A Dawn with the Wolf Knight

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

To enter the woods as a human is death. The lykin have roamed the tree-covered, fog-blanketed edge of our world for generations uncounted, feasting on all creatures within. The packs of man-beasts have their forests, and the humans have their towns.

Then…there’s me. She who maintains the protective charms that keep one from the other and preserve the fragile peace of both.

I have no place with the lykin. I cannot shed my flesh for fur and run with the spirits of the ancient wood. But I have no place with the humans, either. When they look at me, they see an other. A kindly outsider. Someone who has their features, but does not share in their ways or struggles. I belong to neither.

I’m the witch in the cottage.

I adjust the pin at my throat that holds my velvet cloak shut. Labradorite, to protect me from the knowing of the elves. Dangling from my ears are tiny chandeliers, crafted by the finest glassworkers down the rivers and across the distant seas. A suitable gift for negotiating with any clever fae who might cross my path. There is always fresh blood in my veins for a rogue vampir, should such an offering be needed… The sirens I need not fear in the woods, and the roar of dragons has not been heard in the eternal mist that clouds the lands to the north for more than a thousand years. A long enough time that stories of them have been almost entirely forgotten by the people who once feared them.

But more precious than all of these tokens, rare as many are, is the cloak around my shoulders. Sewn nearly three hundred years ago, every weaver witch of my family has worn and added to it in tiny thread, hand spun and dyed. Our power—what precious little we have clung to—stitched and bound to us.

The cloak will keep me safe tonight. My hand rests on the satchel at my hip. Keep us safe.

“One last time into the wood, Grandma,” I say, reassuring. Alone, I go where no other human will tread. Past the crimson ribbons tied around the small trees that act as a barrier between the lands of men and lykin.

It’s not my first time here. I began coming to collect herbs and stones following my mother’s death when I was fourteen. Grandma was too old by then, her feet too tired, to make the hike. Especially in the dark nights of the new moon.

I rest my hand on one of the large sentries that stand among the outer rung. In my other hand, I gather my cloak, searching for a specific stitching of two eyes, completely blackened with heavy thread. I close my eyes and the darkness behind my lids is barely more complete than the night itself. Even the stars can’t penetrate the heavy boughs of the trees, and there is no moon. I would be a fool to come here when the lykin’s magic is strongest.

I state my intention clearly for all those of this world, and of the other, who might hear. “Spirits of the old wood, guardians of nature’s order, I come to your doorstep as a humble guest. I seek passage through your domain and will take nothing that is not freely given.”

A soft breeze picks up behind me, landing like a gentle touch between my shoulder blades. It’s little more than a whisper and is gone as soon as I feel it.

“Thank you.” When I open my eyes, my vision can pierce the night. At least enough for me to see the path ahead. I start forward.

When I was a girl, Grandma would tell me tales of the forest in her time. The raw and wild magic that flowed through the veins of the earth itself, making it come alive. She said that when her great, great, great grandmother walked these woods, the magic was so powerful that the spirits took human shapes, strolling alongside our ancestors.

Even in my lifetime, the woods have grown quiet and still by comparison to when I was a girl. Perhaps my early memories are colored by the whims of childlike wonder—a proclivity for the fantastical. But I don’t believe so.

In my heart of hearts, I can feel the magic retreating from our world. A wellspring exhausted, or a weary giver with now-empty palms, I can’t know which. If I could, I would fix it. Every tree I touch hums only softly beneath my fingers. The rocks that my ancestors long ago set out as markers have gone cold and silent.

It is a bad omen, when even the rocks cannot keep magic in their stony grip.

It takes nearly an hour to navigate the old trail into the deepest part of the forest that we have ever dared to go. Eventually, the narrow path between the trees begins to open. The thin soles of my shoes meet soft moss and tiny grasses, rather than lumpy roots, packed earth, and rock. I emerge into a clearing and inhale the fresh air deeply; the density of the forest and all its magics—even depleted as they are—weighs on my chest.

The clearing is lined by a nearly perfect circle of pine. No mortal hands tend this place, and yet nothing dares to grow and encroach on the space of the giant redwood at the center. It is the oldest tree in the woods and was said to have been planted by the hands of a long-ago human queen who married the king of the elves in exchange for all our lives and safety. No one alive is quite sure any longer if it was meant to be a gift to the lykin, or a boon to the dwindling bloodline of witches. So it has become a neutral territory for both our kinds. A place where human and beast are safe and welcome to dwell under its boughs.

It has become the graveyard of witches.

I clasp my hands before me, bow my head, and whisper, “Thank you, spirits, for allowing me passage. I come before you to return my grandmother to the land from whence she came.”

Every step up to the base of the ancient redwood is harder than the last. I had thought I said my goodbyes when I held her hand as the life left her body. I had thought there were no tears left to cry when enough spilled from my lids to douse the funeral pyre that I had to build alone. But I was wrong.

The lump in the back of my throat is thick. My eyes burn and my heart is heavy as I reach into my satchel and retrieve a simple, wooden jar. The last thing made by her hands. Kneeling, I lean the jar against the trunk of the tree as I sink my fingers into the wet, mossy earth and begin to dig.

