WolfWolf is

by Paul G Mann

  Published by Paul G Mann at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 Paul G Mann

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  One

  He stood rock still barely taking a breath. His arm was beginning to ache as the pressure of keeping the bow string drawn back to his chin began to cramp his biceps, but he knew, one false move, one sound out of the ordinary could be his last if the Ripper he was stalking caught his scent, heard him or saw him. He had the beast dead to rights, all he lacked was a clear sure shot through the trees, and while he was a patient man when out hunting, he had a gnawing feeling that the Rippers mate, now out of his vision, could be circling looking for an opportunity to spring and rip him to shreds.

  Rippers were nasty beasts; half the size again of a wolf hound and twice as heavy they resembled a dog only in the way they looked and ran. Four legs with wicked claws that unlike a dog were retractable like a cat. A long snout with teeth more in keeping with an Earth shark and fast, faster than anything he had ever seen or heard about back home on Earth. They were the scourge of Newth roaming the forests and grasslands killing anything they thought of as a meal. Like the shark they had a bloodlust that once aroused couldn’t be sated or satisfied until whatever they attacked had been killed and eaten. Even when sated only the foolhardy would go anywhere near one without fear of being ripped apart.

  At last the Ripper moved and instinctively his fingers relaxed releasing the bow string. The yard long arrow sped true from the powerful bow taking the animal in the neck severing windpipe and jugular that stopped a full throated scream from the beast. With nothing more than a gurgle of blood it fell to the forest floor where it had stood. To his left he heard the unmistakeable snarl of an adult Ripper quickly followed by the sound of trampled shrubbery as the beast charged him through the undergrowth. Panic and fear was useless, he was too experienced a hunter to let those two killer emotions invade his mind. The bow was of no further use. The speed of the charging beast meant it would be on him before he could have an arrow knocked and the bow turned in the direction of the attacking animal; to then take aim and fire with any chance of reasonable success was a pipe dream.

  He pulled his knife; an old brittle stone knife some eight inches in length, made from a Ripper claw; sharp and deadly it would only give him one decent hack at the beast before it would break. At the same time, his other hand pulled an arrow from the quiver and in one fluid movement he turned in the direction of the charging Ripper. It was less than a dozen yards from him, back legs already digging claws into the ground ready to spring at him with teeth and front claws looking to tear the flesh from his bones. He crouched and dived, rolling as he did so towards and underneath the animal pushing the arrow upwards with all his strength as he came out of the roll on to his back and quickly onto his feet turning in a crouch to face the enraged beast. He knew instinctively by the scream the creature made and the way in which the arrow was snatched from his grip that he had drawn blood and wounded it.

  Wounded it may be but Rippers were quick and anything short of a killing blow would not deter it from trying to rip him to shreds. He knew these animals well, hunting and tracking them was his business, a business very few if any others on this God forsaken planet followed. His movements in tackling the beast was one of a well trained athlete; knife in hand he crouched, his leg muscles fine tuned coils of power ready to spring away from the Ripper as it turned to attack him once more. Irate it hadn’t killed its quarry on the first pass it sprang once again with an increased viciousness, the arrow in its underside ignored as the bloodlust desire to rip flesh from bone drove it to bury its teeth into its prey.

  Cool and calm the hunter waited, muscles tightly coiled waiting for the right moment to thrust the knife into the animals throat. He watched as it sprang; this was the most dangerous time of the hunt, he could avoid the animals fangs with ease, what he trusted to luck and God was his ability to avoid the wicked hooked, barbed and razor sharp claws that the slightest of touches would slice his flesh to the bone. The knives these claws made would let him trade for enough goods and provisions to see him through the winter. He feigned to roll under the animal once more; at the last second he let the roll take him to his left bringing the knife upwards from waist height as he did so and buried it in the animals’ neck under the jaw, the blade penetrated the throat, up through the roof of the mouth and into the brain; the momentum and weight of the attack breaking the knife at the hilt.

  He felt the blade break and knew that his last chance to kill the Ripper without serious injury to himself had gone. The next few seconds would tell if his last blow had done its job and whether he lived or died today. He sprang to his feet, covered in hot stinking Ripper blood, a cursory once over look at the Ripper told him it was dead and he let out his long pent up breath. Another cursory look at himself showed no serious injury although it revealed how lucky he had been with nothing more than a few deep cuts across his chest where the Rippers’ claws had caught a glancing blow, those and a small cut on his upper arm would need a stitch or two; his other minor injuries needed nothing more than a good cleaning and all would be well.

  It had been a good mornings work, two Rippers with their coats and claws was a good return for the weeks effort he had put in tracking and stalking the animals. He set to with a will, skinning the animals and roughly scrapping the fat off the hides. He cut the four claws away from each pad, wicked things, the smallest six inches in length, the biggest nearly nine. The claws once shaped and honed would make nice knives, the biggest he would keep for himself the others he would trade in Haroldstown market. The pelts however he would unload on to anyone who lived alone away from the hovels of the towns and villages. They would bring him a dry bed for a few nights with some home cooked food if he was lucky. The people out here in the woods would be glad of them as Rippers steered clear of their own smell; the only thing a Ripper feared was another of its kind and a Ripper pelt hanging over a cave entrance was a good deterrent.

