Wolf in the Wilds

By Robert Poyton

VOLUME SIX OF THE WOLF SAGA!

Sickened of the excesses of civilisation, Llorc crosses the Great Desert and plunges into the jungles of the south. He finds peace for a time among the Adabulu, but a warrior's past is never far behind. The arrival of a group of mercenaries results in a desperate pursuit through forest, across savanna

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innsmouth Gold
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739985516

Book preview

THE WOLF WHO WOULD BE KING

Volume Six: WOLF IN THE WILDS

Robert Poyton

Dedicated to Charles R. Saunders  (1946 –  2020)

PROLOGUE

Miyande looked down, suddenly aware of her surroundings. She had been so engrossed in following the brightly coloured bird that she had lost track of where she was. The soft squish of mud beneath her bare feet brought a feeling of foreboding. She had wandered into the fringes of the Great Marsh. Mama always warned her about this place. It was forbidden to all the children of the village, only the hunters travelled here, though never alone. Everyone knew about the crocodils, of course, but there were other, worse things, it was rumoured. Stories were told around the fires of strange lights, of pale, shining eyes, of forest devils that lured the unwary to a watery doom.

The young girl shivered, even in the heat of the sunny rays that filtered through the thinning canopy of leaves above. As always, the forest was alive with the chirp of insects, the song of birds, the distant call of a grazing beast.  Clumps of reeds sprouted from the muddy ground ahead, taller than her, shutting out sight of anything beyond. From amongst them came the sound of a gentle splash. But it was another sound that made her turn, a soft rustle in the undergrowth to her left. 

An ominous silence fell, a rare cloud covered the sun and all fell still, the air pregnant with anticipation. Miyande saw the eyes first, then the vague outline of a face through the leaves. She shrank back against the bole of a tree, not daring to speak. The eyes saw her. The face moved. A figure emerged from the bush, stepping noiselessly into the open.

It was a man, or at least had the shape of a man. But he was like none that Miyande had seen before. Those eyes were cold and grey in a lean face,  the long black hair and straggly beard a mass of knots and tangles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his rangy frame barely covered by tattered rags. The man's skin, though bronzed, was lighter than any she had seen and was criss-crossed with scratches, bites and scars.  In one large fist he held a long knife, its edge nicked but sharp looking.

Are you a forest devil? Miyande stammered. She was scared but Mama had always told her never to show fear.       The man frowned as he looked at her, tilting his head to one side. Wild as he appeared, Miyande did not now think him a devil. Well, his eyes weren't glowing red for one thing. She drew herself up to her full height, barely half that of the wild man and spoke again.

Are you lost? I am Miyande What is your name?

The man frowned again, his gaze moving up and past her as though seeking the answer to her question in the branches above. His mouth opened, the cracked lips writhed but only a dry croak issued forth.

Miyande's confidence grew, though she eyed the long knife with caution. Her courage increased at a sound from behind  - her name being called by her brother. She responded, Here! I'm over here! and shortly Olufemi appeared, breathless, three of his hunter group behind him.

Yande, what do you think you are doing wandering off like that! Don't you know this place is -

The newcomers suddenly noticed the wild man on the opposite side of the clearing. In an instant four spears were levelled at him. The man crouched, a snarl on his lips now, the knife pointed forward. To Miyande, he had suddenly become more beast than man.

Who are you? demanded Olufemi. By what right do you travel in our lands?

The wild man made no response but shifted his feet, angling himself.  Olufemi nodded and his three companions spread out, forming a crescent, with the stranger at its centre. There was no sound save the soft squelch and shuffle of feet as the men circled warily, weapons poised.  The stranger coiled, whether to strike or flee Miyande could not say.  Her brother drew in a sharp breath as he tightened the grip on his spear.

With a surge and a splash the  great crocodil exploded from the reeds, yellowed teeth flashing, tail sweeping. One hunter was knocked over immediately, escaping death only by the quickness of his reactions. But the river beast was fast, too. It evaded Olufemi's thrown spear, bowled over a second warrior and surged, jaws snapping, towards the girl. Miyande froze under the beast's predatory gaze, its eyes scarcely less human than those of the wild man. She closed her own eyes and prayed.