The land receives me. Opening for the woman who loved and served it with all her days. The hole doesn’t need to be deep, so it only takes a few minutes to make.

But…the jar quivers in my hands.

“Death is not something to fear, or lament. It is a gift, as much as life,” I say aloud—her words. She told me them often in her final days. Grandma knew the time was near for her. Up until the end, she looked after me, giving me comfort. I force a smile as a few lonely tears spill down my cheeks and into the hole I settle the jar within. They water the moss I pile atop. Settling her ashes into their final resting place. “I know,” I say on a ragged breath, “I know that you would not want me to go into this next chapter with fear. But, Grandma, I am afraid. What am I to do without you?”

I have no friends, only cordial acquaintances in town. The only person I was ever truly close to, the only one to truly know me, was the huntsman’s son…and he betrayed and abandoned me the night I had been ready to give him everything.

Heavy tears slowly fall. Each one reminds me of every day I’ve spent since her death. I give in to this final moment of mourning. My last goodbye. And then I lean back on my heels and stare up at the branches above, swaying with soft breezes and blotting out alternating stars.

“Look after her,” I whisper. “Gods of the Great Beyond, care for her soul as she leaves this mortal coil. I return her to you.” My fingertips press into the soil once more, as if I am trying to hold myself—ground myself in the here and now. “Spirits of this earth…we have always served you dutifully. But our magic is waning. Soon, my family will no longer be able to defend you as we always have. I am weak, and alone. Please, do not abandon me.”

In the silence that follows my words, I listen to the rustle of trees and the hum of crickets for any sign of answer. And, then…

A howl.

Wolf? I rise to my feet, looking in the direction of the sound. Another howl. No…worse… I know the sounds of these woods—was taught them with every breath.

That is no wolf.

But it can’t be. The lykin bed down on the new moon. They draw their strength from the cycles in the sky. Now is their weakest time. Especially since it is the first new moon following the Blood Moon. They should be weary from their revelries. In all my twenty-two years, I have never heard the howl of a lykin on the new moon.

I’m ready to make a hasty departure, but I am halted. This strange night is not yet done with me.

A young woman bursts through the tree-line opposite me.

She is barefoot, with mud staining her ghostly pale skin up to the hem of her white, sleeveless, linen dress. Her hair is bright silver and hangs nearly down to her waist, streaking behind her as she sprints, like a falling star. I have never seen another human in the forest, save for my family. Another witch, perhaps? If so, something has gone terribly wrong for her to traverse these woods of magic and beasts without protection of any kind. There’s no stitching on her dress.

The woman doesn’t seem to notice me. She keeps looking behind and then up at the branches of the tree. It is because of the latter that she doesn’t notice the thick roots that spill around the redwood. Her toes catch, ankle crunches, and she lets out a cry as she falls.

A third howl rings out in reply, jolting me to my senses.

I rush toward her but she ignores me, murmuring to herself through the pain. She clutches something to her chest that she then places on the root. It’s a simple, silver ring adorned by a giant moonstone nestled between two, crescent arcs facing in opposite directions. The woman rummages around root and moss, ultimately grabbing a rock.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

She doesn’t seem to notice me until I’m kneeling at her side.

“You can’t stop me!” She pushes me, possessing more force than I previously thought her form capable of.

I fall back. “I’m not trying to?—”

I’m reaching out to her as she brings the rock down on the stone, shouting words that I do not recognize and cannot understand. They’re almost like a song—a haunted and angry melody. The rock smashes into the ring, shattering it.

We are both thrown. It feels as if someone has punched me in the center of my chest, compressing my ribs and knocking all the wind from between them. I gasp, wheezing a few times before I can get a few breaths and the pain fades.

“No…no, no…I shouldn’t…” The woman pats herself over her chest and legs as she kneels. “What went wrong? What did I do wrong?” Tears stream down her face.

She doesn’t have the pointed ears of a fae or elf, nor the fangs of a vampir. Lykin? Perhaps…but if she were, she would likely have taken her wolf shape when she’d been injured. I sense no ill intent from her, and she has yet to harm me.

Another howl; her head whips around. It’s closer this time. I know fear when I see it in her wide eyes as they spin to me. Her lips part. I feel as if for the first time she’s acknowledging my presence.

“You… I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head slowly. “I am so sorry for pulling you into this.”

I move to her side once more. It’s easier than I expected. All the pain has vanished from my body following whatever ritual she performed.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. Her face is twisted in pain as though she has endured wounds far, far worse than the ankle and tumble.

“Please…help,” she says between her pants and whimpers. “Help me. Don’t let them take me back.” Whoever—or whatever—she is no longer matters when she asks like that.

“Yes, of course.” I look back in the direction she came from. There’s an ominous aura permitting the air. Birds take flight in the distance, rising from the treetops like a beacon of war. “Who’s chasing you?”

“The wolf king.” She hangs her head, silver strands slipping over her trembling shoulders. Her words are as bitter as poison. “He claims to own me.”

My blood goes cold. The king of the wolves. The alpha of all packs. But stronger than my fear is disgust. Owns her? Bile tickles the back of my throat and I swallow it down.