  With the animals skinned and declawed he left the meat to rot on the woodland floor; the only thing Ripper meat was good for was to feed the birds. Tough and stringy with a bitter taste and a smell of rotten eggs that a really starving man would hesitate to eat, it was best left where it was for the woodland scavengers, he would come back in a few weeks for the bones once they had been picked clean; these too would make strong knives, arrow heads and axe heads from the thigh and hip bones. The rest of the skeleton would make any number of other useful tools and implements that would be traded next spring for goods and provisions.

  Most people on Newth congregated in tunnels underground; mainly for defence against the Hunki, not that they gave any defence. These places stank to high heaven and Fred hated them as much as he hated the Hunki. He was also a giant of a man standing over six foot six in height weighing some twenty stone. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; his massive bulk was all hard lean muscle that a hundred years living alone in the forest and woodlands hunting Rippers had honed into a fit athletic man with highly trained senses that made him stand out from other humans. His size had been distinctive back on Earth where the average height for a man was less than five foot six and that distinction had followed him here. He had learned over a hundred years ago that the tunnels were no place for him; his very bulk made living in them near impossible, coupled with the smell and filth they were too confined for him, he needed
the fresh open spaces to be able to breathe in peace.

  In reality he was over a hundred and thirty years old; nothing out of the ordinary here on Newth. For some reason everyone had life spans or could live if they escaped the Hunki and the Rippers for many hundreds of years. Fred had met more than one resident of this world over two hundred years of age and looking as if they were only in their early thirties. Nice long lives without illness that had a downside, no children existed on Newth, no one was born here and the Hunki never brought any to live here. You only died here if you committed suicide like so many did, were killed by the Rippers, hunted by the Hunki or were unfortunate enough to ne murdered or have an accident. It was a mystery of life on this planet that no one had an answer to.

  Another reason he liked the open spaces of woods and forest was because the Hunki didn’t; their weapons in woodland were awkward and their physique made stealth something they could never achieve. Short and squat with a waddle rather than a walk, creeping about in woodland was something a Hunki could never do. Forget the tunnels he often thought, the woods were far safer even with packs of Rippers roaming about. It never ceased to amaze him why people congregated in the hovels the way they did rather than look for a better living in the woods and forests, but they knew their business best and far be it for him to try and change their minds.

  Once he had finished with the Rippers, he boiled some water and washed and stitched his wounds before infection could set in. Picking up his pack he made his way back to his camp listening to the animal sounds around him; soothing in their peacefulness; he knew from them that danger wasn’t near and nothing was lurking behind trees and bushes ready to attack him. It would be an hour at least before he made it back to camp, an hour in which the tranquillity set his mind wandering back to how he first came here. Wanting adventure he had defied his father and ran on his fourteen year old legs away from his home in Devon to Plymouth. He wanted to fight with the Privateers against the Spanish. Disappointed he made it to Plymouth as news of the victory against the great Armada of ships was being shouted about the town. Undeterred although a little downcast at missing the action, he joined the first ship that made it back to Plymouth signing on as a lowly deck boy.

  The Spittal Head was a three masted vessel captained by the infamous Captain Jack Cooper, who it was rumoured was a noted Privateer, some said pirate, who had joined the privateers to have his deeds under the Jolly Rodger pardoned by the Queen. He was a strict disciplinarian who would use the cat of nine tails as a punishment for the most frivolous of reasons and Fred learned very early in his sea going life to behave or suffer the consequences.

  His proficiency with a bow was soon discovered when they attacked a Spanish Merchantman off the Azores. Two archers had been struck by the Spanish opening flight of arrows and the captain had quickly reinforced their positions with the nearest crew members. Freds’ first arrow fired from over a hundred yards away embedded in the heart of the Spanish Captain; his second a few heartbeats later found the eye socket of the officer standing next to him. Both arrows noted by Captain Cooper before he turned his attention to ordering a broadside at the leaderless ship.

  He was thankful to his father; it had been his wish that he take up the bow in the Queens service; the matchlock guns had never really been used in warfare, they were not accurate, they were cumbersome, totally useless in wet weather, took an age to reload, and were only really effective at close range or used by soldiers in volley fire. The bow on the other hand was true, light, and easily fitted with an arrow that could find a mark at 150 yards. Alfred or Fred Marchland as he was known liked the bow and abided by his fathers’ wishes mainly because it helped to keep the peace at home; his own wish however was to explore the world; hence his place on board the Spittal Head. Now what was once a mere proficiency with the bow was honed to a fine art with hours of practice each day; a whole morning watch would be set aside for the archers to hone their skills; a skill that much later set him apart on Newth.

  Their luck ran out in the South Pacific when the mother of all storms damaged and sank the Spittal Head. She went down quickly as timbers broke and smashed through decking and hull; sixty foot waves pounded and flooded the stricken ship and Fred was tossed into the sea, washed overboard as a wave crashed down on the deck he happened to be standing on. Stunned and dazed he knew little of what was happening as he was tossed about by the huge angry seas. More than one lungful of water was taken in as he struggled to stay afloat, and he began to come to terms with the fact that only a miracle could keep him alive.

