by Steve Feasey
‘Shall I go?’ Erik asked. ‘I came to pay my respects before the funeral, but I can come back …’
‘No, stay. I was just going.’ Kelewulf stepped to one side, relieved at having broken the physical connection between the two of them. ‘I will be in my rooms if you need me. I have a particularly interesting book I’m reading at the moment, and I wish to get back to it.’ He caught the disapproval in his cousin’s face. ‘I find that reading helps me forget my loss,’ he quickly added, twisting his face into what he hoped was a reasonable semblance of grief.
‘Of course. We must all find our own solace at a time like this. Perhaps we can talk again soon? When your pain is not so raw?’
‘Yes, perhaps. Excuse me, cousin.’
Erik watched Kelewulf leave before turning to look down at his dead uncle again, his mind awhirl. He felt sorrow for his cousin’s loss, and also relief that the throne would pass unchallenged to his own father. As a warrior, his uncle was unsurpassed. He’d used his military might to bring the kingdoms together when they might have fallen into civil war. But his rule had been one largely of fear. Mirvar Rivengeld would be a good king to the Volken people, a people whom Erik secretly suspected Kelewulf held in low esteem. He frowned, silently reproaching himself for these unkind thoughts. He and Kel had grown up together. Back when they were little they played well together; friends as well as cousins. But when Kel’s mother killed herself the younger boy changed. He had always refused to learn to wield a weapon. Instead, he found refuge in the hundreds of books he’d surrounded himself with. And while there was no harm in that, it had—
A movement to his left caused Erik to spin around, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.
‘Calm down, brother.’
His younger sister, Astrid, stepped out from behind the pillar. She approached him but was looking off in the direction Kelewulf had just left in, an odd expression on her face.
‘It’s not nice to spy on people, Astrid.’
‘I wasn’t spying. I was in here on my own when Kelewulf came in. I didn’t want to be seen by him, so I hid behind the pillar.’
‘Why hide? You should have spoken to him. He is grieving.’
She gave him a sceptical look. Astrid had never been keen on Kel; he was arrogant, she said, and contemptuous of their ways. Erik on the other hand had always defended him.
‘Did you buy all that guff?’ she asked.
‘Guff?’
‘About our father, and how the crown was now in good hands.’
‘He seemed genuine enough to me.’ Astrid snorted, and Erik sighed. ‘You are being unfair. Kel has never expressed any interest in ruling, you know that.’
His sister met his gaze and held it. ‘On that we agree, brother. He has no wish to rule over the Volken people, and do you know why?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Because he sees us as … beneath him. He has no love of these lands or its people.’
‘You don’t know that, Astrid.’
‘I do, brother. And I think you know it too.’
Erik shook his head. ‘Regardless, he is family. We must do our duty by him.’
She gave him a crooked smile and set her head to one side. It was a mannerism their father Mirvar used whenever he thought someone was being foolish. ‘I doubt our cousin will ask me for any help, but if he does I’ll be sure to give it to him. In return I ask that you do something for me.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Don’t trust him, Erik. He is not the person you think he is.’
The Maiden’s Fingers
3
It was early in the evening and Lann was almost back at the farm, having been out all day tending to the cattle. The pony beneath him was tired and he needed to let her feed and drink soon. At the edge of the world, the sun was doing its best to cling on to remains of the day, and as Lann looked up to take in the changing colours of the sky, he witnessed the star streaking through the firmament. A gasp escaped him at the sight: a bright pinpoint of light trailing a white tail in its wake as it raced towards the sinking sun.
There were three days before his fourteenth birthday, and the witch’s words from the previous year came back to him: One day, not too far from now, you will see a star with a serpent’s tale. Beware that moment.
With difficulty he tore his eyes away from the heavenly sight and looked towards the farmhouse.
His father’s horse was dead in the front yard, its flanks wet with blood where it had been clawed and bitten. The front door to his childhood home was open. The icy fingers of fear gripped him and he sat in the saddle staring at the poor creature, desperately trying to work out what he should do.
‘Run for all you are worth,’ the witch had told him, and he knew he should pull the pony about and set it off in the opposite direction as fast as he could. But his father was in the farmhouse …
Just then, a naked, blood-covered man emerged from the house and caught sight of the boy and his pony. What followed was the stuff of horror. The man let out a strangled cry and dropped down on to all fours, his entire body taut and rigid as if a terrible pain coursed through him. And right there, before Lann’s eyes, the man transformed into a hellish wolf. The thing was far bigger than any wolf he’d ever seen before, and when it lifted its head, it stared back at him through black, hate-filled eyes. The creature had no place in this world. It was a thing of fable, from the days when the gods still walked across this world. The foul chimera opened its gore-covered jaws and let out a howl of rage. With that, it launched itself off the front porch towards Lann, taking great, leaping bounds on powerful legs and halving the distance separating them within a few heartbeats. For a moment, both the boy and his mount froze, terror turning their bodies to stone. Then Lann pulled the pony’s head around and set his heels into the beast’s flanks, loudly urging it forward.
