Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  Many times Edric had gone to the kennels in the castle just to watch these dogs rattle their chains, their wrath awesome to behold. It was said that the same family of dogs had been with the Sheriff’s Guard for twenty generations, and that in each litter the weakest, least vicious pups were destroyed. Generation by generation the dogs grew meaner, until now they were pure fury.

  Edric followed the dogs, feeling almost sick with excitement, picturing what they would do to their quarry. That abomination had tried to kill him, and at last Edric was going to have his revenge. There wasn’t much longer to wait.

  * * *

  This final stage of waiting was the worst of all. Robin was aware of every whisper of air through the trees. Every waft of the beast’s breath.

  It doesn’t know you’re here, he told himself. If it did, it would have fled, or attacked.

  He concentrated on slowing his heartbeat. It was working: he could feel the warmth leaving his body, his scent fading away.

  The mist swirled and the moonlight shone and Robin’s idea of the Wargwolf wavered. For a moment there was no beast here but instead a man crouched amid the willows—a giant of a man, wrapped in a wolf-pelt cloak, his eyes an uncanny amber. Then the mist closed its grip and the man vanished and Robin could sense only the beast, poised on its haunches.

  Finally the monster-wolf moved. It slid toward the water’s edge. It stopped once more, to sniff close to the earth. It continued to the pool and lowered its head to drink.

  It was directly below Robin.

  He listened to its tongue hit the water and he told himself to remain still—to do nothing and wait for the beast to leave. There must be a better way.

  But Marian’s voice screamed—You led them to me!—and all the familiar images came flooding back: the cage, the lancing knife, the man with the melted face …

  Do it! Marian screamed. You have to fight!

  Robin’s anger burning, but most of all his terror—every drop of fear he had ever felt for the Sheriff and his soldiers and Jadder Payne and Winter Forest and the Wargwolf—he was finally fully desperate to cast off his fear.

  Shifting his weight, dropping from the branch, he fell onto the beast’s back. He thrust his knife into the side of its throat.

  A terrible, gurgling howl.

  The beast bucked thrashed roared, bellowing blood.

  Robin holding on—all he could do was hold on—trying desperately to grip fur already slippery with gore. The wolf snarling, flailing wildly with its claws and trying to bring its jaws around to snap off its attacker’s head.

  Another mighty howl. Robin gritting his teeth and holding tight, but slipping, beginning to slide from the beast’s back …

  The beast bucking and thrashing, a storm of claws. Robin’s limbs feeling suddenly icy and slippery wet. Slicing pain and tearing sounds too frightening to think about.

  Hold on! Marian screamed. She said you would be lost if you lose your grip.

  Another long lance of pain. The right side of his body going numb. No strength left of his own—his only chance was to hold on and hope the beast defeated itself—thrashing its own weight across Robin’s knife.

  The taste of blood rising in his throat. Somehow still managing to keep hold. Outside his own body now: picturing a scrap of skin being flailed through the air, the way a cat shakes a dead mouse on the end of its paw.

  But now something was changing. The thrashing had begun to slow. The howling replaced by a gurgling sound.

  The monster-god was sinking to the mud. Dying … Robin was grinding it down. He was winning!

  The beast slumping

  Slowing

  Gurgling—

  And then raging, more violently than ever. It had only been gathering its strength. It howled, twisted its head fully and sank its fangs into Robin’s flesh.

  A wet sucking sound. A flood of heat and liquid flowing to the ground.

  Robin lost his grip on the blade.

  He was falling.

  The beast still roaring …

  Robin had lost. It was over, at last …

  Another lurching, falling sensation, and finally a crushing weight on Robin’s chest. The great nothingness that followed was as comforting as a good-night kiss.

  The goddess of the forest steps lightly to the edge of the pool. She looks down at the mess of blood and guts and ripped skin.

  The man-child had proved brave. He had not let go—not even at the end. It is more than could be said for her brother. The Wargwolf loosened its grip to take a killer bite at Robin’s neck, and in doing so had split itself open along the blade.