  Something hit him in the side and fearing sharks he turned in a panic to see a spar as it was about to crash into his head. His arms flailed at it, and with luck born out of desperation he managed to get a grip on it and haul his leg over the spar and astride the lifesaving wood. He looked around as best he could but saw nothing of the ship or crew; it had gone, sank or sailed away he never found out but judging by the damage done before he washed overboard his assumption was it had sank. Rope and halyard still clung to the spar and with difficulty he used the halyard to lash himself to the drifting wood. Once done he relaxed and let the ocean take him where it would, hoping it was toward land.

  How long he drifted he didn’t know. The storm lasted two days by his count, but the time after the storm was a haze as the burning sun would knock him unconscious. In an effort to protect himself he wrapped one leg of his trousers around his head, the other around his neck; it wasn’t much protection against the blazing orb in the sky but as luck had it, it was enough. Eventually he was woken by a gull; the scavenging seabird viciously pecking on his neck in search of a meal. Flapping his arms in righteous panic, it flew away and he looked up to find himself in a lagoon no more than a hundred and fifty yards from a golden beach. His strength was nearly gone; he hadn’t eaten or drank in what seemed like a week and his cracked lips could barely make a sound. The halyard had swollen in the sea making the release from the knots difficult, but he eventually cut himself loose and swam slowly towards the shore and life preserving dry land.

  It was a large island measuring some five miles in length and two, maybe three across. Life there while not idyllic was pleasant enough, game roamed the island; small wild pigs, birds even a herd of wild goats; how they had managed to get here he could only guess at. Fruit trees were here in abundance and water ran clear and fresh from a spring no more than two hundred yards from the shore. It was a lonely existence but he was alive with the hope of a rescue sometime in the future. That rescue came when the Hunki landed. He never saw their craft, just a dozen or so small creatures camped on the other side of the island. Curiosity drew him from his cover; he had never laid eyes on the likes of these beings before and beginning to walk towards them was amused at the waddling run they used when running about; His appearance as he casually sauntered towards them created panic and confusion, his last recollection was being pointed at by a brightly shining stick that discharged a blinding shaft of light at him.

  He dropped unconscious to the floor, his amused grin still on his face as the Hunki weapon laid him out midstride; his next waking moment was here on Newth, he came too naked as the day he was born, bemused as people stood over him. That was over a hundred years ago and he still cursed the day the Hunki brought him here.

  As he neared his camp the birdsong and animal noises changed alerting him to possible danger; to who or from what, human, Hunki or animals was yet to be seen. He stopped, senses on alert; the faint whiff of wood smoke floated on the gentle afternoon breeze. Without thinking he knocked an arrow in the bow, wood smoke meant fire, fire meant trouble either in its natural form or from one set by man or Hunki. The latter he discounted, it was too far into the tree line for them to be hunting and the lack of noise as they crashed through bushes and shrubs confirmed it.

  A natural fire would be accompanied by the screams and calls of birds and animals as they fled, the lack of which only confirmed his assumption. Somewhere out here was another hunter and the ques
tion had to be asked; were they hunting the wild life or him? He had made more than one enemy in his time here and this wouldn’t be the first time a pack of idiots had come to try and kill him. He dropped his heavy pack and silent as a ghost he moved forward following the smell of smoke. It led him towards his own camp and the goods he had there ready for trade, all his wood and bone carvings, painstakingly carved over the winter months, were packed ready for trade in Haroldstown.

  As he drew nearer he caught the sound of singing. Whoever was in his camp was making no effort to conceal their presence, but never one to trust his fellow man he wondered why. He left the game trail that led to his camp and silently made his way through the brush and trees. His senses were on full alert; keen eyesight looking for the slightest sign of another’s presence. His hearing dismissing the singing in his camp as he listened for sounds that would show someone else was here.

  It wasn’t long before he identified three others hidden in the undergrowth, all with wicked looking crossbows loaded and ready for firing. Their smell on the wind let him know that whoever they were they had little or no experience of hunting and from the way they sat waiting for him they were careless. He made his way back to where he had discarded his pack and quickly selected half a dozen strips of rawhide he used for binding poles when making an overnight camp. Killing was not a problem for him; given the need he would kill without question but until he found out why this bunch lay in wait for him, the need was not now.

  The first one he crept up on and rendered unconscious with a swift blow to the head; tied him hand and foot in less than thirty seconds and then gagged him to ensure his continued silence if he came too earlier than expected. The second looked as if he was no more than a teenager, but on this planet Fred knew appearances could be and probably were deceptive. Once more a blow to the head led to him tying the young looking man hand and foot. Two down with one to go with the other assailant still blissfully unaware of him; the singing from his camp never let up and Fred wondered how the man never lost his voice. The song and tune was unknown to him, the singing voice was bad but none stop singing like this meant that the ambushers must swop positions every hour or so, the fool in his camp would be hoarse if they didn’t.