Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  Repulsed, Amy backpedalled against the bones but the brittle ribcages and femurs rattled around under her feet like quicksand. A broken skull rolled into her lap, its hollow sockets leering up at her as if mocking her grim predicament.

  Something shifted in the darkness of the pit, treading heavily over the dry bones. The monstrous wolf slithered into the pale light of the lantern, its head low to the ground as it thundered closer. Its deformed snout was crisscrossed with scars and its dark nose flared at her scent.

  Amy swam through the bones, kicking at the brittle things to get away until she backed hard against the stone wall and there was nowhere left to run.

  Silas's eyes bugged from their sockets as Amy sailed over the edge. This wasn't happening, his mind reasoned. Even the Bishop in all his rabid frenzy would not be so cruel. And yet over the edge Amy went, arms pinwheeling as she fell. Then to salt the wound, the Bishop, the man he had once revered as his irreproachable chieftain and guide, turned to him with a leer of smug victory tilting his mouth.

  A thread snapped in his head and all he wanted in that moment was to lock his hands around the man's throat and throttle the life from it. He shoved off his captor and lunged at the Bishop. He got his hands on him only for a moment before another watchman tackled him. Silas rolled with the impact and spun the man away.

  Propelled by his own momentum, watchman Mueller caterwauled over the side and tumbled into the pit.

  Encountering a single werewolf in one lifetime is enough to traumatize any person into madness. By the age of 17, Amy Gallagher had encountered six of the monsters and, although not unscathed, she had survived. But the monster before her threatened to dash her sanity by its appearance alone. Imprisoned within this stone pit for more than a century, the old wolf had deformed into a grotesque malformation of canis lupus and homo hominis. Festered in the darkness for so long, the creature belonged to neither camp, having become its own specie altogether. An aberrant demon chucked out of hell to stalk round and round its stone prison.

  And on it came to devour the girl in the pit.

  The monster reared up as the impact of the falling watchman collided onto its spiny back. The man bounced off the creature’s hide and crashed into the dry bones. Almost without breaking stride, he clawed through the tinder under him, frantic to get away from the monstrous thing that had broken his fall.

  The guardsman's weapon, a long pike with a lethal blade, landed point down in the bones before Amy. The silver honed cutting edge of it missed her leg by less than a hand span.

  The old lobo popped its jaws at the watchman, snapping its teeth in a loud clap as the man scurried to the wall. When it swung its head back to the first offering that had been thrown to it by its keeper, it found the girl armed with a spear. It lunged forward.

  Amy clung to the pike like a life preserver, grateful to have anything to put between herself and the monster. It wasn't enough to save her, she knew and she silently wished the lobo would go after the watchman and leave her alone. When the wolf lunged in she speared its snout and the thing reared back, shaking its head. Given the massive bone yard under her feet, she guessed the monster wasn't used to having its meals fight back. Taking the offensive, she swung the weapon again, slashing it to the bone. The monster roared, its foul blood spilling from its snout.

  The impact of the fall had twisted Mueller’s knee the wrong way and it flared hot with a pain he hadn't known before. But fortune had smiled on him when the wretched thing turned its attention to the girl. He stumbled and limped on towards the south wall. There was a way out of this Gehenna, a slim chance at escape if he could get to the gate in time. An egress from hell. Cobwebbed and dusty, the portcullis rested in its mortared arch at the far end of the pit. It hadn't been disturbed in a long time and when Mueller slammed into its latticed grille, he prayed it would still open.

  It had to.

  Slipping his arm through the lattice, he groped for the wood-handled lever that would trip the release. He screamed as his fingertips brushed against it, an inch shy of the lever.

  Leaning over the edge from above, the Bishop watched the misery unfold in the arena below. The great wolf on its nest of bones, the two puny figures scrambling for their lives. He spat as he zeroed in on the watchman at the portcullis. “What does that fool think he's doing?”

  “He's trying to raise the gate,” said the guardsman at the Bishop's side.