  Now the Wargwolf lies with its mighty head on Robin’s chest. They are both so torn and bloody it is hard to tell where beast ends and man begins.

  The forest goddess goes to her knees. Time to do her work.

  Blood is still pumping from the body of the beast. She collects some of the blood in three stoppered flasks. Next, she takes a knife with a shimmering blue blade and she cuts out seven of the wolf’s teeth, using all her weight to lever them from the gums. Each tooth is the size of a dagger and they come loose with a crunch. She places them in a plain wooden box.

  Lastly she crouches and watches the sky. Clouds part and mist swirls and moonlight spills through the trees. The moonlight reveals the shadow of the beast. The goddess bends with the knife and cuts away one last part of the wolf-god—this time without actually touching the corpse.

  She bundles her prizes together. Only then does she turn her attention to Robin. She checks first—yes, a faint waft of breath and a tiny tremor in his chest. He is clinging to life, barely. She drops to her hands and knees. Her hair hangs forward and in the moonlight she now looks more vixen than woman. She begins licking Robin’s many wounds. Between licks, it sounds as if she is holding a conversation with herself.

  “Wasting time. Will die anyway.”

  “Have to try. Who will wield the pieces?”

  “Taste him. Dying. Dead already? There will be others.”

  “Can’t know that. He has destroyed so many.”

  “Even if he lives, will be too weak. They are coming. Too vulnerable in changing state.”

  “Will lead them astray. If we can.”

  “Waste of time. There are always others. Only the pieces are important.”

  “Have to try.”

  She licks and licks until Robin is a curled baby, bloodless and pale. Then she folds open the long gash in the Wargwolf’s chest and, bit by bit, she pushes and heaves and rolls Robin inside the corpse. There is a sucking sound and steam rises from hot flesh. She pulls the fold of wolf hide closed, over Robin’s head.

  She gathers her prizes. Anyone or anything watching from the trees will glimpse, finally, what looks like a two-tailed vixen, fleeing into the night.

  * * *

  Robin is back in Wodenhurst, in the croft of his old home. His brothers and his father are here. They are digging a deep pit.

  “Whose grave is this?” Robin says.

  Hal turns to him and smiles. “Why, little brother, it’s your grave.”

  Robin knows this is true. He is lying in a coffin. He can see the world above him, in summer colors. But then the lid slams shut and there is nothing but black. He feels the coffin being lifted, then lowered into the earth. He tries to scream but his mouth is full of fur.

  “We’ll be rid of him at last,” he hears his father say, and his brothers laugh.

  Sir Bors and Bones and Irish and Rowly have also come to stand at the graveside.

  “You’re dead to us now, Loxley,” Sir Bors says.

  The coffin comes to rest. Robin hears soil being scooped into the grave—wet soil, making a splattering sound on the coffin lid. The laughter of his father and brothers and the others becomes fainter through the earth. Fainter. Silence.

  Robin is alone in the dark. He can barely breathe. This grave smells of rotting flesh. He has to get out. He begins to claw his way free. The coffin lid gives way and the soil begins to
part. He is relieved to find his fingers are wolf claws, which help him dig. He is rising. But then he comes up against something solid.

  It is something living. It turns its head and narrows its amber eyes. There is a wound in the wolf’s throat that opens and closes when it speaks.

  “You can wipe that wolfish look off your face,” it says. “I never did you any harm.” A scar in the shape of a teardrop falls from the beast’s face.

  “I didn’t ask for any of this,” Robin says. “It was them … It was … her. I’m going to walk my own path from now on. I can’t breathe. I have to get to the surface.”

  “You’re going nowhere,” says the beast. “The least you can do is stay here and keep me company. I bet eternity isn’t as long as it sounds. We’ll play games to pass the time. Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing? Or is it Goat in Wolf’s Clothing …?”

  Stay …? Robin thinks. Stay down here? Why not? The surface is so far away, and it is surprisingly warm down here in the ground. But it’s so difficult to breathe. Then give up breathing. Easy. Yes. Give up. What a relief.

