by Kaylee Rymer
Weegel sunk back to the ground, hoping and praying that the man wouldn’t see him.
The man passed the paddock and stopped, staring intensely at the goats. He had a coarse white beard with hair to match, and everything about him screamed manly, powerful. With arms like small tree trunks, he had to be a blacksmith. His face was covered in soot, which settled into the creases of his eyes, and he had various hammers hanging from a leather apron.
Yes, a blacksmith indeed.
Finally, the man moved away and vanished inside a small building on the other side of the yard.
Weegel released a heavy breath, blowing the scarf clean off his face. He picked it up to wipe the drops of sweat off his forehead.
Hopefully, the necklace was worth it.
4. Ivora
Ivora paced up and down the kitchen, waiting for her parents to leave for the town fair.
Mother entered the room, covered in dirt from digging up her enormous prize-winning cabbage.
“Your father is readying the cart now, dear, so we should be ready to leave in a few moments.”
Ivora glanced up, biting her nails. “All right.”
Mother placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be fine. You’re worrying about nothing. Besides, if he does show up, the crystals should protect you.”
Ivora sighed. “I suppose.”
“And don’t forget about good old Bryce,” Mother continued. “A dog his size, the worcog would stand no chance.”
Ivora looked down at the mastiff who gazed back up with drooping eyes. His lips hung past his chin, dribbling onto the stone floor. He did smell, especially as he was getting on in years, but Ivora loved him.
Bryce licked her hand. She giggled, wiping her hand on her dress, and peered back up at her mother.
Mother’s hazel eyes were calm as always. She clearly believed the worcog would not come to the cottage, and she was probably right, yet Ivora still couldn’t get the beast off her mind.
What if the worcog was lurking outside? Or what if he broke in and killed her and took her away from her parents?
She took several deep breaths, feeling a knot slowly untying in her chest. He would not come to the cottage. A visit from a worcog was as rare as being struck by lightning.
She maintained control of her lungs and smiled once again.
The door swung open, and Father entered the kitchen. “Cart’s ready now, Gert.”
Mother turned his way. “Have you strapped the cabbage safely into the back seat?”
“Yes.”
“And did you remember to cover it with a blanket? It’s a warm day, lots of bugs outside.”
Father sighed. “Of course.”
Ivora stifled laughter. The idea of her burly father wrapping a cabbage up in a blanket tickled her.
“Well, then, I guess we’re ready,” Mother said.
They hugged Ivora and bid her goodbye. Ivora detected sadness in her father’s eyes as he put an arm around her shoulder. Did he fear, too, that the worcog would come?
“Take care now,” he said.
“I will, Father,” she replied.
Father studied her a moment longer, smiling tightly, and left through the door. Ivora followed them outside and watched as they disappeared down the road.
She wrapped her arms around herself, the realisation hitting her at once. She was alone. A cool breeze swept through the trees, raising the hair of her skin. Gone was the warm summer air. Now the atmosphere turned bleak and grey.
Ivora dashed inside and locked the door. She even shut the windows and drew the curtains.
No scary monsters would get inside the cottage today.
Ivora read her list. She had already started the chicken, now cooking on the pit. She’d fed the goats, cleaned up Bryce’s mess, and hung the linen. Now there were just the biscuits.
She gathered the ingredients and mixed them together. Soon she had a big blob of dough, rolling it back and forth with a pin. Flour covered her head to toe, but she didn’t care. It took her mind off other things, things that dared creep up unawares.
Something smashed outside, and Ivora jumped. Every muscle in her body tensed. What was that sound?
She breathed in and out, waiting for the sound to return. It never did. Must have been her imagination.
She went back to her dough, getting lost in the therapeutic task until she heard a loud crash.
Hands shaking, she tiptoed to the window and gasped. The goats had escaped, and now they chomped on her mother’s vegetables and chewed the linen off the line.
Ivora groaned and banged her head against the glass. Mother would be furious with her for forgetting to shut the latch on the gate again.
A second glance out the window flipped her stomach upside down. Little Lucy was nowhere in sight.
Unbolting the door, Ivora cast her eyes around the yard. Her heart lodged in her throat. What if someone had taken her?
One of the goats knocked over a pot, breaking Ivora out of her reverie. She ushered them back towards the paddock, playing an endless game of chase. In the end, she pulled up several carrots from the garden and led them the way.
Soon all goats were accounted for, except for little Lucy, who still hadn’t shown.
A small bleating sound reached her ears, and she whirled around. Her mouth popped open.
The kid stood at the edge of the roof, crying to get down.
“Lucy... how... how on earth did you get up there?”
The goat cried again.
Ivora shook her head. “Don’t you worry, I’ll get you down.”
She moved towards the cottage, stopping dead at the ladder propped up against the wall. Wasn’t it supposed to be inside the tool shed?
A shiver coursed through her spine, and she put the dark thoughts aside. Father had obviously left it out when he re-shingled the roof last weekend.
The bottom rung creaked beneath her weight. She started her ascent, but a strong wind blew her aside and almost knocked her off the ladder.
Lucy, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky. The goat slipped down the roof, bleating out in alarm. Ivora caught her in her arms, and they both tumbled to the ground.
