The Lost Stories

by John Flanagan

  “All our ancillary services are still in place—our horse trainers and breeders and armorers,” he said. “They’re just waiting for the chance to be reactivated. In a few years, we could build up a force to be reckoned with. I’d be happy to help you complete your training—not that there’s much you have to learn. You’re already a far better shot than I am.”

  Still Halt said nothing, and a mischievous smile crept over Crowley’s face as he played his final card.

  “And wouldn’t you like a chance to tweak Morgarath’s skinny nose for him?” he asked.

  In spite of himself, Halt smiled as well. A faint smile, it was true. But a smile nonetheless. From him, that was the equivalent of helpless mirth.

  “Now, that is an attractive offer,” he said, and this time Crowley laughed out loud.

  “Then you’ll join us?”

  “You say this Duncan is a man to trust?”

  “I do.”

  “And a leader a man would be proud to follow?”

  “I certainly do. You have my word on that.”

  There was a long pause. Crowley sensed he had said enough and waited for Halt to make his decision. Finally, the Hibernian nodded slowly.

  “Then . . . why not? I’ve never really been fond of Gallica.”

  He held out his hand and Crowley took it. They shook hands, each man noting the other’s firm and positive grip. Each man sensing that this was the beginning of a long and remarkable partnership.

  “Welcome to the Corps,” Crowley said.

  THE WOLF

  1

  THE WOLF WAS A BIG ONE.

  He was a full-grown male in the prime of his life who should have been the dominant male of a pack. But some months prior, he had been caught by the right forefoot in a trap set by hunters. The steel jaws held him firmly, so that no matter how hard he struggled and twisted, he could not get free. And since freedom to a wolf is life itself, he had taken the only course open to him. He had gnawed at the broken limb until he severed the remaining flesh and tendons, leaving his foot and half the leg still in the trap. Then, trailing blood, he had limped awkwardly into the deepest part of the forest, finding a secure hiding place under a large rock outcrop, overgrown with shrubs and bushes, where he could wait to recover.

  Or to die.

  Racked with pain and trembling with shock, he had made not a sound. Instinct told him that the sound of whimpering or crying was the sound of an animal that was injured and vulnerable. Similarly, he made no attempt to rejoin the pack he had belonged to—the pack where he would have become leader within the next few months. He knew the injury would see him driven out by the others. Wolves are normally sociable and affectionate pack members, but the rule of survival of the fittest is a harsh one, and an injured pack member would be a liability—unable to participate in hunting and putting the pack itself in danger. He knew he would be driven out, or even killed, by the others if he approached them.

  So he lay silently in his hiding place, licking constantly at the dreadful wound until the bleeding stopped and he recovered, although the pain of the severed leg never left him. But his former speed and agility had forsaken him and he faced another potential danger—starvation.

  He couldn’t hunt as he used to. He had tried to chase a small deer when the leg stopped bleeding. By then, his flanks were gaunt and the ribs were visible beneath his thick coat. But the deer evaded him with apparent contempt, springing to one side to avoid his clumsy rush, so that he went sprawling when he tried to follow. Then it had bounded away, the white markings on its tail visible among the trees for a few minutes before they were lost to his sight.

  Rabbits, which he used to catch with ease, were beyond his skills now as well. His former hunting patterns would no longer serve. He took to waiting in ambush by those places where animals came to drink, lying motionless for hours on end as he waited for them to come within range of his awkward leap. Sometimes he was successful. More often he was not. And once he had attacked in this way, he was forced to abandon his ambush site and move on to another. He became a wanderer, moving from territory to territory and, for the most part, forced to satisfy his hunger with small, slow-moving animals.

  There were never enough to satisfy him, and as the hunger grew, he broke the cardinal rule by which he had always lived and moved into territory inhabited by man.

  Now he discovered a new form of prey. The domestic animals and birds that were raised by farmers had none of the survival skills of wild animals. He took ducks and hens and lambs with relative ease.

