The Wolf of Allendale Page 2

  It was now over two moons since the beast had first appeared. It had been the night of Samhain: that alone had told him its true nature. Samhain was the night when the veils between this world and the otherworld thinned. On this night men could inadvertently wander into the land of the Faerie, and find themselves trapped when the portal closed.

  And it also worked the other way.

  At first the beast had been satisfied with livestock. Cattle and sheep were found devoured. A problem, yes, but the village had prospered the last year. The losses could be suffered.

  But now it was growing more daring, or perhaps more desperate. It had started taking prey from near the village, and then ventured inside the walls. A wolf could jump clear ten feet. This beast could do twice that.

  The hunters had gone out, their most experienced trackers who could locate herds of deer, the lairs of wolves and bears, who could interpret every spoor and every flattened blade of grass. They’d found nothing.

  There was no hunter in the land who could track the cysgod-cerddwr.

  A shout and movement below. He saw a team of six hunters appear for yet another fruitless foray, four of them each hanging onto a brace of massive hunting dogs. A group of children atop the wall watched them go. One of these dogs could bring down a three-year stag. Two, a boar. Five would harry a bear until a spear or arrow could be loosed. How many would it take to bring down the cysgod-cerddwr? More than the eight he could see; he was sure of that.

  What do you hope to achieve? he wanted to cry.

  But of course they had to be doing something, however futile it was. Everyone needed that illusion of control.

  He could see no red hair: Coll wasn’t among them. Although he’d most likely instigated the foray, he’d be occupied with the burial of his son. Although Bran normally sung the rituals to send a soul on its final journey, all those with Druid training could do it, and Coll had wanted to sing his son’s passing himself.

  Bran looked up at the cloudless sky for a moment. He’d applied the standard protective measures and thought it would be sufficient to guard the village. He’d made a terrible mistake.

  He took a breath as he remembered every trial he’d suffered—and survived—in his life. Every trial could be overcome. He exhaled, watching the vapor swirl and fade into the air, letting his self-doubt and worry disappear with it.

  Then he smiled grimly and rose fluidly to his feet. His raven’s feathers flowed around him as he began to stride down the hillside.

  He would not let that mistake happen again.

  4

  The sounds of pick and shovel rang loud in the confines of the cave. Mick Pinkerley leaned on his shovel with his hand over his mouth, trying not to breathe the bitter air. He hated this. The filth stuck to his skin and got into his eyes as the sweat ran. He couldn’t help rub them with a grimy finger. Then they stung worse than ever.

  It felt like a betrayal, this job. That was the worst thing. He’d seen old Mr. Allenston as he’d walked across the fell this morning, and Mick sensed his disappointment. The old man had thought he’d be a shepherd, Mick often thought.

  George Templeton was working quickly—dig, thrust, dig, thrust—as he propelled the rapidly diminishing heap of rubble into the waiting wagon. Further into the depths of the chasm, other men were already laying the charges for the next round of blasting.

  George glanced back, then stopped. “Pinkerley, get a move on! We need to get done here! Boss’ll be hopping mad if it’s not finished yesterday.”

  He coughed, spat, and turned back to the heap. A half minute later he threw another glare of annoyance.

  “Pinkerley! It’s my wages you’re wasting, as well as your own. Or have you forgotten we work as a collective?”

  Mick stumbled over the treacherous floor and dug his shovel in. The last intact blister on his hand burst. A sharp pain pulsed through his left shoulder with each movement. He paused again to lick his raw palm, a futile attempt to ease the stabbing pain, and glanced back into the shadows of the cave. The dust had barely settled from the last round and the incessant activity just stirred it up even more. The single lantern barely penetrated the fug.

  He looked again. Did something just move? Or was it just the flickering lantern playing tricks?

  “For God’s sake, Pinkerley. What’s the matter?”

  George’s expression changed to one of mocking contempt. “Oh, poor little Micky! He’s scared of all the nasty monsters! Why did Boss have to put a mine in Hell’s Mouth, of all places?”

