Traveller Inceptio
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1

His first view of the glade simply took his breath away. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Michael stumbled after a momentary dizziness and found himself on his hands and knees in the forest’s moist leaf litter. Dazed and a little disoriented, he quickly checked his surroundings before regaining his feet. With a small, self-deprecating smile at his uncharacteristic gaffe, he shook his head again and imagined what Murdoch would have to say if he was anything but alert.

Brushing his palms together, Michael warily looked again through a holly’s glossy leaves to examine the flat, open area in the heart of the great forest. Three venerable, colossal oaks spread their mighty arms to have their branches entwine like fingers, shading lesser plants from essential sunlight to create the open space. Only occasional gaps in the canopy allowed pillars of gold to pierce the gloom and create a magical arena where elves or faerie folk might cavort and play.

Michael blinked a few times to clear his head and then cautiously walked to the base of the nearest forest giant. At forty or so paces high and over ten paces across, the knotted trunk bulged like the muscled leg of a forest colossus. The tree’s other two silent conspirators were each of a similar size, while at the far end of the clearing, the remnants of a fourth oak stood in silent witness to the mortality of even these timeless beings, the charred crown proof of its destruction from a rogue lightning bolt.

The glade was an extraordinary place that burst with life. Bird-song echoed through the surrounding forest as squirrels, with their bright, beady eyes and comic ear tufts of russet, eagerly chased each other along the boughs. It seemed imbued with a faery energy that gave him a feeling of overwhelming happiness and optimism.

To have come so far.

Michael sighed as he removed his pack and knelt to check his scant belongings. Strapped to the pack were three bundles: thirty arrows bound with leather thongs, a leather-covered short bow of horn in two parts that could be swiftly fitted as needed, and another bulkier pack wrapped in protective kid leather.

His inspection completed, Michael stood, removed his heavy, woollen cloak and draped it over the pack to check the two swords slung at his waist. His calloused hands ran over their long, sharkskin handles that offered a superb grip, even when wet with water or blood. They made for a pair of deadly, versatile light weapons lethal in the hands of one as trained in their use as he. The air was cool with the memory of winter snows and the promise of summer abundance while the far-off murmur of a stream reminded him of pressure on his bladder. As he stood to relieve himself, a bird called with a clear, liquid note and to his right there was a flicker of movement as a fox dashed across the open space. The creature gave the ancient bole a furtive glance before casting a vulpine glance his way. He smiled and relaxed his reflex grip on his sword hilt.

Something about the fox unsettled him. As the bushy tail vanished into the undergrowth, he frowned. What would make a fox hurry so?

He shrugged, but as he looked back, he gave a start of surprise. Not ten paces away skulked a presence absent only a moment earlier, a presence of silent power. Intelligent, golden eyes gazed fearlessly. The magnificent creature had simply appeared from the forest gloom. A warning tingle ran up his spine.

Wolf!

Michael’s eyes locked onto those mesmerising orbs and the moments stretched into eternity. A large, healthy wolf like this would not be alone. His scalp prickled as he slowly moved his left hand from a diminishing urination, while the wolf’s moist nose wiggled slightly to drink in his scent.

Was the wolf a decoy? His back was to the oak, so attack from behind was unlikely, but he took a slow, deep breath in preparation and tensed, unwilling to initiate unnecessary confrontation. If he was to draw his sword, it must be with speed and precision, as practiced countless times.

The creature was utterly still. Only a quick glance of the yellow eyes to his right, then left, betrayed intent.

Prey. He was prey!

Michael deftly drew his sword, to pause only a moment, his blade pointed skyward and his arms stretched above his head. There was no room for doubt, not now. A whisper, and a fleeting movement glimpsed from the corner of his eye, told him what to expect. He swung the sword in a smooth, silver arc where it met a powerful, silver-grey body caught in mid-leap. There was a slight jar as the blade struck and passed through. He had at least hit something. A furry barrel of muscle struck his left arm and shoulder with a terrific jolt as he dropped into the swing, but his angle deflected the impact.

