Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  As Drew leaned back to accept a slab of meat on his plate, he could overhear horses outside in the open courtyard to the front of Redmire Hall. He’d just reached over to take a scoop of minted potatoes from a steaming bowl when the front door slammed and booted footsteps ascended the double stairs. It was Gerard, and his face was ashen.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, disregarding his usual bow in his master’s presence, ‘it’s the king’s men. They’re here!’

  ‘What?’ cried Baron Huth in horror. ‘Here? That’s impossible! Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, my lord: Captain Brutus and twenty soldiers from the Lionguard. They’re at the doors presently and demanding to be let in!’

  No sooner had he said this than there was a crashing sound from down below as the ancient double doors were forced inwards. Drew leapt to his feet, instantly alert. There was a second smash and the diners heard the doors buckle inwards, hinges and locks splintering under the force.

  Drew snatched up his cloak from a chair and threw his backpack over his shoulder.

  ‘Go, my boy!’ cried Baron Huth, pointing to the balcony’s edge.

  Already booted footsteps were racing up the staircase, and Drew could distinctly hear the sound of armour clinking and clattering. Before he could bound clear he’d stumbled into Vincent who had risen from the table simultaneously, sending him tumbling to the floor clumsily.

  ‘Halt!’ boomed a voice on the landing. A procession of soldiers made their way through the open doors, their golden breastplates catching the sunlight in such a way that they glowed with an almost angelic radiance. Their swords were drawn and their faces were set, flanking the long veranda as they fanned out. Red cloaks swirled as three of them walked straight up to the hopelessly outnumbered Gerard, relieving him of his sword and leading him away. In the midst of them their captain stepped forward, a battle-honed heavyset man with a thick black beard that was streaked with grey. His sword was slick with blood.

  ‘Captain Brutus,’ gasped Baron Huth, rising from his chair, a look of outrage rising to his face. ‘What in Old Brenn’s name is the meaning of this? How dare you enter my house uninvited!’

  Captain Brutus never took his eyes from Drew, staring across the table at the young man as he rose to his feet beside Vincent. The blood from his sword steadily dripped from the blade, pooling in a tidy puddle at his feet. The blade reminded Drew of his own, only the pommel featured the head of a roaring lion instead. Faintly scored runes like those of the Wolfshead blade marked the length of it, red with gore.

  ‘Baron Huth, you have been found guilty of harbouring a fugitive, an enemy to the king and to the free peoples of the Seven Realms,’ he growled.

  ‘Preposterous,’ cried the Werelord. ‘I am entertaining guests, each and every one of them loyal to the king. Need I remind you that Lady Gretchen is in our company, if you needed further proof of our love for the king?’

  ‘That boy,’ said Brutus, raising his sword towards where Drew stood, ‘is an enemy of the king. You have willingly and knowingly taken this villain under your roof.’

  ‘He is a scout from Brackenholme, nothing more,’ said Baron Huth. Drew looked back at the Lionshead sword, the blood now all but gone.

  ‘He is the last of the Wolves,’ barked Brutus.

  From across the table Gretchen let out an involuntary gasp.

  ‘The king has ordered that he be taken presently to Highcliff to await trial.’

  ‘Trial?’ cried Baron Huth. ‘What kind of trial can this poor boy expect?’

  ‘Father,’ said Vincent, stepping forward. ‘I think it is for the best if we hand this man over to Captain Brutus, no? The king will understand I am sure. He is a forgiving man, remember that.’

  Drew’s jaw fell slack, and he wasn’t alone. Baron Huth turned to his son, disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘You?’ gasped Baron Huth incredulously. ‘You brought them here! You turned against your own blood!’

  Hector shook his head, unable to hide the dismay at his brother’s betrayal.

  ‘I am merely protecting our interests,’ said Vincent, stepping past his father and over to Captain Brutus, who grinned triumphantly. Baron Huth was trembling with fury. Hector put a hand on his father’s shoulder, restraining him.

