Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  The crowd of townsfolk cheered, waving and clapping with joy. Hector and Jonas helped Ebert to his feet as Drew shifted back to his human form as quickly as his body would allow. The change was uncomfortable as bones and muscle reset themselves, but within a minute the reversion was complete. He raised a hand to the people to quieten them.

  ‘Do not let these men bully you,’ he shouted. ‘They are here to serve you. You number many more than they. Remember that, and find courage in it.’

  ‘Wergar!’ called a voice. ‘You’ve returned!’

  ‘No,’ shouted Drew over the cacophony. ‘I am not –’

  ‘The Wolf! It’s true!’ cried another.

  ‘Hail Wergar!’

  ‘Hail the true king!’

  ‘NO!’ shouted Drew over them. ‘I am not Wergar, I am not your king, and I am not a Wolf. I am just a boy!’ The crowd quietened a bit.

  ‘But you’re one of them!’

  ‘You’re a Werelord!’

  ‘I have a curse,’ cried Drew. ‘I’m a common man with an uncommon illness, and that is my burden. Nothing more. I am not who you think I am.’ The crowd didn’t appear convinced. ‘You must stand up to your oppressors. You don’t need me to do that when you have free will.’ With that he walked over to Hector, who had collected his cloak and now passed it back. Awkwardly he took it and fastened it round his throat once more. Ebert stared at the sword on his hip.

  ‘You might be able to fool them,’ he muttered, ‘but you don’t fool me, my lord. That there’s a Wolfshead blade and they don’t just give them to anybody. I fought for Wergar. I saw the great man.’ He whispered now. ‘And I’d recognize a son of his anywhere …’ He bowed to Drew, which wasn’t missed by those who still stood about them, and staggered indoors.

  Drew watched the villagers head back inside. He felt a warmth in his heart that hadn’t been there before. It had felt good to help these people. But at what cost?

  ‘I’m going to go and clean him up,’ said Hector, nodding after the injured old man. ‘It may be worth you checking in on Gretchen, seeing if she’s all right.’

  Drew nodded as his friend followed the crowd into the inn. He stood there, speechless, as the townsfolk filed past, nodding to him as they went, others also bowing. The last to go in was Jonas.

  ‘You ever need a roof over your head or a belly full of food, my lord,’ he said, smiling, ‘then look no further than the Mermaid Inn. But remember your currency’s no good here.’ He also bowed, before following the stragglers to the bar.

  Drew shook his head. What had he done? His instincts told him to protect the innocent man, to stop the tormenting guards, nothing more heroic than that. But he’d underestimated the impact the sight of the Werewolf would have on the villagers. Thinking clearly now, the evidence of shape-shifting among the Werelords was probably rarely seen by the likes of these people. He’d certainly never witnessed such a sight growing up on the Cold Coast. Well, he thought, if I’ve inspired them to stand up against these brutes who are pretending to guard them, then I might have done some good. But I have undoubtedly ruined our chances of getting to the coast unnoticed. He dreaded what Hector might say to him in private as a result.

  Scaling the staircase at the side of the inn, he walked across the landing to room six and rapped his bruised knuckles on the door. He was surprised Gretchen hadn’t come out to watch with the noise and commotion that had gone on. There was no answer from the room, so he knocked again. ‘Gretchen?’ Maybe she would mellow a little if she saw him standing up for the underdog, something he’d always wished he had the strength – both mental and physical – to do. Now he had that confidence, but she’d probably see his fighting as another blatant disregard for her king’s authority. There really was no pleasing the woman. Still no answer, so he knocked again.

  ‘My lady?’ he called, hoping to encourage a response. Nothing. He tried the handle: locked. Something wasn’t right. Taking a step back he put his shoulder to the wood, barging it once, twice, and on the third occasion the mechanism smashed and the door swung in.

  The room was as he’d expected to find it. A candle flickered on a simple side-table, beside two beds with clean towels folded neatly at the foot of each. In the corner sat an empty tin bath. The window was open and the cold spring breeze sent the curtains fluttering into the room, smacking the timber walls gently.

  She wasn’t there.

