…DeLacy slowed his mount and though the mare’s step was
lively, she was nervous of the forest. He waved the boy alongside him.
‘Are you of an open mind, lad?’
‘I am of that mind, squire, though separating truth from
lies often troubles me.’
DeLacy smiled at the answer, there was honesty there. Though
barely sixteen, the boy stood almost as tall as his master – his outlook more
of a grown man and with a quick eye and loose limbs he could deliver the point
of his sword faster than most.
‘And our quest... how do you see it? Driven by God’s own
truth, or the wanton falsehoods of Lucifer himself.’
Jack took his time in replying.
‘I should say truth, sir. Too many men have died in these
forests. I know of five good souls who have perished here. To this day, their families
search for them but find nothing.’
‘So you see the beast as real?’
‘Wolves are killers, squire. If a man is foolish enough to
walk the forest alone, then as would the deer or the sheep, he could well fall
prey.’
‘Aye Jack, they are indeed killers, but this one… this one
is not the same. I have seen it, boy.’ Or
perhaps the ale I had drunk that night was more the culprit of my rambling. But
in truth, I think not. ‘Not far from where we are – a sighting which turned
my blood to melt-water.’
‘You saw a wolf, squire?’
‘That I did Jack, and no ordinary wolf was this one. Though
most will shake their heads and sneer at what I tell.’
On impulse, DeLacy reached across for his sword and drew the
claidheamh mòr half way out from its scabbard. In the moonlight, the
blade erupted with tiny lights of brilliant silver; icy fingers of superstition
reached beneath his cape and for a moment he struggled to quell the fear that
followed them.
‘Six feet high at the shoulder, Jack. From that day onward,
nothing has terrified me more than the sight of that hellish creature walking
beside me. Nor did it walk on all fours lad, but straight-backed and powerful
of limb. Its forelegs hung as arms and those terrible jaws, though shorter than
any wolf’s, were filled with a wolf’s fangs;
as God be my witness, sharp as a harlot’s tongue and long and white as dead
men’s fingers.’
He drew the neck of his cape closer in to his throat, as if
the leather edging was strong enough to protect it.
‘But the eyes, Jack, they were the worst… the grist of any
man’s nightmares; yellow in the moonlight, the eyes of some devilish
manifestation, those of Satan himself…’
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