A chilling cry brought them open again. The wild man had sprung forward like a great cat, landing on the back of the river beast with a shout, his long knife stabbing deep. The creature rolled, snapping its jaws in vain against the mad thing that now clung to it. The crocodil flung its narrow head from side to side, trying to reach its tormentor. This gave the warriors a chance to react, and they charged forward, thrusting their spears at the thrashing body, though the tips barely raked the scaly hide.

The wild man kept striking, one brawny arm now wrapped around the creature's neck, the reddened knife endlessly plunging. The crocodil suddenly paused its thrashings and sank its clawed feet deep into the mud. With a last, defiant snap of the jaws it propelled itself backwards, back into the tall reeds from whence it came. Miyande's last view of the thing was of that wild, snarling face atop it, the bloodied hand rising and falling. Then, with a splash, man and beast were gone.

CHAPTER 1

Llorc floated in a comfortable gloom. Sensation gradually returned, his head was pounding, his entire body ached, a needle of palm shot through his side. For the first time in many a moon there was something soft beneath him.  He carefully opened his eyes, curious as to where he was.

Narrow sunbeams played through small gaps in the thatch above, softly illuminating the interior of a large hut. There was little in the room other than the cot beneath him, a wicker chair and a wooden stand, on which sat a wide, earthen bowl.  His long knife lay next to it. Slowly turning his aching head revealed reed mats covering the floor, decorated animal hides hanging on the walls.

More light played in through the edges of a shuttered window, from beyond which came the faint sounds of birdsong, lapping water and distant cries. The smell of cooking brought a grumble from Llorc’s stomach, prompting him to sit up. Half way, he groaned and fell back, his limbs leaden.  In resignation,  he lay still, grey eyes catching and following a dust mote as it slowly spiraled down a sunbeam. For a second it flared, reflecting the brightness of the sun and his mind was cast back...

Llorc shaded his eyes against the relentless glare and sighed. He turned to the desert-man, a Targi, one of the blue-robed nomads that travelled and traded in these parts. For the third time, Llorc pointed at his horse, then the man’s water flask.

My horse for water, the young warrior explained. I wish to trade my horse for water. Many flasks. As many as I can carry.

The nomad’s green eyes flashed above his face veil as he raised his palms and shrugged again, speaking in his own tongue to his companions behind him. One of these, a much older fellow, slid from his camel with a soft groan and limped over to the pair. He spoke in the trading tongue.

You wish to sell your horse? Here? For what reason would you wish to do this?  To a Targi, a horse was a possession prized above all else.

Llorc pointed to the arid wasteland that lay beyond the edge of the oasis. There. I travel there. I will need water. I have nothing to trade it for but my horse.

The elder translated this to his companions, which set off another round of gestures, shrugging and chatter. One man pointed a finger to temple in the universal gesture of madness. The elder turned back to Llorc.

They think you mad, my friend. I must admit, I do not altogether disagree with them. Why would you seek destruction in the Great Desert? If you desire death, there are easier paths.

Llorc gazed out over heat-hazed rocks and sand. Images flashed in his brain of the siege of Arilarat. The mounds of countless dead, fallen friends and comrades among them; the hanging bodies slowly twisting above the battlements; the evils of the Inquisition and the hypocrisy of  those who ruled over them. He sighed again.

"Where else to go? Back north to my frozen homelands and their stifling ways? West to the civilised lands, where men enslave, torture and kill in the name of freedom? Or to the east, from whence came the Jahari? I have seen more than enough of those these last months. No, old man. Only the south remains open. It is to the south I go."

The elder studied Llorc’s face closely, sun-wrinkled eyes narrowing at what they saw there. He called to his friends and they began gathering water flasks.

Very well, young man. I see you are determined. And I think perhaps it is not your fate to die in these lands. But that is not to say your path will be easy. We shall give you all the water you can carry, for it is not our way to see anyone go thirsty. But we shall accept your horse as payment, for we are a trading people and must live as best we can in this harsh place.

Llorc nodded his thanks and began arranging the numerous flasks about his person, hanging some from his belt, some on straps over his broad shoulders. He gave the horse a pat on the neck and handed the reins to the nomad.

You wish nothing else? that man asked, eyeing Llorc’s clothing. He wore no robes, merely a simple white tunic, tan breeches and leather boots. His only concession to the blazing sun was a wide bandana that confined his long, black hair.

Llorc shook his head. I have water, I have my knife. He referred to the large Osmanye blade at his waist. That’s all I need. My thanks, old man.  He turned and strode into the sun, soon becoming nothing but a vague blur in its glare.