  He turns to tell the wolf the good news, but the beast is gone and in its place is a man, the left side of his face shining like wax.

  “A blind bit of luck, seeing you,” the Sheriff says. “I know we have not always seen eye to eye, but I wanted to assure you, you are making a wise decision, staying down here. I know what the Book says, ‘an eye for an eye,’ but these things can go on and on. I should know.”

  The Sheriff’s clothes are black feathers and he has been pierced by a dozen arrows. He is pulling them out as he speaks. He removes the final arrowhead, made of jade.

  “Must fly,” he says. “Have you tried plucking the feathers from an angel’s wings? The devil’s own work, I can tell you.”

  Only as the man-crow flaps away does Robin notice two eyeballs dangling from its beak. He digs furiously, desperate to catch the man-crow. He feels himself rising. But then something stops him and he looks down. The wolf is holding Robin’s ankles with pale pink hands.

  “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I can’t still fight,” says the wolf. “Doesn’t mean I don’t still have claws. Hmmm, matter of fact I only have these hands of yours. But they’ll do. You’re staying right here with me.”

  Robin gives up digging. The surface is too far away; the wolf’s grip is so firm.

  The Sheriff was right: better to stay down here, and sleep.

  Yes, give up. Stop breathing. Relief.

  * * *

  Edric was relieved. At last they had the wildling. It was over …

  The final part of the chase had been infuriating. Several times they seemed to be doubling back. Were the dogs leading them in circles? Surely a blind wildling couldn’t be this quick on its feet?

  The sun lowered and mist rose amid the trees. Edric’s men became nervous, his dogs frantic. He could feel his own fury building. How dare that vermin lead him in this sort of dance? Edric had seen his glorious future, fully revealed. He needed to get this finished so he could progress to the next phase.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Gunthor Bul said. “I’m sure we just came this way.”

  “Look at the dogs,” Guy Oxman said. “They’re pulling in different directions. They don’t—”

  “Stop it!” Edric hissed. “Hold your tongues.”

  Once again they doubled back. Was that the flash of a fox’s tail? The feathers of a hawk? Were the dogs becoming confused by other scent trails?

  At times it seemed to Edric it was the forest itself that was leading them astray. The dogs suddenly turned, looked about to retrace their steps, but the track behind them had gone—forest paths closing in their wake. These are just tricks of the mist, Edric told himself. You do not fear this place. It should fear you!

  The dogs and his men grew more skittish. Edric felt his wrath rising, threatening to erupt. He forced himself to remember the Sheriff’s words: Don’t let anger be your master; shape it to your own needs. He gave the dogs another sniff of the sheepskin and watched for any hint of the wildling.

  And now, finally, they had him. Edric smiled.

  Bul and Oxman had pulled up amid a stand of willow trees, looking down toward a wide muddy pool. The attitude of the dogs had changed—their eyes were fixed on something at the water’s edge. They growled, low in their throats.

  Through the thickening mist Edric struggled to make out what was lying there. It looked like the wildling, sure enough, wrapped in some kind of animal pelt. It wasn’t moving. Had it fallen, exhausted by the chase?

  “Is that blood?” Oxman said. “That darker patch, against the mud.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Edric said. “Get this finished.”

  Glancing at each other, the two rangers unclipped the harness chains. Edric’s smile widened as he watched the dogs lower their heads and race toward the water’s edge.

  * * *

  There is a naked, angry angel with hawk-dark hair. One eye gray, the other eye green.

  “Breathe!” she shouts. “You always were a stupid goat, but you were never so stupid you forgot how to breathe. Breathe. And dig!”

  Are you dead too? Robin thinks. If so, I’m staying down here with you.

  “I’m not dead. I told you, I’m buried somewhere else. We both have to dig ourselves out. Quick! Someone is coming.” The Marian-angel screams and looks terrified. “Hurry, you’ve got to get out. He’s a bad man with tears on his cheeks. Please, don’t let him find you here like this.” The angel shrieks. “He’s here! By the pool. He can see you.”

