‘Hector?’ he gasped. ‘What’s going on?’
‘No time to talk,’ whispered the young Boarlord. Reaching round Drew’s back he worked feverishly at the knots binding his wrists. Soft fingers that had never done a hard day’s work struggled for purchase, nervously bitten-away nails finding nothing to grip. Pulling a knife from his belt he worked at the rope, sawing hard until finally it began to fray, allowing him to rip the last of it apart. Drew’s arms collapsed forward, taking his weight as he rose to a kneeling position and then on to his back, tearing at the bindings on his ankles. Hector rose and pulled the naked prisoner to his feet. Drew wobbled, crashing into the wall of the wagon. Outside the noise of combat echoed in the night, swords and screams filling the air. Hector took Drew’s weight, allowing him to lean on his shoulder.
‘I’m getting you out of here, but we need to move quickly. The camp has been attacked by Wyldermen; this is our only chance.’ The Boarlord clambered down the steps, helping Drew behind him as he went. Before they could take another step Hector froze. Standing in the shadows of the wagon was Captain Perry, a snarling look of hatred playing across his face.
‘Well then, Piglord. Seems you’ve just crossed the line. I’ll take great pleasure in explaining this to your master.’ He raised his longsword, ready to strike a blow. Drew, exhausted, was helpless. All Hector could do was close his eyes and wait for the impending blow. Nothing came.
Opening his eyes he saw Captain Perry standing stock-still, his face captured in a snarl, eyes wide and wild. The sword slowly dropped from his grip as he fell to his knees in the mud. Directly behind him stood a figure in a hooded black cloak, his own longsword lowered to his side after its killing blow. The figure raised a hand to his lips within his shadowed hood, imploring the boys’ silence before beckoning them towards him. He lifted the injured Drew across his shoulders with ease. Setting off at a jog he disappeared into the woods, away from the sounds of fighting, Hector following after him. The Boarlord looked back to see the wounded soldier watching them go, his captain’s lifeless body slumped beside him. Further back he could hear the roar of Prince Lucas as the young Wereprince joined the fracas.
The trio ran some way, stumbling over hidden roots and along little-used animal tracks as they put distance between themselves and the campsite. Even though the hooded man was carrying Drew, Hector still struggled to stay alongside, and the man had to stop occasionally so that the Boarlord could catch up. Finally they emerged into a small moonlit clearing, where the man promptly lowered Drew gently to the ground.
‘Who are you?’ Hector asked breathlessly. The figure loosened his hood, revealing the lean features of Captain Harker.
‘We couldn’t leave you to him,’ came the voice of Duke Bergan from the edge of the clearing. The Bearlord emerged from where he’d been obscured in the shadows, leading a saddled horse by his side as he came. He wore a studded leather breastplate and carried an axe at his hip, a simple woodland green cloak hanging from his shoulders. A younger emerald-clad man sat behind him on his own steed, high in his saddle and scanning the woods for any pursuit.
Duke Bergan stepped up and removed a backpack that he’d been carrying, handing it straight to Hector.
‘There should be a week of provisions in there for one man, although it’ll last the pair of you at a stretch if you’re smart. Have you had a change of heart, little lordling?’ he asked Hector. ‘You’ve picked a dangerous ally here. You know there’s no going back, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps they’ll think I was abducted in the attack. I hope so, anyway.’
‘If we can retrieve any of our fallen men from the battle, then to the unsuspecting eye it should look like a Wyldermen attack, as you requested, my lord,’ whispered Harker. ‘They didn’t know what hit them, and with the cloud cover they’ll be even more unsure who their enemy was.’
‘Splendid work, Captain,’ said the Bearlord, clapping his man on the back. He looked down at Drew who lay naked on the ground, shivering and shaking. ‘By Old Brenn, what did they do to you?’ he gasped. Bergan unhooked his modest cloak, crouching to fasten it round the youth’s shoulders.
‘This is the most I can do for you, Drew. I can help you this once, and that’s it. You never saw me tonight. I can’t have news of my aiding you getting back to the king. It would be too grave for my people. They depend on me, and I keep the peace wherever I can. You understand, don’t you?’