  As he recovered his strength, he adjusted somewhat to the missing foreleg. He was still clumsy and slow compared to the way he had been, but he was more than capable of catching this easy prey that he had found. He filled out. His coat grew thick and heavy once more. But unknown to him, there would be a price for this new form of hunting.

  Eventually, he chanced upon what was surely the easiest prey of all.

  Small and clumsy in his movements, the toddler had found the door of the farmhouse left open and had escaped into the dangerous world outside. He was sitting, looking uncertainly around, when the wolf saw him. Slowly, the huge predator limped across the farmyard, teeth bared. The infant saw him and recognized danger. Where an animal, even one as stupid as a chicken, might have tried to escape, the human child simply began to cry.

  The sound registered with the wolf. It was the sound of helplessness and vulnerability. He crept closer, belly low to the ground, a deep snarl rumbling in the back of his throat.

  But other ears were attuned to the sound of the child’s crying. The mother heard her son and came to find him. And found the wolf, huge and black and menacing, moving toward its victim.

  She screamed. The sound pierced the wolf’s ears, shocking him. He had never heard that sound before. It mingled rage and fear and defiance in one complex note. He looked up from his intended prey and saw a figure running toward him—a figure that ran on two legs and seemed much taller and larger than he was. In the wolf’s mind, dominant creatures ran toward. Victims ran away. Now this new and unknown animal was running at him, ready to attack, and he hesitated.

  The woman had no weapon. But when she had noticed the open door and heard the baby crying, she had been in the act of putting a large iron skillet on the hob of her stove. As she came out into the farmyard, she still had it in her hand, and without conscious thought, she threw it at the black shape stalking her son.

  The heavy pan whirled through the air, struck the wolf on its left rear hip and fell with a dull clang to the hard-packed ground. The wolf howled briefly with pain, then turned and ran, limping, back into the forest that skirted the farmyard.

  The woman gathered up her crying son as her husband came running from the field he had been plowing. He had heard her scream and he feared the worst. Relief surged through him as he saw his wife and child safe. She looked up as he vaulted the fence into the farmyard paddock and ran to her, gathering her and the baby into his arms.

  “A wolf,” she said. “A big one. He nearly had Tom.” She was racked with sobs at the thought of what might have been, and she buried her face against his chest. He nodded thoughtfully, holding her, patting her to comfort her. Something had been taking his animals in the past few days. Now he knew what it must have been. A fox or a marten he might handle himself. Even a lynx. But a wolf was a different matter. And if this one was attacking humans, it must be a renegade.

  “I’ll send for the Ranger,” he said.

  Will liked wolves as a general rule. They were courageous and loyal to their pack and usually they caused no trouble for humans. But if, as the farmer had surmised, this one had turned renegade, then it must be dealt with.

  By sheer chance Will was on one of his regular patrols and was less than an hour away from the Complepes’ farm. The farmer found him in a nearby village and led him back to study the scene of the attack. Will examined the tracks in the farmyard. They were relatively fresh and easy to follow and he frowned as he noticed an
irregularity in them.

  “You say he ran awkwardly?” he asked the woman.

  She shrugged. “I was more concerned looking at Tom, but yes, he seemed to lurch a little.”

  Will scratched his chin as he looked at the tracks once more, idly tracing them with a stick he had picked up.

  “Never seen wolves here in twenty years or more,” the farmer told him. “Usually they keep their distance.”

  “Well, this might be the reason why this one came calling,” he said, tapping the stick on one of the faint marks. “He seems to be crippled. He’s lost a leg.” He glanced at the woman once more.“What was he up to when you first saw him?”

  “He was snarling and growling,” she said, her eyes wide with the remembered horror of the moment. “He threw his head back and howled. His teeth were bare and he was all frothing at the mouth. He came at Tom like a streak of lightning—”

  Will interrupted her with a raised hand. “But you said he was lurching?”

