Seasons of Wither
The Great North Woods Pack #3
Copyright © 2013 by Shawn Underhill.
All rights reserved.
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
~ Robert Frost
Humane –
1: Characterized by kindness, mercy, or compassion: a humane judge.
2: Marked by an emphasis on humanistic values and concerns: a humane education.
***
"If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men."
~ St. Francis of Assisi
Prologue
Eastern Maine
1913
Looking back over his shoulder in the dark, the young hunter felt the bleak shadow of despair overtaking him. Not only had he lost the remnants of his brotherhood—and in so doing become the hunted rather than the hunter. Even worse, he now realized the futility of his efforts. From the moment of his departure he had never had a chance. His desperate evening flight would not spare his master. It would only seal his fate.
Beneath him his exhausted horse struggled on valiantly. All around him in the darkness fluttered the light, powdery snowflakes that filtered through the trees. High overhead, above the close sound of his hard-charging horse, the growing storm moaned in the tops of the trees. And at his back, he heard faintly but surely the worst sound a man of his sect could hear—the battle cry of the pack.
The war was old—far older than himself. Until recently the young man had understood it only by ideals and theory; he had seen no action, no bloodshed, and most importantly, no death. But with this most recent uprising of the beasts, the fighting had been especially brutal, lasting weeks, with the battlefield spanning many miles of desolate forests. The thought of the trail of dead men—slaughtered brothers—behind him clouded the young man’s memory, even as the unrelenting presence of the wolves nipped the heels of his poor horse. The hope of sparing his own life had left his mind hours ago; his goal in running had been to warn the Grand Master. But that, too, he now understood, was a fool’s hope.
The pack was closing. Since the last of his companions had fallen hours ago, they had dogged him tirelessly, their cries loud and clear, while they themselves hung back always just out of sight—out of accurate firing range. But now, so close to his destination, his desperate glances showed that his pursuers were finally bearing down on him with their full speed. No longer content to terrorize him from afar and exhaust his horse, their confident approach told him clearly that his time was running out. The glow of their eyes shimmered in the night, reflecting the dull light of gently falling snow. At every glance their massive shadowed outlines leapt ever closer.
“Hurry, Chestnut!” the young man gasped, digging his heels into the sides of his fading horse. God forgive me, master, he thought. I’ve led the devils to your very doorstep.
***
Behind the man on the horse, Abel, the great dark shadow, growled to his brother running at his side. “Now is the time.”
“Yes, I smell wood smoke on the sea breeze,” the white wolf said. “Take him cleanly. And spare his animal.”
“Of course,” Abel grumbled as he broke right, away from the pack. Veering off from the sledge-packed snow of the trail, he darted full speed through the powdery snow between the trees with great bounding leaps.
***
Once more the young man stole a fearful glance over his shoulder. Clearly now he saw the white wolf running at the head of the pack of gray and black shadows. In that glance his mind flashed like a flipbook through the major events of his short life. He regretted everything from the day he first swore allegiance to the church, and with it, the strange mission of that tiny sect.
He faced forward again, leaning as he felt his horse beginning to lean through a long sweeping turn—the final turn in the trail before it straightened upon entering the tiny coastal town of Jonesport. A crazy hope arose in him. He was so close to the town, so close to help, so near to fulfilling his task.
Then with a shudder he felt Chestnut’s powerful neck suddenly reel. The force of the animal’s impact to his chest instantly robbed him of his already strained breath. One foot came loose of its stirrup; the reins began to slip from his cold, clammy fingers.
With the last of his energy Chestnut lowered his hind quarters, flexing his great muscles. He reared up, frantically running his forelegs, shaking his neck and head with all his terrified might. The young man on his back no longer mattered; the tug of the reins and the pull of the bit were nothing, because ahead in the darkness, a terrible shadow with flaming eyes had erupted from the timber onto the night-dulled white of the trail, cutting off their retreat. The beast roared, issuing plumes of steam from its mouth and nostrils. Standing nearly as tall as he himself, the black wolf reared up in unison with the horse, as if to keep his terrible eyes locked with his own and hold him in place.
As chestnut lowered his forelegs to the ground, in slow motion the young man on his back beheld the terrible sight of Abel—the most feared and vicious of the Snows; a mere handful of men had ever seen him and lived to tell. Behind him in that terrible moment, the young man heard the pack slowing, their wide paws crunching in the snow. They breathed heavily as they closed slowly round him in a wide circle. It was a ring, he understood, from which he would never leave.
Again Chestnut reared up, his weakened hind quarters buckling beneath him. As he leveled himself for the second time, the young man grasping to the horse’s neck heard the black wolf roar. Through the steam and snow he saw the eyes flair up … just as he saw him leap.
Before a sound could escape his parched throat, he felt himself bowled over by a bone-crushing impact. The scraggly shadows of the leafless, whitewashed trees spun round; the gray sky swirling with white flakes rolled by in a blur, then all went momentarily dark.
