The Wolf of Harrow Hall (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Book 7)

by Christine Pope

  Now, though…I had spent an hour in Phelan Greymount’s company, and even though he was gone, it seemed as if he somehow lingered in my chamber, his presence still filling the room. I could hear his voice, could see the glint in his dark eyes as he teased me. Did he have any idea as to his effect on me, or was he oblivious? He’d shown no sign, but that did not mean much. I was not at all acquainted with men of his station, and so I had very little idea as to how they might act around a young woman, even one who was far beneath them in status.

  I leaned my head against the draperies, feeling the soft nap of the velvet beneath my cheek. It did not comfort me, however. In that moment, I found myself missing my grandmother with a fierce, strange ache. Yes, I was a grown woman and well able to manage my own affairs, but she could have offered some advice, or at least told me it was of no use to berate myself for falling under the spell of a man who was so utterly unlike anyone else I had ever met.

  It would have been better if he had not looked at me like that, there at the end. Perhaps I flattered myself, but I had seen desire in men’s eyes before, and I was almost certain that was what I had glimpsed in Lord Greymount’s expression before he turned away from me and professed his concern over getting his dogs down to their exercise on time. He could have sensed that desire and told himself I was his guest, and so he could not take such an advantage.

  Or perhaps he had simply realized I was so far beneath him that he should not sully himself by kissing me.

  Biting back a sigh, I turned from the window and went to the stack of books, which looked as if they might overwhelm the spindly little carved table where they sat. The one on top was a work of geography, complete with carefully hand-drawn maps, the countries and oceans and rivers all called out in equally neat lettering.

  I was surprised to see how much open country there was beyond Harrow Hall, how North Eredor’s borders extended all the way up to the Great Ice Sea. There were no other towns or villages that I could see on that map, and so it seemed Lord Greymount’s claim that his was the last bulwark against the wild lands was true.

  What was out there, really? Only miles and miles of wild wastelands? I had heard tales of giants that roamed the frozen wastes, and fey, evil spirits that haunted those frozen, empty places, but I had always thought they were only that — tales, and nothing more. Perhaps Harrow Hall was more than a lonely castle, and instead my land’s last defense against those enemies that lurked in the dark and the cold.

  Outside the window, the wind howled, gaining in strength, and I shivered. It would be all too easy to believe those eerie sounds emanated from some fell creature, and not merely from a high wind weaving amongst the towers of the castle.

  Suddenly, geography did not seem quite as comforting as I’d thought it would.

  I put the book aside and selected another. A history of North Eredor should do very well. I did not know all that much on the subject, save that once Eredor has been a single great land, before the mage wars tore it asunder nearly a thousand years ago. Much had been lost in those wars, knowledge that could never be regained…but perhaps it was better that way. Knowledge of terrible power was what caused those wars, and after they were done, magic disappeared from all the lands of the continent, its practitioners hunted down and destroyed so they might not spread their evil anymore.

  The book I had chosen was quite dry and factual, and made no mention of giants or spirits or anything more deadly than the corraghar, the ancient hill tribes who called themselves the people of the wolf. I had never seen one of the corraghar, for the lands they called their own lay mainly to the south and east of the forest of Sarisfell where I had lived my entire life, but I knew they were fierce fighters, dark and strange, and kept to themselves, not mixing much with the rest of North Eredor’s population. Indeed, the lord of our land, Kadar Arkalis, was half corraghar, although it did not seem to me that his mixed blood had done much to bring the corraghar in contact with those who also called the North home.

  Still, it was interesting to note that the contested lands on the western marches had always been part of Eredor even before it was split north and south, and it was only because Sirlende had expanded and expanded, gobbling up small principalities on its march to become the greatest empire on the continent, that it set its eyes on those lands that comprised the northwest edge of North Eredor’s borders. But the Eredorians would not give up, and so neither side ever gained true supremacy there, since it seemed the Sirlendian emperors did not think those hardscrabble lands worth an all-out war.

  I thought it must be rather hard for the people who lived in the disputed region, and counted myself lucky that I had grown up in Sarisfell, which was several hundred leagues from the western border of my land. We certainly did not have to worry about invading Sirlendians — or marauding corraghar — but instead enjoyed sheltered lives for the most part.

  The light began to fail as I read, so I put the book aside and went to light additional candles in addition to the one on the dressing table, which I’d kept burning because of the day’s general gloom. As I was finishing this task, a knock came at the door. My heart lifted, and I hurried to answer the knock, hoping that Lord Greymount would be waiting outside.

  Alas, it was only the steward with the tray that held my evening meal.

  I forced a smile to my lips, even as I stepped aside so he could enter the room. “Thank you, Master Merryk.”

  He offered a smile in return, but something about it appeared rather stiff, as if he only smiled because he knew he must. Because the table where he usually placed the tray was now piled high with books, he had to go over to the dressing table and set my meal down there. “It seems you now have quite enough to keep you occupied, Mistress Sendris.”

  “Ah, yes,” I replied, knowing that a blush spread over my cheeks as I spoke. I could only hope the room wasn’t so brightly lit that he would notice. “His lordship was very generous with his library. I have rather an embarrassment of riches now.”