  Mick’s temper rose. He was fifteen, not a child. He did a man’s work; why didn’t people treat him like one? He threw down his shovel and began to reply, but George cut him off.

  “Look, Boss wants the lead out, and even Satan himself would be hard pushed to keep him from what he wants. And this new mine’s the only one left that’s anything like productive. Do you want to eat boiled turnips and freeze your backside to the bone looking after sheep all your life, like that old fossil up on the hill?”

  “That’s Mr. Allenston. He looks out for me.” Mick tried to sound stern, but it came out more peevish.

  The other miners clattered back, and more than one hard stare came in their direction. Mick quickly dug in with his shovel. George was right. He’d soon been replaced if he didn’t pull his weight. But Hell’s Mouth, he knew the stories. Everyone did. What if they were true?

  The footsteps died away, leaving only a deafening silence that rose from deep under the hillside. The reverberating scrape of the shovel somehow made it even more sinister.

  He glanced uneasily over his shoulder again. The Templetons had come from away; George was an outsider. His own family had lived on the fells for generations, and centuries of unease had seeped deeply into his soul.

  “George? You know the stories, right?”

  “Yeah, I know,” he answered between thrusts of his shovel. “A demon, locked in this cave hundreds of years ago. If it’s disturbed, it’ll escape and wreak havoc. You really believe that?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “I know what I believe in. Money. And the boss’s boot up my backside.” He stopped midthrust.

  “Hey, look at that, Micky!”

  George dropped his shovel and crouched to inspect the partially uncovered stone.

  “It’s got really strange eyes; they look alive.”

  Mick looked at the discovery with horror. It was a wolf. Evil, pure evil. He felt sick.

  “Don’t touch it!” he shouted, but it was too late. For a split second he felt dizzy, as if an immense black shadow swept over him before vanishing out of the cave. The lantern guttered and almost died. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, caused by more than the ever-present lead dust. He had the strange impression he could hear a raven’s warning screech.

  George held the stone head out toward him. “See how its eyes are glittering? Maybe they’re diamonds or something.” He grinned.

  “Perhaps we should put it back . . .”

  “No way! I found it, I’m keeping it. The missus is having a baby soon,” he added. “I need the money.”

  Mick forced himself to touch the head. George held on to it for a second, then relinquished it.

  It was just a lump of stone, that was all. It was cold in his hands and left a residue of dust on his fingers. He felt ashamed of his panic. No wonder they all treated him like a child. There was nothing sinister about it at all.

  He studied the eyes. “They just look like stone, like the rest of it. There’s nothing valuable there.”

  George snatched it back, turned it over, then looked suspiciously at his companion. Mick held his hands out, palms upward.

  “It must have been the lantern light, then,” he reluctantly conceded. “Funny how they were sparkling, though. They were looking straight at me.”

  He looked at Mick once more, then tucked the head into his smock. “I’ll take it home, anyway. A present for the missus. That’s if she’s got home from church yet.” He raised his eyebr
ows. “All Souls’ Day today.”

  “All Souls’ Day? What’s that, then?”

  “God knows.” George grinned at his own wit.

  5

  The sheep were restless. They could sense it too.

  Bert could hear shuffling movement on the other side of the wall. There were no peaceful teeth on the cud. He leaned on the wall—the icy moisture in the crevices biting through his sleeves— hoping that his familiar presence would soothe them and that they would soothe him. Shep whined quietly by his feet, the sound almost masked by the gusting wind.

  The eerie light was brighter than ever; it was getting closer. The beast was coming, he knew it. Something was to disturb it from its prison after who knew how long. It would be savage, desperate, incomparable to any earthly creature. With a surge of fear, dread, doubt, and a little pride, he resolved to prepare himself. It would be the biggest challenge of his life.