Drew nodded, struggling to find words. He bit his teeth and set his jaw.
‘Why?’ he asked eventually.
‘Why what, lad? Why do I help you?’
Once more Drew nodded as the Bearlord stepped up close, his voice quiet beneath his bushy red beard.
‘I owe you a great favour, Drew. You may not know it but you saved the life of someone very dear to me, and for that I was indebted. Consider my actions tonight as payment in full.’
Drew didn’t understand what the man meant, but could only assume that returning Hogan safely to Brackenholme where the healers could see to his wounds had struck a chord with the Werelord. He’d certainly got the impression that the two were close and that Bergan thought highly of the old ranger.
‘And the king?’ asked Drew. ‘What of Leopold, my lord? Will you stand up to him now? Somebody needs to, and it strikes me that you aren’t afraid of him.’
The Bearlord chortled, a deep throaty chuckle. He shook his head from side to side.
‘No, lad. Whether I’m personally afraid of him is neither here nor there. I have to think about those in Brackenholme, who look to me to provide safety and security in the Dyrewood. I don’t care about what he’ll do to me, but my people …?’ Again, a shake of the head.
Drew pressed his point home. ‘It seems your people are already suffering, Duke Bergan. The stallholder in the market? Your men let him get attacked and did nothing to stop it!’
The Bearlord growled, and Drew caught the flash of bared teeth within the dark red beard. He shrank back, suddenly terribly aware not only of the power of Duke Bergan but also the line he’d just overstepped. Hector stumbled away, acting on instinct. The young Boarlord had been on the receiving end of enough beatings to recognize the warning signs.
‘Don’t push me on this, boy,’ he said. ‘We all do what we can to get by. Times are hard for everyone across Lyssia.’
‘I’m sorry, my Lord, I didn’t mean to offend you. It just pains me to see innocent people suffer that way.’
‘Get used to it, Drew,’ sighed Bergan, his face softening suddenly and a great sadness replacing the anger that had flashed moments before. ‘There isn’t a corner of the continent that hasn’t experienced hardship at the paw of Leopold.’ He clasped a hand on the youth’s shoulder, squeezing to emphasize his words. ‘Listen. You need to get out of here, and fast. My men are already withdrawing – Lucas’s Princeguard will start searching the woods at first light. You have to be long gone. Stay low. Stay hidden. Stay safe.’
Drew and Hector could no longer hear the noise of battle. Instead voices shouted out as the Princeguard began to regroup. Bergan rose again, nodding to Harker to get ready to move out.
The cloaked captain reached down to shake Drew by the hand. ‘Good luck, Drew of the Dyrewood. I wish you well on your journey and pray Old Brenn watches over you. I’m glad to have met you.’ And with that the captain was gone, leaping back into the woods to ready the route home for his master.
The rider who remained behind turned his horse about. ‘Father, if I may take my leave, I want to sweep for my men. We need to be away from here before the Princeguard recover.’
Duke Bergan waved his hand agreeably to the other.
‘Be quick, Broghan. Remember, we leave no one behind, injured or fallen. I want no clue as to who it was that attacked them.’
‘As you wish, Father,’ said the rider, and spurred his horse into the shadows.
Drew clambered to his feet with the help of Hector, who was already fumbling through his satchel for a medicine
that would help Drew regain his stamina.
‘Oh,’ said Duke Bergan, stopping in his tracks as he was about to set off. ‘I almost forgot. You’ll be wanting this.’ Reaching round the other side of his horse he unfastened something that was strapped to the saddle. He re-emerged carrying a sword in a scabbard, and passed it across. Drew grabbed the Wolfshead pommel in one hand and the attached weapon belt in the other.
‘I know this blade,’ confessed the Bearlord. ‘I fought with your father, and I’m sure he’d want you to have this, just like all the soldiers in his Wolfguard. I betrayed that man many years ago – I broke a promise to him and I’ll live with that guilt until I go to my grave. If this in any small way begins to make amends then I hope he’s looking down on me now.’ He looked up to the heavens.
