Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Look at the poor Wolf,’ said the mocking voice of King Leopold from the staircase. The Rat Kings joined him, screaming and clapping hysterically. ‘The pup has a sword?’ he wheezed, a hand on his stomach where Drew had stabbed him.

  Drew’s vision blurred as his head swirled. He put pressure on his left leg, feeling his ankle crunch where it was broken, and let loose a scream of pain. Wiping his forearm across his brow, he only succeeded in smearing fresh blood in his eyes. Temporarily blinded he let out a roar as he felt claws rip into his right flank. He spun, lashing out, trying to clear his vision with rapid blinks. The Wererat was behind him now. Drew slashed forward with his sword, all co-ordination failing him, all of Gerard’s lessons forgotten. He staggered dangerously close to the edge once more, only warned of his peril by the screams of the masses below. His sword smashed into another brazier on the wall, fresh coals flying. Again, claws raked through his skin, this time down his back as Vanmorten manoeuvred about him. This would not be a quick death after all.

  More laughter rang across the battlements as Drew collapsed against the broken boxes for support. He could feel his life beginning to fade. The Wererat snatched the blade from his shattered grip. Drew was a fool. He didn’t belong here in this castle, fighting some monster. He was a farm boy, a simple shepherd. Was this how he was going to die? Wiped out of existence by the same tooth and claw that had started his nightmare?

  ‘Kill him,’ said the king quietly. The Wererat turned to Drew.

  Vanmorten gripped the boy’s head in a clawed hand, knotting his black knuckles into his hair. Drew winced as the beast lowered his lips to his ear. ‘Now die, last Wolf,’ he spat in his ear, breath hot and foul. ‘Die like a dog.’ He loosed his grip and Drew heard the tip of his father’s Wolfshead blade scrape along the floor as Vanmorten prepared to use it against him. In the midst of the raging fire Drew’s gaze settled on a familiar-looking clay flask that lay in the jumble of broken goods. He recognized it from his time in the belly of the Maelstrom. Drew tore free, leaving clumps of his hair in the monster’s clawed hand, snatching at the flask as he collapsed on to his back, hurling it up into the air at the Ratlord.

  With unerring accuracy the clay jar hit the Wererat clean on the jaw, exploding and sending Spyr Oil showering over Vanmorten’s face and torso. It was the lord chancellor’s turn to be temporarily blinded as the thick spiced oil stung his red eyes. Drew brought his good leg back, knee up to his chest and with all the strength he could muster kicked up and out. His foot connected with the Wererat in the pit of his groin, sending him wheeling backwards, snatching at thin air along the top of the wall as he reeled back into the fire.

  With a screeching whoosh the Spyr Oil ignited, racing over Vanmorten’s body with ravenous urgency. The Wererat wailed in agony as his oily hair went up in flames and burned at his flesh. His thick tail whipped in a frantic blur as he thrashed around in the fire. Drew scrambled forward, throwing his own hand into the fire as he reached for the Wolfshead blade. He grabbed the blistered claw of the Wererat. The heat was intense, the pain unbearable for Drew as he felt the fire race up his own arm, hair frying and skin blazing. Through the flickering flames he could just discern Vanmorten’s furious red eyes locked on his own as the Wererat feebly held on to the sword. With a final tug it came free and Drew tumbled away from the fire, his arm charred and the sword a smoking brand in his grip.

  Stumbling on to his good foot he winced as he touched his left down for balance, looking through the fire. He could make out the wailing figures of Vanmorten’s brothers, arms raised in fury beyond the wall of heat. They were beginning to change, dark hideous shadows flickering into life in the orange glow. He saw Leopold, roaring in dismay, screaming at the rest of the Rat Kings to attack. Drew backed up towards the edge of the wall, the low crenellations bumping against his thighs as he hopped.