  “He'll let the beast out if he raises it.” The Bishop bellowed at Mueller to stop, to get away from the grille.

  “I doubt the pulleys works, sir,” offered the guardsman. “I can't remember the last time it was raised. The chains are surely rusted.”

  The decrepit monster circled about in its lair, as if unable to settle on which victim to shred first. Mueller's screams echoed off the stone and wafted up to the onlookers on the precipice. His arm was shoulder deep through the lattice, groping for the lever. The lobo swung about and stalked towards the girl.

  A sharp thud sounded from the gate, followed by the tinkling noise of old chains and rusty gears spinning into action. Mueller almost lost his arm as the portcullis gate rose from its moorings in the floor and lifted into the dusty aperture in the wall above. Dust billowed up in the rank air and the exit gaped open. Mueller ran headlong into the tunnel.

  Amy backed into the wall with the weapon slick in her sweaty grip when the monster swung back at the sound of the old chains clanking up inside the stone walls. The gates yawned open and the lobo turned its snout to it and sniffed the air. It skulked forward, padded through the egress and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.

  Amy lowered the pike in her white-knuckled fists, wary that this was all some ruse. But it wasn't, the old wolf had slipped the gate. From somewhere up above, a terrible cry rang out over the pit as the Bishop shrieked out his protest, as if his cries alone could bring the monster back.

  ~

  Jonathan Oppel was a watchman in reserve. His novitiate had begun the previous fall under the Bishop's tutelage. Weapons training in the morning with the captain of the watch where he learned to use the pike, the broad axe and even the sword. Afternoons were spent studying scripture and the lore of the wolves. Since he was a young boy, Jonathan had admired the watchmen, sharply turned out in their dark tunics and fearsome weapons. Becoming one of them was all he had ever wanted and when the Bishop had accepted his father's request for him to join, he had been ecstatic. He was to be one of the fabled watchmen, a pious defenders of the people against the hordes of monsters that routinely assaulted their sacred community nestled in the deep dark woods.

  His first excursion into action left him questioning everything he had ever known. With the primary troop of black guard decimated by the monster outside the gates, the reserves were brought up to make up the second hunting party. Jonathan was called down from his post on the east tower and put into action, taking his place on the left flank of the troop as they sallied forth from the village gates to destroy the pale wolf laying siege to the town.

  They had marched into the forest in a wide arc to flush the monster from the brush. Before blessing their excursion, the Bishop had informed that the beast was mortally wounded and close to death. An easy kill, he had promised. Slaughter the wolf, he had ordered, and drag the carcass back to him in righteous glory.

  The Bishop had been only half right. Wounded though the monster was, it was no where near death. If anything, its wounds and scars had driven it into a savage ferocity that none of the men were prepared for. They had heard it deeper in the forest, stalking through the trees and when it came, it was terrible to behold. On its first pass, it had thrown Miller into the trunk of an ash and trampled Duncan Casser into the ground. The senior watchman ordered them to close ranks and form the tortuga. It did little to dispel the monster. Again and again it came. Men were bleeding and broken, some bitten and others trampled into the earth. Jonathan was the only one left uninjured and he alone sounded the retreat, dragging his battered comrades out of t
he trees and into the clearing. He had hauled another one out when the pale wolf appeared for the final time.

  Its bloodied snout was low to the ground but its eyes squared right at him. Jonathan's hands were empty, his pike abandoned on the ground as he tried to save his fellows. He stuttered out a prayer as the monster came on, knowing he was about to die but the Lord spared him. The pale wolf froze mid-step and reared its terrible head in the direction of the village. Its nose flared hot and then it tore off, bounding full speed towards the gates of town.

  ~

  The floor of the tunnel was rocky and uneven as watchman Mueller stumbled through the dark of the mine shaft, splashing through puddles of bracken water. He fell and cursed and limped on.