  ‘If I had not alerted the king to this folly, then the consequences would be grave not just for us, but for our people,’ Vincent went on. Drew glanced about. He could still leap out of here, a quick hurdle over the balcony and he’d be away.

  ‘You come here, swords drawn, attacking my household staff,’ roared Baron Huth, turning once more to Captain Brutus, ‘and you expect me to comply?’ He snorted, his face distorting as his back began to arch.

  ‘Father,’ cried both his sons at once.

  ‘Control yourself, my lord,’ said Vincent. ‘For Old Brenn’s sake, control yourself!’

  But the old man would hear none of it. He tossed his walking stick to one side, tearing at the robes that fastened at his chest. His ribcage snapped and thrust forward as old bones and the beast within him came to the fore. His mouth cracked as tusks appeared, rising from his jaw as it shifted shape.

  Drew glanced over to Captain Brutus, who looked not in the least intimidated by the metamorphosing Werelord before his eyes. Why so unafraid? wondered Drew. Baron Huth was indestructible, immune to the men and their weapons. Then he looked back to the Lionshead sword. The rays of the sun glittered across the runes as the embedded silver caught the light.

  ‘Baron Huth,’ cried Drew, with a warning hand, but it was too late. Brutus took two steps forward and thrust the sword deep into the old man’s belly, catching him mid-change. His roaring and snorting stopped immediately as the king’s captain twisted the blade once, twice, before pulling it free, the old Boar’s lifeblood flowing from the wound.

  ‘No!’ screamed Hector, reaching for his father as he collapsed, but with his grasping hand Drew caught him and pulled him back. Baron Huth landed on the wood with a sickening crunch, dead in an instant. Lady Gretchen screamed in terror, rising from the table and staggering back to the balcony’s edge.

  ‘Father!’ cried Vincent, dropping to his knees in despair. The blood pooled around him as he cradled his dead father, his body having returned to its human state. ‘Why?’ he sobbed, looking up at Brutus. ‘Why, you monster?’

  ‘You do well to remember your place, Vincent,’ said Brutus, wiping the blade across his red leggings. ‘You are spared only by the king’s blessing. He thanks you for informing us of your traitorous family, and assures you that you are to take your father’s place with immediate effect.’

  ‘This was never what I agreed to!’ screamed Vincent. ‘You were to take the Wolf away, nothing more. My father was an old man, misguided and confused. What threat did he hold to the king?’

  ‘I would hate to see another pig slaughtered today,’ Brutus snarled, raising a warning finger to his lips. He turned to Drew. ‘Now, boy. Unhitch that dog’s sword at your waist. You’re coming with us. Quietly.’

  Drew had to think quickly. He was under no illusion that surrender would lead to death, either on the road or as soon as he got to Highcliff. Hector stood by his side in a shell-shocked trance. Drew knew that his friend too would be executed for his part in Drew’s escape and sheltering. As for Vincent, he deserved whatever he got, betraying his family to further his own gains and curry favour in the king’s court. He would have to live with his father’s death firmly on his conscience. That was no life for any son.

  Drew looked around, backing up to the edge of the balustrade and glancing down to the launches and jetties below. A number of boats were moored to posts, held tight against the rushing Redwine’s pull. Could he make it? Could he kick Hector into life?

  ‘Don’t even think about it, boy,’ warned Brutus, beginning to walk round the long table towards him, sword held before him. Drew might have favoured his chances, but for the outlawed silver runes that decorated the blade. A blow from that sword would be the death of him, r
egardless of his lycanthropy. Lady Gretchen stood a couple of feet away, eyes still wide in shock at the events that had unfurled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to her, then moved fast.

  Reaching over he grabbed her by the arm, yanking her towards him. She swirled as if she were dancing in a ballroom, before landing in his arms. He raised a hand, a clawed hand, to her throat and she squealed with fright. If they wanted a monster, they’d get one.

  ‘Stay back!’ he shouted. ‘Or so help me I’ll take your precious princess’s throat clean out!’ This did the trick. Not only did the men and Brutus stop advancing, but Hector suddenly stirred, awakened by his friend’s voice and the gravity of the stand-off.

