by Tim Hall
“Damn that man. Where is he?”
And then Edric spotted him, sitting slumped the other side of a tree. The mist was getting so thick they had almost stumbled past him. Edric pointed and they approached.
“What are you doing?” Edric said. “Resting? You idle waste of skin. You think you’re the only one who’s exhausted? When we get back to the city—”
He fell silent. They had walked around the tree and they stood looking down at Oxman. At first it looked as though he had been sick down the front of his tunic, some of the vomit still dribbling from his mouth.
But then they saw it was blood. Half of the arrow that had pierced his throat was still impaled in the tree trunk, the shaft snapped off where Oxman had slumped to the ground.
“Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ …,” Bul was saying.
“Control yourself,” Edric said. “A fluke shot. The vermin tried to kill me once but wasn’t so lucky. We are going to find it, kill it, and leave its corpse for the dogs. Look at the angle of the arrow. It came from over there. With me.” Edric edged forward, crossbow in hand. Behind him branches snapped where Bul followed, muttering prayers. The drifting mist made it look as if the trees were following them up the slope.
“Wait …,” Bul said. “I think I saw … over there … I can’t be sure, but I thought …”
Edric spun and looked where Bul was pointing. He saw nothing but trees, stretching their limbs. Something skittered along a branch above; an owl hissed.
“Come on,” he said. “Keep moving. Show some backbone.” Edric clambered on, gripping his crossbow, the forest screeching and cackling around him. There was a piercing wail, and a gurgling sound, and the beating of wings. When he next looked back he saw Bul had fallen far behind. He was a small gray shape, standing upright against a tree.
“Keep moving,” Edric shouted. “There’s only one thing you need to fear in this forest, and that’s me! Keep moving or when we get back to the city I swear …”
The other ranger showed no sign he had heard. He stood there, as if petrified. Edric snatched branches and thorns out of his way as he strode back to Gunthor Bul. The mist parted and he found himself looking into the ranger’s eyes. A surprised look had frozen to his face.
He was still alive. An arrow had punctured his neck, and more were in his elbows and his knees. He was wearing chainmail but the arrows had found his unprotected spots. Between them the arrows had pinned him upright against the tree.
Edric shot his crossbow aimlessly into the undergrowth. He wound another bolt with shaking fingers. This could not be happening. This was not Edric Krul’s destiny—he had seen his future and it was glorious and clear as daylight. It had nothing to do with death in the shadows—dark shapes in the mist. It had nothing to do with the pathetic gurgling sounds coming from Gunthor Bul’s throat.
“No, no, I won’t let this happen!” Edric shouted. “I will not let you do this. Hear me? No!”
A shadow slipped by him. Gray against gray. He loosed a quarrel. Reloaded. There it was again, closer this time. A flash of animal fur …?
What was it? What was out here?
Another bolt fizzed into the trees. Each time Edric got a glimpse of the thing he let loose. But the glimmers were too quick—it was like trying to turn and stamp on the head of his own shadow. And now he was out of quarrels. He threw the crossbow into the trees. He ripped off his skull-helm and threw that. Then his gloves, his boots.
“No. You cannot do this to me! I am destined for greatness. You are just vermin of the woods. I will not let you do this!”
Crying, blind with rage, Edric saw nothing, heard nothing, barely even noticed when something ripped into his right hand. Another tearing thump, this time across his forehead. Still he felt no pain, but this last jolt did make him pause. He realized something had changed.
He stared. Someone—something—was standing in front of him, twenty paces away.
It was here. The wildling. Just standing there.
Horror and revulsion gripped Edric’s heart.
What is it?
It was standing on two feet, half crouched, but it appeared more beast than man. A bloody pelt formed its hood and cloak—a pelt so freshly skinned it still glistened and steamed. Edric thought he saw the pelt bulge, or shift, as if … No … No … He was imagining things … These were merely more tricks of the mist. He had to focus. He was here to kill it. It doesn’t matter what it is. It will bleed and die, the same as everything else.