  Patting his vest pocket for his matches, he struck one, cupping his hand over the tender flame to keep it lit. Veils of cobwebs drifted from the beams overhead and clung to his face like gossamer. He tried to recall how much further the shaft carried on but it had been years since he had been down here. Another thirty paces? Fifty?

  His boots were soaked from the standing water and he wanted to stop to catch his breath but he pushed on, knowing what was behind him. How long before the old wolf finds its way into the escape shaft? The teardrop flame stung his fingers and he flung it away and got another. The sticks spilled out as he fumbled another match and carried on. He wished he had had the foresight to count his paces when he ran into the tunnel. Something to gauge the distance traveled and the yardage left to go.

  The roar of the monster rolled up behind him like a wave and blew over him. He could hear it thundering along the ground as it came up behind him and Mueller quickened his pace. He'd come this far, the way out couldn't be that far.

  He didn't dare turn around. The thunder of its paws grew louder until he could feel the thing's breath on the back of his neck, blowing hot and foul. It was toying with him.

  The steps appeared in the distance. The way out, up out of this darkness and away from the thing at his back. Twenty paces and he'd be there.

  The match winked out.

  ~

  The boom of the portcullis slamming home echoed around the walls of the pit. When the wolf disappeared into the tunnel beyond, Amy slid down the wall while her heart clanged inside her chest. The pike fell from her numb hands. She could hear the voices of the Bishop and his men on the platform above her but could not make out their words. More German. She heard Silas's voice among them and wondered what he was saying.

  The gate remained open but the spiked ends of the lattice shook and a clank of chains echoed, as if the portcullis was unstable and ready to slam back down any minute. It was the only way out. Amy forced herself to move but her legs were as numb as her hands and wading through the nest of bones was difficult. The gears in the wall clanked and the gate dropped a foot before catching.

  The gun.

  Amy stopped and looked back. The gun was down here. She scrambled for the lantern on the floor and raised it high but there was no gun in sight. Nothing but bones and more bones. The portcullis shuddered, dropping another foot.

  A glimmer amongst the dusty bones caught the light. She dove for it, scooping it up from the ribs it had caught on. The handgun was dusty but appeared undamaged. She ran for the gate, stomping the foul sticks underfoot and scurried out the other side of the gate.

  Setting the lantern on the floor, she tried to rack the slide open but it wouldn't budge. Shimmying it back and forth, it unsnapped and jerked forward. The cartridge spun out and landed in the grit. She chased it down and blew the dust from it then slotted the last round of fifty caliber silver into the chamber and snapped the slide back home.

  She hurried on, limping over the uneven floor on numb feet, wondering how far the shaft went on for. A soft light up ahead revealed the stairs leading up. Her heel skidded on something slick and she held the lantern out. Pieces of the watchman lay scattered about, little more than meatscraps on the tunnel floor.

  She ran for the steps, her kicks slipping in the gore.

  39

  THE SUN BURNED HOT in Silas's eyes as he was pushed out of the mausoleum by the watchmen. Squinting his eyes against the daylight his ears caught the screams of terror coming from the square.

  “God Almighty,” the watchman on his left stuttered. “The beast is loose in town.”

  Silas heard the Bishop seethe. “Quick march, lads. Weapons high.”

  “What about him?” The captor on his right shook Silas.

  “Bring the apostate. We may need fodder to net the beast.”

  None of them had recovered their eyes but they sallied forth at a quick jog through the headstones and Silas was forced to leap over the markers to avoid pratfalling to the dirt.

  The square opened before them. A trundlecart lay overturned in the street, its contents spilled into the dirt and a body was sprawled next to it. Twisted and rent to pieces, the victim was unrecognizable in its splash of gore.

  Around the square were smashed windows and shattered porch railings. A basket toppled in the dirt where its owner had dropped it to flee. A trail of destruction left by the beast but of the thing itself, there was no sign.

  One of the black guard staggered out from behind a house with a crossbow in his hands. Jamming his foot into the latch, he slotted a bolt in and heaved back on the gut string, desperate to get the weapon armed. That's when they saw the wolf.