The pony was hardy and well suited to the rocky terrain at the bottom of the Maiden’s Fingers. Spurred on by its own fear and that of its rider, it quickly opened up a gap again between them and the hellish wyre-creature. Even so, Lann knew they couldn’t hope to keep their pursuer at bay for long. The pony was too tired to keep up her pace for much longer and the creature would then be upon them.
The witch’s words came to him then: ‘Trust your instincts on where to find safety.’
An idea occurred to him, a crazy idea of where they could hide. Desperately he steered his mount in the direction of the Dark Wood at the western edge of his father’s land.
Leaning forward over the animal’s neck, Lann urged it to greater efforts. It was then that he caught a flash of something black at the edge of his vision. Allowing himself a brief sideways glance, he saw a crow perfectly matching his speed. The bird let out a caw and flew out ahead, arrowing in the direction of the forest as if leading the way for him.
The woods were as old as time itself. It was said a great battle had been fought there and each tree represented a fallen warrior. It was also said that a curse hung over the place. Even during the brightest days light struggled to make it through the thick overhead canopy to the forest floor, and now, as he approached it in the gloom of the evening, the place appeared to Lann as a sea of blackness. The idea of entering that inky nothingness filled him with dread.
They were no more than fifty strides from the treeline when the pony’s foot found a rabbit hole and the creature tumbled forward, its front leg breaking with a sickening snap. Thrown from the saddle, Lann hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. The pony had been given to him as a gift on his tenth birthday, and his heart sank to hear her stricken cries. Fighting the impulse to go to her aid and forcing himself to his feet, he turned his back on the poor injured beast and took off at a sprint in the direction of the murky gloom created by the forest’s canopy.
He was close enough to smell the damp, musty rot of the forest floor when he glanced over his shoulder.
The wolf-thing was level with the stricken pony. But it paid no attentio
n to the injured animal. Its eyes, black as the woods ahead, were fixed on Lann.
Plunging into the thicket, he ran, stumbling over rotting wood and living roots that grabbed as his feet and ankles. A sob of fear escaped him, the noise echoing back at him from the trees all around, as he imagined death at the jaws of the beast.
No more than twenty strides into the forest and the darkness was complete for Lann. The wolf would not think so. Its eyes were perfectly adapted to hunting in the dark. He could hear it, crashing through the undergrowth behind him.
In choosing this desolate place to hide, he had chosen death.
He was running with his arms out in front of him, a long wailing moan coming from his mouth as terror took complete control of him. He would die here, alone in the darkness. And he would not be found. What was left of his body would remain here among the mud and mildew of the forest floor until even his bones were swallowed up. Without a Volken funeral where his physical body would be burned, his soul would be trapped here on earth as a rordnuk – a shade cursed to forever roam the shadow worlds. He offered up desperate prayers to the old gods, asking each and any of them for their help.
In his mind he could almost feel the wolf’s teeth sink into his flesh from behind. He would fall and …
The caw of a crow made him turn his head. There, ahead of him, was an oasis of silvery light. A hole in the canopy of leaves allowed the moonlight through, illuminating the one thing that might save him: a tree much smaller than the giants surrounding it, with branches low enough to climb – if only he could reach it in time. He sprinted, forcing his legs forward as he gasped for breath. The wolf was almost upon him; he leaped up towards the lowest branch just as the creature’s teeth raked the flesh of his foot, wrenching the shoe from it.
Lann scrambled up into the arms of the tree, pulling himself up out of the way of the predator. Belly down on a branch, the boy looked back down into the black, dead eyes of the creature. The wolf seemed to be contemplating its options as it prowled back and forth. Stopping directly below him, the beast sunk down as low as it could, and, as Lann watched in horrified disbelief, leaped high into the air.
Lann jerked backwards. The wolf’s teeth snapped shut inches away from his face, close enough for him to smell the fetid stink of its breath. The enormity of the leap, coupled with the near-success of the attack caused Lann to pull away too quickly. His bare foot slipped on the mossy branch he was on, and, with his hands desperately clawing at nothing, he fell backwards out of the tree.
When the back of his head connected with an old tree stump jutting out of the ground, the world went black. He was not unconscious, but the silvery moonlight and shadowy half-light of the forest were replaced by an inky void.
Getting to his hands and knees he tried to stand, but the swirling in his head and his blindness made it impossible, and he collapsed back down again.
Lann sensed the beast moving in for the kill. Consumed with fear, he let out a despairing moan, knowing that death at the jaws of the creature was inevitable.
It was then that he heard the harsh caw of the crow again, followed by the fluttering noise of its wings as it landed close to his side. There was a moment’s pause, and the boy had the distinct impression that the bird was no longer a bird. A thing much larger was standing over him now. There was a snarl, followed by the sound of leaves moving as the wolf pounced, and then an intense feeling of heat, so hot it made the boy cry out.
Something large fell to the floor a short distance away and the air was filled with the rank smell of burnt flesh and fur.