  Just in time the angel flies free—dog jaws snap shut, ripping feathers from the tips of her wings.

  Wait for me. Come back, please. Robin digs and thrashes, his lungs bursting, sucking the thinnest of breaths between the cloying flesh-soil. In any case, it is too late: The angel is gone. He lies still. Better to stay down here, safe and warm.

  Safe?

  He has come closer to the surface. He begins to make sense of what is happening above. He detects the frightened heartbeat of a badger, buried in its sett. He feels a fox bolt, terrified, for its den. He traces the complex patterns set in motion when one bird calls to another in alarm, and that bird calls to the next, and the next. These sensations intensify, the tones and textures emerging cleaner and clearer than he has ever known …

  This is the connection Cernunnos spoke to Robin about—what the old man called seeing the ripples in the pond. Cernunnos had begun to teach Robin to sense the world this way. But now Robin knows those were glimpses, merely. Here it is in its full glory.

  And now Robin thinks the old man was wrong. It isn’t a pond; it is a spider’s web. Robin is at the center, and he can feel where every bird and insect touches a strand. Every contact with the web lights a color in his mind’s eye. It is beautiful, and peaceful, and Robin thinks he could stay down here forever, watching the shapes turn and listening to the slow language of the trees.

  Except there is something happening, at this moment, that is twisting the shapes and leaving them deformed. There are creatures, nearby, that don’t belong. They are so clumsy and cruel they are tearing the strands and causing Robin’s mind to scream. The colors shatter and become shards.

  The cruel creatures move closer. Robin feels a hatred for them as deep as the roots in the soil. Why can’t you leave me alone? Even buried here you can’t leave me in peace.

  He detects a ranger with wasp-orange hair. And there are dogs, racing toward a water hole. The dogs start fighting over something, playing tug-of-war with bones.

  Robin hears Hal’s voice. Why, little brother, those are your bones.

  Panicking, Robin digs, making a desperate lunge for the surface. He rises through the flesh-soil and he bursts free. He breathes fresh air. And he smells danger.

  And he hears a cracking in his bones and feels a blaze of racking, roaring pain.

  In a lifetime of savagery, it was the most savage thing Edric Krul had ever seen. From the safety of the willow tre
es he was looking down toward the wildwood pool. The mastiffs had reached the wildling and now Edric watched them tearing it to pieces.

  At his side, Bul was muttering something beneath his breath. Oxman had pressed a silver crucifix to his lips. Edric ignored them. He watched the attack dogs. They had gone days without food and now, as they worked, their muzzles sprayed lumps of muscle, sinew, fur …

  Fur?

  Edric beckoned to his men. Gunthor Bul and Guy Oxman glanced at each other before following him out of the willow stand, gripping their weapons. Slowly, they approached the dogs. The mastiffs were now playing tug-of-war with the wildling’s entire spine. At least, it was big enough to be its spine. But it looked to Edric more like a single bone.

  The mist was thickening. Edric tried to get a better look …

  Mother of God. That stinking verminous …

  “It isn’t the wildling,” Edric said. “Get your eyes open. We’re still hunting.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bul.

  “Take a look, genius. How could the wildling have a bone that big? What kind of animal …? It isn’t our quarry! That’s all you need to know. You’re not here to think—you’re here to do. The dogs led us here, so the wildling must be near. It’s not escaping me this time. Where’s Oxman? Oxman! Where is he?”

  Edric allowed himself one last look at the mess of blood and fur. It was an animal’s carcass, wasn’t it? But it was huge. And the way the flesh folded outward looked as if it had been killed from the inside … or … or, as if something had burst out.

  “Oxman went back up that way,” Gunthor Bul said. “He’s been acting strange. Maybe I don’t blame him. The way those dogs were behaving. And this mist. It’s getting so I can’t—”

  “Be quiet,” Edric said. “Oxman must have seen something. Find him quickly. No good disturbing the dogs now. Let them finish.”

  The two men moved away from the water hole, back toward the stand of willow trees. Edric called out to Guy Oxman but got no reply.