Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

Just then he noticed a small star and, for some reason, his eyes were drawn to it. There was something wrong with it. Frowning and wincing, he stared, trying to focus, to see what was different about it. There were several other stars above it. They all seemed about the same size, so it was not that. What was it? There was certainly something strange about it. It looked like it was flickering, as if maybe a cloud was passing in front of it – but there were no clouds, or he would see them in the moonlight. He felt a quick, stabbing fear rise in his breast: fear of ghosts, of the demons of the moors that he had heard about. His breath caught in his throat as he thought of the stories about ghouls wandering, trying to capture men to take to hell. If Agatha had a pact with the devil, like they said at Wefford, then she would be capable of sending one for him.

Then the panic fell, as quickly as the blanket from his shoulders as he suddenly lurched to his feet, his face white in the dark as he stared, his breath catching in his throat.

It was a fire!

There was no choice to make. If he stayed still, even with his little fire, he would die. That much was obvious. The cold was too severe, the shelter too exposed and his clothes too damp from his sweat and from the occasional clumps of snow landing on him and melting. With a last, longing stare at the weak flames he recognised that they offered no safety and no chance of survival. The fire would be sure to go out if he slept. The twigs and branches he had managed to collect were too damp to stay lighted and would need constant attention. No, he had no choice.

Leaving the fire to die, he hefted his pack and stick and began to make his way towards the flickering light ahead. He could not tell how far away it was, but it looked as though it was something over a mile. It appeared to be quite high on a hill, which was why he had mistaken it at first for a star.

There was little wind, only a slight breeze, and he made good headway at first. The snow was not deep, and the ground beneath felt solid and fairly flat with few stones or holes. But then, after only a few hundred yards, it became more difficult.

It started when he tripped and fell headlong. Gasping with horror, he rose, his face and head smothered in the white, clinging powder. That was not the worst: under the surface apparently there was a stream, and his legs were soaked with freezing water. He must keep moving, to try to keep warm; to stay alive.

With a new resolution, he set off again at a faster pace, his forehead wrinkled with the concentration of his effort, straining with determination. He would not die – he must not!

The ground now was worse. It was broken, with granite stones liberally sprinkled under the white covering, which now itself became a serious obstacle, not only hampering his movements but hiding the stones beneath. He could hardly move more than a few yards without stumbling, and he was so tired he would inevitably fall.

At one point he felt that he would never reach the fire. After yet another tumble, as he lay sobbing in frustration, he lifted his head to find that the rising land before him hid the flames, as if its promise of warmth and rest had been snatched away as he approached.

Gasping with the effort, he slowly rose to his feet and began to carry on, the breath shuddering in his throat in a continual, weeping groan, his face turned towards the fire. All his energy was gone. His boots kept striking rocks, and his toes were bruised, creating a blunted, numbed ache of pain that managed to seep over even the dulled senses of his frost-bitten feet. His stick grew heavier with each step, and the energy used to lift it and place it down, lift it and place it down, sapped his failing resources, but he kept hold of it as if it was a talisman offering some support and strength of its own.

He breasted the hill and could see the fire again more clearly. Standing still for a moment, he savoured the sight as he caught his breath. It lay under an overhanging rock, at the entrance, apparently, of a cave, and the cheerful flames beckoned to him, promising peace. His breath caught in his throat, and he was not sure whether to laugh or sob. Letting his breath out in a great sighing gasp, he started off again, down the slight incline to the bottom, then up the other side to the fire, to safety and warmth.

It was when he was almost at the upward slope that he heard the howling. The voices of wolves calling to each other – and realised that he was their quarry.

“I think you’d better get up here a little faster,” came a contemplative voice from above. “They sound a bit hungry!”

The rest of the way was a mad scramble up the hillside. He dropped his staff, his satchel fell from his shoulder, pulling his blanket with it, and it may have been this that saved him.

As he reached the top of the slope he slipped and fell, slithering face-first into a depression ringed by rocks. Behind him he heard a sudden snarling and snapping, and when he managed to rise, staring with terror, he saw four wolves tearing and ripping at his package and attacking his blanket. They had attacked his belongings rather than following and attacking him immediately.

Suddenly his legs gave way and he fell to his knees in petrified horror at the thought that the animals could have been on him, their teeth at his throat, their hot breath in his nostrils as they tore at him, savaging him like the bag they had just ripped apart. He gave a small cry, and was faintly surprised by how high and childish it sounded. Then he saw them turn.

“Ah, they’ll be coming here now.” The Bourc spoke calmly. After years of hunting wolves in Gascony, he knew how to defend himself, and now he watched carefully – he was prepared for them. Before him was a handful of arrows, their points in the ground, standing like a makeshift fence. When he gave Greencliff a quick, appraising glance, the farmer saw his dark eyes glittering in the shadow under his hood as the firelight caught them.

The Bourc gave him a nod, then pointed to the fire with his chin. “You get back. Warm yourself. Don’t think you’ll be any help right now.” He turned back to the scene below, pulling an arrow from the ground and nocking it on his bowstring, his hands moving with the assurance of long practice.

Greencliff felt his head move in slow acceptance, and he began to walk, stumbling in his tiredness and chill. His limbs felt leaden, his head heavy, and he moved as if in a dream, his feet moving automatically like heavy metal weights in a great machine. But as he got to the fire he heard a roar, and spinning round, saw a huge animal streak forward. The bowman seemed to stand still, the wolf running straight for him, and then there was a thrumming sound and the wolf fell, an arrow in his head.

Even as he seated a fresh arrow on the bow and drew it back, two more of the evil-looking animals appeared, but they were undecided, slinking from side to side at the edge of the camp like cavalry trying to see a weakness in a line of foot-soldiers, while the Bourc’s arrow-tip followed them.

With a snarl as if to boost flagging spirits, both streaked forward, and the Bourc hesitated a moment, as if unsure which to attack. Then, quickly drawing the bowstring again, he let his arrow fly at the leading animal, but perhaps in his haste, perhaps because of the darkness, his shot missed its mark.

To Greencliff’s horror, the wolves rushed on, and one of them launched itself at his saviour’s throat. To his astonishment, he saw the man fall back, one arm held up to protect his neck, and the wolf caught his arm in its mouth, his leap carrying the man backwards. But almost as soon as the man had dropped, he rolled, then sprang back to his feet. The farmer’s shocked eyes shot to the figure of the wolf, which lay shuddering as it died, and when he looked back at the Bourc, he saw the short sword in his hands, now flashing and glinting as it dripped red in the firelight.