The leafy carpet close to his head stirred again and Lann threw out an arm in the direction of the sound, his fingers grasping hold of the hem of a heavy woollen cloak. ‘Help me,’ he managed.
The sounds of the forest changed then. What had been the brushing of leaves and wind in the branches overhead was replaced with whispering noises. Words in a tongue so alien it made him shiver to hear them come from all directions at once. They were angry, those whispers, angry that death had been allowed to come to this forest again.
‘Please … help me,’ he croaked.
The last thing he remembered was a woman’s voice. The voice was strained, as if it were only with immense effort that the stranger was able to talk.
‘I must go,’ the voice said. ‘You will be safe here now. The Spirits of the Forest have spoken to me. They will ensure you are not harmed, but I am not welcome in this place.’
‘No,’ gasped the boy. ‘Don’t leave me. My eyes! I’m … I’m blind!’
There was a flapping of wings and he was alone.
Unable to fight it any longer, Lann slipped into unconsciousness.
When he woke again, the smell of the meadows and the distant sound of birdsong told him it was daytime, but to his eyes it was still featureless night. Fighting the panic that threatened to engulf him again, he cocked his head and listened. If the leaves up there were stirred by the wind, the sound never made it down as far as the forest floor.
On all fours, he groped around until his hand brushed against the corpse of the wolf that had pursued him. He jerked his fingers back from the charred flesh in horror. Despite his fears, Lann couldn’t help but wonder what powerful majik might have been unleashed on the beast and by whom.
Terror still gripped him, but he knew he couldn’t stay here beneath the ancient trees. Managing to get to his feet, he stood as still as he could. Without the ability to see, he was forced to trust his other senses to provide him with a sense of where he was and which way he should go. A slight breeze brushed his face from the right, and as he turned in that direction he fancied he caught the distant call of a redthroat warning other birds away from its territory. ‘Redthroats are meadow birds,’ he mumbled to himself. He couldn’t recall ever seeing one in a forest. Hands held out before him, he slowly made his way in the direction of the birdsong.
It was hours later that Orlof, the head cattleman from Gord’s farm, spotted the boy, his face and hands cut and bruised from the many falls he’d taken, stumbling among the foothills. When he called out to the boy, Lann’s head swung round in the direction of the sound, and the older man fancied he caught a faint groan of relief. He called out again, and as he did so, it was as if all the strength and fight suddenly fled the youngster’s body and he crumpled to the floor, where he lay, unmoving.
With the help of some of the other workers, Orlof got the boy safely inside the farmhouse. The men were already in a fearful state. They had found Gord Fetlanger’s mangled body earlier in the day, and now here was his son in a condition that suggested he’d almost come to the same end. There was talk among the men of leaving the place before whatever it was that had killed their former employer returned, but Orlof quickly put a stop to that, pointing out that the young boy, not their own safety, had to be their main concern right now. But the cattlemen were more used to caring for calves than boys, and they exchanged worried looks, wondering what would be the best thing to do for the lad. Their concern increased when the boy stirred, crying out that he had seen a man-wolf with death in its eyes that chased him into the Dark Wood, where a crow that was a fire-wielding woman had killed it.
‘He’s delirious,’ reasoned Orlof, noting the rising panic in the men. Eventually, with no other recourse open to him, he sent one of the men to fetch Fleya the witch.
‘You did well to come across him when you did,’ Fleya said to the rancher after he’d recounted his side of the tale. She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking down at the figure of the boy lying on the pallet.
‘I was looking for a lost calf.’
‘And you found one,’ she replied.
At the sound of their voices, the boy stirred from his sleep. They watched as he opened his eyes, a tear falling from them when he realised the world was still hidden from him.
‘Will his sight come back? Can you heal him?’ Orlof asked, his voice low so as not to upset the boy too much. The woman was silent for a long moment. When she
asked to be alone with the boy, the cattlehand left, but not before reassuring Lann that he would only be in the next room and that he should call out if he needed him.
The witch sat unspeaking beside Lann. When the silence was finally broken it was the boy, not the witch, who spoke, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Gord? Yes, child. He is dead.’
‘I knew it. I should have—’
‘Hush now,’ Fleya said, placing a hand on his. ‘You could not have saved him.’
‘How can you know?’
‘I have the gift of future sight, Lannigon Fetlanger. Do you think it beyond me to peek into the past too?’
‘What was it, that terrible creature? Not man or wolf, but something of both.’ He sensed her stand up and move across the room to where the window was.
‘Do you believe in the monsters of old? The creatures from the Void that roamed this world when the gods did?’
‘I … I thought they were just stories.’ He remembered the moment when the blood-covered man had transformed into the wolf-creature before his eyes. ‘But now … I don’t know.’
‘There are very few, it’s true. Most were banished back to the place they truly belong when Trogir vanquished the dark god, Lorgukk. But some of those terrible creatures still exist. It was one of these you saw today.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘We will talk more of these things in good time, Lann. You are safe and I will do all I can to keep you that way. That is all that should concern you right now.’ She sighed. ‘The cattleman in the next room, Orlof – he’s a good man, no?’