  ‘Leave the lady alone, boy,’ said Brutus, raising a hand to keep his men back. ‘This doesn’t need to be any messier than it already is.’

  ‘Unhand me, you dog!’ cried Gretchen, wriggling in his grasp. He let the claws close round her windpipe, his hot palm flush to her tender throat.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said Drew. ‘Hector, how are you at jumping?’

  The other looked incredulously at him, as if he were speaking in another language.

  ‘Jumping,’ Drew repeated, motioning over the balustrade with a nod of the head. ‘Get a boat ready, and quick.’

  Some of the soldiers began to unhitch their crossbows, loading their quarrels into place. Hector picked up his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked over at his father’s body in his brother’s arms, and then back to Brutus. Pointing at the brutal captain, he struggled to find words of anger and revenge to throw at him. At the sound of crossbow strings drawing tight to their triggers, he instead clambered over the side before dropping with a crunch to the jetty below.

  ‘You won’t get far,’ said Brutus to Drew. ‘Where do you think you can run to? We’ll follow you down the riverbank and catch you in no time.’

  ‘It’s a wide river,’ said Drew. ‘And fast. We’ll take our chances.’ He lifted Gretchen in his arms, still keeping a hand tightly round her neck. Then he kicked a chair against the balustrade and with a quick step jumped on to it before leaping over the side. He landed awkwardly in a tumble of limbs and red dress, his right foot splintering through a timber plank and hitting the cold water beneath. Yanking it free while keeping Gretchen in his grasp, he rolled clear, looking up to see all twenty men with their crossbows aimed towards him. He shrank behind the Werefox, keeping her in front of him as a shield.

  It was a huge gamble. He would never hurt her, and he only hoped that Brutus was under strict instruction not to harm her either. That seemed to be the case, he reasoned, as he backed up to a small sailing boat that Hector was readying. Already it was fighting against the current. The men may well be on horseback, but the speed with which the river was racing gave Drew a small window of hope. He saw there were two other boats moored up. Whipping out his sword he slashed at their holding ropes, cutting them free to float out into the river. Still holding the struggling Gretchen, he stumbled on to the boat as Hector set about untying it.

  All the while they were shadowed by the bowmen, some of whom dropped down on to the jetty to get closer. Resolutely, Drew held the young Werefox before him. Hector finished with the ropes and took to the tiller.

  ‘The king will have your hide, dog,’ spat Gretchen.

  ‘The king? Is this the same king who just butchered your dear uncle?’ he whispered into her ear. ‘He’s a monster. A killer. And yet you still choose not to see it. Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘I’ll get you to your wedding on time …’

  The boat quickly took to the currents. Hector, an adept sailor who’d spent many occasions on the Redmire in his youth, steered it into the fastest waters.

  ‘What are you standing around for? Ten of you, follow me to your horses!’ shouted Brutus in a fury, slamming his sword into its sheath.

  Vincent knelt on the floor beside his dead father, eyes blank and soulless.

  ‘The rest of you, burn this foul hovel! Burn it to the ground! Let these pigs know their king’s displeasure …’

  Once the boat was out of range of the crossbow bolts, Hector let the sails out, which billowed and flapped as the wind took a hold. Tears streamed down his face as they raced away from his home. Moments later a flaming Redmire Hall was visible behind them. It lit the spring afternoon sky with a ravenous red glow, a smoking, black cloud billowing overhead.

  6

  Flight on the Redwine

  The wind remained strong behind the small boat as the trio cut through the water at breakneck speed, leaving the torched town of Redmire in their wake. Hector manned the sails and tiller, and stared towards the horizon, lost in grim and grisly thoughts. Gretchen had lain down in the prow of the boat, sheltering against the chill winds that chased them on their way. Drew offered her his cloak to keep warm, but she’d snarled at him and turned away.