  He rushed over to the window and looked out. A drainpipe ran the length of the wall to the ground below, the tops of trees and bushes obscuring anything more. Had someone taken her? What fools they’d been to leave her unguarded! They should never have left her alone. If anything had happened to her … he didn’t want to think about it.

  That’s when he saw a note on the pillow of one of the beds. He snatched it up. A folded letter – on the outside, in red ink, it read:

  Hector & Hound

  He grimaced at her dig. She really couldn’t help herself. He unfolded it to reveal the message within.

  Have gone. Shall find own way to Highcliff. Do not follow.

  – Gretchen

  Drew curled the note up in his fist, his head full of fresh worries, before sprinting for the door.

  1

  The Shaman of Wyrmwood

  Drew and Hector crouched low in the reeds, ankle deep in foul-smelling marsh waters, staring ahead towards the bonfire-lit village. Drew held his sword in a white-knuckled grip, his other hand shifting tall fronds to one side, to better view the town’s layout. There was no wooden palisade surrounding it, no guards on patrol, no sentry they’d have to slip past. Twelve large wattle-and-daub huts, all looking like they might fall over in a strong wind, surrounded the blazing fire. One larger hut sat to the rear of the village, the bare skeletal branches of the Wyrmwood’s blackened trees waving above it like ghastly puppeteer’s hands. The shaman’s hut, Drew reasoned.

  The whole village danced around the bonfire: man, woman and child. The Wyldermen were either naked or wore filthy animal skins, their decorative bone necklaces jangling musically as they hopped, skipped and jumped around the inferno. The men carried spears or bows, shaking them up to the sky as they whooped and chanted. Three elders sat to one side, beating out a steady rhythm on animal-skin drums.

  Leading the dance was a man who could only be the shaman himself. His body was painted black, and he was naked but for a capercaillie-feathered headdress, crowned with a ram’s skull. The horns twirled away from his face demonically as he danced in his own little inner circle, closer to the flames, in the opposite direction to his dancing villagers. He waved a staff over his head with both hands, one end shod with a mighty flint dagger, the other with a human skull.

  Drew turned to Hector, who stood trembling by his side. He looked over his shoulder. Seven men from Oakley stood behind, looking even more terrified than his friend, swords, cudgels and crossbows in their hands.

  ‘How did we get here again?’ he whispered to the Boarlord.

  When Drew had dashed downstairs to find Hector in the Mermaid Inn, he’d quickly recounted the news of Gretchen’s absence and the two of them had set out immediately. They were content to go alone, until Jonas had insisted that some of the villagers accompany them – the marshes could be perilous in daylight, let alone the dead of night, so it was best the boys had someone familiar with the land to accompany them. The Oakley men had acted as guides and scouts, speeding up the search for Gretchen. By splitting into two groups they were able to cover more ground. Jonas took a group himself while Drew and Hector accepted the kind help of the seven volunteers.

  With Piotr, Oakley’s best woodsman, alongside Drew, their group had begun to trace the path of Gretchen’s escape. Piotr’s knowledge of the land was a great help, and with Drew’s natural – and unnatural – ability to track, the two of them had led their companions on to her trail. She’d been heading west, roughly the correct direction for Highcliff, when her trail was interrupted, five miles or so from the village.

&nbs
p; Surveying the muddy ground where her footsteps abruptly ended, Piotr had surmised that she’d been ambushed. They searched the immediate area but found no trace of her body, giving Hector and Drew fresh hope that they’d find her alive. When Drew asked who might have abducted her, it was with a heavy heart that Piotr had suggested the Wyldermen of the Wyrmwood.

  It wasn’t unheard of for the Wyldermen to kidnap rather than simply kill humans in these parts, dragging them back to their village for whatever ungodly acts they planned on performing. All attacks had been fewer in recent months as the winter had kept them away, but now that spring had arrived, the savages were obviously getting more brazen. There was nobody else out here who could have taken her, the townsfolk said. If it had been a bear, or even wolves as one of them had chanced with a nervous glance at Drew, there would be at least some remains. They were sure she’d been taken by the Wyldermen, so their only hope was to head to the Wyrmwood, and hopefully rescue her before any further horror was committed. As if further evidence was needed, after a few hundred yards Piotr found a discarded barbed arrow in the muddy marshes, not dissimilar to the kind that had struck Master Hogan when Drew had first been found in the Dyrewood.