‘Dead?’ whispered Drew. Pa Ferran had been very much alive the last time he’d seen him. How could Duke Bergan know him? ‘My father’s alive. I told you, remember? He tried to kill me with this sword.’
‘Not the man who raised you, Drew,’ said Duke Bergan, pulling himself up into his saddle. ‘I’m speaking about your real father. My friend, the king: Wergar the Wolf.’
Drew’s head swam, and Hector moved to hold him upright as his body swayed.
‘You are the last of the Werewolves, Drew. Don’t fight it, son; embrace it. Conquer it. It may be the only thing that keeps you alive.’ The Lord of Brackenholme kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks and they thundered off into the night, leaving Drew and Hector to gather their senses.
1
The Road to Redmire
He saw the deer standing motionless, ears pricked and head upright. She sniffed at the air, searching for a telltale scent that might drift downwind. Skittishly she took a couple of steps, shifting her position and dancing nervously, ready to bound away at the slightest sign of trouble. Her fawn skipped about her feet, happily oblivious to the fact that they were being stalked. The open meadows were silent but for the distant cawing of a crow. Shadows raced over the tall shifting grasses as clouds sped across the blue sky overhead. The deer looked up, briefly distracted by the cloud formations. It was at that moment he struck.
Bursting out of the long grass, Drew sprang on to the animals. The mother leapt away clear of danger, but the fawn was not so lucky. With a brief struggle and swift snap its neck was broken and the evening meal was in his arms.
Drew took great pleasure in hunting and even more in the fact that he could do it without having to rely on the bestial nature that lurked inside him. From a young age he’d been excellent at stalking animals. In the Dyrewood, wild and alone, he’d embraced what he now knew to be the Wolf, and let it take him over, opening himself up to the killer instinct in his heart. Now, thriving on human companionship once more, he’d brought along the skills he’d learned in the wild and made use of those which meant he could retain his humanity. His senses were keener than ever; he felt fitter, stronger and faster than any other time in his life.
Heading the short distance back to the makeshift camp he stayed low, scanning the horizon as his head bobbed intermittently over the swaying fronds of tall grass. In such wide expanses of grassy plains his view was unimpeded for miles around, but anyone else might see him with equal ease. All it would take was one scout from the Princeguard to spy him and they’d attack in no time at all.
Hector sat by a small fire, feeding branches and small logs into the flames to keep it alive. He smiled when he saw Drew approach with the deer, and shuffled to one side to let him take over. The two youths worked well as a team, Drew realized. Hector’s life had been spent cosied away in libraries, courts and council chambers, and this journey through the wilds was the greatest adventure the boy had ever experienced. He was observant and attentive, and any tasks Drew showed him, such as gathering firewood and tending the fire, he’d mastered immediately. The Boarlord’s scholarly mind clearly made him a quick learner.
Saying nothing, Drew crouched on his knees as Hector handed him a knife from his satchel. With a sure cut Drew slit open the belly of the fawn and set to work disembowelling and skinning the animal. Hector sat back, clear of the mess that inevitably began to pool and, taking a book from his satchel, began reading. Drew glanced over at him now and again as he quickly became immersed in the book.
Hector was out of shape. He’d probably never been in shape, Drew figured. As a privileged Werelord he’d been used to having things fetched for him, leading a life of luxury compared to Drew’s existence. Drew didn’t begrudge him; far from it. Instead he looked upon his new friend with a large degree of awe. People such as Vankaskan and Prince Lucas may have treated him like a fool, calling him names, but Drew saw beyond Hector’s physical frailties. The boy had placed himself in grave danger by freeing Drew in his escape a week earlier, and his previous life back in the court of Highcliff was now an impossibility. Drew saw a brave heart in the young medicine man and was pleased to have him by his side as they fled.