  She hesitated, looking confused. “Well, mebbe he was . . . but he was lurching fast. Real fast. And howling and snarling and tearing at the ground with his teeth.”

  “Hmm.” Will regarded her thoughtfully. He didn’t believe she was consciously lying to him, but he wasn’t convinced that her account was an accurate one. He knew that a mother’s protective instinct would have been aroused the moment she saw the threat to her child. And her instinct would have magnified the potential threat tenfold. The wolf could have been rolling on its back, wagging its tail and asking for a belly rub and she would have seen it snarling and slavering.

  The woman sensed his doubt. “I’m telling the truth, Ranger.”

  Her husband moved to stand beside her. “My Agnes doesn’t lie. She’s an honest woman,” he said stoutly.

  Will nodded apologetically. “I’m sure of it. I’m sorry if I offended you, Mistress Complepe,” he said. “I certainly didn’t mean any insult.”

  She nodded, looking mollified by his apology. Simple farm folk never expected an apology from lofty characters like Rangers. “No offense taken, I’m sure,” she said, with the hint of a curtsey in his direction.

  He glanced to where the sun was dropping low over the trees around the farmhouse. “Well, there’s little I can do tonight. I’ll find a place to camp and start tracking him tomorrow.”

  He moved toward Tug.

  Agnes Complepe put her hands to her face in alarm. “You’ll not risk camping out in the open with this wolf around?”

  Will grinned at her.“I’m sure I’ll be safe enough. My fierce horse will keep watch over me,” he said. If her account was even halfway accurate, there was a big difference between a wolf attacking a helpless baby and an armed Ranger.

  “You’re welcome to stay with us, Ranger,” her husband said. He indicated the small farmhouse. Will hesitated. With three adults and a baby, it would be crowded in there. And he suspected that the Complepes would probably bring some of their more prized animals inside as well. It would be cramped and stuffy and he’d prefer to spend the night in the open, with Tug for company.

  Agnes sensed his reluctance. “At least we can give you a meal,” she said. “I’ve got a lamb stew simmering on the fire. And fresh baked bread.”

  “My Agnes is the best cook in the district,” the farmer said.

  Will smiled at them and the expression transformed his face.

  “Now, that’s an offer I’d be delighted to accept,” he said. “I couldn’t refuse a lamb stew from the best cook in the district.”

  Tug tossed his head and shook his mane.

  You’ve never refused a lamb stew from anyone.

  2

  WILL WOKE AT FIRST LIGHT. HE MADE A HURRIED BREAKFAST OF coffee and toasted flat bread, with wild honey added to both. The night had been clear and he hadn’t bothered to pitch a tent. He had made do with the oiled canvas bedroll that was a new part of Ranger equipment. Waterproof on the outside, it contained a thin but comfortable woolen mattress and a blanket inside. It was far superior to the old system of rolling blankets on the ground, and in the event that it did rain, there was a waterproof hood that could be raised to keep the occupant dry.

  Tug eyed him curiously as he packed up the camp.

  So, are we hunting the wolf this morning?

  “Not immediately,” Will said as he tied the bedroll behind Tug’s saddle. “I want to ask around some of the other farms first.”

  There was always the chance that the attack at the Complepes’ farm had been an aberration, he thought. But by the time he had visited three of the other farms in the immediate area, he knew that wasn’t the case.

  Two of the farmers reported stock losses in the past weeks. One thought he had seen a large dog in the area. The third farmer hadn’t remarked on any missing stock. But his farm was farthest to the east.

  “Maybe the wolf hasn’t reached this far yet,” Will said to Tug. The horse shook his mane. That passed for a shrug in horse body language, Will thought.

  By early afternoon, he had retraced his steps to the Complepes’ farm and was casting about for the wolf’s tracks.

  They were fairly obvious for the first hundred meters. But then, as the panic had subsided, the wolf had regained his cunning and reverted to his natural ways. Missing leg or not, he was a clever and resourceful opponent. He had backtracked several times, and headed across hard ground, where little sign of his passing would remain. But Will was a skilled tracker, as all Rangers were, and he quickly discerned a base course in the wolf’s movements so that, when he lost the trail, he could cast around in that general direction until he found signs of the wolf’s passing again.

