Fear the Wolf Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Prologue

  PART ONE: The Village

  In the Shadow of the Wolf

  The Wolf Strikes

  Nothing Left

  The Thing in the Forest

  PART TWO: The Forest

  A New Path

  Night-Apes, Neverdark, and Nosy

  Master of the Forest

  The Fox's Den

  A New Place to Call Home

  PART THREE: The Wolf

  Never Return

  The Wolf's Lair

  Fearless

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  FEAR THE WOLF

  by S. J. Sparrows

  for heroes of every kind

  A world torn into many lands, each separated by great, uncrossable chasms formed by a cataclysm over a thousand cycles ago …

  PROLOGUE

  Through the darkening forest, the garment weaver chased the white wolf.

  She was followed by a big, lumbering man she barely knew. He whined complaints she failed to care about as she stumbled doggedly on. Panting. Sweating. Bleeding.

  The wooden shield strapped to her back weighed her down. Her dead friend’s sword, which she gripped in her right hand, added to the burden.

  Trees grew more unrecognizable as she lurched deeper into the wildwood. They became thicker, taller, and more treacherously tangled. How long had she pursued the beast now? How long had it been since the Wolf … since the Wolf—

  Burying the terrible images that rose in her mind, she kept moving. She had to keep moving.

  The Wolf was out of sight. Perhaps it had been the whole time. Perhaps the weaver was chasing only her mad hallucinations through the gloom. But no—she refused to entertain that thought. The enormous, unnatural beast had left a trail: prints in the earth, trampled undergrowth, clumps of white fur. And although the Wolf knew the forest better than any other being, it had bounded through the tangled thickets in places, leaving a mass of broken branches behind.

  The weaver was on the right path. To find the strength to push forward, she needed to believe that. But now her mind played tricks. Her thoughts swirling, she sensed the presence of something else nearby. Not the big man who followed her. Not the Wolf. Another being.

  Pain toppled her. She fell to her knees, sharp twigs and grit pressing into her skin. But she barely noticed her stinging knees, wincing instead at the seething pain that had pulled her down: the injury on her left arm. The hastily applied bandage had come loose. Reopened, the wound oozed, blood trickling from her forearm onto the mud below.

  The injured flesh didn’t smell right. It didn’t look right.

  The weaver fell the rest of the way, twisting to land on her back. As she hit the forest floor, the smells of rotting wood, damp earth, and pungent wildflowers burst into her nostrils. She stared vacantly up at the canopy. Glistening white tendrils crept over some of the trunks—no, not over them, through them—like poisoned white veins spreading throughout the bark.

  The white sickness.

  Then, in a daze, she thought little else for some time.

  Her burly companion had caught up. He hovered over her, whining nervously. Without her guidance, he wouldn’t survive for long in the forest. Not in the Wolf’s domain.

  Sweat gushed from the weaver’s skin, drenching her. She strained to breathe. Although the rest of her body was near motionless, her chest puffed up and down. Nausea turned her stomach.

  Still struggling to think, she sank into feelings. Grief instantly flooded her. But grieving would do little good now, so she twisted it into rage.

  Revenge was all she wanted.

  In her mind’s eye, she formed pictures of what vengeance would look like. The satisfaction of these fantasies gave her the strength to keep breathing, to keep—

  As the weaver’s vision blurred from exhaustion, a second figure came to stand over her. Its frightening face smiled down as she drifted into darkness.

  PART ONE

  The Village

  In the Shadow of the Wolf

  1

  “Fear the Wolf,” said my mother, sweeping a wild stare over the other children and me. We were gathered around a small woodfire in the outskirts of the village. Thousands of stars glinted in the sky above, silver specks pulsing against a dark violet abyss. The rich smell of smoke tickled the insides of my nose. The only sounds other than my mother’s voice came from the small blaze we huddled around for warmth. The flames crackled, hissed, and spat swirling embers into the surrounding blackness.

  I remembered this talk with painful clarity. It was thirteen cycles ago, on an unusually chill summer’s night. I was in my sixth summer, having lived through six and a half winters.

  The other children watched my mother’s mouth with an almost hungry intensity. They had grasped the weight of her simple words—Fear the Wolf—in a way that I had failed to.

  “Why?” I asked.

  My mother’s head snapped toward me, her eyes so ablaze they eclipsed the fire. For a moment it was only the two of us. “Now’s not a time to misbehave, Senla. You’re old enough to understand.” She looked away, as though she had lost interest in me. Her eyes swept over the other children. They were my friends in our village, each a similar age to me. “You’re all old enough to understand now.”

  While my mother shifted her focus to a boy who had begun to cry, I looked over at my closest friend, Reni Dun. She lowered her chin and gave me a knowing, mischievous smile from across the fire. She too had wanted to ask why.

  My mother consoled the crying boy, Bandurk Lemmo, for a short while before she huffed and shook her head. “I didn’t want to be the one doing this, but us adults take it in turns each cycle, telling you next lot what you need to know. No one really likes it.” She stopped and rattled her head again, as though she’d said too much. “You should all be crying,” she said bitterly, “and you should all be scared. But if you listen good, then you won’t need to be so scared in the future, you understand? Because you’ll fear the Wolf, and if you remember only what that means, then you’ll know your place. Understand? Knowing your place means you’ll be protecting yourself, and protecting the people you love.”