And still Edric had a chance. The wildling was clearly in pain: It was gritting its teeth and making a hissing sound. The pelt rippled again and the wildling half stumbled, almost going to its knees. It was in agony, and disoriented—now Edric should attack.
Do it. Strike now.
But it was far too late. Edric’s sword hand hung shattered at his side, impaled with an arrow. In any case, his arm wouldn’t move. Neither would his feet. He couldn’t even blink the tears from his eyes.
And only now did he understand they were not in fact tears, but were streams of blood. A second arrow had taken the top of his skull and had damaged something vital. He could still see, hear, think, but his every muscle was locked. He screamed inside, but no noise reached his ears.
The wildling appeared to recover from its latest bout of pain. It tipped its head; Edric stared into the dead amber eyes of that grisly hood.
What are you?
It came closer, its bow lowered. It sniffed at Edric and made a noise in its throat. It turned away, sweeping its bloody cloak.
It’s going to leave me here.
The wildling loped away through the mist. A rustle in the leaves and it was gone.
Don’t leave me like this!
Edric screamed noiselessly, and he struggled in vain to move his body of stone. He listened to his attack dogs snarling, somewhere close. The animals had scented newly spilled blood and now they were heading in this direction, prowling the forest for fresh meat.
The leaves stir and a skin-feeling stops you in your tracks. Your head tips back, your limbs stretch toward the warmth. Ahead you scent a wild flower glade. You hear scaly creatures scratching across the rocks. You go and join them, finding a soft spot amid the moss, wriggling back and forth before finally lying still.
Biting things begin buzzing near your face—you swipe at them, growling low in your throat. The breeze strengthens and washes the biters from the air. You lie still once more, breathing slow and even, slipping toward sleep …
But something won’t leave you in peace—something that stings worse than the insects. It drags you to your feet. You leave the glade and lope through the trees, lowering your head, sniffing for scent trails, listening for the heartbeat of concealed meat.
Something darts through the undergrowth and you follow, silent as its shadow. This creature had a name once—something like moooaaaausss—but you know it now as a red-brown smell and a warm-blood sound.
You stalk, pounce. The creature dies easily. You suck its heart dry and crunch its tiny bones. A guttural noise of pleasure. A swelling that might be called pride. But this meal does little to appease your appetite.
Back to your feet and off again, moving through the forest on swift strong limbs. More prey crosses your path and you are after it, dogging its steps. The creature hops across a clearing. The scrunch-scrunch of its teeth ripping up green shoots.
You glide closer, close enough to strike—
Another predator sweeps in from above, on muffled wings. The smaller creature shrieks and there is a death struggle. Your lips curl back from your teeth. But you don’t make a sound. Instead, you string your bow and nock an arrow.
You draw, aim, let loose. The feathered thief drops dead, your prey still clutched in its talons. You go to collect your double prize. The floppy-eared thing is still alive—you shake it like a rag until its neck snaps and it hangs limp. You deftly skin the creature with your blade and you set about making a fire to cook the meat.
Something
deep inside you remembers these tools—bow and knife and fire—and you use them unthinkingly, like extensions of your arms, your hands, your claws.
Claws …?
Your hands go to your face and grope clumsily and bring blood to your cheeks. A silent scream rises in your throat.
What am I?
Your hands go to your head, your shoulders, tearing at the wolf hide. But it is futile—you could no more cast it off than you could discard your own shadow.
What have I become?
It passes. The same way it has before. You are up and running through the trees, following a fresh hunt, and the powerful predator stuff is flowing in your veins and those human thoughts are left lying in the litter, like snakeskin.
