by Tim Hall
“Such anger. Such dread. The worst of them. Should have seen that all along. Disaster. Too soft … always was too soft …” As the sun dipped farther the old man’s voice began to splinter. “Go to her then. Perhaps this is the end. Perhaps you were the final test. One last failure …”
Robin’s idea of him wavered once more, and the albino king stag was just a white-haired old man, frail and sad.
“I have begun to see the shape of all this. It ends in fire and with a journey across water. A journey shared by you and me … A firestorm. And a world of water. A story of the past, or of the future? So much I’ve forgotten …”
Now the old man’s face was made of leaves, roots the tendons in his neck. But the leaves were fading to brown and the wind was taking him apart. A final gust, the last pieces scattered. The thump of falling fruit. Robin stood alone in the quieting glade.
* * *
The final blaze of summer. The forest quiet and drowsy.
For a moment she was all things at once: snake eyes, girl’s smile, fox fur, hawk’s tail. Then Robin’s impression of her cleared and there was only this woman, with fox-red hair, stretching in the grass.
He moved closer. Her scent now was as rich as a wild flower meadow.
“Why me?”
“Does the river pick its path to the sea? I’ve felt you always, here, inside me.” Her voice was honey, dripping. “You’re not the first. Others will come. For now you’re my only. My lover, my son.”
“You’ll help me kill the Sheriff?”
A soft, knowing laugh. “That is only the beginning, once we set the shapes spinning.”
“I want to find Marian. And to claim our revenge. That’s all. That’s enough.”
“Enough …?” she said, as if tasting the word in her mouth.
He moved closer. The warmth of her body reached out to him, the way sleep lures a person in the summer shade.
He edged nearer, and she stirred. He moved to her side and she rose to her knees.
Long moments passed. Only the sound of the forest holding its breath.
Finally Robin said: “I’m ready. I’ll do whatever is necessary. Tell me what I need to do.”
The goddess of the forest sighed deeply as she stood. She took Robin’s hand, and for once she spoke plainly.
“First …,” she said, “you must destroy my brother.”
The three hooded men led four horses into the stable yard of the inn. The last of the horses was a sturdy sumpter, yoked to a cart. On the back of the cart was a cage, its contents hidden beneath a black shroud.
A stableboy came to unsaddle the horses. He froze when he passed close to the cart and a rumbling rose from beneath the cloth. He glanced nervously at the strangers before going back to his work.
The mistress of the house came lumbering down the outside steps, her eyes coming to rest on the rumbling cage.
“Now, now, what’s this? I won’t have it, you hear! You can’t just bring something like that in here. Even if we weren’t full to the rafters, I wouldn’t allow—”
She stopped abruptly. The three men were wearing travel cloaks against the dust of the late-summer road. Now they were taking off these outer garments and underneath was an emblem of a wolf’s head, its fangs bared.
“Welcome, welcome,” the mistress said. “A pleasure to host the Sheriff’s gallant men. You catch us at a busy time, but we’ll do our very best. We’re already three to a bed. So long as you don’t mind sharing with—”
Edric Krul lowered his hood, silenced the tavern mistress with his stare.
“Hay for the horses. Meat and ale and hot water for my bath, to be prepared at once. Two private rooms: one for me and one for these men.”
Edric led the other two inside. The dimly lit common room smelled of stale food and fresh vomit. The rangers pulled up benches and a tall serving girl approached. Without meeting their eyes she put down a jug of ale, then lit a candle and shuffled away.
Edric blew out the flame. He didn’t want to see this pit of filth any more clearly than he had to. Look at these people! Over there, young lovers, stuck to each other’s faces—run away from their village, no doubt, heading for the city, about to breed and fill the world with yet more vile spawn. And that man, there, an idle drunk, passed out and snoring on a bench.
The serving girl returned, her bodice gaping at the chest, her flesh on display for the whole world to see. She put down three bowls of pale pottage.
“What’s this?” Edric said. “Roots and grain? That man is eating fowl. Bring me what he’s eating.”