  More of the children’s faces had screwed up, their uncertain mouths quivering and stretching open. Tears glistened on their cheeks, reflecting white and orange sparkles from the fire’s light. Some of the children whimpered quietly.

  Reni and I exchanged confused looks, us both of one mind. We so often were back then.

  An itch had spread through my bones. I wanted to ask Mother precisely what the three words meant, but after being scolded, I bit my lower lip and fidgeted instead. We all recognized the saying. ‘Fear the Wolf’ was a common rebuke. Before that night, though, I’d assumed it meant something as simple as ‘Stop misbehaving.’

  When Mother had told me during supper, earlier that day, that we would be learning around the fire, I had slipped some bread into my pocket to bring with me. I’d had enough of dunking it in my bland stew. I took out the small piece of bread at the gathering. With my eyes fixed on Mother, I stretched a hand behind myself to grab a long, thin stick from the kindling pile. I paused when Mother looked over, but through the shifting light and darkness, she failed to see what I was doing. She squinted hard in suspicion, then continued talking.

  “The Wolf’s not like other beasts,” she said in a tone of fearful wonder. “She’s powerful and intelligent. She understands our language. Some say she even speaks like one of us, like a human. The smaller animals of the wild do whatever she wants ’em to. She rules this land, ’cause she’s ancient and the size of two of our homes put together. Maybe bigger. That’s why the
normal-size beasts follow her. Wolflings, hounds, and other flesh-eating animals. It’s their master, the Wolf, that keeps us in our places. She reminds us who we are, and more importantly, who we’re not.” She paused abruptly, skimming a stern look across the group.

  I was listening, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop imagining the crispness of toasted bread, the crunch of it between my teeth. Hot saliva pooled under my tongue. I sneakily wedged the bread onto one end of the stick, preparing to extend it toward the flames while Mother went on.

  “The Wolf comes for them that presume too much. It says so on the old tablet in the village hall. That’s why we all hear of people going missing by the woods, or people winding up dead ’cause they got closer than they shoulda. The Wolf or her creatures got ’em. Probably ’cause they were thinking of running off and having better lives than we’re supposed to. Or maybe they started thinking they were better than the rest of us. The Wolf won’t allow that. She shows mercy toward you young’uns, ’cause you lot don’t know any better before you’ve had the night of the tellin’. But now you’ve got no excuses. Except for little’uns, she only tolerates them that are born addle-headed, even when they grow up. And them that are left that way after harm. ’Cause they don’t know no better neither. But now you all know. No one’s better than no one. You listen to your elders, ’cause everyone’s got to listen to someone, but that’s it. Know your place, do your job, and there’ll be no reason for the Wolf to—Senla!”

  I jolted so hard the bread almost flung off the stick and into the air. Mother rose swiftly and came at me. Her short march kicked dust and dirt about. Some of it landed in the fire, which smoked and hissed in return. She smacked my wrist, and the stick fell from my hand. “I told you to listen good! Do you want the Wolf to come for us?”

  Almost oblivious to the pain in my wrist, I stared at my bread on the ground. It had landed in the ash and earth by the fire. An aching longing tugged inside my chest. My watery mouth turning cold, I shouted, “I don’t care about some stupid wolf! Reni’s father is strong, and he’s got a sword. He’ll kill it!”

  Mother’s initial reaction confused me. She straightened fast and went rigid, as though a droplet of cold rain had landed on her spine and slid the whole way down. Holding her breath, she peered about, seeming to look far into the distance at things that were hard to see. For a moment, the wind hastened. The flames of the fire leapt to one side. The nearby crops swayed and shushed. A deep collective moan came from the woods, the trees all creaking at once. But as quick as the bluster had started, it stopped. There was a brief rustle, and then only the sounds of the crackling flames again.

  Mother slapped me.

  The clap echoed back to us as fast as the children around me gasped. Some began to cry candidly, perhaps afraid my mother would strike them next to ensure they took the lesson to heart. But that was not her place.

  Even though I was young when this happened, my tears struggled to come out through my dazed mind and tangled insides. The thrumming sting across the side of my face paled in comparison to the screaming sadness throughout my body—the shock and horror.

  Mother’s tears came before my own. Loud enough for the whole village to hear, she shrieked, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You’ll get us all killed!” She stumbled backward, stroking the back of the offending hand, staring down at it unrecognizingly. As she sobbed like the children around her, she muttered fearfully, “You’ll bring the Wolf upon us, Senla … You’ll bring the Wolf upon us all …”

  2

  Today, almost thirteen full cycles later, I stood across from my mother at the loom inside our home, occasionally glancing out the window. The training yard lay in the distance. Grunts, groans, the clashing of sword on sword, and the thudding of various weapons against wooden shields traveled faintly to my ears. Wanting desperately to join them in the yard, I tried to ignore the sounds; I tried to keep working.