  “So you do.” He paused for a moment, then said, “You were exploring for a good while, it seems.”

  “An hour or so, yes.” Did the steward disapprove of his master spending time in my company? I supposed that wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility, although Master Merryk had always seemed to be very kind to me. Or was he only kind when he thought there was no chance of a dalliance between Lord Greymount and myself?

  And there is still no chance, I told myself. A bit of time spent in company with someone, and a glance that could have been entirely misinterpreted, is not quite enough reason for you to have any kind of expectations.

  “His dogs are very lovely,” I added, hoping that would be a more neutral topic. After all, his lordship had claimed the dogs as one of the chief reasons for coming to get me and show me something of the castle, although in truth, the tour had stopped short as soon as we reached the library. Did that mean Lord Greymount intended to show me more as time went on?

  Something about Master Merryk’s expression seemed to relax slightly. “Yes, they are, although they are getting as restless as all of us, cooped up day after day while the storm does its work.”

  “And there still is no sign of it stopping?”

  “None that any of us have been able to tell, even those who are stationed in the towers to keep watch. Not one break since it began. It is very strange.”

  So it was. I had certainly never experienced another storm of such ferocity and duration. It was almost enough to make one believe that some kind of evil force did lurk out in the wastelands beyond Harrow Hall, and had sent the snow and the wind and the cold out of some spiteful delight in seeing others suffer.

  Not that we were suffering all that terribly, at least not yet. I had not seen any kind of worry about the castle’s supplies, whether of firewood or foodstuffs, and so I supposed they had had a great deal laid in against the coming of winter. But the castle’s inhabitants had to be consuming food and wood at a far greater rate than originally planned. Wha
t if this storm went on and on, and gave no opportunity to replenish those stores?

  Now you are just being foolish. All storms must come to an end eventually. So will this one, and then Lord Greymount’s men will be able to go out to hunt and gather firewood.

  And escort me home, most likely. A little pang went through me at that thought. As much as I did not like being cooped up in this castle for days on end — for I was used to going out into the woods to gather herbs and leaves and bark for my dyes, even in harsh weather — I liked rather less the thought of never seeing Phelan Greymount again.

  My tone perhaps too hearty, I said, “Well, let us hope that we will all awake to a morning of bright sunshine, Master Merryk. Stranger things have happened.”

  He nodded, then took his leave of me and let himself out. I went to the dressing table and sat down, knowing I must eat quickly before everything grew cold. Once again, the meal was quite fine — roasted chicken and potatoes, an apple, a cup of warm cider. More than I would have gotten at home, most likely, where we would have been keeping a careful watch on what we consumed so as not to run out.

  I wondered where the castle’s chicken coop was located. Out in the courtyard somewhere seemed the most logical placement, but I knew that, even protected by a coop, chickens would never be able to survive such a ferocious storm. Had the animals been brought inside so they might be housed safely within the castle’s walls?

  That question brought an image of the scar-faced man-at-arms and his compatriots having to dodge a flock of cranky chickens wandering around their quarters, and I smiled, then took a healthy swallow of the warm spiced cider Master Merryk had provided. That cider did help to improve my mood, and I told myself that worrying would certainly not change anything, except possibly to keep me from sleeping as well as I might.

  But perhaps it was because I had gotten rather more exercise that day than I normally did…or because after I had gotten myself ready to sleep, I took the history book with me into bed, thinking I would read a few more pages before I slipped into slumber…I did slide away into oblivion without even noticing, darkness enveloping me as my head fell against the pillows and the book dropped down onto the covers.

  I had not dreamt much since coming to Harrow Hall, or at least, I did not recall anything of what I dreamed. That night, though, almost as soon as I shut my eyes, I found myself standing on a great white expanse, snow stretching pure and untouched in every direction, as if I had been dropped there rather than walking to reach my current position. I could see no sun overhead, but neither was the day cloudy. Instead, the sky was a vast expanse of smooth, uniform grey, as featureless as the snowy landscape on which I stood.

  A great cloak of white fur covered me to my chin, and I felt nothing of the cold, although a brisk wind blew, pulling my hair free from the knot at the back of my head and whipping the loose strands around my face. I began to move forward, and realized I had a pair of snowshoes strapped to my feet, allowing me to move smoothly across the snowy ground. In my dream, I smiled, happy to be moving forward, even though I truly did not know where I was going. After all, I could see nothing around me, only what seemed to be miles of open land.

  Out of the corner of my eye, however, I thought I glimpsed several dark shapes. I stopped and looked back over my shoulder, and the breath caught in my throat. They were moving swiftly, galloping over the snow as if it did not slow them down at all. As they came closer, I realized the shapes were three great grey wolves, all apparently intent on running me down.

  At once I began to surge forward as quickly as I could. One of the snowshoes caught the edge of my heavy, dragging cloak, and impatiently I threw off the garment, even though in real life I would never have done something so foolish. Underneath the cloak, I wore the blue and silver gown that hung in my wardrobe, the one I had not yet been brave enough to wear in real life. Now it flowed behind me, its hem becoming increasingly heavy with snow and wet.

