John Gwynne - Malice

Then suddenly, footsteps, the crunch of forest litter, so loud in the silence. A figure emerged from the thickets about the glade, a man with a sword at his hip, his cloak travel-stained. Seeing Corban, he paused, bowed his head, then marched towards him.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the man said, squatting in front of Corban.

Corban could not place his age. There were creases about his eyes, his mouth, though a close-cropped beard hid most of those. His hair was dark, dusted with grey. Then Corban looked into his eyes, yellow like a wolf’s, and old. No, more than old. Ancient . And wise.

‘Why?’ Corban asked.

The man smiled, warm and welcoming, and Corban felt himself smile in return.

‘I need help. I have a task to complete, and I cannot do it alone.’ He pulled an apple from a pocket in his cloak, startlingly red in this bleached world, and took a bite, juice dripping. The man’s nails were cracked, broken, dirt caked in their grain.

‘Why me?’ Corban muttered.

‘A direct mind,’ the man observed, smiling again. He shrugged. ‘It is a difficult task, dangerous. Not all are able, capable of helping me.’ He inhaled, long and deep, closing his eyes. ‘But there is something about you. Something of value. I feel it.’

Corban grunted. He had never felt particularly special, never been told it, except by his mam, of course.

‘What is the task?’

‘I must find something. Let me show it to you,’ the man said, placing a hand over Corban’s eyes.

Then Corban was standing in a stone room, arched windows black against torchlight, the darkness outside seeming to suck the light into nothingness.

In the centre of the room sat a great cauldron, a squat mass of black iron, taller and wider than a man. A scream burst from the cauldron’s mouth, echoing around the room. It rose in pitch, containing an anguish that had Corban covering his ears, then suddenly silence fell, broken only by the soft crackle of the torches. Pale fingers reached out from within the cauldron, grasping the black rim. A body heaved itself upwards and spilled out onto the stone floor. Slowly it stood: a man dressed only in loose woollen breeches, long dark hair unbound except for the warrior braid falling across broad shoulders. His skin was a pale grey, thin and stretched, and things seemed to be moving beneath it, as if trying to find a way out. Veins stood proud, bulging and purple against the pallid tissue, forming an intricate spider web on the man’s body.

Then he turned and looked at Corban.

Eyes as black as night, no pupil, no iris, stared at him. The mouth creased in a grisly smile, a thin line of blood trickling from its corner. A droplet gathered, dripped to the floor.

Corban took a step backwards. The figure mirrored him, taking a step forwards. Corban was about to turn and run but froze abruptly, sensing a presence behind him. He told himself to turn but his body would not obey, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The thing before the cauldron paused as well, face contorting as the black eyes stared past Corban. There was movement from behind. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw two great, white-feathered wings sweep about him. The figure in front grimaced, raising its arms as if to ward off a blow. It hissed at him, threw back its head and howled, a high, piercing cry. Corban looked at the wings, felt his panic and fear draining away and a sense of peace taking its place, even though the creature was still howling its ululating cry. Slowly the room faded and all was darkness again.

With a gasp his eyes snapped open. His back was wet with sweat. He shook his head, still hearing the inhuman howling from his quick-fading dream. Willow was stamping the ground, hoof gouging the earth. As Corban came fully awake the howling did not fade but grew clearer, taking on a different tone from his dream, and suddenly he realized that Willow could hear it too.

He leaped to his feet and tried to soothe the animal. Willow snorted, slowly quietened, even though the howling continued to ring through the forest. Corban stood for a moment, listening.

‘Whatever that is,’ he murmured, ‘it sounds scared .’ He patted the pony’s neck a while longer, then made a decision and led the pony in the direction of the howling.

Within heartbeats the forest became a twilight world. The branches were too low for him to mount Willow, but he moved easily enough between the trees, although he had to pay attention to where he put his feet, the forest floor thick with vines that snared his boots.

Small shallow streams crossed his path and the ground became spongier, Willow’s hooves making sucking noises as they sank into and pulled free of the damp earth.

I should turn back , he thought. Dylan had warned him of the deadly bogs within the Baglun, appearing as firm ground at first, which would suck you down and smother the life from you. He stopped. The howling began again, and it sounded so close.

Just a little longer . He stepped forward and the howling suddenly stopped.

Corban walked around a dense stand of trees, elbowing red ferns aside and pulled abruptly to a halt.

Not more than twenty paces in front of him was the head and shoulders of a wolven, jutting from the ground. Its canines gleamed, as long as his forearm and sharp as a dagger. Corban could not believe it. They were fearsome pack hunters, bred by the giant clans during the War of Treasures, if the tales were true. They were wolf-like but bigger, stronger, and with a sharp intelligence. But they were rarely seen here, preferring the south of Ardan, regions of deep forest and sweeping moors, where the auroch herds roamed. For a moment boy and beast stared at each other, then the wolven’s jaws snapped, froth bubbling around its mouth. One of its paws scrabbled feebly at the ground. It looked close to death, weak and thin. There was a squelching sound and the animal sank a little deeper into the earth, as if someone was tugging on its hind legs. The ground around it looked firm enough, covered in the same vine, but Corban knew the wolven was caught in one of the Baglun’s treacherous bogs.

He stood in silence a while, not knowing what to do. Crouching, he stared at the creature’s head, grey flecked with white, spattered with black mud.

‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered. ‘You’d eat me, even if I could get you out.’ The beast stared back with its copper eyes.

He looked about, picked up a long branch, thrust it at the ground before his feet and began tentatively to edge his way forwards, Willow watching disapprovingly. Suddenly the branch disappeared into the ground, his left leg sinking up to the knee before he could stop. He knew a moment of panic, tried to pull out and felt the mud firm up around his leg, gripping him in an airless embrace. He shifted his weight and leaned back, slowly freeing his leg, which was covered in viscous black mud. He fell backwards.

Slick with sweat, he just lay there a moment. There was a gurgling sound and he looked up, saw the wolven sink deeper. He stood up and strode back to Willow, suddenly knowing what he must do, at the same time knowing it was foolish. He patted Willow, the pony’s eyes rolling white. She was close to flight. When she had calmed a little he pulled Gar’s rope out of the saddlebag and tied one end to his saddle, slowly coaxing the pony to walk closer to the sinking mud. He looped the other end of the rope as Cywen had taught him and cast it towards the beast. His second attempt fell across the animal’s head and shoulder. Gently he lifted the rope and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull. The rope tightened and held fast. Corban led the pony away from the bog. The rope creaked, shuddering under the strain as Willow took up the slack. The wolven whined, snapping at the air as the rope bit into its skin, then with a great sucking sound it began to pull free of the mud. Willow took a step forward, then another. . and within moments the creature was lying on its side at the edge of the bog, panting and slick with mud. It staggered to its feet, head bowed.