Chapter 31 Awakening the Wolf
“LOWER YOUR BLADES!” the Raven Queen shouted. She’d drawn up Dorka and turned her around to face them. “The faerie creatures are here to help.”
Alar’s heart started to pound. Of course, they were—here to help her.
Lara urged her horse forward, flanked by Bree and Cailean. Her face was flushed, her skin gleaming with sweat, yet anger burned in her gaze. “What trick is this?”
“None,” Mor replied, meeting her gaze calmly. “Our band is small … so I sent for reinforcements. These imps will ensure we actually reach The Shattered Crown.”
No sooner had she spoken than the approaching swarm slowed. Panting, the powries and trows drew to a halt. Their eyes, some amber, others disturbingly red, glowed as they swept their gazes over the weary group of travelers.
“Why didn’t you warn us?” Alar demanded.
Mor’s gaze cut to him. “Because I knew you’d refuse.”
“With good reason,” he shot back. “These creatures are your allies … not ours.”
“Not this evening.” Mor stared him down, tension shivering through the air. “Tonight, we’re all on the same side. Admit it, we need them.”
Growling an oath, Alar shifted his attention from Mor then and looked at Lara. Her features were strained. Their gazes met. Wariness glinted in her pine-green eyes.
His fingers flexed around the handles of his fighting daggers. She was right to be wary. Mor’s secretive behavior had just driven a spike through their band. Roth and Cailean drew their weapons as the Ravens urged their elks and stags forward, forming a semi-circle behind their queen.
“Perhaps I should have warned you.” Mor’s voice sharpened. “But don’t look for betrayal where there isn’t any. You can trust us.”
“Can we?” Lara dragged her attention back to the Raven Queen.
Mor held her gaze. “Aye.”
The Weeper’s wail reverberated through the gathering dusk then—a sharp reminder that they had to keep moving. There wasn’t time to debate this further. Mor had forced their hand, but the boulder was rolling down the mountainside now. They couldn’t stop it.
All they could do was press forward.
“Let the powries and trows take the lead,” Vyr said then, his tone brisk.
Mor nodded, relief flickering over her face. Her cousin was focusing on practical matters, reminding them all why they were here. Not that Alar needed reminding. “Lara is vulnerable,” she added. “We must close ranks around her to ensure she reaches the crown safely.”
Lara shifted uncomfortably on her horse’s back. Her brow furrowed, and then she drew her iron dagger. “I can fight.”
Mor pulled a face. “I’ve no doubt … but you’re struggling. Let the rest of us look out for you.”
Thunder rolled across the Darkmere.
Not from the sky, but from the earth. Hoofbeats and boot-strikes hammered out a rhythm. The war cries started next: powrie shrieks and trow bellows.
Alar crouched low over Reedav’s neck, daggers already slippery in his palms. The stag’s muscles bunched and released beneath him with each long stride.
His gaze snapped right, to where Lara leaned forward over her mare’s neck, her jaw set. Wind tore at her braided hair, whipping loose strands across her face. Her mount’s hooves drummed the packed earth, matching Reedav stride for stride. Bree rode at her flank, longsword raised and ready.
Keep her safe. Heat pulsed in Alar’s gut. Whatever it costs. Whatever you must do.
Screams knifed through the air. His head jerked up. The western sky had turned black, not with clouds, but with bodies. Writhing limbs and tattered wings, smoke-hair streaming as the Slew descended in a swarm.
Then singing that was both beautiful and terrible joined the cries of The Unforgiven.
Pale figures glided across the loch’s obsidian surface, arms outstretched like loving wives welcoming their husbands home.
Their mouths moved as they sang an eldritch melody that made Alar’s breathing grow shallow.
Loch-Bhàns. One touch and they’d steal everything from you—your memories, your identity, your self—leaving nothing but an empty husk.
You’d breathe and walk, but you’d remember nothing.
Movement in the water caught Alar’s eye then. Slippery skin glistened in the dying light. Fish-eyes gleamed. Fuath dragged themselves onto shore, bog wights with webbed fingers and eel-like teeth.