  The inferno was raging now, out of control, as the fire devoured everything on the walkway. Fresh flasks of Spyr Oil exploded, sending many of those who gathered into retreat. But the brothers remained. Drew looked up to see three large black shapes bound through the fire towards him. The Wererats snapped at one another as they advanced, bickering over who would get to tear the Wolf apart. He dared a glance over his shoulder, finding only air at his heel, ready to take him down to the White Sea below. He looked back to the flames. The biggest of the three brothers had muscled his way to the front. The air was thick with the smell of burnt fur and smoking flesh. The hulking Wererat opened his mouth, letting sticky globs of drool fall from his maws. Drew knew he could back up no further, his broken ankle hanging over the lip of the battlements. He wavered for a moment, holding the Wolfshead blade towards the assembled monsters.

  Then, in the blink of an eye and with a suddenness that took the Wererats and the king by surprise, Drew lowered his smoking sword and simply fell backwards into the void.

  Before he lost consciousness, his last memory was of the raging Wererats he’d left behind on the battlements disappearing into the distance, silhouetted by the inferno at their backs.

  Epilogue

  Drew dreamed he was in his mother’s arms. She was rocking him, soothing him, singing a lullaby. Was he a baby or a young man? He couldn’t tell. He was warm and he was safe, that much he knew. The familiar scent of meadows and bluebells surrounded him, freshly picked from the lane that led to the Ferran farm. He could hear another voice, possibly his father working in the woodshed, calling dimly beyond his senses. The distant cry of gulls was clear enough, sending his mind racing back to his childhood when he chased the birds from the freshly ploughed fields. All the while his mother rocked him in her arms, singing gently.

  More noises began to creep into his dream, at odds with the surroundings. He could hear bells ringing, and the sound of water as waves rolled across his subconscious. Still the voice sang to him, soft and tender, his mother lovingly caressing his brow. There was a rising sense of discomfort that worked its way through his body, starting with his feet, then legs and coursing through his whole frame. He tried to open his eyes, squinting at the harsh bright light that filled his vision. A hand pushed down on his chest, holding him in place as he moved fitfully, writhing as the pain overtook him.

  The smooth lip of a polished wooden cup touched his broken lips. A sweet-tasting nectar poured gently down his throat, instantly warming him and dulling the pain. Still the voice sang, never wavered, never ceased, as he drifted back into a surreal sleep.

  When Drew finally awoke, he rubbed gingerly at his eyes before taking in his surroundings. He was back on board the Maelstrom, recognizing it instantly as the room Count Vega had kept him in on the last leg of their journey to Highcliff. He lay in the bed, blankets and quilt holding him firmly and cosily in one place, as the rocking motion of the ship sent the bright lantern above his head swinging this way and that. A chorus of bells could be heard ringing loud and clear, joined by the sound of distant singing and cheering. The rocking, the bells, the light – all things he began to remember from his dream.

  Gretchen lay curled up in a leather armchair, her legs tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped protectively around them. She looked exhausted but at peace, the red curls of her hair fluttering over her lips as she breathed. To her side, reclining in a wooden captain’s chair, sat Hector, a book open in his lap as his head hung back, mouth wide open and snoring contentedly. Drew smiled, trying to pull himself up. His legs shot with pain, stiff and unmoving, angry jolts coming from his shattered bones.

  He tugged the sheets loose, pulling them back to find that broad wooden splints had been attached to each leg with bandages and leather strips. They were bruised, blackened and broken, lumps rising over their surface like discoloured mountain ranges, but he knew they would mend. His chest and arms were also dressed with a patchwork quilt of bandages and dressings. On his left hand a bandage was wrapped around where he’d lost his little finger, and his right arm was coated with a slick, sweet oil that was working its magic, healing his burn
s. Hector’s satchel lay open on the floor, many of his salves and ointments visible to Drew, and once more the young Werewolf was grateful to his friend. A shadow passed over Drew as somebody else came to crouch beside him.

  ‘Drew of the Dyrewood,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Can’t say I ever expected to see you again.’

  Drew moved to sit upright again with shock and surprise, until his wounded body screamed out in protest. He stifled a cry as the figure put a hand to his chest, easing him back into the bed. He blinked once, twice, with disbelief.

  ‘Whitley?’ he gasped. ‘Is that … you?’