“Begging your pardon, we have no meat to sell and haven’t had for weeks. That man arrived with his own bird. He shared it with Madam Alepenny and with his traveling companions. He is eating the last of it.”
“Bring me what that man is eating. Now.”
The girl took her apron in both hands, twisted it around her knuckles. “You want … his meal? The one he’s already eating?”
Edric stared at her, his face growing hot. She turned, walked across the room. She lifted a hard-bread trencher—the man eating from it looked at her with his mouth open. She hurried back, put the trencher in front of Edric, bowed her head and shuffled away.
Edric began picking at a chicken wing. He looked up and the man who had brought the meat dropped his gaze. The other rangers, Guy Oxman and Gunthor Bul, had their heads down, slurping the pottage from their bowls. They were sturdy, simple men. That was why Edric had chosen them for this expedition.
After a while the serving girl came back. “Begging your pardon, sire, your bath is prepared.”
Edric pushed away the trencher. As soon as he left the inn he heard growling. The stableboy was standing near the cart with the cage; he had a stick and was using it to lift one corner of the shroud.
“Get away from there!”
The stableboy jumped back, ducked his head. “Didn’t mean no harm. Was only looking, is all. Never seen anything like it! They sound hungry. Will you let me do the feeding?”
Edric jabbed a finger into the boy’s breastbone. “Listen to me, you louse. You will stay away from my cage. They are supposed to be hungry. Feed them so much as a sparrow’s fart and the next food they see will be your fingers pushed through those bars. Am I understood?”
The boy was staring at him, openmouthed. Edric continued through to the wet room. A lead vat stood steaming. He stripped off his clothes and climbed in. Immediately he felt the hot water begin to unyoke his muscles. His head began to clear. That long, dusty ride had left him angry. Anger was useful, but it was no good without focus. That was one of many things he had learned from the Sheriff.
Edric had almost let his anger get the better of him that day in Winter Forest—the day the wildling had tried to kill him. After the vermin got away Edric had been blind with rage, lashing out at his underlings. Finally he managed to control himself. He made his men retrace every step of the chase until they found what Edric was hoping they would find: a scrap of the wildling’s clothing, torn on thorns. Now Edric was returning to Winter Forest, and soon the wildling’s scent would be burning in the nostrils of his attack dogs.
He stretched his limbs and felt the water washing his anger clean—not diluting it, but leaving it immaculate and ready to use. He listened to the noises of the inn: someone being sick outside the stable doors; a woman singing a disgusting song about the King.
Edric breathed deeply. Ah yes, it did him good, occasionally, to come to places like this—a reminder of what he was up against. Perhaps, after his bath, he would teach one of these people a lesson. Who should he choose: the serving tart? The eloping lovers?
No. Not tonight; he was too tired. It would be done wrong. He had to save his energy for tomorrow’s chase. In recent months he had risen quickly through the ranks of the Sheriff’s Guard, but many unworthy men remained in his way. By killing the wildling tomorrow he would take another important step. Then onward and upward to greater things …
He climbed out of
the bath, dried, and dressed. As he left the wash room he again heard growling. He ran and grabbed the boy by the neck.
“Wasn’t doing nothing,” the boy said. “Let go. Was just looking.”
“Oxman! Bul. Get out here!”
The two older rangers came thumping into the yard.
“This boy thinks it is acceptable to disobey the Sheriff’s Guard,” Edric said. “He thinks the Guard is in the habit of making idle threats. Oxman, hold him still.”
Guy Oxman glanced at Gunthor Bul.
“Don’t look at him!” Edric said. “He has nothing to say about this. I am giving you an order. Take hold of the boy. Bul, go and make those people mind their own affairs.”
Gunthor Bul went back to the tavern, shepherding the mistress of the house and another frantic woman back inside. Guy Oxman took hold of the struggling stableboy.
“Bring him this way,” Edric said. “Closer. Right against the cage.”
When the boy was in position, Edric gripped one of his arms, extended it, and pushed the boy’s hand under the shroud and through the bars. Furious snarling and a wet cracking sound merged with the boy’s screams. Edric fought to hold the arm steady while these noises grew louder and more frenzied. From inside the tavern there was shouting and a woman sobbing.