He was breathless, warm, suffocating, pressed down upon by an unbearable weight. Once more he saw the pale light of the snow; he felt its cold and dampness, and after a few confused seconds recognized that he’d come to rest on the ground on his side. Looking up into the falling snow from where he lay, he saw a wide circle of glowing eyes. The throat of the black wolf was grumbling like a monster.
“My quarrel is not with you,” Abel said to the terrified horse, who had shied away with the flow of Abel’s pounce, rolling over on his back and crushing his rider in the process. Now he stood on trembling limbs, sides heaving, his rider reduced to a crushed heap of dark clothing in the snow at his feet. “Move on with ease,” Abel continued. “Save your strength for your next master; your service to this one is at an end.”
“He has been a kind master … until tonight,” Chestnut panted. “To have failed him is a shame; to leave him helpless is my dishonor.”
“Kind,” Abel said, pacing slowly. “The blinders they’ve affixed you with have done their work well. Tell me, noble one, was it by their kindness that your kin fell into their slavery?”
“There is no shame,” the white wolf said, stepping between his brother and the horse. “A hoof cannot match a padded paw in soft snow, brave one. Proceed to the town and take your rest. You are sure to find a decent man there in need of a good horse.”
Chestnut lowered his head and sniffed the broken man lying in the snow. In
stinctually he understood that even without the wolves, this man was beyond help.
“Move along,” the white wolf said. “There is nothing you can do.”
Raising his head, Chestnut whirled about. He stepped wide of Abel and trotted down the trail a few paces. There he paused a moment, regretfully stamping his feet. At last he bowed his head respectfully to the white wolf watching him. Then he turned and trotted off down the trail to Jonesport.
***
“Now,” Joseph grumbled as his massive white frame shrunk into the shape of man kneeling in the snow. With one strong hand he lifted the man to a seated position and placed his back against the trunk of an oak tree. “How many guards watch over your master at most times?”
“Three,” gasped the young man. He was wincing in pain, his eyes wild with fear as he glanced around at the pack. “Perhaps I’ve seen four. I cannot be sure. Only his favorites are his constant companions.”
“Do not lie,” Joseph said with a small shake to keep the man’s eyes locked with his own. “Your femur is broken and has protruded through the skin; perhaps your lungs are collapsed as well, judging by the sounds of you. Understand that you will not see the light of day again. But I give you my word that you’re passing will be quick, if you answer my questions truthfully.”
“Truth is of our code,” he muttered. “But I have nothing else to offer. My master’s business is scarcely known to the young such as me. I have only laid eyes on him a handful of times.”
“Useless slug,” Abel complained. “Our time is wasted here. Let us finish this once for all.”
“Patience, brother,” Joseph said without lifting his gaze from the young man “Perhaps he knows more than he realizes.”
“I know little,” the young man said, glancing from face to face as he heard the many growls and rumbles. “I am two months off the ship from Europe.”
“How many years have you been with the order?”
“I was raised within it.”
“You know no other way?”
“No.”
“Have you killed our kind?”
“No,” the young man strained. “I’ve not even seen your kind until your raid of our camp. I am only a trainee. I fired only as I fled, I swear it.”
The grumbling of the pack began to escalate. Abel paced away from the conversation, seething.
“Your master,” Joseph said, disregarding all but the man before him. “He has done well to evade us thus far. Keeping on the move and staying close to the big towns was his wisest defense. Of all places, what is his sudden interest in such a small town as Jonesport?”
“I do not know his business or practices,” the young man answered. “I know only of rumors.”
“Rumors,” Joseph uttered. “Perhaps of marriage?”
The young man nodded.
“No doubt he wants a son,” Joseph said. “The rumor is that the new house is a gift to his young wife.”
“Yes,” the young man said. “I’ve heard the same.”
“He must have great confidence of our imminent defeat to redirect his focus so late in this old struggle. To even attempt raising a child so close to his enemies is inconceivable in my mind.”
“He hears directly from God,” the young man said with certainty. “The Lord is his confidence.”
“Ha!” Abel scoffed with a loud grunt, momentarily drawing the young man’s eyes to him.
“It seems your master’s preoccupation with his young wife has clouded his judgment,” Joseph said. “He has made a grave error that has cost the lives of dozens of men. Soon it will cost him his own.”
The young man said nothing. He felt hollow inside, utterly defeated.
“Kill him,” Abel growled. “He is useless.”
“Have you nothing else to say?” Joseph asked him.
The young man shook his head. “I will not renounce my faith, if that’s what you mean. Kill me, sir; my service demands it of you, I know.”
“I do not ask you to renounce anything but the senselessness of this conflict. The world is changing. Your order is a dying breed, as my kind also dies. Our struggle has all been folly.”
“I cannot disagree,” the young man winced. The broken ribs piercing his lungs caused him greater pain with each attempted breath.