  He could hardly blame her. Gretchen’s life had been on its leisurely path towards impending queen-hood until Drew had arrived on the scene. In a matter of days he’d upset her, offended her, insulted her and now manhandled and kidnapped her. Up until the abduction he’d felt he had the higher ground, morally speaking, although now he was the first to admit that he may have stepped over a line. The balance had tipped. He was the villain now, certainly in the Werefox’s eyes.

  Drew shuffled to the back of the boat where Hector stared off into space, his knuckles white as he gripped the wooden tiller and held the boat steady. They’d passed under the Dymling Bridge earlier that afternoon, hitting great speeds as they whistled beneath its ancient stone arches. There had been no sign of Captain Brutus or his men, and the bridge was sure to throw a stone into their hooves. They would be forced to split there, to follow the river on both sides in order to avoid losing the boat on whichever bank it alighted. This again gave Drew hope, as it meant fewer soldiers to contend with, although they would still be armed and seasoned men from the king’s personal guard. Even with Drew’s natural ability with a sword he would be tested to his limits against such opponents – and very probably defeated. He hadn’t considered whether they too had the same silver blessing applied to their swords as their captain had. He didn’t want to find out.

  The plans they had made back in Redmire were now in pieces. Hector should have been planning for his hike north to Icegarden, and Drew had intended to camp in the hills of the Dalelands this evening. Instead he was hurtling downriver in the opposite direction, his route taking him west towards Highcliff and the man who wanted to see him dead. If any of the king’s men were on the river, then they were playing right into their hands. The sooner they were off the boat the better Drew would feel.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what his next move should be, other than getting Gretchen to safety. His gut instinct was still to head out east as he’d originally intended, strike out for Omir at the first opportunity and not stop until he felt the desert sand under his feet. Only he’d been betrayed by Vincent – the king would be watching that passage now. Where else might he run? His options were limited with the small amount of knowledge he possessed. For a brief moment he considered his chances against the king. He’d seen the oppressed people of Westland and the Dyrewood first hand, and they didn’t seem like the rebelling kind. It’s unlikely they would gather behind someone brave and noble like Duke Bergan, let alone a lowly farm boy like Drew.

  It was getting well towards dusk, and mists were beginning to appear over the surface of the water. Still Hector held his position at the back of the boat.

  ‘Hector,’ said Drew, drawing closer. ‘How much further are you planning to take us? I’ve seen no sign of the Lionguard. I think we’re as clear as can be. Shouldn’t we be looking to cut over to the bank now?’ His friend said nothing, and just leaned against the tiller, his face stern.

  ‘Hector,’ repeated Drew, tapping his shoulder with an open palm. Hector’s head turned to face Drew. His eyes were bloodshot, dark-rimmed, exhausted from crying, and his face was a m
ask of pain. The look he gave Drew was chilling.

  He blames me, he thought. He blames me for all of this: his father’s death, our escape from his home. It’s all my fault.

  But as suddenly as the awful look had appeared it dissipated, whatever hateful feelings had been bubbling beneath the surface now blown away. Hector’s face softened, and he looked to Drew with familiar eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Boarlord, ‘I was miles away.’ He sniffed and cleared his throat. ‘We need to stay on the Redwine into the night, I fear. If we’re on the river, we can’t be tracked. The minute we hit land there’ll be a trail for them to follow. I’d rather hold that off for as long as I can. If we can make it to the edge of the Wyrmwood, we may be clear of them; it’s marshland on the whole down there and I can’t imagine they’ll willingly send their horses in, not unless they want to see their legs broken.’ He shuffled to one side. ‘Here, take the tiller.’

  Drew replaced his friend at the rear of the boat, taking the wooden handle in his novice grasp.

  ‘Keep her straight and steady,’ said Hector as he rummaged in his satchel. He pulled out a small book, its cover scored with a compass design. Opening it up in the failing dusk light, he started to thumb through a series of maps. ‘I’ve had this gazetteer for years, and it’s got most of the thoroughfares, roads, rivers and highways in this part of Lyssia marked out.’ He hit the map with his forefinger. ‘Here, this is where we are.’ He handed the book over to Drew and took the tiller once more. Drew shifted to one side and began to examine the map.