  Although my dream-self moved far more swiftly than I would have been able to manage in the waking world, still the gap between the wolves and me closed with frightening speed. Eyes watering with fear, I kept going, and wouldn’t allow myself to look back yet another time, for doing so would only slow me down.

  My hoarse breaths sounded loud as thunder. I pushed forward, knowing that to do anything else would end in certain death. But still the wolves grew closer. Now I could hear them panting, hear their padding footfalls against the powdery surface of the snow.

  And then they were there, catching the hem of my dress in their teeth, so that I stumbled and fell face first into the snow. I pulled myself along, bare fingers digging into the icy surface, feeling it burn as it touched my exposed skin. But they were on me, snarling. One of them took the fur collar of my gown in its fangs and jerked, forcing me to roll over on my back.

  I lay there, staring up into its golden eyes. It stared back at me, pink tongue lolling from its mouth. I wanted to shut my own eyes, since I knew what was about to come next, and yet somehow I couldn’t. They remained wide open, making it seem as if I was slowly falling into the wolf’s baleful golden glare.

  Don’t, I thought in my dream. Please.

  For the longest moment, we both remained like that, frozen in place. The other two wolves had gone very still, and sat off to one side, watching us. And then the wolf lunged, and I screamed, screams that tore my throat even as his teeth sank into my neck, drawing out my life blood —

  Those screams seemed to bounce off the walls of my room. I sat up in bed, blinking at my surroundings. One hand touched the leather binding of the book I had dropped, and I let out a small whimper. I was safe. Yes, the wind still howled outside quite as fiercely as those dream-wolves had, but I knew I had nothing to fear from it. Nothing could hurt me in here.

  No one came to see what I had been screaming about. I reflected that I seemed to be the only person occupying a room on this floor, and so there was no one around who could have possibly heard my cries. Just as well; I wouldn’t have liked to explain why a dream had affected me so badly that I’d awoken screaming as if someone had attacked me in my bed.

  Which, I realized then, wasn’t entirely outside the bounds of possibility. Yes, I locked the door behind me each night, but locks weren’t infallible. What if the scar-faced man-at-arms got it into his head to come creeping up here one night, to take advantage of my isolation and force himself on me?

  No, that would never happen. Surely no man would risk his position in Lord Greymount’s guard for a few stolen moments with a woman. But then I remembered the way the man-at-arms had leered at me, and fingers of ice dragged their way down my back.

  Wincing at the cold, I pushed the covers off and went to the door, then tested the lock. It was made of black iron, and seemed quite sturdy. Even so, I could not find myself terribly reassured. Perhaps it was only the dregs of the nightmare lingering in my mind, but I felt that lock was not nearly protection enough.

  Glancing around, I noted the chair at the dressing table. It was carved from dark oak, and seemed to be the best solution. I went and fetched it, then shoved it up under the door handle. It might not hold if enough force was brought to bear, but at the very least it would make quite the racket when pushed out of the way, and that should be enough to warn me. Then I might have time to run to the hearth and snatch up the fireplace poker. Or perhaps I should bring the poker to the bed with me. No, that would require far too many explanations, if I should be caught that way.

  Speaking of which, the fire had guttered out to almost nothing. No wonder the room was so cold. I’d quite forgotten to bank it down before climbing into bed, and I chided myself for my absent-mindedness.

  I had no dressing gown, so I pulled the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around myself before going to the hearth and plucking several logs from the basket which sat next to it. My supply was getting rather low, but I knew that it would be replenished in the morning, and I should be able to make do with what was here now.

&nbs
p; The embers were still warm, and flared into life when I prodded them with the fireplace poker. Once I’d set the fresh logs on the grate, they caught soon enough, sending a welcome wave of warmth into the room. Would it be enough, though? What if the cold kept increasing until even a fire was not sufficient to keep away the bitter chill?

  And what if those giants of legend came storming down from the north and battered down the castle’s gates with their great clubs? I asked myself with some scorn. I daresay that is equally as likely. In the meantime, you should calm yourself and go back to bed. One nightmare is not enough to completely shatter your common sense, is it?

  Perhaps not. Yet it was such a terrible dream…and so very real. In most cases, when I dreamed, I remembered very little of what had passed through my mind. Or if I did recall what I had been dreaming, it made little sense, people coming and going in no logical order, saying things that made no sense. But in this instance, the events of my dream made all too much sense. Getting attacked by wolves was not such an out of the ordinary occurrence, although we rarely saw those predators in the forest of Sarisfell; it was too well hunted, and the wolves preferred to go someplace where they were the hunters, not the prey. It was only because our goat Sissi had broken out of her pen that she’d been caught, and slaughtered. If she had stayed close to the cottage, she would have been safe.

  I shook my head at myself, then went back to the bed and slipped under the sheets and blankets, settling the coverlet over all the other layers. Already I could feel the room growing warmer, but somewhere deep within me was a core of ice that didn’t want to thaw.