“Very well,” Joseph said, drawing the man close. “Make your peace,” he said softly as he closed his arm around his neck. He could feel the young man trembling, uttering low prayers between ragged breaths. The sounds of the grumbling pack lowered to a murmur as they watched, waiting for the frenzy to begin.
With a sharp twist Joseph Snow broke the young man’s neck. He felt the life leave his body, leaned back, and shifted as he stood. The dead man slumped over into the snow. “Do not dishonor his body,” he ordered. To the two youngest of the pack’s fighters he ordered, “Lay him on a bed of pine boughs and cover him well, so that he may be found and given a decent burial. Work fast; then join us at the Grand Master’s.”
***
Bishop Merrill shivered when he heard the eruption of gunfire in the night. In the adjoining room, the voices of the maid servants began mingling with the cries of his infant son.
“What is it?” his wife asked, sitting up in bed.
“Don’t be troubled,” he said, rising from the fireside chair in which he’d sat for hours, one eye on his open Bible, the other on his sleeping wife. He bent down over the bed, placing his hand lightly on Adeline’s soft cheek.
“Jonathon,” she shuddered, hearing the sounds of battle blending with the howling storm. “Those men … Are they killing or being killed?”
“For good cause they fight,” he said softly, coldly. With his free hand he took the pistol from his belt, then sat on the bed. “For us they die.” He kissed her forehead. “But they are my best men. Geffery alone is a formidable warrior; has never failed me.”
Within a minute the gunfire had dwindled to only one rifle firing. After a burst of shots, all that could be heard from without was the howling of the wind. Bishop Merrill felt a thin smile stretch across his face as he stared into Adeline’s worried eyes.
“You see, my dear, the Lord has provided victory.”
Adeline pressed her head to her husband’s heart. She was shaking, and his steady firmness warmed and calmed her.
“Let me speak with Geffery,” he said rising, pulling himself from her clutching fingers. Placing his pistol in Adeline’s hand, he said softly, “Hold onto this; it will surely comfort you.”
Against Adeline’s soft protests the Bishop rose, took his rifle, and left the room. In the dim hallway he peered into the room of his fussing son, the rifle propped against his shoulder. Silently he raised a finger to his mouth as he made eye contact with one of the maids. Then he descended the stairs, approaching the doorway quietly by the light of the low-burning fireplace.
He peered through the frosty window overlooking the front yard. All but one of the outdoor lamps had been extinguished by the blowing snow. With a shaky hand, he cocked his rifle.
At last he saw the outline of a man approaching the steps, rifle in hand. The bishop breathed a sigh of relief. Geffery has proven his worth yet again, he thought. He unlatched the door and strode out into the night.
“Mr. Merrill,” a deep voice greeted him—most certainly not the voice of Geffery. As the man spoke he sunk the stock of his rifle into the snow and threw off his hooded cape. He was tall, naked, green-eyed, and stood seemingly unaffected by the storm swirling around him. Behind him, amid the storm, many glowing eyes blinked back into the bishop’s disbelieving face.
“Geffery?” he began to say. But as his lips began to move, the dark shape of a massive black wolf suddenly flew from the darkness, a shadow against the snow. As his heart began to race, the Grand Master had only fractions of a second to lower the muzzle of his rifle, click the safety, and squeeze the trigger.
The beast was upon him by the time he fired the shot; the bullet struck the ground. He fell back against the s
taircase when the monster’s bulk struck him. He felt his gun being pried from his hands, and finally found himself pulled quickly upright again. His feet were dangling above the ground; held firmly by the coat collar, he was in the grip of a wild-looking man, bearded, long-haired, and fire-eyed.
“Where are all your men now?” Abel asked, granting the Grand Master a rare glimpse at the man he had once been. “Where is your fabled confidence?”
“Make it fast,” Joseph warned his brother. “Even with these winds, the neighbors are bound to have heard the shots.”
“Fast?” Abel said, holding his glare to the wretch in his grip. “After all these years of trouble, the head of the snake is finally in my grasp. How can I let you die quickly, easily, Mr. Merrill?”
“Wretched devils!” panted the bishop. His shock had subsided enough to allow him ragged speech. “The cursed Satan himself gives you your strength! May you all be damned to the pit of flame and torment!”
“Perhaps we will,” Abel laughed. “But rest assured, Merrill, you shall go there before us, with the knowledge that your objective—your life’s work—has failed miserably. All of your followers are dead; our pack is stronger than ever.”
“Impossible,” croaked the Grand Master. “My sect has—”
“Every last one,” Joseph said.
“And do you know who is next?” Abel asked.
The bishop began struggling wildly. Abel pushed him hard against the wide porch post, stunning him.
“While you have overseen the building of this fine new home, we have been hard at work. Your men have managed poorly in your absence.”
“Lies,” hissed the Grand Master. “Cursed servants of the great liar!”
“How much of your own traditions do you disregard?” Joseph said, stepping closer. “You forget yourself, Bishop. It is men that are cursed, barred from paradise, confused of language, and—”
Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) Page 1
