Page 70

REAVELY

I take a piss on the wall of the Wyrm’s fortress.

It’ll take him an age to find my marking and it will annoy him, which, given he hadn’t even bothered to roast an ox for our return after the battle with the Faerie for his mate, he deserves.

What a strange creature his mate was too.

Fur only on her head.

Fenrother wouldn’t have tolerated me looking elsewhere on her body, but I didn’t see any on her limbs or face.

I’m not sure what to make of his furless female, but then mating is the Wyrm’s choice.

I don’t get a mate.

I am a Barghest, the black dog of death, the harbinger.

The creature no one wants to see and will do anything to avoid.

It’s great. I get to terrify whomsoever I come into contact with, I usually get fed and no one can say anything if I piss on the wall of their castle.

Save for Fenrother, which means I probably should leave, even if I’d like to hang around to find out what he thinks of my mark.

I can imagine there will be flames.

My fur shivers over my body at the thought.

I’ve seen enough battles to last a lifetime, and yet when they called, I still came.

Because I love the fight.

The first rain drop hits me directly on my nose.

I growl at the sky, but it won’t make any difference, so I shift to my wolf form and run between the drops.

I can outpace death after all.

In no time I am a long way from the Wyrm’s lands and heading towards my own.

It’s been a long time since I was there, given the work I have to do, but something is drawing me back.

The Yeavering is not a safe place.

Not even for a creature like me, one step ahead of the end of everything, shunned by the world.

The rain stops but I do not, racing on, following the moon, not wanting to stop, not wanting to think about anything but the ground under my paws and the air in my lungs.

The run is all I have when there is nothing left to fight.

It forces out all the other thoughts, all the darkness save for what carries me along.

My curse. My burden.

The reason I will always be alone.

Which is a good thing, because I never wanted company anyway.

Company wants feeding, company wants to pat me.

Company doesn’t like it’s hand being bitten off.

Those times I arrive in a village, to lap at the water from the fountain at the market cross, those are the times I am hit with projectiles and sharp things.

Shouts of hate ringing in my ears.

It makes no difference.

The inevitable will come to visit, whether I stay or not.

I hear him, bones rattling, scythe swishing, with every step.

I shake out my fur and carry on running.

Running is everything.

Fighting is everything.

Battle is everything.

A shiver of pleasure slides through me at the very thought of the battle against the Faerie.

The creatures who sent me to the Night Lands to deal with the demons.

Demons who had no fear.

Fear is what I feed on.

I went hungry and I went lean.

I fought until I could shred every last demon I encountered.

And then they feared me.

A shiver wracks my body.

I enjoy being feared.

I need some fear right now.

Ahead a small village comes into view, lights still twinkling in the windows, smoke still issuing from the chimneys despite the late hour.

The perfect hour for fear.

I snarl out as I stalk down past the first house.

A face appears at the window and turns ghostly white.

Curtains snap shut, as if it will somehow keep death out.

The fear hangs in the air, delicious, ripe, perfect for my consumption.

Except something is carried in on the wind.

I lift my head and scent at it.

It is fear, of course, but not fear.

It calls to me.

As I turn on the spot, I see the creature streaking down the hillside, a pack of Redcaps following it and from what I can see, they are nearly on top of it.

This village has had a reprieve.

I have another soul I need to bring to the reaper.

“Not this time, ,” something snaps at my heel and pain spikes through my leg.

“Lord Guyzance wants a word.”

As I take in the trap biting into my flesh, the creature’s screams rend the air.

The Redcaps have caught it.

I snarl out louder, ragging at my injured leg, desperate to get free.

To stop the noise. To stop death getting any closer.

To keep this soul for myself.

It means I don’t see the club until it is too late.

And everything goes dark.

Book 2: The Howling is and Wynter’s story