  He hefted his crook in his hand. The familiar weight gave him confidence although he knew it would be of little use. His fingers traced the contours of the horn handle he’d carved. Although worn smooth over the years, the original shape was still clear. People always assumed it was a dog he’d carved, but in truth it looked more like a wolf.

  There was no point trying to sleep. He was wide awake and myriad thoughts were tumbling through his mind. He settled himself on the smooth stones near the sheepfold, arranged to form a near comfortable seat out of the prevailing wind, and tucked his smock about himself. Then he began to recall everything his grandfather had taught him so many years ago.

  His grandfather had learned it from his father, and he from his father before him. It had been passed down for God alone knew how long, but he knew the secret was old. Very old.

  But then, the hills had long memories, as did those who lived among them.

  He thought through everything that was known about the beast. Its nature, where it had come from. What would deter it, and what would be useless.

  And then, finally, every detail of the ritual he would have to perform to capture and imprison it. This was the most important bit—his grandfather had stressed how imperative it was that the ritual be followed to perfection—and Bert ran through it four times before he was satisfied.

  The half-moon drifted across the sky, then bid him good night as it descended behind the distant fell. The bright stars of Sirius and Orion’s Belt took its place. The wind quieted. Lost in the world of the past, his hands tucked into his coat and his feet growing numb, Bert caught a whiff of what smelled like his grandfather’s tobacco. The scent took him straight back to that fateful day, and the long-ago memories began to rise.

  He saw himself as a young boy, even younger than Thomas, sitting at his grandfather’s feet in this very same spot. It was the day he’d grown up. The day he’d learned the true meaning of responsibility.

  One day, he too would have to pass on the secret. But to whom? Who would remember the old ways in years to come? Thomas wasn’t interested; he was a child of the new century. For him, life was all about the future, not the past.

  Maybe he was to be the last of a chain unbroken for millennia. The thought saddened him. Maybe that was why the prophecy was awakening now, in the twilight of his life.

  As he gazed up at the sky he heard, far in the distance, a sound. Faint enough to pose no immediate threat, but it was a threat nonetheless. The sheep heard it too, and a ripple of frightened blarting ran through the flock.

  He’d never heard it before in his life, and neither had his sheep, but the sound was buried deep in all their unconscious memories. It was the howl of a wolf.

  And it was hunting.

  6

  Bran nodded approvingly as he approached the village. The sunlight bounced off the courses of stones that made up the wall, solid and imposing. The ditch at its foot gleamed with freshly exposed silt. Both nearly five hundred paces in length, it had taken almost two moons’ work involving nearly all men, women, and older children to get this far.

  Neglected for nearly two generations, storms and wind had driven soil and debris into the ditch to the point where it was possible to simply walk over it. And the wall had crumbled, its stones reused, until the gates had become an unnecessary delay.

  Bran touched the raven’s skull amulet hanging at his throat. The winter had been mild so far, and the snows had held off. Last year the Cailleach had risen early from the bitter north. Even before the Hunter had appeared in the eastern sky, the Goddess had changed her aspect from Mother to Crone, from summer to winter, and had buried the fells deep in snow.

  But of course, every blade was sharpened on two sides. What aided them also aided their foe.

  He squelched over the bank of cleared silt to look down the steep sides of the ditch. His boots sank into the sludge, and a trickle of displaced gray water ran over them, but because his boots were made of thick cowhide, coated with birch resin and beeswax and stuffed with sheep’s wool, he didn’t feel the dampness at all.

  The water was now the depth of a man’s waist and would be twice that after a couple of the Cailleach’s blizzards had fallen and melted. The Goddess in her winter guise would not leave her people undefended. It was now necessary to use the single causeway leading to the oaken gate to access the village. He could see it from here, flanked by the two stone heads that he himself had carved. A red deer hind and a hare. Not only did they watch over the village but they offered a sense of pride to locals and visitors.

  Bran traced the line of the wall. He struggled to see even a plume of smoke rising above it. They’d raised it higher than it had ever been. Combined with the ditch and the earthen bank, it was a greater height than two tall men.

