The shaman didn’t let up, stabbing wildly at Drew with his knife, hacking crazily at the changing beast before his eyes. In moments Drew towered before him, the Wolf leading the counterattack as he let out a roar. With one clawed hand he knocked the knife from the Wylderman’s grasp, while the other shot forward, straight and true, disappearing into the man’s chest. His hand clasped round the shaman’s beating heart, and in a sudden, savage motion he squeezed it into a closed fist.
‘Heart,’ he growled at the man as the light disappeared from his wild eyes. He dropped him to the floor, lifeless, and looked round to see if anyone else would face him. The Wyldermen had withdrawn, looking in horror at the still form of their tribal leader on the ground and the beast that stood over him. Shouting and wailing, the women and children ran to their huts, with their menfolk retreating shortly afterwards. The look of shock on their faces was new to Drew. Shock at the death of their shaman, and shock at the appearance of the monster. Drew let out a chilling howl, raising his head to the sky. It felt good. The men fled, dashing into their huts and slamming their doors behind them.
A part of Drew that had been put to one side, his humanity, scrambled its way back into his mind as the Wolf revelled in the savagery of the moment. Remember the mantra, came the words of Baron Huth. Take dominion over the beast. Slowly Drew relaxed, his body shrinking back to normal size as the townsfolk gave him a wide berth. Fragments of the horror he’d just inflicted darted across his mind. He stared down at his bloodied hand.
Hector appeared by his side.
‘W-what have I done?’ Drew stammered, staring at the shaman’s prone body, a wave of nausea rising in his throat at the sight of the man’s bloodied chest.
Hector picked up the Wolfshead blade. ‘Drew, do not search for answers or explanations,’ he replied. ‘The Wolf inside you is inhuman; controlling it takes a lifetime to master.’ He picked up his friend’s discarded clothes, handing them back to him. ‘You did what was necessary.’
A bolt of fear ran the length of Drew’s body as he realized the true implications of his inheritance. It was not something to disrespect – or unleash – without serious repercussions. A part of his human mind finally shifted as he accepted the uninvited responsibility that his lycanthropy brought. Things would never be the same again.
‘We have to move fast,’ said Hector. Behind them, the men of Oakley tended their wounded and picked up their dead.
Drew buckled his weapon belt round his middle, the simple act bringing him back to the present. ‘They’ve sacrificed her to the Wyrmwood, to this Vala woman you mentioned,’ he said, dressing quickly.
‘Vala?’ said Hector as they walked towards the remaining Oakley villagers. ‘She’s just a myth, a folk tale that the people of these parts tell their children. If they’ve taken Gretchen into the Wyrmwood, then it’s something else that’s going to take her, not some mythical Wereserpent.’
‘Regardless, Gretchen’s in danger out there. We need to find her and fast.’ Drew took a step over the body of the shaman, eyeing the huts all around, but there was no sign of the Wyldermen. They had clearly been completely terrorized by the sight of the Werewolf attacking their shaman.
‘Jonas, Piotr,’ said Drew to the others, bowing. He saw the bodies of two of their men. ‘Thank you for aiding us. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened to your friends.’
‘Don’t apologize, my lord,’ said Jonas heavily, insisting on using a title when speaking to Drew, no matter how uncomfortable the youth found it. ‘These men joined us knowing full well what dangers they faced. They died honourably, and the people of Oakley will never forget them.’
Drew and Hector nodded their respect. ‘Hector and I are not done,’ said Drew. ‘Gretchen has been sacrificed to the Wyrmwood, and we must try to find her. You should return to your homes while these Wyldermen are still in hiding.’
At this the men looked to one another. They needed no more persuading to return to their town. To face their old enemies the Wyldermen was one thing, but to enter the haunted forest was to seek out a swift and violent death.
‘Very well, my lord,’ said Jonas, bowing to both Drew and Hector. ‘May Old Brenn guide you to your friend and bring the three of you out of the Wyrmwood safely.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Hector. ‘Your bravery will never be forgotten by us or our people.’ With that, the men turned, backing up out of the village before heading off into the swamps towards Oakley.