But it has only just begun, this new struggle. Until now your creature-self has been stronger. But winter is over. Flowers are carpeting the earth and birds are calling their song of rebirth and moths are drying their newfound wings. Spring, and everything is waking up …
Mutant memories that have lurked deep are bubbling to the surface. You remember now. You remember …
Lying there by the willow pool, wrapped in the remains of the Wargwolf, and you felt one last tearing surge of pain that could so easily have been death but you are now beginning to understand was the feeling of fur and flesh and sinew knitting together.
Aaaaaggggnnoooaaahhhh …
A howl rattles through the trees, snapping you back to the present. Birds take wing and ground-creatures bolt for their burrows.
Naaaaarrrrraagggggggaaahhhhrrr …
There it is again, more desperate than before. You flee too, bounding away with the frightened deer. But your running now is cramped, your body twisted, and the noise keeps up easily. You feel yourself sinking to the earth.
Naaaaaahhhhhooooaaaahhhh …
Finally you understand: It is you making these sounds. And only now do you feel the pain—a grinding torture in your limbs—hot needles in your marrow. You fall to your hands and knees, your back arching, your spine trying to burst free.
Aaaaaggggnnnoooooaaaahhhhh …
This body is still building itself: sinews twining tighter, creaking like rope being wound. Wounds sucking themselves closed across bones that are bulging, threatening to erupt once more through the skin. Each burst of agony reaches the very limits of pain, and yet each new spasm is more excruciating than the last. You slump forward, your face in the wet earth, arms and legs thrashing—
It passes.
Your body ceases its quaking. You lie still, dreading its return. You try not to make a noise, not wanting to wake the hot thrashing thing within.
The thunder in your chest subsides, your fingers uncurl. You get unsteadily to your feet.
The pain is gone. In its place is a gnawing void in your stomach.
You go on your way, uncertainly at first—these legs not feeling like your own—but then beginning to move more surely, and then to run, and then to sweep through the trees, the power flooding your muscles, the agony all but forgotten.
You go to the banks of the stream and to the crossing points, checking your deadfall traps. You find a snared creature, squashed flat. You scrape it from the rock and eat it raw, the blood coating your chin. Dropping the empty skin, you cut juicy morsels from the base of an oak, sniffing them for any hint of poison. They are safe—you stuff the meaty things in whole. You catch bugs and fish and flesh of every kind and you eat it all, greedily, but none of this can tame your raging hunger.
You sniff the air and follow an unusual scent trail. Here, perhaps, is something that can slake your appetite …
You move closer. There are five of these creatures, moving in a tight pack. You listen to their sounds: clinking noises, far too loud. The breaking of branches, the crushing of ground-nests, unseen. What kind of creature moves with so little stealth? What sort of animal destroys so much, without even having to try …?
You listen to the noises coming from their mouths.
“Soopar luff roking lever mee joaki.”
“Mender fare finlune geffer nit lep.”
You know now every language of the forest. You know which pip means home and which whistle means food and which shriek means danger. But these alien glops and globs and lollings, they mean nothing to you.
“Ayrnyoo friitair inimat kool.”
“Whitter winer, whitter froo.”
A growl of self-warning rises in your throat. Steer clear of these creatures. They are unpredictable, and cruel. You turn and run and leave them far behind.
You check more of your traps and you hunt with your bow and you feast on more flesh. But your hunger only grows fiercer. Perhaps it is thirst. You stop at a spring and lap cold fresh water. You drink until you cannot drink a mouthful more, yet still the emptiness remains. You put your back to a tree and rub yourself against its rough bark. This provides a moment’s distraction, but no real relief: As soon as you stop you feel the gnawing sensation, clawing at you from within.
You set off at a run, trying to outdistance this incessant yearning. It is working. You feel the mud and the mulch between your toes, the wind on your skin, the heat in your muscles. You run faster, swift and sure, reveling in the feeling of it—a squirrel pup, leaping through the trees, delighted to discover what its body can perform.
But you miss a step, stumble.
