerard was his superior.

  The days went by and Drew was beginning to feel a gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It was going to be difficult to leave the place behind, and not least his best friend. Redmire Hall was starting to feel like home to Drew, with or without the shrewish Lady Gretchen.

  5

  Stranglehold

  Drew stood over the foot of his bed, surveying all his worldly possessions. He’d been given a backpack by Gerard, into which he’d safely stowed various essentials: two weeks’ worth of rations, a change of clothes, a lightweight bedroll and various handy tools and implements that might help him on the road. There was a tinderbox, a superior-quality rope and a small metal cooking pot containing a tin plate and spoon. It lay on the quilt beside his cloak and the Wolfshead blade, which was safely sheathed in its scabbard. Fastening his weapon belt round his middle, the sword on his left hip, he draped the cloak across his shoulders, snapping the clasp shut at his throat. With a final look at his room, he hefted his backpack and set off out of the door.

  Coming out on to the main landing that overlooked the entrance hall, he glanced down to see Vincent talking to a guard at the door. By the looks of the fellow he was an outrider, with a dusty coat that appeared battered from being on the road. Vincent looked up and caught Drew’s eye, then quickly shepherded the man away from the front door, back out into the porch. Drew was grateful to his hosts that, wherever possible, they endeavoured to keep him out of sight of anybody visiting Redmire Hall. It would be grave for all if his presence were to be known beyond the four walls.

  As the front doors closed, Drew made his way along the landing and out on to the open veranda. The large balcony was very much the heart of Baron Huth’s house as the aged Werelord took breakfast, dinner and evening meals there, only retiring to his private quarters for especially serious business or sleep. Baron Huth was out there now as Drew stepped into the sunlight, leaning forward in his seat to speak with Hector who crouched by his side. Lady Gretchen sat nearby in an area of the decking that was wreathed in shadow – the last thing the noblewoman wanted was a dark complexion, tanned skin being a feature that marked one as a peasant. Her ladies-in-waiting sat on cushions at her feet, chattering away as they cross-stitched. She didn’t try to hide the look of disdain as Drew appeared, but he threw her his best winning smile. He didn’t have to walk on eggshells around her any more – he would be on his way in a matter of moments. Hector rose to meet him as he approached Baron Huth, stepping forward to shake his hand.

  ‘You all packed, then?’ his friend asked, a note of sadness in his voice.

  ‘Yes, and please do thank your kitchen staff again for preparing those rations for me – I’m sure I’ll be able to make them last a month if I can grab some provisions along the way.’

  ‘So you’re ready for the off, my boy?’ asked Baron Huth, nodding in approval. The old man had been a most gracious host throughout Drew’s stay, but all knew it was time for the young Werewolf to leave. He’d stayed at Redmire for a week, already two days longer than he’d planned, and as the Boarlords were expecting the king’s escort to arrive in a fortnight’s time there was no time like the present to strike out for Omir.

  ‘I am, my lord, and again I cannot thank you enough for the kindness, generosity and hospitality you have shown me,’ said Drew. Gretchen listened in over her ladies-in-waiting’s chattering, showing no sign of displeasure in him for once. Was she actually impressed by his manners, wondered Drew. Perhaps she’ll miss me after all, he mused.

  Footsteps rattled up the stairs as Vincent arrived on the balcony, nodding to everybody in turn.

  ‘You’re going already?’ he asked, surprised. ‘That came round awfully fast.’ He shook Drew’s hand heartily.

  ‘I have to get out of here – I’ve a long road ahead of me. And to you, Vincent, I am indebted for arranging such exact maps for the journey. You’re making this so much easier than it might have been.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Vincent. ‘It was my absolute pleasure. Tell you what,’ he said, walking over to his father’s wooden throne. ‘Don’t go just yet – one more hot meal in your belly will serve you well on the open road.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Drew, running a hand through his hair. That was another thing that had been taken care of – Marie, the maid, had done a fine job of sorting out his homemade haircut, and now it was smartly cut around his face, framing his sharp features very handsomely. Ironically, it made him look ‘wolfish’, Baron Huth had said, as if he needed anything else to drive home his ancestry. ‘I feel I’ve already overstayed my welcome.’ He glanced to Gretchen, who arched an eyebrow straight back.

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Hector, stepping between Drew and his father.
‘He can stay for lunch, can’t he, Father? Just one more meal before he leaves? You can do that, can’t you, Drew?’

  ‘My lord,’ said Drew, after thinking for a further moment, ‘if it does not inconvenience you, I would gladly accept the offer of one more meal in your house before I leave.’

  The old man smiled. ‘It pleases me,’ he said, clapping his bony hands. ‘Yes, stay. Eat well and be on your way afterwards. If the Lionguard find you in a ditch sleeping off your meal not a hundred yards from Redmire, then you’ve only yourself to blame.’

  Laughing, the men hugged once more as Drew unhitched his backpack and lowered it to the floor. He sensed Lady Gretchen watching him, willing him out of there, and he took a small amount of delight in irking her for a while longer. Word was sent to the kitchens that there would be one more seat at the dining table. The butler brought out a tray of glasses and a bottle of vintage port, which Vincent proceeded to pour as Drew and the Boarlords went over his plans one more time. Hector fetched his satchel and selected a few choice bottles of herbs and potions, helping to stow them in Drew’s backpack.

  As the morning passed by at a gentle place, the table was prepared and Baron Huth and his guests all took their places for the meal. A hot tomato broth warmed them ahead of the main course as they dined in the spring sunshine, looking out over the fast-flowing Redwine. A freshly cooked haunch of venison was brought out to the table, and Hector rose for carving duties. His friend’s appetite was a thing of wonder to Drew, who’d always managed to survive on frugal portions of food. The fat that had fallen away in their time fleeing the Dyrewood was back in force now on the young healer’s face.