The fall knocked the breath out of Ivora, but she only cared about poor Lucy. The kid licked her face, pleased to be back on the ground again.
Ivora rose to her feet, ribs sore and tender, and cradled Lucy. “You silly little goat. Don’t you scare me like that ever again.”
She placed the goat inside the paddock and latched the gate, making sure it shut tight. The kid gazed up with her honey-toned eyes, and Ivora’s heart melted. “Aw, I can’t stay mad at you for long.” She rubbed Lucy beneath her chin, eliciting a happy tail wag from the goat.
The kid galloped around the paddock and Ivora giggled. So adorable.
Smiling brightly to herself, she wandered back to the cottage. All seemed well in the kitchen, apart from Bryce, who barked at the fireplace. The chicken continued to sizzle on the pit, smoke disappearing up the chimney. If he weren’t careful, he’d be burned.
His growls echoed up the shaft, and her stomach clenched. He sounded so ominous when amplified.
The old dog often barked at things that weren’t there, growing senile in his old age, but Ivora couldn’t help but take notice. Just something about Bryce’s raised hackles sent another shiver up her spine.
Grabbing a hold of the rolling pin, she approached the fireplace, heart thumping. Soot poured down from the shaft above, and she tightened her grip on the pin.
A bird fluttered out, and she dropped the pin with a yelp.
Ivora closed her eyes, placing a hand across her heart. It beat like the wings of the tiny bird that flapped around the kitchen.
She frowned down at Bryce. “Really? You’re bothered by a little bird?”
Bryce cried and then barked up at the chimney again.
The bird fluttered upstairs. Ivora gathered two pans and groaned when it disappeared into her parent’s bedroom. Now it would get
droppings all over her mother’s clean sheets.
After a few tries, she finally captured the bird. It buzzed around inside the pans, searching for an escape.
Ivora opened the window, set the bird free, and watched as it vanished into the trees. Feeling rather proud of herself, she skipped back down the stairs, hoping Bryce had calmed down.
Except Bryce wasn’t in the room when she arrived. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere, and the bag of flour lay in the centre, spilling powder. The chicken had fallen off the pit, and Ivora hurried over, dousing the coals with a towel.
It looked as if a fight had broken out. Ivora swallowed. “B-Bryce?”
A loud whine burst her eardrums, and she looked to the broom closet.
How on earth did Bryce get in there?
Ivora started towards the closet, blood rushing through her head. As her fingers grazed the handle, something cold and sharp closed around her throat.
“Move away from the door.”
She froze at the voice. It was low and harsh, like the growl of a dog, and her heart thrummed through her ears.
She looked around the room, searching for a weapon. A pan lay at her feet, but she dared not move in case the intruder cut her throat.
He dragged her away from the closet, away from Bryce and towards the door. Tears pooled in her eyes. “P-please... don’t... don’t kill me...”
“Quiet and unhook the necklace.”
Ivora kept her arms by her sides, refusing to oblige.
He leaned closer, and she winced at the feel of his hot breath. “Take it off, or I’ll cut your throat.”
Her stomach dropped at the threat, and slowly she reached her shaking hands to her neck.
Bryce whined from behind the closet, his great paws scratching the wood. Poor thing, he was terrified of the dark, but the cruel brute had locked him inside.
Tears dripped down her cheeks and past her lips. The cold knife dug deep into her throat, making it hard to swallow, yet there was no serrated edge, only a cool bluntness.
Was he using the blunt side of the knife?
Ivora gulped, breathing in a shaky mouthful of air, and grabbed his hand and bit the bone.
The intruder howled and dropped the knife.
She reeled around and kicked him towards the table. He fell backwards, and the hood slipped from his head, revealing a pair of horns.
Ivora’s skin broke out in a cold sweat. Yellow eyes glared back, fixing their slanted pupils squarely on her. The scarf had fallen from the creature’s mouth, displaying sharp fangs. But the face... she’d never seen one so green.
“You’ll regret that,” he breathed, his teeth clenched.
Ivora spun, reaching for the bolt of the door, but the worcog yanked her back and threw her across the room. She winced as she fell into a pile of pans, but he was soon upon her again. He pinned her to the ground, and she kicked and pushed, but to no avail. He was simply too strong.
“Keep still! I only want the necklace,” he growled.
She spat in his face, and he recoiled. His hold on her slackened, and she pushed him off and got to her feet. She opened the closet, and Bryce bounded forth, pinning the beast to the floor.
The worcog’s raw, guttural screams burst through the kitchen, and Ivora covered her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to look. When would it be over? Would hound overcome beast?
They wrestled for a while, sending plates flying and smashing to the floor. Then the door slammed shut, and the bolt slid in place.
Ivora peered through her fingers, shaking. Blood covered the floor, and her heart split in two.
Not Bryce, please not Bryce...
Her gaze landed on the worcog. He kept his back to her, his rapid breaths filling the small space of the kitchen. Something rammed into the door from outside, and Bryce growled.
Ivora released a sigh. Thank goodness Bryce was all right. Then... whose was all the blood?