Alar’s pulse exploded. They’re all here.
“Boggarts!” Sablebane’s shout cut through the chaos.
Sallow-skinned figures with bloodshot eyes erupted from the shadows. They carried no weapons. They didn’t need them, for boggarts had long fingers that could snap bone like dry twigs.
The trows and powries hit the first wave. The impact punched through Alar’s chest. A heartbeat later, earth magic detonated around him like lightning striking a tree. It woke the wolf in his blood, set every nerve singing with borrowed power.
Reedav surged forward. Alar gripped with his knees, leaning into the charge as darkness rushed up to swallow them. The imps took the brunt—powrie curses mixing with trow war-cries. Blades bit into shadow.
Then the sky fell.
Slew poured down like black rain. Ice-breath blasted Alar’s face, stealing the air from his lungs. Wings were everywhere—blotting out the sky. Spectral hands reached, grasping, desperate for warm flesh.
Mor struck first. The Raven Queen’s blade carved through wraith-flesh. Vyr flanked her left, Sablebane her right. Steel sang through the air.
One Slew dove straight for them. It had long snarled hair and tattered robes that might have been burial shrouds.
Alar pushed himself up onto Reedav’s back, knees locked, and leaped. His daggers slashed in crossing arcs. Iron swept through shadow-flesh. The Slew shrieked and wheeled away, trailing smoke.
Alar landed hard, nearly losing his seat, and caught himself.
But there was no time to recover, for the Fuath crashed into their circle.
A brackish stench hit him first—rot and stagnant water and things that lived in dark places. Teeth snapped. Webbed hands clawed. Mor’s longsword cleaved through the first bog wight. Around her, Ravens hacked at slippery bodies that wouldn’t stay down. Fern’s blade was a silver blur.
Alar’s pulse leaped. Keep the circle tight.
But they were slowing. Spirits pressed from all sides. Even the trows and powries up ahead were struggling, their war-cries turning ragged.
He fought on instinct. His body knew what to do even as his mind tracked something else.
Lara. Always to his right. Always within reach. She gripped her iron dagger fiercely, flanked by Bree and Cailean with Ren, Annis, and Ruari thundering at her heel. Brave. All of them.
A Slew dove. Alar’s blade caught it mid-flight, driving it back. Another came. He sliced through shadow, felt resistance, and twisted the blade. The wraith dissolved into smoke.
His arms were starting to burn. How long had they been fighting? He’d lost track. Time had fractured into heartbeats and blade-strikes.
The light died. Indigo bled across the sky, deepening to black. The moon rose, riding high and cold above them.
They inched forward, every foot gained with effort. Spirits howled around them, screams layering over screams.
Alar’s world narrowed to the space around Lara. Protect her. Keep her moving. Don’t let anything through.
Silver light broke through the clouds and frosted the jagged stones ahead.
The Shattered Crown. Right there. Close enough to see the individual standing stones.
Lara’s thighs burned from gripping Bracken’s sides. The mare lunged forward, hooves pounding stone and earth in a rhythm that matched her own hammering pulse.
Around her, the world had turned to chaos.
The din threatened to split her skull apart. Slew screeches. Powrie war-cries that set her teeth on edge. The wet sounds of blades finding slippery bog wight flesh.
She clutched her iron dagger so hard her fingers ached. It felt too small and light in her hand. What good would one blade do against this tide of darkness?
Movement to her left caught her eye. Ren rode close now, right behind Bree, her face pale but focused, lips moving in constant song.
The bard’s voice wove through the chaos, a lifeline Lara clung to.
Twisting, Lara caught sight of Annis hunched low over her pony’s neck.
Next to the counselor, Ruari’s eyes were too wide, too white.
A Slew dove.
Lara’s breath stopped. Tattered wings spread wide. Hungry eyes fixed on her. Reaching—
Twin iron blades flashed. The wraith screamed and wheeled away.
Alar.