The boy passed out. Edric let go of the arm and Oxman managed to pull what was left of the hand free. Without looking back Edric strode away and climbed the outside steps to his room. He went inside, blocked his door with a clothes chest.
He smiled. He had proved one thing: The dogs were ready. What ferocity! What short work they would make of the wildling. He plugged his ears with beeswax to block the sound of snarling dogs and crying people. He slept soundly and dreamed of tomorrow’s glorious hunt.
* * *
The goddess of the forest led Robin deep, deep into the wildwood, the tangle of vine and branch growing ever more dense and dark and cold. But finally they came to an open stretch of riverbank, warm in the sun. The river here was wide, the water slow and quiet.
The forest goddess removed Robin’s clothes. Then she slipped into the water, and he followed. He felt the slow-moving river and the quick hands of the vixen-woman working across his body, washing him clean, helping to wash away his fear.
Her hands gripped the back of his neck and suddenly she twisted against him like a snake. Her legs coiled around him and he felt the shocking heat of her through the water. She moved against him, smooth and rhythmic as the river. He heard a voice cry out, and only afterward did he realize it had been his own.
When it was over she removed herself from him and splashed away, without a word. He heard her wringing her hair dry on the riverbank. Then there was a spraying sound, like an animal shaking water from its fur.
Silence. Robin thought she had gone. But when he dragged himself onto the bank he could smell her there, stretched out, sunning herself.
When she spoke next her voice had lost all of its playfulness. “Come. Bring your bow, your knife.”
He pulled on his breeches but left the rest of his tattered clothing there on the bank. He followed the goddess of the wildwood. Her footsteps were almost silent; he tracked her instead by her scent, which now hinted at the heady fragrance of autumn decay.
They came to a stand of willow trees, and beyond the trees was a mud bank, and beyond that was a water hole.
“My brother comes here, every night without fail,” the forest goddess said. “He is a child of winter, so now he is at his weakest. You will have only one chance. Once you strike, do not let go. Loosen your grip and all will be lost. Stay above him, at all cost. If the mist clears, and his shadow falls across you, it will mean your death, and our disaster.”
With that she was gone. Robin moved toward the water hole, mud oozing between his toes. His father had taught him that mud can help hide a hunter’s scent. He scooped handfuls of it and spread it on his chest and stomach and face.
He stopped. What am I doing? This is lunacy.
He moved away from the mud bank. “I won’t do it!” he shouted into the trees. “I won’t be your pawn.”
But then the smell of the mud delivered a memory: the day he and Marian met. They were in Hob’s Hollow, hiding from her father’s men, and she was spreading mud on her arms and legs to mask her scent from the bloodhounds. And that memory sparked another: Marian in that cage, shrinking away from Edric Krul’s grasp. Robin’s wrath surged.
He finished daubing his body with mud. He climbed a solitary willow tree that stood at the water’s edge. He crawled along a high branch and held still, gripping his knife. He allowed his breathing and his heartbeat to slow and to slow further until they were no quicker than a hibernating creature, his body temperature dropping, the last of his scent lost beneath the mud.
He waited, and he waited, silent and still. Now it must be dusk because deer, foxes, badgers, stoats were all slipping beneath him on their way to drink. He felt the presence of the Wargwolf, moving steadily this way. A sinuous shape, weaving between the trees, its head lolling side to side.
This is madness, Robin thought. I can’t fight this creature of the shadows. He began to climb down.
Don’t you dare! Marian’s voice screamed. You need to take what the Sheriff has been seeking. This is the way. The only way. Stay where you are!
“If I die here, it’s over,” Robin whispered. “I can’t help you.”
You won’t die, not if you’re quick and brave and stay away from its shadow. Don’t you dare move, you have to fight and fight until this is put right.
Robin moaned in despair. He wriggled back along the branch. He slowed his heartbeat to a whispered ta-tump, ta-tump.