“I know somewhere safe, somewhere not even the king of the wolves can go.” So long as my barriers hold…

“What?” She looks back to me with what I dare say is hope illuminating her dark eyes.

“Are you lykin?” The barriers won’t let her out if she is.

“No.” Her lips twist.

A witch, then. Like me. I can’t stop a smile. Even in this desperate moment, it’s as if the world is giving me what I asked for: a companion. Perhaps she is alone, too, and the ancient spirits of this wood have brought us together.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“Where?” she asks.

“My cottage is not far.” I dare to touch her. She’s like ice. I need to get her somewhere warm, quickly. Even in summer, our fields this far north have a chill and the woods are always wet and cold.

She sways as she tries to stand. Her ankle barely holds her weight.

I quickly shift my thinking upon seeing the state she’s in. “Instead, let’s stay here. This is a sacred place—one of peace. Underneath the boughs of the redwood we should be safe. Perhaps we could parley?—”

“He cares not for redwoods or pacts. We must go. Now .” She grabs my arm tightly.

Another howl rips through the woods, this one closer than the last. The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end, my skin puckering to gooseflesh. It is the sound of a raw predator. The sound that fuels nightmares.

I don’t dare to argue with her sentiment. Everything in me tells me to run. Even the mosses under our feet seem to ripple away from the noise.

“He’ll have to find us to catch us.” I unfasten the pin at my neck and pull my arms from the slit of my cloak. Then, I place it over the woman’s shoulders, fastening it at her neck instead of mine. I have other protections in the jewelry I wear; blessings are woven into the ties that hold the thick braid of my dark, rusty hair. But she, so far as I can tell, has nothing. I turn and kneel. “On my back. You can’t run with your ankle like that.”

She doesn’t fight me, reaching around my shoulders and locking her arms around my neck as I slide my hands under her clammy thighs. We stand together and I shift, adjusting the cloak so it falls over my shoulders as well—it should offer some protection from their magical senses. She’s lighter than I expected, but her height makes her a bit awkward to hold.

More howls, even closer. I can hear the ripping of leaves and breaking of limbs.

Run .

The instinct is raw. Primal. Every fiber of my being realizes that she spoke the truth: we are not safe here. Before the wolves can howl again, I’m off.

I can’t outrun them. But I can try to outmaneuver them. I can leverage every scrap of magic I have.

The lykin are certainly following their noses, hot on her tail. I deviate from the main path, venturing down through a field of lavender and rosemary that grows not far from the main trail. Perhaps it will be enough to mask our scent and confuse them, if only to buy us a few extra minutes.

There’s another howl behind us—louder than all the others, more like a roar. The forest goes quiet and still. The hymns of the night insects halt. Animals quiver in their dens.

I run even faster, rejoining the main trail where my feet can be surer. Still, I can’t move fast enough. They’re going to catch up, I know it. The hike into the woods that took nearly an hour, I try to run in half that time. But I only go as fast as I can be certain I won’t stumble. If I were to trip and fall…that would be the end of this chase.

“Please,” I beg the woods. “Please help us.”

Miraculously, the trees heed my words. They come alive, branches that might have snagged on the flapping cloak moving away with creaks and groans. Their roots flatten slightly.

“Thank you!” I pant. I have never seen the woods come so alive, so ready to heed my requests. I take it as a good omen.

Yet, the moment I have a sign of hope, it’s tempered with the sounds of snapping limbs and branches close behind. Of growls and snarls. They’re close.

But so is the entrance to the woods and the line of ribbon-wrapped trees that crafts a barrier to this place.

I sprint out, racing across the border that keeps the land of the humans from that of the lykin. The woman has grown heavy on my back. Her clammy skin sticks to mine with the cold sheen of sweat that coats my neck and face. Her head hangs limp on my shoulder, her grip slack—consciousness has left her.

It isn’t until I’ve gone a safe distance that I slow my pace. A roar that transitions into a shrill howl that makes even the stars tremble has me turning. Behind me, right at the edge of the trees, are three massive wolves. No…not wolves. Lykin.

They are larger than the wolves that prowl the less magical woods to the southeast of town. The smallest is nearly the size of a pony and has easily three times the muscle under all its fur. But it is the eyes of the largest that meet mine. They shine ominously as the beast dips its muzzle slightly. His attention darts from the woman to me and back, ultimately fixating on me. His lips curl back, baring his teeth with a low growl.

I grip the woman even tighter, the instinct to keep her safe greater than at any other point. She wasn’t lying. The lykin are hunting her. But the why remains a mystery.

The largest wolf stomps both of his paws into the ground at the barrier of the trees. He lets out another roar of frustration. But he doesn’t—can’t—leave the wood. Only witches can go through the barrier. I wonder if this mighty beast is the wolf king himself, come to settle whatever score he might have with the mysterious stranger limp on my back.

With a grunt and a huff, he shakes his steely head and turns back into the woods. The other two follow and disappear under the dark canopy of the trees. I nearly collapse then and there as the terror crashes upon my shoulders with the realization that the fragile peace I always took for granted might have only ever been an illusion.