He crouched low over Reedav’s back, daggers moving in brutal arcs. His face was set in hard lines, eyes scanning constantly.
He was always there. Every time something came too close, every time the circle threatened to break, he appeared.
The Fuath hit their flank. Webbed hands tried to rake and claw their way through.
Bracken faltered and reared, a terrified whinny tearing from her throat. Lara grabbed the mare’s mane with her free hand, thighs clamping down. With her other hand, she slashed and stabbed at shadows.
Bree’s sword cut through a bog wight. Foul-smelling water broke over them. Her warder moved fast, her blade never still, her body always between Lara and danger.
“Stay close!” Bree’s voice cut through the roar. “Don’t let them in!”
Still, the wraiths came, crashing upon them. Wave after wave.
But they were moving forward. Step by brutal step, they pushed through the sea that boiled around the base of The Shattered Crown.
Lara’s gaze swept right. Just a few yards away, Mor fought viciously—her blade singing—while her Ravens remained in formation around her.
Cailean’s tattoos blazed silver as he slashed and stabbed. Skaal tore through bog wights with savage joy.
And Alar was there too—to her left—carving space, creating gaps, and driving back anything that came too close to her.
Her protector.
The realization pressed down on her chest, uncomfortable and undeniable.
A boggart lunged from nowhere. Long fingers reached for Annis. The counselor screamed—
Vyr’s blade took the sprite’s head. It crumpled. He wheeled his elk around, putting himself between the Marav and the next wave.
The circle stretched. Lara could feel it—the distance growing between Shee and Marav. Earth magic and iron drove them apart even as they fought to stay together.
The sky had gone fully dark now, but the moon was rising, and its light frosted the stones ahead.
The Shattered Crown.
So close.
But the spirits sensed it too. They sensed their prey escaping. The press intensified. The Slew dove in waves now, one after another after another. Fuath poured from the loch. Boggarts erupted from every shadow.
Panic hammered into her breast. There were too many.
Alar fought to her right now. His movements were starting to slow, just enough that she noticed. Blood ran down his arm. His chest heaved with each breath.
He was tiring. They all were.
A Slew broke through.
Not at her. At Ren.
The bard froze, eyes wide, her song rising to a scream. The wraith’s hands reached for her face—
Lara moved without thinking.
She hauled Bracken to the right, put herself between Ren and the spirit. She drove her dagger up. Iron met shadow. Her arm went numb to the elbow. Cold shot through her bones, but it was worth it, for the Slew twisted away.
Yet more were coming. Faster and more aggressive than ever.
“Lara!” Bree shouted, alarm cracking her voice.
Alar appeared at her side, his daggers slashing as he drove the onslaught back.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
Heat pulsed between them, and then he turned and threw himself back into the fight.
The press of bodies—living and dead—became suffocating. Lara lost sight of him. One moment, he was there, the next, swallowed by shadow and writhing limbs.
Panic barreled into her.
Where was he?
A flash of blades to her left. Alar. He was—no. That was Vyr.
To her right then. Movement. Dark hair. It had to be—
Sablebane. Fighting alongside Mor.
Her pulse hammered so hard her chest ached. The chaos was total now. She couldn’t track him. Couldn’t see him.
A gap opened ahead. The Ravens surged through it, Mor at their head. The Marav followed, Cailean bellowing orders.
Sharp stones erupted before them. The base of the promontory, where powries and trows now formed a protective ring.
They’d reached it.
Lara’s gaze swept back, desperate, searching through the chaos for Alar.
There. A flash of fawn-colored leather. Dark hair. Twin blades catching moonlight. Alar was still fighting. Still cutting his way through. Still alive.
Relief crashed over her.
Bree grabbed her arm. “We climb. Now!”
Lara slid from Bracken’s back. Her legs nearly buckled. How long had they been fighting? Her muscles screamed. Her hands shook.
Around them, the others dismounted, weapons drawn, eyes wild. All of them were bruised and bleeding, their clothing torn.
And all the while, the spirits pressed closer, cornering them against the outcrop.