Drew had noticed that three separate trails left the encampment into the Wyrmwood. Gretchen could be down any one of them. He turned to Hector.
The Boarlord had emptied his backpack on to the floor and was busily rooting through bottles, pots and vials.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Drew, looking about nervously. ‘We’ve been here long enough; we should get moving.’
‘Where to? We don’t know where she is,’ said Hector, concentrating on his search.
‘All the more reason why we should start looking, then.’
‘Look where?’ said Hector. ‘The Wyrmwood is huge. We don’t know where they took her.’
‘And we’ve no way of finding out now,’ admitted Drew, staring forlornly at the dead shaman on the floor.
Hector examined the body beside him thoughtfully. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Drew. I have an idea.’
2
The Magister
‘As I’ve told you before,’ said Hector, ‘I’ve read of rituals that used to be carried out long, long ago, where elders would commune with those who had died suddenly and unexpectedly in order to discover their final wishes. Many societies had their own magisters, albeit by various names. Shamans, witchdoctors, wizards – call them what you will, they were all practitioners of old magicks and arcane spells. As society moved on down the years, these practices were outlawed. The Werelords saw to it that none but they held thrall over their people, and the old magick users all but died out.
‘As I say, I understand many of the basic principles of the old magicks. There are simple cantrips that I’ve already perfected, such as ventriloquism, smoke clouds, minor illusions and whatnots …’
‘What is it you’re trying to tell me?’ asked Drew.
‘I believe I can commune. I can speak with the dead,’ Hector answered plainly. ‘Specifically this fellow here,’ he went on, pointing to the dead shaman. ‘Give me a minute – no longer, I swear – with this creature under my command and I shall have the whereabouts of Gretchen.’
Drew shook his head, wanting to dispel this fresh madness that crashed over him. The thought that he and a select few ‘nobles’ were therianthropes had been hard enough for him to handle. To now hear that his warm, compassionate friend was some kind of budding necromancer threatened to tip him over the edge. Whatever the Boarlord was planning, surely it was beyond anything he’d read about in his books. Surely it was dangerous.
‘Is it safe, Hector? This thing?’ asked Drew. ‘You’ve never done it before. You said yourself this is the realm of magisters and wizards.’
‘It’s all in here,’ he replied, tapping his head while rummaging through his satchel. ‘It’s just a matter of keeping everything in order, everything in its place.’
‘So long as you know what you’re doing,’ said Drew worriedly. He didn’t believe Hector for one minute, and wished he had the same faith in the magicks that his friend had. But the truth was plain to see: they were at a loss as to where Gretchen was. Maybe if there were the slightest chance that Hector could get the answer he needed from the dead shaman the risk would be worth taking. Drew tried to convince himself, but a dark cloud had gathered in his heart. Regardless, he had to help his friend. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘Stepping back would be a good start,’ Hector said, smiling, as he stumbled to his feet. In his hand he had a dark-green glass vial. Popping the stopper off he started to shake a line of yellow powder out on to the ground in a circle round the shaman’s body. He smartly restoppered the v
ial and dropped it into his satchel. ‘I have to act quickly, though. We may have already lost our chance. The soul can only be dragged back for a limited amount of time. Knowing my luck our window of opportunity is already closed. Keep your eyes on those huts; I don’t want to be interrupted.’
Drew stood with his back to the fire, Wolfshead blade in hand, watching the Wyldermen huts as Hector settled on the ground in front of the body and the powder circle.
‘What is that stuff?’ asked Drew. ‘It stinks!’
‘Brimstone, Drew. Now be silent, please.’
Drew was taken aback by his friend’s authoritative tone, but didn’t argue. He stood over him, alert, as the Boarlord pulled a long black candle from his bag and held the wick to the bonfire, letting it catch. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. Allowing the sleeves of his shirt to fall back he opened his left palm skywards before him, all the while quietly chanting ancient words. Drew looked over his shoulder nervously.
Tipping the candle Hector let the wax drip from its end, pooling in a hot puddle in the palm of his left hand. Wincing at the pain he didn’t miss a beat, keeping his chant going while the smoking wax dribbled on to his skin.