  As the group advanced upon the Wylderman village in the dead of night, they heard the drums first and foremost, and saw the sky lit by the fire. Nearer and nearer they stalked, stumbling through the grim bog, helping one another as they went, edging closer to the native settlement. Drawing close, they saw the bare black trees of the Wyrmwood reaching up to the sky, looming above the village. All seven of the townsfolk whispered or mouthed prayers to Old Brenn, superstitious, and rightly so, of the haunted forest. This was closer than any of them had ever been in their lives, and their bravery wasn’t lost on Hector and Drew.

  The Boarlord turned to his friend. ‘My dear cousin does seem to make a habit of causing chaos wherever she goes,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Drew didn’t smile. He looked at the men behind them. ‘You need not follow us,’ he said earnestly. ‘You’ve already done more than enough, friends. You have families and loved ones waiting for you back in Oakley. You should turn back now.’

  Piotr watched the others to assess their reactions, his heavy crossbow cocked at his hip. They all shook their heads.

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘We’re staying with you. We found courage tonight where there was none previously. We owe you this, Drew of the Dyrewood.’

  Drew nodded appreciatively, but it was also a nod of remorse. If they accompanied them into the Wylderman village, Drew could imagine a situation where one or two – maybe all of them – might be injured or even killed. Was he ready to take that grim responsibility upon his shoulders?

  ‘Very well, then,’ he replied. ‘But stay behind me at all times. There’s no sense in endangering yourselves more than need be. I will do my best to protect you … if I can,’ he pledged, still unsure about his ability to summon the Wolf. All seven nodded their agreement.

  Hector leaned in close to Drew, speaking softly in his ear. ‘Er, what exactly is your plan?’ asked the Boarlord, clutching his dagger in podgy, untrained hands.

  ‘Plan?’ said Drew, unable to hide the fact that he had none. ‘Like I said, let me take the lead. Just stay behind me, Hector, please.’ He beckoned with his free hand for the others to follow and the party waded forward.

  The marshes slowly gave way to harder ground, as they ascended out of the waters on to muddied earth, slipping quietly and unnoticed behind one of the huts. Three of the Oakley men had crossbows, the rest of them armed with melee weapons.

  ‘It’s the shaman you need to speak with,’ Piotr whispered. ‘He’s the chief here. He’s the one who’ll know where she is.’

  Drew nodded his understanding. ‘Reveal yourselves only if you must,’ he instructed. And with that, he stepped round the hut and into the bright burning light of the bonfire.

  At first the Wyldermen didn’t notice him, so lost in their ceremony were they, chanting and shaking as they leapt crazily around the flames. All of a sudden there was a shriek from one of them; Drew had been spotted. The drums ceased immediately. The Wyldermen stood there, motionless, for a prolonged moment.

  The shaman turned slowly, his eyes wild and evil when he saw Drew. The young Werewolf pulled his sword from its sheath, launching the Wolfshead blade into the ground in front of him. He spread his arms, showing his hands as if to prove he was unarmed. The shaman opened his mouth to reveal sharpened teeth, which he snapped menacingly before running his tongue over their length. Then, raising his skull-headed staff, he barked a command in a guttural tongue and the Wyldermen rushed to ambush Drew.

  Arms wrestled him, hands grabbed at him, as they lifted him over their heads and carried him closer to the shaman by the fire. Drew floated along a sea of seething fury as spear points jabbed at him, tearing his cloak. Eventually they threw him to the ground, inches away from the flames, gathering round in a huddle, spears held towards him, daring him to move an inch.

  Hector peered round the corner of the hut, trying to see what had happened. The Wolfshead blade still wobbled where it had stuck into the earth. Beyond, the crowd had parted to allow the shaman through.

  Drew didn’t waste any time, for fear of what might happen if he paused. ‘You have a friend of mine captive,’ he explained. ‘I’m here to take her back. Hand her over and I promise you there’ll be no bloodshed.’ Drew’s challenge was bold and, still pinned to the floor, he eyeballed the shaman.