  It sklathed out from behind a shed and in the full light of day, its foul appearance stopped them cold. The few glimpses Silas had caught of the thing were enough to make him shudder but here in the sunlight, the decrepit lobo was abominable to see. Its open sores and bony limbs, the snout and eyes like something spit up out of Hell itself. More than that was the sheer size of the thing, unseen in full until now. Even the Bishop seemed awestruck by the sight of it.

  The crossbowman had nary a chance. Latching the pull into position, he swung the weapon up quickly but the wolf struck before he could seat the stock to his shoulder. He was lifted clean off the ground by those awful teeth and the great wolf shook its head in such violent jerks that they could hear the man's bone snapping under the force. The jaws bit down and the screaming man fell to the dirt in two separate lengths. The crossbow, armed but unfired, fell spattered in its owner's blood.

  The Bishop hazed his men forward. “Get the nets, lads. We need to lash the beast down.”

  Silas watched the faces of the men fall. “Nets? We need to destroy the damn thing before it kills us all.”

  “No!” The Bishop snatched the protester by the collar and shook him. “You are not to kill it. Do you understand? The nets will capture it. We need it back down in its pit. Alive.”

  The Bishop slapped the men away, hurrying them onto their tasks. One of them stayed behind to guard Silas. Silas glanced at the man, taking his measure. Could he overpower him? Just enough to break away and find Amy in all of this mayhem?

  As if reading his thoughts, the Bishop shoved Silas to the dirt. “Be still, lad. You'll get your turn to contribute.”

  ~

  The numbness in Tasha’s arms began where her wrists were bound with rope and crept upwards. The lack of circulation had deadened her limbs and, looking down at the kindling stacked under her feet, she prayed the numbness would overtake her entire body and spare her from the torture of the flames.

  Such a barbaric way to die. A storybook image of Joan of Arc came to her, lashed to the pole while the flames rose and her inquisitors jeered from the sidelines. The girl soldier beatific as she was burned at the stake, as if at peace with her fate. Unless the numbness became total, Tasha doubted she would experience the flames in such a way.

  Griffin seemed to have beaten her to that numb state. Tied to the post next to her, his eyes stared lifelessly at the gravel pathway below. He had struggled and fought as they lashed his wrists and then screamed for help for a time after that. Then he fell quiet and didn't respond to anything she said to him.

  A shallow pit had been scooped out nearb
y and a fire built up in it, the logs popping in the flames. At first blush it looked like a campfire waiting for someone to come along and roast marshmallows. Two of the hated watchmen had stood guard, awaiting the signal from their Bishop to burn the outsiders.

  The signal never came. Chaos spilled through the gates as the hunting party had staggered back, decimated and bloodied from the wolf at the door. Then other mayhem erupted from the square. The watchmen scrambled for their weapons, the few people on the street racing to get indoors. Tasha had only caught a glimpse of the source of the madness but that fleeting glimpse scared her more than the flames.

  She didn’t know what to make of it. The creature stalking the streets of the little town strode on four legs like a wolf but any lupine similarities ended there.

  Griffin hadn't stirred. He didn't need to, Tasha screamed enough for both of them before the foul thing bounded away, vanishing behind a barn.

  Any respite from the horror was short lived as more chaos blew open the main gate. The watchman on the tower was shrieking at his fellow soldiers on the ground to ready their weapons and then something slammed the gates inward, toppling the wooden door. The men scrambled back, as the other wolf, the pale one, roared into the breach, knocking the little men out of its way.

  Tasha's heart stopped and she wondered almost idly at how much horror the mind could endure. She prayed hers would snap, the way Griffin's had, and spare her anymore of this madness.

  ~

  Amy clawed out of the reeking tunnel and up onto the clean earth. The smell of the long grass flushed the stench of the pit from her nose. She breathed it all in and let the sun warm her clammy skin before pushing herself up onto her feet. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she scanned over the little cottages, trying to orient herself. On the outer hem of town, a stone's throw from the graveyard.