  But there was still a lot to do. Too much. He glanced toward the south and hoped they’d done enough.

  He walked along the ditch bank, heading toward the rhythmic scraping of picks and shovels and the swoosh of emptying pails.

  Four young lads and two girls on the verge of womanhood were hacking away at the accumulated silt and debris, shoveling it into baskets. He smiled to himself. He could tell from their studious concentration that they were all too aware of his inspection.

  He waited. Not one of them glanced in his direction.

  Their baskets were soon full, and after a hopeful attempt to pack them a little tighter, the group shared a quick conferring glance and one of the girls was silently elected to empty them.

  She boosted the heavy load into her arms and reluctantly turned toward him, flicking a quick glance at him before concentrating on her bare feet, caked in thick mud that had splashed up to her knees.

  She picked a way up the slippery slope with exaggerated attention. He could see the sheen of sweat on her face despite the chill air. She was a good worker, Gwen. He could see her on the Trydydd, the three most senior members of the Pridani after himself, someday.

  “Good work, Gwen,” he said as she reached the spoil heap. “Well done.”

  She hesitated, struggling for a response, then her hand slipped off her muddy basket. She made a futile attempt to grab it but it clipped her knee and overturned. Silt and mud splashed everywhere, coating her already filthy feet and shins, then speckling over his raven cloak. A gasp of horror came from the ditch, and Gwen’s mouth froze open in dismay.

  “Be thankful the ground isn’t frozen,” he continued. “In the past I’ve dug ditches where we had to have fires burning to keep the ground soft enough to dig.”

  Gwen nodded hesitantly, her eyes still riveted to his spoiled cloak.

  “But anyway, I hear you are betrothed,” he said, smiling. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the spring ceremony.”

  He knew she’d smile then, both shy and happy. The smile of youth and love.

  “I’m really looking forward to it, too.” She blushed and pushed a strand of hair back from her face, leaving a smear of mud across her cheek.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Carry on, else you’ll get cold. It’s still a chill wind for wearing knee b
reeches and short sleeves.”

  She picked up her empty basket and hurried back to the ditch.

  “Thought he’d turn you to stone for doing that,” Bran heard as he walked away, and he chuckled to himself.

  A shout came from near the river, the direction the hunters had gone earlier. A dog barked. The short, excited bark that informed the hunters that a trail had been found. What had they got? Bran strode toward them.

  One of the hunters noticed him, and they all turned to face him while he was still a hundred paces away. Even the dogs waited quietly. Still no Coll.

  The two younger ones stepped back from the path, eyes nervously on the ground. It was the older men Bran was more concerned with. More worldly, if no wiser, he could sense a resentment in their attitude. Their eyes were dropped from sullenness. He saw one’s lips move but couldn’t hear what he’d said.

  The only one who would meet his eyes was Fearn, who had climbed down the riverbank a short distance away. Bran smiled and nodded. As he’d intended, the friendly gesture to an equal was not lost on the other hunters.

  “Prints,” Fearn stated as Bran jumped down the bank. He indicated the dark mud, already softened by the sun. “I noticed two bent stems of grass farther up. Although they’d sprung back upright, the stems were slightly crushed in this direction. So I searched down here, and found the prints near the riverbank.”

  Bran looked down. Four toes and four claws, just like a wolf.

  Except these were huge. The width of a man’s hand span. They headed to the edge of the seething water and then vanished.

  Either the beast could swim, or it had jumped. The river was fifteen paces across.

  There was a murmur from the rest of the group as they came down the bank. Many glanced round as if expecting the beast to reappear any moment.

  It won’t, Bran thought. Not until it’s ready, and that won’t be when you are.

  He crouched to study the prints closer. A wave of dizzy nausea struck him. The prints seemed to flicker, pulsate as if the perpetrator were still walking invisibly along the bank. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.