Page 1 of The Wulver's Bond
Chapter One
On an eerie midsummer evening over the Shetland Islands, the archipelago basked in an uncanny pastel twilight that locals fondly called the ‘simmer dim’.
The last orange clouds of sunset had faded beyond the ocean, leaving behind a wake of pale yellows and blues. On the largest isle, Mainland, the land still radiated some of the captured heat from the day, but the usual south-westerly wind was already stripping it all back to the North Atlantic Ocean. The air was fresh and wild, perfect weather for travelling.
‘Move, you fuckin’ weed.’
Three dark specks moved across the blustery landscape: a group clad in camo gear and hauling heavy backpacks. The most heavily burdened figure appeared to be the youngest and scrawniest of the trio. His bag had a second strapped on top of it, and a multitude of tools and compact camping gear that hung off the sides.
The group’s leader, an older woman with greying hair and a hardened face, strode out in front. She was followed closely by a burly, hulking man with a scruffy beard and a nasty scar on his face. He stopped occasionally to land a clout round the head of their auburn-haired packhorse whenever the younger man failed to keep up.
The Wulver watched them from his cliff-side vantage with wary interest. Nestled into the rock, he blended with theshadows. He was practically a shadow himself, a sleek silhouette with a wolflike head and dark clothes. Only the flash of his amber eyes might have betrayed his position.
The group below were hunters, and he was the quarry they pursued. If caught, they’d skin him for his furry pelt and boast of dispatching a monster. His life meant nothing to them. Nor did his name, for that matter, which was Arran. They’d rather consider him an animal, a trophy to mount on a wall.
A low growl rumbled in the Wulver’s chest as a glint of light caught on their leader’s crossbow.
This trio had been following Arran for weeks while he trekked across the Scottish Highlands towards his home. He’d hoped the ocean crossing to Shetland might have put them off his trail, but no such luck.
They presented some threat. Having followed him this far, they were clearly accomplished trackers. He’d noted an array of specialist weapons they carried, and knew that the younger man, whom they called Weed, held some magical abilities.
Arran knew the most about their leader, Elsie. She was renowned in hunters’ circles for her tenacity and zero tolerance for failure. Her favoured weapon was a crossbow loaded with silver bolts.
Logan, the broad one, was the closest thing she had to a partner and was the muscle of the group—although from the Wulver’s observations, his job seemed to mostly revolve around beating the crap out of Weed.
Once the hunters had travelled a good distance away, the Wulver stood and stretched his lanky body. His muscles popped where they’d been sat still for too long, and his tail wagged at the feeling of relief.
He raised his snout, sniffing the air. Familiar sea breeze mixed with the earthy smells of marshland and peat bog. He wasglad to be back on his island. But the hunters would have to be dealt with before he returned home.
Arran closed his eyes and sighed. Elsie wouldn’t be scared off easily. He needed to prepare for a confrontation that would probably turn deadly.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. He opened his rucksack, pulling out a solid fuel camping stove and a can of Scotch broth, and set to cooking some dinner. It was late and the air would begin to chill soon, but he didn’t mind the cold. His lean body was covered in a fine coat of mottled grey fur, and the additional layers of a pair of jeans and an old black hoodie were enough to keep him warm all year round. He didn’t wear shoes unless it was exceptionally muddy underfoot, preferring to feel the earth under his clawed feet.
The broth was hearty and revitalising. Of the many extraordinary innovations that humans had come up with, canned goods were undoubtedly one of his favourites.
Next, Arran unrolled his sleeping bag and tucked it into a shallow dip in the ground, slightly shielded from the elements. He gazed up at the glowing twilight while the wind whistled in his pointed ears, and considered what had to be done with Elsie and her crew.
* * *
The hunters also bedded down after sunset. They made camp on a patch of ground sheltered behind an outcrop of red sandstone, on a gently sloping hillside.
Weed fulfilled his tasks silently, heating a small kettle of water over their low campfire while his companions chewed on hard jerky. The wind was picking up, threatening to blow the flames out altogether.
Logan grunted, rubbing his thick hands together in front of the meagre flames before landing a kick on Weed’s shin. ‘Can’t you make this fire bigger? Where’s all the fuckin’ wood?’
‘There aren’t many trees on this island,’ Weed replied coolly.
‘Can’t youmake some?’
Weed ignored the snarl in Logan’s voice and lifted the steaming kettle off the fire. ‘No. I cannotmaketrees. Only ask them for favours.’
‘That’s bullshit. I’ve seen you do it before.’ Logan’s eyes narrowed with spite while he watched Weed pour the water into two tin cups. The promise of hot tea was likely the only thing keeping him from knocking the kettle right out of Weed’s hands.
Weed steeped two teabags—ensuring that Logan’s brew received only a glancing contact, for a small piece of revenge—and passed the mugs over. Elsie took hers without any acknowledgment. She studied an ordnance survey map spread out on her lap.
Logan took a sip of his tea and immediately spat it on the ground. ‘This is weak as piss, Weed!’ He pulled back the mug, about to throw the scalding water at Weed’s face.
‘Do not,’ Elsie said quietly. Her sharp eyes cut through the eerie half-light. ‘We have a limited water supply. Waste none.’