  The Wylderman opened his monstrous mouth and laughed wildly. The others followed his lead, howling and hooting until he raised a hand to quieten them. They fell silent instantly as he began to speak, his voice clicking as the filed teeth caught against one another.

  ‘She is gone,’ he said. ‘She is offered.’

  ‘Offered?’ said Drew, looking around at the empty mud huts. ‘What do you mean, “offered”?’

  ‘She is given to Wyrmwood. She is for Wyrm.’

  The crowd whooped with victorious delight, hollering to the heavens as the shaman mentioned the Wyrm.

  ‘Tell me where she is!’ demanded Drew, brushing a jagged spear point away from his face. ‘For the love of Old Brenn, before it’s too late.’

  The shaman spat at him, kicking earth in his face. ‘Do not mention the false god here. There is only one god. Vala the Wyrm.’

  This was graver than Drew had expected. He’d hoped Gretchen was being held captive in a hut here, awaiting some awful ceremony with the Wyldermen, but it appeared they were too late. He tried to rise to his feet, but two of the Wyldermen warriors stepped forward, driving their spears into him. One weapon bounced off his breastplate, but the other found a chink in his armour, slicing deep into his shoulder blade. He let out a cry of pain.

  ‘Vala has her offering,’ said the shaman. ‘Now we have ours. Blessed be Vala!’ he shouted as his men yanked Drew to his feet.

  Hector and the villagers began to move out from where they hid. They’d heard Drew’s scream, and now realized they had to act quickly. Weapons raised they fanned out, those with crossbows taking points of cover while the other men crept forward tentatively. Hector was shoulder to shoulder with a middle-aged fisherman named Joss. The boatman clutched a long gaff in his hand, a fishing pole with a wickedly curved hook and blade at its end. This was a tool of the water, not a weapon for war, but the man held it before him with fearful determination.

  The shaman dipped his hand into the wig of feathers that sprang from the ram’s skull on his head, withdrawing a long slender flint blade that had been concealed.

  ‘The heart!’ he cried to the crowd. They were in his thrall, in awe of the power he held over them. ‘The heart is mine!’ And, with that, he plunged the knife into Drew’s chest.

  Complete chaos broke loose.

  Three crossbow bolts found their targets immediately, cutting down the Wyldermen where they stood. Hector let out a war cry of his own, before bowling into one of the Wyldermen on the outsid
e of the huddle, Joss thrusting forward with his gaff and finding the back of another. He yanked the pole, pulling the dying man clear before spinning to face another. The other townsfolk joined clashes of their own as the crossbows were reloaded, but they could already see they were greatly outnumbered.

  To Hector’s desperate relief, the other search party arrived at the village, rushing in to join their friends in the fracas. Jonas, the innkeeper, wielded a heavy woodsman’s axe, finding one of the Wyldermen instantly. Beside him one of the Oakley villagers toppled to the ground, a short-shafted arrow buried in his throat. Nearby another of his companions fell as a trio of Wylderwomen beat down on him with rocks and knives.

  The reinforcements may have arrived, thought Hector, parrying the blows of a savage spear, but the battle was still going against them.

  Drew cried out as the shaman forced the knife through his breastplate, the leather splitting as the flint blade tore into his chest. It met resistance when it hit his ribs, grating against bone as the Wylderman tried to work it through to Drew’s heart. The whites of the shaman’s eyes shone with delight, and he licked his teeth with anticipation. The knife might not kill Drew outright, but it would incapacitate him and death would then be only moments away, with or without his lycanthropy. He thought back to Baron Huth’s words and tried to focus while his body contorted in self-defence.

  Suddenly, the shaman’s knife worked its way back out of Drew’s chest as his ribcage began to expand, muscle appearing on muscle and bones shifting shape. He threw his arms back, sending the four men who were holding him pinioned flying into the bonfire with a chorus of screams. His jawbone distorted as his muzzle burst to the fore, his eyes turning amber in an instant. Hair sprouted over his body and he pulled off his cloak as the leather armour tumbled away, the catches releasing as they’d been designed to.