  He had very real doubts. The figure kneeling beside the bed did indeed at first glance appear to be the scout’s apprentice he’d met so long ago in the Dyrewood, but there’d been a startling transformation. The face was undeniably Whitley’s but the outfit and appearance caused Drew a great deal of confusion. His friend was wearing a fine ivory dress, the hem, collar and sleeves of which were decorated with an embroidered green ivy motif. A brown apron was tied around his middle, possibly to keep his dress clean, and his long brown hair was braided back from his brow, running halfway down his back. Drew’s head swam.

  ‘But … you’re dressed as a girl,’ he whispered, as if trying to keep this revelation between the two of them.

  ‘That’s because I am a girl, stupid,’ said Whitley, pouring a meady liquid from a jug into a glass for him. ‘Here, drink this,’ she said, handing it to Drew. He gulped it down tentatively, choking as the realization finally sunk in.

  ‘But you were pretending to be a boy when we met.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Drew,’ said Whitley, taking the empty glass with a smile. ‘You assumed I was a boy, that’s all. Maybe I was guilty of not correcting you, for which I might owe you an apology.’

  ‘What were you doing with Master Hogan?’

  ‘Oh, I was his apprentice all right. Still am, I suppose, although he’s still not well enough to return to the forest. I’m completing my training in the field, so to speak – that’s why I accompanied my father to Highcliff.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, rising and straightening the brown apron over her dress. ‘Duke Bergan.’

  Before Drew could properly process the information, the door opened suddenly and a large figure bent low to enter from the dark corridor beyond. It was the Bearlord himself who, upon taking one look at Drew sitting up in the bed, let a warm smile fill his bearded face.

  ‘Ha!’ he cried noisily, turning to lean back out of the door and call up the corridor. ‘He’s up!’

  Gretchen and Hector awoke instantly with a start, delighted by the sight of their risen friend in his bed. Both leapt from their chairs and rushed over to Drew, who gingerly held his arms out as they embraced him. Whitley stood to one side, smiling.

  ‘You’re awake!’ Gretchen gasped, echoed by Hector’s: ‘You’re better!’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ replied Drew. ‘Good of you to notice!’

  Hector immediately started to take Drew’s vital signs, checking his temperature and pulse, looking over his wounds and inspecting his handiwork.

  ‘He’s fine, Hector,’ said Whitley. ‘I checked him while you were napping. Please don’t worry yourself.’

  ‘You’ve been out cold all afternoon, since they fished you out of the harbour,’ said Hector, unable to stop himself from checking that the bandages were still taut.

  ‘The harbour?’ asked Drew. ‘I remember falling and then nothing.’

  ‘You might have died, lad,’ said Bergan, moving to sit in the leather armchair that Gretchen had vacated. ‘You can thank the Sharklord for thinking fast and diving in to rescue you. Mind, you’d swallowed so much of the White Sea I wasn’t convinced there was much left to save.’

  Drew was amazed by the news, by all that was happening around him. He’d leapt from the battlements to deny the Wererats the satisfaction of killing him. He hadn’t expected to survive the fall; indeed, he thought the strange dream he’d been having was heaven, so vivid and rich had it been. He looked about the bed suddenly.

  ‘My sword,’ he said. ‘Where’s the Wolfshead blade?’

  ‘Lost, I’m afraid,’ replied Hector. ‘It’s somewhere in the harbour, I guess, or halfway across the White Sea by now. Sorry, Drew.’

  Drew felt great pain at the loss of the one thing that held a connection to the man he’d called his father, who had died so valiantly for him. He hoped they could find his body in the carnage of the scaffold, to give him the hero’s send-off he deserved. All those Wolfguard soldiers deserved that much.

  ‘The soldiers,’ said Drew, ‘why did they leap in to fight? How did they have Wergar’s colours still?’

  ‘That would be my doing, lad,’ said Bergan. ‘I knew Mack Ferran fought in the Wolfguard, and it nagged at me, trying to remember him. I recalled that some of the Wolfguard had returned to Highcliff’s service after they had been disbanded. A number of those who guarded the king used to serve the Wolf, you see. So a thought occurred to me. I would ask about; find out if any of the Lionguard knew him. Sure enough they did. It was a greater shock to find that the man who raised you had rejoined the army.’

  Drew was astonished. ‘Why would he join with the Lion?’