The old man stroked the horse and touched fingers to heart, lips and forehead. May your gods go with you, young man. May your gods go with you.

Following the Siege of Arilarat, Llorc had travelled south, fulfilling his promise to visit the Marquis Corledo’s widow. That done, he had no clear plan other than to create distance from the wiles and hypocrisy of civilisation. The sheer scale of slaughter at the siege had affected even the most hardened warriors. The political machinations and murders carried out in the name of the Inquisition only strengthened Llorc’s resolve to leave. And if a man wanted to forget, the desert was the place to do so.

The simple act of walking became all-encompassing. The blazing sun above, the scorching grit of the sand below. Nothing on which to fix the gaze other than dune beyond dune. The occasional sip of tepid water through cracked lips, the constant sting of dust flung into face and eyes by the oven-hot winds. And at night came the cold, the scuttle of strange creatures, the landscape bleached tombstone grey in the light of the moon. Existence became no more than one of these two states - mechanically plodding across that scorched landscape, or lying shivering amongst the cooling rocks.

After some days, the terrain changed, the ground became firmer, more rocky underfoot. A little more wildlife appeared, providing a source of food, though the water was all but gone. Llorc was acting almost entirely on instinct now and his boyhood hunting skills served him well. As vegetation became more prolific, he supplemented meat with berries and occasional fruits. By the time he reached the low hills he had lost all track of time. Sunrise and sunset came and went as the days merged into one routine of hunt, eat, walk, sleep.

His boots, torn on the rocky ground, gradually disintegrated around his feet. Likewise his clothes, ripped by thorns as he pushed his way across the hills and into the blessed shade of the forest beyond, a forest so unlike those of his youth. They had been as dense as this  but dark and cold, much of their life hidden away in winter. This forest teemed with light and life, from biting flies to larger creatures, such as deer-like animals with peculiar, spiraled horns.

Once, he froze as a huge snake slithered through the undergrowth before him. And the night-noises… at home the forests were largely silent, save for the baying of a distant hunting wolf. Here, the hot night air was filled with strange jabbers and hoots, distant roars and the flap and flutter of beating wings. Llorc took to sleeping in the boughs of trees, after awakening one night to the stare of lambent green eyes regarding him, whether with hunger or curiosity he could not say. His prey, caught in simple snares, provided rough hide clothing as well as stringy meat. And he moved ever southwards, without goal or aim, other than the basics of survival.

So he came at last to the edge of a great lake. He had been traversing its marshy shores when the girl had approached - the first person he had seen in all his wanderings. She spoke in an unknown language and Llorc stepped forward, hesitating, struggling to shape the words that formed vaguely in his mind. The girl was young, no threat. But the men who came after her raised weapons as they moved to circle him. They wore no armour, being bare-chested, wearing only a type of dark red kilt, but were clearly warriors.

Like a wolf at bay, Llorc’s hackles raised and he prepared for flight or fight. It was then that the crocodil had burst forth from the reeds, heading for the girl. There was no thought, just action and Llorc hurled himself at the beast, snarling. What followed was blur of motion, fury, snapping jaws and rugose skin, followed by a lungful of water, darkness and, finally… peace.

CHAPTER TWO

You are awake, then? How do you feel?"  Eniola approached the man on the cot with a jug of water held out before her. The man did not answer but his eyes fixated on the jug and he sat up,  accepting it eagerly, draining the cool liquid in one long draft. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced up, nodding thanks. The guest had been cleaned up considerably since his arrival, his long, straight hair combed and trimmed, beard shaved, the formerly bloodshot eyes now clear. The plain  cotton long-shift covered his wounds, though his forearms still bore the signs of bites and scratches. The stranger spoke in a strange, lilting tone and Eniola accepted the jug back before bustling out of the room. Olufemi lurked at the doorway of the hut, filling the space with his powerful frame.

He is awake? the hunter asked.

He is, replied the young woman, though I do not think he understands our language.

Olufemi muttered and glanced at the figure who met his gaze calmly and levelly, without fear. Eniola nudged him.

Make way. Here comes Babajide.

The Elder nodded to both as he climbed the steps of the stilted hut and entered its cool interior. His lined, aged face creased in pleasure at seeing his patient awake. He pulled a chair across the floor and sat at the man’s side. By