The worcog turned, and blood dripped from a gaping wound on his neck. His eyes were cross-eyed as he stumbled forward, holding onto the table for support.
He fixed his muddy gaze on Ivora, and a crooked smile spread across his face. He staggered forward.
Ivora rushed out of the room, but he grabbed a hold of her and pressed her to the wall. She opened her mouth to scream, but the beast placed a bloody finger on her lips. She grimaced.
“Don’t scream... just... give me what I want, and I’ll leave.”
The scent of blood pricked her nostrils, and she felt herself losing consciousness. Blood always made her woozy.
The beast shook her. “Woah... stay with me now. If I can manage, so can you.”
The worcog became a blur, a horned silhouette in a cloud of confusion. His cat-like pupils held her gaze, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not look away.
The pupils enlarged to a round black, and there Ivora saw her dazed reflection.
The rest of his face came to light. An aquiline nose and skin the texture of gravel, but his cheekbones were strong and well-defined. Despite the pointy elfin ears, he was very human; he even had a groove above the lips, and a thick head of hair the colour of rust.
A soft shimmer misted his eyes, and his monstrous face morphed into that of a boy’s, one who was lonely and petrified.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Ivora could see his guilt, and a part of her wanted to reach out and help him, despite what he’d done to her. But her feelings soon dissolved once he moved his hands around and unhooked the necklace.
She stretched out a feeble hand, but the effort proved too much, and she dropped to her knees.
“No... p-please...”
The last thing she heard was his heavy sigh, and then everything turned dark.
5. Weegel
Weegel shuffled through the forest, wincing at the wound in his neck. The scarf didn’t hold the blood down for long. In the end, he heated a knife and pressed it onto the wound; his screams had scared all the wildlife within a one-mile radius.
That bastard dog had really taken it out of him, even going as far as to chase him off into the woods when he fled the cottage.
But it had been worth every drop of blood, every ounce of perspiration. Years of stealing, selling, and stealing some more had finally paid off. Chars-town turned out to be a goldmine after all.
Weegel’s mountainous home range was the furthest north he’d ever been, but all that was about to change. With the necklace, he could finally leave for the Great White North. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing atop a pearly white glacier. Blistering cold winds bit his cheeks, and snow dazzled him from all around.
All he had to do was find a captain to ship him north, one who wouldn’t stab him in the back and hand him in to the king’s guard. That’s where the necklace came in, which was worth twice as much as Weegel, enough to buy him safe passage out the country.
He pulled the necklace out from his pocket and gazed down at the Westwind seal.
The Westwinds had been kind nobles; they were fair to magical creatures, stopping the brutal hunting of ogres and the harvesting of faery dust. They’d been on good terms with worcogs too. Weegel had read many books on the kingdom’s noble families. All four were extinct. Now only King Astor ruled with his loyal army.
Weegel sighed and brushed a thumb over the diamonds. Almost as beautiful as the girl he stole it from.
His chest clenched when he thought of her green eyes, and a shooting pain shot through his skull.
“Well, you proud of yourself, monster?”
He trembled. Rosemary again. She was always judging him from the back of his mind.
“Go away!” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood right now.”
“What you did to that girl was despicable. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Look... I had to do it. There’ll never be a place for me in this kingdom. I have to go north.”
Rosemary laughed. “You know you’ll never fin
d them...”
Weegel gritted his teeth. “I will. You watch.”
“No, you won’t. You’re all that’s left. The last worcog...”
Weegel covered his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to her.
“You’ll never know happiness...” Her voice disappeared amongst the wind.
Weegel removed his hands from his ears. It seemed she’d gone. He released a breath and resumed his journey.
Silence had fallen across the forest. It was too quiet. The air seemed charged, like the feeling before a storm, and he shivered.
Someone was coming for him.
A dog barked in the distance.
Weegel broke into a run. No matter how fast he ran, though, the barking drew nearer. He bounded across a stream, knee deep in cold water, and before he reached the bank on the other side, two dogs materialised from the bushes and joined him in the current.
He kicked and flailed as his head went under, but he re-emerged, hotter and angrier, and swiped his claws at a dog. The dog yelped and let go of his arm. The other aimed for his neck and Weegel booted its jaw.
He crawled back to shore, dripping wet with blood and water. He needed to get away, fast. The girl at the cottage must have spread the word, and now the guard was hot on his trail.
No one would get his necklace.
Weegel made a beeline for the trees, but an arrow whizzed through the air and pierced his back leg.
He cried out, falling flat on his face as sweet soil filled his nose. A sensation like fire tore through his ligaments, and he bit down on his tongue to stop from screaming.
Splashing sounds emerged, and he looked up, trembling in pain. A man on horseback crossed the stream, pointing a crossbow at Weegel.
The dogs resurfaced, shaking their wet fur, and the man commanded them to sit. Then he swung his legs off the horse and took slow, deliberate steps towards Weegel.
Weegel’s heart hammered through his ears. This was it. His moment of reckoning. Would his death be quick and painless, or slow and drawn-out?
Just seventeen, and he was already looking death in the eyes. Life was too cruel for a lowly worcog.
The man stopped before him. Weegel swallowed and forced himself to look at his maker.