Page 7 of The Wulver's Bond
The Wulver directed Weed down the slope, toward the half-hidden treeline. Weed’s spirits lifted at the prospect of trees. Trees gave more possibilities for mischief. But they also held a comforting quality. Most of the Shetland landscape he’d traversed was so austere in its flora. None of the plants here rested. Every organism struggled for survival, battling constant wind and fierce storms. Weed longed for soothing conversation with old, deep roots, accompanied by the gentle background whisper of young leaves.
He heard them before he saw them properly. A grove of stocky dune willow. Small, scrubby trees that tended to grow more out than up. They were hardened by their coastal home, yet had retained some gentleness, sheltered in what was indeed a deep ravine. Weed reached out to them with joy. Their roots tunnelled deep through the warm earth and around rock: grounding and solid. He could smell the life in their sap, taste the sunlight on their leaves. A little piece of home.
He was pleased to find the Wulver descending into this ravine. Along the bottom of it ran a wide but shallow freshwater river. The air became cooler further down, and yet less cold, due to its cover from the wind.
Eventually they reached the wide mouth of a cave, accessed by a brief scramble over mossy rocks. The Wulver paused at the entrance, cocking his head at Weed.
‘This is my home. I welcome you into it as my guest and friend.’
Weed snorted. ‘Friend? What’s with the formalities, wolfie? It’s as much a prison to me as anywhere else.’
Ignoring him, the Wulver reached into the mass of flowering honeysuckle that hung over the cave entrance and pulled down three black solar lanterns. He switched them on.
Light bloomed into the stony darkness. It caught on sharp, angled shadows from deep marks gouged over the rock walls. Some looked like runic letters, and others more like geometric patterns encased in circles.
Weed recognised them as powerful warding spells, designed to steer away unfriendly visitors. Humans called them Witch Marks.
‘Clever,’ Weed said, inspecting the nearest pattern. ‘These keep you hidden from humans, I suppose?’
The Wulver didn’t answer and ducked inside. Weed followed him. The passage turned a narrow corner, cutting off most of the light from outside and temporarily throwing Weed off balance in the dark. When his eyes refocused under the light of the solar lanterns, Weed was surprised to encounter a comfortable living area.
The chamber he’d entered appeared to have been painstakingly carved out of the living rock. A long work surface lined one wall, while the other edges of the room sported lower incised surfaces which were the right height to be used as benches. Higher cuts in the rock acted as shelves.
The furnishings were sparse, but deliberate. Weed squinted at two shelves of books, wondering what kind of literature a wolfman would read. They were a mix of ancient brown volumes with flaking spines and shiny modern covers, though Weed couldn’t make out the titles at a distance. He was intrigued by the presence of a number of ornaments: small figurines in theshape of people dotted the shelves. They appeared to be made from the dried and twisted stems of marram grass.
On the largest stonework counter sat a modest array of bowls, plates, cups and kitchen utensils—another peculiar mix of eras and materials on show. Weed guessed the heavily worn enamelware was Victorian in age. A clean chef’s knife could have been bought from a supermarket just last week. As for the simple clay bowls, they might have been a thousand years old, for all Weed knew—if the stories about the Wulver were true.
A large woven grass mat covered a portion of floor in front of an open hearth that was set into one wall. Similarly woven grass baskets filled carved alcoves under the stone workbench.
In the far corner of the chamber, a shaggy pile of animal furs gave the impression of a bed. The Wulver strode to this pile and separated out several fluffy sheepskins and a woollen blanket. He held them out to Weed. ‘Make yourself a bed where you please.’
Weed held the fleece in both arms. It was thick and soft, and smelled comfortingly of warm earth. He scanned the room again, then sauntered past the Wulver and dumped the sheepskins on top of the Wulver’s bed. ‘Here looks good!’ he announced.
The Wulver regarded him silently. His amber eyes were eerily bright in the dim light of the lanterns.
When he stepped forward, Weed flinched back automatically. His smirk wavered for a split second as the Wulver’s clawed fist reached toward him—then past him, as the wolfman stooped to pick up the sheepskins once again.
‘You will sleep here,’ the Wulver growled. He dropped the fleeces to the floor several paces away from the bed.
‘Yes, Master,’ Weed replied, with over-exaggerated woodenness. ‘I will sleep where I am ordered.’
He was sure the Wulver’s fists clenched. ‘Pleasesleep over here. If you wish to sleep at all.’
‘Of course. I will sleep where my master prefers.’
The Wulver said nothing, but shook his head. Weed wassurehe was grating on the wolfman’s nerves by now. It was only a matter of time until the beast snapped. And that would put paid to his lofty nice-guy act. Weed saw right through his benevolent bullshit. It was easy to pretend to be kind on the first day.
‘My name is Arran, by the way,’ the Wulver said, dumping both backpacks onto the stone workbench. ‘Not Master, or any other asinine title you come up with. Just Arran.’
‘You got it, boss!’ Weed replied with a grin.
The Wulver gave a snarl in response. His upper lip curled, revealing a sharp canine as his eyes flashed with irritation.
Yeah, that’s right,Weed thought grimly.Not long until you snap.
Chapter Four
Arran turned sharply away from Weed, aware that his sudden snarl of pain might be intimidating. The wound in his arm had split open as the straps of one rucksack snagged on it, and the silver-edged sting caught him off guard. It needed dressing.