  My fingers were dry and sore from weaving. Throughout the day, more and more dust from the threads had filled the air, drying out my mouth and face too. Baskets of yarn were piled against one wall, and stacks upon stacks of finished cloth rested against another. The timid light of late spring fell through the unshuttered window, illuminating the dancing particles.

  They were suffocating.

  We’d weaved all morning, so busily I was sure my mind’s eye would repeat the task when I tried to sleep tonight: one of those hazy, haunting hallucinations that trapped me in a half-sleep, stealing much-needed rest.

  I fought to stay awake now. When I glanced outside at the clear weather, energy stirred in me. But when my gaze returned to the dim room, exhaustion weighed me down like the warp threads hanging taut from the loom, rocks tied to their ends.

  Mother passed me the next thread. “If you’re not really here with me, Senla, then you might as well not be here with me.”

  My heart panged. “Sorry, Mother. I’ll keep focused.”

  “What’s so interesting out there, anyhow!” It wasn’t a question. “You know how much we’ve got to get done. Changing weather, changing wear.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t talk back to me, Senla Nora.” She glared, and then looked away soon after. I felt naked and fragile every time we locked eyes. It wasn’t often that we did. She only let me catch her looking when she was telling me off. Sometimes, when everything was all right between us, I’d sense her idly watching me for longer than seemed normal, but she would turn away and busy herself before I could meet her gaze.

  “I …” I began, but faltered, unsure of how to respond without unintentionally angering her.

  “Just leave,” she said miserably. “Go do whatever you want to do out there. I’ll get this done faster without you.”

  I paused with the thread, baffled. Perhaps it was a test. I was about to say it wasn’t my place to leave my duty before the day’s end, but she spoke again.

  “Stay.” She shook her head and squinted as though trying to dispel a headache. “This is our work, no one else’s. You can’t go thinking you can do whatever you like.”

  Afraid a move in any direction might displease her, I struggled to break from my frozen pose and return to weaving. For the rest of the day, we worked without exchanging a word. I wished the sounds from Garret Dun’s training yard would grow louder and drown out the oppressive silence.

  I avoided looking at Mother again. After scolding me, she would often cry silently for a long time, but I knew better than to ask why or risk comforting her.

  Today, she cried.

  Later when I tried to sleep, I dreamed not of my repetitive work, as I’d thought I would, but of mismatched eyes staring into mine and a rough kiss scratching my forehead. The face was a blur. Dark features, perhaps, and the short hair of a man. Only the eyes were clear: one bluer than any summer sky, the other a pale brown. Sadness shook them. My forehead tingled as I recalled the cracked lips pressing against my skin. The black shape stood, turned, and drifted away.

  3

  Sneaking through the slats, gentle sunshine woke me the next morning. I launched out of bed and stretched to ease the sharp kinks in my neck and back. In my room with the window shuttered, I washed using my rag and yesterday’s water before hanging up the old cloth to dry.

  I cleaned my teeth so hastily I snapped my tooth stick and nearly choked on the citrus mix. It was no matter, though. I just wanted to get outside now to squeeze every moment out of my day of rest.

  But when I left my room, my enthusiasm died. Mother was at the loom, weaving.

  “Mother,” I said softly, but she appeared not to hear me. “Mother, it’s our day of rest. Why don’t you stop for today?”

  Her eyes didn’t leave her busy hands. “There’s too much to do.”

  Silence.

  I inhaled deeply. As I surrendered the breath, I let my hopes for the day crumble in my mind. The sun on my skin, the intoxicating sense of freedom I always longed for after a week of weaving, thou
ghts of spending some time with my friends … with Reni. It all fell away.

  “I’ll stay and help you,” I said. “It hadn’t dawned on me how much we have to do.”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Mother gave me a sharp, suspicious look, and then continued weaving. “Spend too much time with that Cerik, you do. Started talking like you’re smarter than everyone else. You be careful of him, Senla. That scribe fancies his own words too much. He’s only meant to put simple rules down, so as people can learn their trades easier. But that Cerik! He scratches down as many words as he speaks—and that scribe could talk a man deaf!”

  As my mother droned on, I noticed how weary she was. A heavy energy surrounded her, sapping at my own strength. Physically, she looked younger than most of my friend’s parents, and her skin wasn’t ruddy or weathered like the faces of outdoor laborers. But it was behind her eyes that worried me. She looked tired. Distant.

  She finished her tirade with, “That stupid Cerik has been tempting the Wolf’s creatures to come get him for a long time!” Abruptly, she stopped weaving and looked down to one side. She cleared her throat. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my place to judge him.”

  “It’s all right—”

  “Just go outside, Senla! I don’t want your help today. I can catch up for both of us while you have your day of rest. We’ll be all caught up by tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Senla!”

  “All right.” I stood paralyzed for a while, then managed to walk toward the door.

  As I was about to leave, Mother mumbled, “I’m sorry, Senla.”

  “I know,” I said, and I left.

  4

  The sun struck my face the moment I stepped outside. It helped to bury my jangled emotions. Before I could get far, I collided with Melina Lemmo. The basket of fibers she’d been carrying tumbled from her arms, and its contents sprawled across the ground.