There was a spurt of dark blood and an impression of falling pieces.

With no time to evaluate his strike, Michael reversed his sword along his left arm and twisted in a thrust, hoping to strike the dark flicker that meant another attack from that quarter. There was a shadow, massive teeth agape, and his blade simply disappeared. This time his balance was off and the powerful predator slammed directly into his arms with a shock that tumbled him into the leaf litter. The sword twisted from his grip with a painful wrench.

Expecting to fall under the powerful jaws of the wolf pack, Michael scrambled to his back and nimbly leapt to his feet. He drew his second sword and imagined them tearing at his face and throat. A quick glance confirmed the dark wolf by his feet had claimed his precious blade, impaled to the hilt. The wolf’s body stiffened as wide, silver eyes quickly glazed. Michael raised the shorter sword, a blade that would leave killing far too close. His wrenched right wrist sent a shaft of pain up his arm, but he was ready.

He waited and watched for what felt like an eternity of heartbeats, but there was no further assault. The wolf leader, which must have ingeniously organised the attack, was no longer concerned with the man as it jumped about in apparent confusion. A large, silver female wolf ran in circles and peed in frantic spurts as she screamed out her agony with a wail that was pathetically human.

The brief diversion might be sufficient for him to survive. As the silver wolf turned to face him, Michael was sickened at what he had done. The terrible blade had severed her entire muzzle and part of her skull, removing her left eye to expose the pink sinus cavity. All without making a clean, quick kill. A limp showed she had also lost her left foreleg.

Her distress and screams confused another pair of pack-mates that burst from the thick undergrowth. Wasting no time, Michael dropped to one knee to extract his sword. Only the hilt protruded from the wolf’s thick, winter fur at its throat, just below those terrible jaws. Forced to both knees, his face perilously close to the wolf’s pink tongue and impressive canines, removing the sword was no easy matter. With his rear pointed to the sky, he was painfully aware of his vulnerability as he grasped the hilt with both hands and pulled. Another bolt of agony shot up his arm, but he was not going to leave his precious sword.

Reluctantly at first, the blade was all too slowly withdrawn. Wolf-smell stung his nostrils and the creature’s dying squirts of urine soaked into the dirty knees of his breeches. Moments dragged, but once his precious weapon was free, Michael stood quickly and held it ready as he stooped to collect his pack and cloak. These he slung to his shoulders in one smooth movement, glancing down to find his breeches still untied.

He turned to escape, but something caused him to stumble. There lay the severed, silver-furred muzzle; the wolf’s lower and upper jaws, the pink length of her tongue squashed into the leaf litter. In an action he could not explain, Michael sheathed his sword and stooped to pick up the two pieces. As he turned to flee, he slipped the weighty trophy into a convenient leather bag hooked on the side of his pack.

A glance to his back saw the wounded wolf leap in great bounds to the far end of the glade where the ancient oak held silent court. The hollow tree was obviously the pack’s den and he had encountered a hunting party in the very heart of their home territory. More wolves joined her, distracted by her agitated screams. Michael’s survival relied on his escape from this place, for no man could fend off a pack of wolves. As he fled into the forest, every instinct screamed for him to sprint wildly, to cast off his pack and run in terror, but experience helped him retain control as he sought the clearest path through the trees.

A shallow stream tumbled between mossy rocks and Michael slowed to cross at a careful jog. A foolish step could mean a twisted ankle, a fall, or worse. He could ill afford another mishap. The water was ice-cold. Panic still edged his senses, making his perceptions crystal-clear, his muscles ready to explode into action. Using roots from shoreline trees, he favoured his uninjured wrist as he clambered up the steeper, far bank. Feet chilled but not soaked, his breath deepened as, alert for more danger, he picked up his pace and ran silently through the ancient forest.

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