  ‘He told me straight enough. Said he thought you were the enemy. Held you directly responsible for killing his wife. His life fell apart that night, Drew. It was only when I explained what had actually happened to you that night, how another beast had killed your mother, that he realized what a fool he’d been. Seems he had time, no matter how brief, to try to make amends. And some old but still loyal men helped him. It was a selfless sacrifice Ferran and those soldiers made for you; never forget that.’

  Drew fell silent as he considered the situation. Mack Ferran had always harboured suspicions and mistrust with regard to Drew. Drew had known that throughout his childhood. Mack looked at him differently to how he looked at his birth son, like he was waiting for him to put a foot wrong, to slip up. It was what any man would do, knowing his family could be at risk from Drew’s lycanthropy when he came of age. In many ways he’d been right. And Trent? What had become of him? Drew resigned himself to the fact that he’d probably never know. He could only hope that if he ever did return to the Ferran farm he’d find his brother waiting for him, a daft grin spread across his face. He could only hope.

  Drew heard the waves from his dreams beyond the wooden walls of the Maelstrom splashing lazily against the hardened hull. He could still taste the salty seawater in his mouth, in his stomach.

  ‘I thought I’d died,’ he whispered. Whitley reached around him to plump up the pillows, now that he was sitting upright. She pulled the blankets back up where he’d kicked them loose, tucking them into place.

  ‘So did we,’ said Gretchen, gently nudging Whitley out of the way to give Drew another embrace, wrapping her arms round his back tenderly. He raised his bandaged hand to hug her back, his body still aching as broken bones worked busily to knit themselves back together. Whitley watched on, arching an eyebrow with a wry smile.

  ‘You’ll be out of action for a while, my friend,’ said Hector. ‘That fall fractured or broke just about every bone in your body. You’re lucky you’re blessed with lycanthropy, or you’d be fish food by now.’

  Drew looked to the porthole window by the side of his bed and could see the night sky beyond, silver stars twinkling high overhead. The Maelstrom was anchored just off the coast of Highcliff and the city was also shining brightly in the darkness. Still the bells rang out in the city. He reached for the brass handle that held it shut, but it was stiff and wouldn’t open.

  ‘May I get some fresh air?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve to stay in bed for a couple of days,’ said Hector. ‘You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.’

  Drew sighed restlessly. ‘I dreamed while I slept, you know,’ he said, to none of them in particular. ‘Thought I was back home at the farmstead. My ma was nursing me
, rocking me, looking after me. Singing to me.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, I should have known I was dreaming. The rocking was the motion of the Maelstrom, and the bells, the water outside, even the lamp above my bunk, they all made appearances. Seems the only thing that I really imagined was my mother.’

  Hector looked at Gretchen, who in turn stared at Bergan. The Old Bear scratched his head. A door closed in the corridor and Drew could hear footsteps approaching.

  ‘I can see how you might have imagined that, lad,’ said Duke Bergan, rising from the chair and heading towards the door. ‘It’s not as foolish as it sounds. She always did have a lovely singing voice.’

  Joining him as he waited by the open door was a lady in a long grey dress. Her white hair was worn long, falling around her face and down her back in wavy locks. Her face, though tired, was warm and soft, and her brown eyes shone as she looked at Drew. She wasn’t Tilly Ferran. She may have changed from her regal robes and removed the crystal tiara, but she was unmistakable to him, to anyone. It was Queen Amelie.

  Duke Bergan dropped to one knee and bowed, while Hector jumped from the bed to join him. Gretchen hurriedly rose and curtsied beside Whitley, spreading their dresses wide before them as they sank down to the wooden floorboards. The whole thing was so surreal to Drew as their shadows danced around the room under the swaying lantern light. Was he supposed to bow as well? He pulled the blankets loose again and moved clumsily to throw his legs over the side of the bed. The queen’s quiet elegance was spoiled instantly as she rushed forward.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she exclaimed, gently pushing his legs back on the bed. ‘It’s far too soon for you to be getting up. You’re not well. You need to rest!’ She lowered him back into his pillows, fluffing them herself in the process and fussing as any mother would do for her child. She stopped as she pulled the quilt back up.

  ‘Willem,’ she said, her face full of love.