Moments after Duke Bergan had left them they’d made a forced march out of the Dyrewood, not stopping until they’d cleared its edges. After hiking right through the following day and night it seemed the prince’s men hadn’t pursued them, but that wasn’t to say that their enemies weren’t out there looking for them. Caution had been their watchword. Since then they’d travelled at night and camped during the day, trying their best to avoid any roads or paths that might cause a meeting with anybody. It was possible someone would be sympathetic to their needs, but one kindly act wasn’t worth putting a person in peril with the prince’s men. Drew could well imagine Lucas’s soldiers arriving at a farmstead to question an honest farmer and the subsequent swift ‘justice’ that might follow. With that in mind they had purposely avoided all houses and settlements that they’d seen.
It was fortunate too that Hector knew the lands they were travelling through, not so much by experience but via his studies in his father’s map room. They had followed the banks of the wide and fast running Redwine River that ran down from the north-east. It was used as a trading route by Hector’s people, winding its way through the countryside all the way to the sea south of Highcliff. Its source lay high in the vast and treacherous Barebone Mountains that straddled the eastern edge of the Dyrewood.
The previous night Drew and Hector had been forced to briefly take the Dymling Road as it bore north from the Dyrewood, cutting through the grasslands. The large stone-constructed Dymling Bridge joined the north and south banks of the Redwine at its thinnest point for miles upriver and down. Drew had scurried across, Hector close behind, all too aware that it was used frequently by travellers, even at night. Finally they had left the Dymling Road to slip into Redmire proper on the other side. The remainder of the path headed north for many more miles before hitting the Great West Road.
Hector had explained to Drew that this ancient thoroughfare was one of the main arteries of the Seven Realms. It was said that whoever controlled the Great West Road controlled Highcliff, hence the king taking his residence there. Hector’s homeland of Redmire lay nestled beside these two huge roads, north of Duke Bergan’s woodland realm at Brackenholme. Further north Drew could make out the realm of Sturmland and its snow-capped mountains, the Whitepeaks, shrouded in distant clouds. Somewhere up there was Icegarden, home of the White Werebears, high in the frozen heartland. They were distantly related to Duke Bergan, so Hector explained, although Duke Henrik had not ventured out of the Whitepeaks since Wergar’s campaigns many years ago. Icegarden was built upon one of Lyssia’s highest mountains, the Strakenberg, Sturmland’s wealth built upon the rare – and some said enchanted – gems and precious metals that were mined from beneath it. It was said that the Sturmlanders were the greatest smiths in all the Seven Realms, and were able to fashion magicks into their creations.
As Hector provided Drew with a commentary on the land and people, the young man became aware of just how far from home he was. Being a peasant, Drew knew so little about the Werelords he couldn’t help but feel embarrass
ed by his ignorance. The wider continent of Lyssia was all new to him. A look back south had shown the Dyrewood in the moonlit distance, its threatening outline filling the horizon as far as his eye could see. Far beyond lay his home on the Cold Coast, the market town of Tuckborough a world away, and after days of allowing himself easy conversation with Hector, Drew found himself missing his brother deeply. He’d become immune to those feelings during his time in the Dyrewood, but gradually some of his more human instincts were returning. While he wondered about Trent, he still couldn’t bring himself to consider his mother’s horrific fate. There was a wound in his heart that would never heal, forever home to her memory. After all that Duke Bergan had said he didn’t know if Trent was even his true brother – their differing looks had always been something to joke about, and he’d shown none of the primeval rage that had exploded in Drew. But after a lifetime together they were bound by friendship, if not by blood. He wondered where Trent was at that moment. Was he still at the Ferran farm? Or had he left to join the army, as he’d always threatened to? A great rider, Trent had always dreamed of making the Light Cavalry. As he walked along listening to Hector, Drew just hoped his brother was safe.
Finding a safe place to make camp that morning, the two boys had settled down to sleep. Now, as the evening approached, Drew trusted that the fading light would hide any sign of their small campfire. Having finished preparing the fawn he took a makeshift spit, fashioned from a branch, and passed the carcass along its length. Suspending it on upright branches over the fire, he settled back while the meat began to cook.
‘So, the Werelords …’ said Drew, breaking the silence. Hector looked up from his book. ‘Where do we all come from?’
Hector marked the page he was up to, closed the covers and placed it in his satchel. The fire sparked and the meat crackled as he cleared his throat.
Rise of the Wolf Page 10