  “I wish we didn’t have to do this,” he said as he swung down from the saddle for the tenth time to study the ground ahead of him. A short while ago, the wolf had sidetracked through a rocky patch to the right. Will had continued heading in his original direction, taking a slight detour to the right. Halt would have frowned at him for taking such a shortcut and trusting to luck that he would cross the wolf’s trail once more. Normal practice was to move forward slowly, sweeping in an ever-increasing arc until the tracker caught sight of the wolf’s tracks once more. But by now Will was fairly sure of the direction the wolf was heading and he thought he could take the chance.

  “He’s probably got a lair somewhere up here,” he said to Tug.

  The horse said nothing. Tug knew he was taking a shortcut and he wanted Will to know that he knew.

  “You’re as bad as Halt,” Will said, then emitted a low cry of triumph when he caught sight of a paw print in soft sand just ahead of them. Then another.

  “Told you so,” he said. Tug remained silent. A few meters farther along, a tuft of black fur clung to a thorny vine and Will knew he was on the right track once more.

  In fact, the wolf did have a lair in the area. It was on a small, rocky hill that commanded a view of the surrounding countryside. A shelf of rock jutted out from its neighbors and provided a sheltered hollow that the wolf had taken for its base. He had returned there the previous day and spent the night. Then, earlier this morning, his stomach rumbling with hunger, he had left again to scout the area for food. It wasn’t long before he became aware of a foreign presence close by—two presences, in fact. He sensed that they posed a danger to him, and instinct told him he must not let them discover his home. Moving carefully despite the limp, he swung in an arc that took him beside and behind the two creatures. He noted their direction of travel and confirmed that they were indeed heading toward his lair. He retraced his steps. There was a deep thicket ahead of them that would provide cover for him. He could lie in wait for them there.

  He moved into the thicket, crouched belly to the ground and wriggled forward until he could see the trail down which the two creatures would come. The wind was behind them and he soon caught their scent. It was one that he had experienced only in recent times—the scent of humans. Satisfied that they wouldn’t scent him, he lay still, his amber eyes unblinking, as they c
ame into sight.

  For a moment, his eyes narrowed. He could smell two foreign scents, but he could see only one intruder. It was large and four-legged. He had seen a smaller creature with it earlier, when he caught sight of them from a distance. He could smell the second presence but couldn’t see it. The four-legged creature stopped and the wolf emitted an almost inaudible grunt of surprise as he realized the smaller figure was riding on top of the larger. As he watched, it detached itself and swung down, moving forward a few paces, head bent, studying the ground. The larger animal followed it, staying a few paces behind.

  The larger animal posed the greater danger, the wolf decided. He flattened himself even closer to the ground, concealed by the bushes and the shadows beneath them, as the two creatures came closer to his hiding spot.

  The smaller one was making noises now. A strange thing to do when you were following a dangerous enemy, the wolf thought. And he was definitely their enemy, and decidedly dangerous.

  “Here we are again, Tug,” Will said, tracing the outline of a canine pad print in the dirt. “Still heading northwest.”

  Tug emitted a low rumble. He raised his head and sniffed the air, trying to discern some foreign scent that would explain the overwhelming sense of danger he was feeling. He didn’t like this situation. He didn’t like Will going ahead on foot when there might be danger present. He never did like that. Tug wanted Will safe in the saddle, where Tug’s speed and agility could protect him from a sudden attack.

  “You’re a worrywart,” Will told him. He had heard Tug’s sound and knew exactly what his horse was thinking. “Just settle down. I’m safe enough. This trail is half a day old. The wolf is nowhere near us.”

  The trail was an old one. But Will had no way of knowing that the wolf had left his lair again, discovered them approaching, and was now intent on protecting his home territory.