Drew shivered as a chill breeze suddenly fluttered through the settlement. He looked about as the shadows from the fire seemed to shift and distort. The black wax now filled Hector’s palm, dripping between his fingers and down on to his lap. He stopped chanting. Curling his fist into a ball he brought it sharply down on to the earth and thumped it once. Twice. Three times.
The body on the ground seemed to judder briefly.
‘Did you see that?’ gasped Drew.
‘Quiet, Drew!’ whispered Hector, concentrating.
The shaman’s body was moving, trembling. Drew looked around to see if they were being watched, but still there was no activity from the huts. He felt his knuckles pop as they tightened round the handle of the Wolfshead blade.
‘Rise, creature, and answer to your master’s bidding,’ said Hector. The Wylderman sat upright on the ground, fresh blood pouring from the wound in his chest. His skin had a deathly pallor and splintered bones were visible in his open ribcage. His neck was loose, his head hanging against the chest. The figure sat motionless for a moment before his head snapped upright, eyes open, revealing pearly white lights within. After a moment of stillness his mouth broke into a fractured, grotesque grin, exposing bloody gums and sharpened teeth. A low, guttural laugh emanated from within. It sounded like death itself.
‘Pig boy,’ he said, raising a slack arm up in Hector’s direction, black drool spilling from his hideous mouth. A splintered finger pointed accusingly at the Boarlord. It recognized the legacy within him.
‘I’m here, Hector. I’m right by your side,’ Drew whispered. ‘Do what you have to do and be quick.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Hector with renewed confidence. ‘What have you done with Gretchen?’
‘Piiig boyyy,’ chuckled the risen shaman, head lolling to one side at an impossible angle while his tongue lolled out, black and swollen. ‘Pig boy,’ it rasped. ‘No answers!’
‘I brought you back and I command you NOW,’ shouted Hector, punching his fist to the ground once more. ‘Where is she?’
Drew looked about; he could hear movement from within the huts. A door opened, just slightly, but enough for the occupants to be able to peek out. He looked back at the horrific scene as it played out before him. The animated corpse looked at the Boarlord with newfound respect, the pale white lights of his eyes narrowing. Drew felt repulsed, watching the dead body’s unnatural movements, his twisted limbs jangling and his broken ribcage grinding with each foul motion.
‘What have you done with her?’ repeated Hector.
The shaman’s slack jaw grated as he spoke: ‘Wyrm take her. Vala feeds. Serpent teeth bite. Snip! Snap! Snick! Snack!’ The corpse’s fingers made cutting motions.
Hector gulped. ‘Where can we find her? One more answer and I will release you from your bondage.’
The Wylderman’s glowing eyes narrowed and a jagged smile reappeared on his painted face. ‘Goooooood. Pig boy release …’
‘Tell us where you took her!’
The creature craned forward and raised his bony finger to his lips. ‘Follow third path into Wyrmwood. Path forks right at stone. Find her. Find her at Serpent’s Tree.’
Hector let out a deep breath, as if he’d been holding it in the whole time.
‘Good work, Hector,’ said Drew, clapping him on the back. ‘Now quickly get rid of this thing so we can go.’
Hector smacked his lips and cleared his dry throat. The doors to the Wyldermen’s huts were opening now as the villagers got bolder. Drew shifted the Wolfshead blade in his hand.
‘Now,’ said Hector, addressing the creature, ‘return from whence you came.’ He opened his palm and slapped it to the ground in the black wax. The shaman began to recline on to the ground, his bones crunching and grinding against one another in his chest as he relaxed back into a death pose. The brightness in his eyes began to fade.
Hector made to get up, and Drew stood back, relieved that the encounter had gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. There was certainly more to his friend than he could have ever imagined. Climbing up from his knees, Hector’s left foot trailed backwards, and Drew noticed the tip of the Boarlord’s boot cutting a dusty gap through the line of brimstone. They turned to walk away.
The astonished scream of a Wylderman afforded them the briefest warning and then the corpse was upon them. Drew stumbled and spun, sword raised, his eyes wide with horror. Hector felt the deathly cold grip of the corpse’s hands round his throat. What was happening?