And now the beast drew near. Robin knew it did, because where the shadow of the wolf glides it sucks all light and sound into it, leaving a trail of nothingness behind. This void drifting closer, closer, and then stopping amid the willow stand.
The beast was here.
Robin’s heartbeat quickened and strengthened. Ba-boom, ba-boom—it thumped so loud he was sure the beast would hear. He felt warmth pulsing through his body: heat that would carry his scent to the Wargwolf. And still his heartbeat quickened, panic rising …
Wind moved the mist and moonlight found the beast and laid its full shadow across the willow trunks. In Robin’s mind’s eye the Wargwolf was motionless—yet its shadow lifted its head. It turned one way, then the other, tasting the air.
Finally the shadow of the wolf turned toward Robin’s tree, and its amber eyes were burning.
* * *
“Take a look at those eyes,” Guy Oxman was saying. “I don’t know which is meaner, the hounds or their master. It didn’t feel right, what we did to that stableboy.”
“Forget it,” Gunthor Bul said. “You didn’t have a choice. We did as we were told, is all.”
Early that morning the rangers had stopped at a village on the edge of Winter Forest. While peasants looked on in alarm, Oxman and Bul had unloaded the attack dogs. They left their horses at the village and had continued on foot, deep into the wildwood.
Now they had stopped for a meal of stale bread and cider. Edric told the other two men to wait while he scouted for firepits or any other sign of the wildling. The dogs were chained to separate trees, snapping at one another and dripping drool.
“You know how he got so mean,” Oxman said, pulling off his boots and stretching his legs. “Well, you know those scars on his cheeks … his father used to cut him there. In some shires folk do it to stop children crying. The tears sting in the cuts, see.”
“Don’t see how that’s going to work,” said Bul. “Those tears are going to breed more tears. Vicious cycle, that one.”
“Anyway, that’s not the worst of it,” Oxman said. “Edric’s father also used to beat him bloody, every single day, at dusk. Always the same time, so he knew it was coming. Not because of wild behavior, but just because Edric was small, and the beatings were meant to toughen him up. Well, it worked. One day he
put henbane in his father’s soup. His father slept. When he woke he found himself headfirst down the village well.”
A little way off, Edric listened to the men speak. This was a ritual of his whenever he was on patrol: He would tell his underlings he was going to reconnoiter and then he would lurk within earshot. A man headed for the top needed to know exactly what the little people think.
And Edric was pleased with what he had heard. He had personally sown the seeds for that story about his boyhood. The basic ingredients were correct: yes, his father had been cruel, and yes, Edric had killed him. But there had been no henbane, and no well. In reality a knife in the neck had been the method of murder.
But there was nothing wrong with adding spice to a tale. That was something else the Sheriff had taught him: When it comes to the manufacture of fear, the devil is in the detail. And Edric knew that fear was important. The more men feared him, the quicker would be his rise.
And it was at that moment, crouching there in the bushes, that the idea first came to Edric. He saw, in that instant, where his rise would end: not as second-in-command of the Sheriff’s Guard, but at the very top. He knew, at that moment, that he would personally depose the Sheriff.
What a bizarre thought: to kill your own idol! But Edric saw, very clearly, that this was the way it would happen. The Sheriff was not the kind of man to step aside. Therefore it would be up to Edric to seize command. Wasn’t that the way of the world, for the old and bloated to give way to the young and vital? Didn’t they say the Sheriff himself had been forced to kill his own father in order to rise to power?
Yes, yes, ruling this realm, becoming Sheriff, that was Edric Krul’s destiny, and it always had been. He could see it now, as clear as daylight. He went back to his men, his whole body fizzing with the epiphany.
“No sign of the vermin,” he said. “We move on. The dogs have its scent. It won’t be long.”
As Bul and Oxman unchained the harnesses from the trees, Edric allowed the dogs another sniff of the wildling’s clothing. It put fresh energy into the beasts, and it was all the soldiers could do to keep their feet. They were beautiful animals, these mastiffs, almost as tall as Edric, and every inch of them muscle. Huge square heads, jaws like steel traps.