Nnnnnaaaaaarrrrraaagggggghhh …
The agony explodes and sends you crashing to the earth. Your limbs buckle backward. Your bones bend to their cracking point, then keep on bending, screaming like boughs in a storm. And still it intensifies, your every fiber shuddering fit to burst.
Nrrrggggggaaaaooooahhhh …
This body thrashing warping rebuilding—
It stops.
You lie still, snorting sharp and shallow.
You make a hissing noise between your teeth.
The agony has departed, and in its place is that twisting emptiness in your chest and in your guts. It is more insistent than ever.
And you suspect now you know how to satisfy this urge …
In the distance you hear those creatures in metal skins. You move toward them. The hissing between your teeth becomes a gurgled yell. This noise isn’t caused by pain, but by something deeper and older, red raw.
Gnnnrrrraoooooowwwwwwaaaahhh …
The creatures in metal skins have heard you. They are running, blundering even more clumsily than before.
“Whanafugaflet?”
“Whanaru? Gooogaar!”
Their shouting only fuels the fire coursing through your veins. You crash through the undergrowth, yelling louder. Your hunting instinct tells you this is wrong: You should be silent in your pursuit. But that last bolt of pain has left you beyond your own control.
The five creatures have separated. You go after the nearest one.
He is shouting, over and over, and his sounds are starting to hover close to sense.
“Weararryou? Gouger, ayemhere, where are yooo? Gouger!”
You descend on him. He turns, begins to scream, but your knife goes to his throat and turns his noise to a wet gurgling sound.
You lower the still-thrashing, blood-foaming body to the ground. You sniff close to the carcass, to see if this meat is good to eat. The smell makes you gag. No. You are not hunting these creatures for food. But you will hunt them, just the same.
You string your bow and go after the next intruder.
“What is it? What’s out here? Yilman, Scragger!”
You have begun to understand their words.
“Yilman, is that you? It’s me, I’m here!”
And their language twists in your mind to become questions of your own.
Why did he do this to us?
Where is he keeping her?
How long must I wait for my revenge?
You slip through the shadows, silently now, stalking your prey. Your quarry stumbles away, alone. You nock an arrow, draw and let loose—you taste this ranger’s terror and you drink in his screams�
�and for the moment at least the twisting void in your stomach is appeased.
The further Will Scarlett sank into the gloom, the more fetid the air became, the fiercer his self-loathing burned. How long has she been down here? How long can a person survive, breathing this miasma?
He released another length of rope and the pulleys creaked and the basket lurched deeper into the dark. All around him were the groans and pleading voices of The Forgotten—the noises swelling below him, passing close to his ear and echoing again above. How long can a person stay sane, listening to this choir of the damned?
He lifted his lantern and tried to peer into the tunnels and caves that formed the cells of this prison. Sometimes he caught the flash of eyes, but immediately the wretch would raise their hands to cover their face, would shrink from the light the way a leaf curls against the heat of a fire.
Will descended; the voices followed.
No, noooo. I didn’t …
Help me.
Pleeeasse … What do you want with us …?
He listened to the voices and he dreaded what he was going to find at the end of his descent. He fought the urge to pull on the opposite rope and hoist himself back to the light. No. You put her here. You have to set this straight.
He began coughing. He halted the basket and swung in midair, feeling the ache of fever at the back of his throat. He coughed and kept coughing. He suspected he was probably dying, and he found the idea held no particular fear. Not anymore.
He supposed he didn’t look out of place here today—his beard unusually wild, his uniform splattered with mud and blood. He had spent the past ten days in the western shires, fighting running battles with a bandit company known as Hydra’s League. Ten days of ambush and counterambush, of daylight raid and midnight skirmish, of rain and wind and no sleep. Finally Will’s band had scattered the outlaws. But his enemies’ arrows and the elements had exacted a heavy toll: He had limped back to the castle today with two of his men dead and another three dangerously ill.
Will himself was burning with fever, his body begging him to sleep for a week. I’ll rest once this is done. I won’t put it off any longer.