Drew wavered, unsure of what to do. How could the shaman’s body have leapt back to life? Hector let out a squeal of terror, trying to pull his face away as the Wylderman’s corpse brought its mouth down towards his scalp. This was enough to snap Drew out of his inaction. All Gerard’s lessons in swordplay rushed through his mind instantly. He leapt forward to Hector’s aid, bringing his elbow straight into the face of the monster. The shaman’s head flew back and he released his grip, Hector falling forward into a slump on the ground. In one fluid motion Drew whirled the Wolfshead blade about his head in an arc, bringing it scything round with a tearing slash.
The body of the decapitated Wylderman collapsed in an awkward heap, while his head landed beside it, the eyes dull, black and dead once more. Drew kicked it into the bonfire, which hungrily consumed it.
‘Let’s not take any risks,’ said Drew, helping his friend to his feet.
The other Wyldermen were edging out of their huts now, advancing slowly, but their spears lowered. As Hector scooped his bottles and vials back into his satchel, the two youths retreated towards the third path, to be slowly swallowed by the darkness of the Wyrmwood.
3
Lair of the Serpent
The low hoot of an owl overhead startled Hector, and he stumbled as he shadowed Drew deeper into the Wyrmwood. The bird looked down at him, silhouetted against the crosshatched black branches that supported it, bright eyes blinking as it followed the boys’ passage. Their path weaved between tree trunk and vine, zigzagging into the dark and misty depths of the woods. Drew wondered whether the Wyldermen had followed them, but he suspected they were mourning the death of their shaman, and possibly in no hurry to encounter the Wolf for a second time. If they did come after them, he felt confident that he’d be able to hide using his skills acquired in the Dyrewood – but he didn’t hold the same hope for Hector.
The ground was wet and mulchy as they continued along the path, rotten mosses squelching beneath their boots and large beetles and grubs scurrying for cover. The mist was thickening, making the path less clear. Before long, they found the ground obscured by a thick blanket of fog. It hung in the air like a giant milky cobweb. Drew looked about, searching for any signs of Gretchen.
Ahead of them, a large dark standing stone rose from the mist, marking the fork in the trail. Drew steppe
d closer, running his hands over its surface. It appeared to be an enormous slab of flint. How it had got here he couldn’t imagine; maybe the Wyldermen had hauled it but it was certainly out of place. It had clearly served a purpose – the surface was hacked and chipped where the tribe had removed shards for their weapons. Drew bore right as the dead shaman had instructed, feeling his way through the haze with Hector following close behind.
They moved ever deeper into the Wyrmwood. Unlike the Dyrewood, where there was the steady and regular sound of wildlife floating through the forest, a deathly silence emanated from the trees here, bar the occasional birdcall. Few creatures called this forest their home, only those that crawled and slithered over the swampy floor and its skeletal branches.
Thoughts of the shaman didn’t sit well with either of the two young men. Whenever Drew closed his eyes, he remembered the fight with the Wyldermen, the image of the man he had killed haunting his every thought. As soon as they had put enough distance between themselves and the village, Drew had staggered into a tree, bending double and vomiting until his stomach groaned. The rational part of his mind told him to see things clearly; the Wyldermen were trying to take his life. They meant to murder him. It was kill or be killed and he had done what he had to do to survive. Still, it didn’t sit easily with him.
He looked over at Hector. His friend wasn’t at all himself, and Drew was worried for him. A thin sheen of sweat coated his face, and he mopped his brow and throat intermittently. Drew could see the livid red marks around the Boarlord’s throat where the shaman had gripped him. When he wasn’t rubbing his throat, Drew spied him scratching at the dark sore in the palm of his left hand where the black wax had pooled.
A sweet smell of decay thickened the air of the Wyrmwood. Occasionally the squawk of a carrion crow floated out of the branches above, but the only noise from the ground came from the two youths’ footsteps and the thumping of their hearts. They walked on slowly, blind to what lay ahead, stumbling and tripping as they went. Hector leaned against a tree trunk to catch his balance. The bark came away in his hand, rotten to the touch, as an enormous foot-long millipede scuttled over his fingers. A nervous shiver jolted through him as he yanked his hand back.
Rise of the Wolf Page 18
