Rhamin

  Rhamin

  By

  Bryce Thomas

  Also by Bryce Thomas

  Lucy Lockhart: The Awakening

  The first Lucy Lockhart adventure

  THOMAS HAMILTON & CO.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; events; organizations including companies and domains formed during or after the writing and publication of this book; or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First published in Great Britain 2010 by Thomas Hamilton & Co Publishers

  80 Warham Road, Harrow. HA3 7HZ

  Copyright © Bryce Thomas 2006

  Cover design by Helena Thomas © 2010

  Cover artwork by Neil Booth

  Bryce Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from The British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907696-01-5

  Electronic Digital Edition

  Produced by

  THOMAS HAMILTON PUBLISHERS

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

  www.thomashamilton.co.uk

  To my wife June

  I am indebted to my wife June for all her hours of patient reading and checking of grammar; and to my son Bryce Jnr. and daughter Helena for all their help and advice.

  Part 1

  First Contact

  CHAPTER ONE

  The plan was flawed.

  From the very beginning Zelda had warned them. But hunger drives all living creatures to take unfathomed risks. And they were all hungry.

  It was a plan Rhamin had considered more than once. But men were deadly creatures. He remembered only too vividly how his mother had died. It seemed a long time ago now, but no amount of passing years would lessen the memory he carried with him. Solin hadn’t been born so he didn’t know. He didn’t recall the days when their father, Anval, and his pack were hunted down by men.

  The pack had killed an animal, one of six or more in a herd, which belonged to men. But it was far away from the enclosures that men built for mile upon mile with sharp, metal wire strung between thick wooden posts. Somehow, they had escaped their open cages. Rhamin remembered at least six cattle roaming through the long dry tussock grass of the plain that was bordered at one side by woodland where they lived and at the other by the rocky base of the foothills.

  It seemed too easy really. The pack, with their long teeth, could have killed all the creatures, but they only hunted what they needed to eat. ‘You stay here,’ Dori, Rhamin’s mother, had commanded, leading her young cubs to the shelter of a rocky outcrop that straggled alongside the woodland. From there the youngsters could watch the hunt and learn how the pack worked as one, overtaking their quarry and killing it. Only if it ran did the wolves give chase. It was a necessary part of the hunting game and it was essential to show the youngsters how to bring down a fleeing animal.

  The cattle seemed totally witless. They possessed little sense of danger and had no idea how to cope with it when it presented itself. The wolves circled the herd time and time again until eventually the dumb creatures started to become aware that there was something amiss. Rhamin watched, fascinated, as the cattle became more and more unsettled and began milling about in a circle, kicking up dust from beneath their feet as they trampled the dry grass. Still the wolves did nothing, until suddenly one of the animals broke loose from the herd and began to run.

  Rhamin thought it had escaped, but he was learning that it was only the beginning of the hunt. Yet it was over all too quickly. The beast was caught by Silvah, one of the faster female wolves. Females tend to be smaller and more lightly built than males and this makes them faster in a short sprint. Silvah was there at the front of the animal, trying to bring it down before any of the rest of the pack. Eventually, slowed by the weight of Silvah on its throat, and the lack of air passing through its crushed wind pipe, the other wolves caught up and brought it down by grabbing onto its back end. It was what Rhamin would always remember as a classic hunt and kill procedure used for big animals.

  And Rhamin remembered the feast they all had. There had been more than enough for them. The rocks would give them shelter, and a nearby brook would provide water for days while they rested and fed on the remains. He didn’t remember just how long they had stayed there; perhaps five days, possibly more. He had enjoyed being taught how to hunt by his father and learning the tricks of self defence while play fighting with his brothers and sister. In the woodland, his mother had pointed out the fungi that were not to be eaten and those from which, if they were really hungry, they could get good sustenance. It had seemed an ideal world.

  But suddenly it had all changed. They had decided to move on and locate that stray herd again. Only a few white tufts of cloud cushioned the horizon from the starkness of the clear blue sky as the wolves meandered along the edge of the plain, following the animals’ tracks. With the breeze behind them Anval had wanted to circle around the cattle to hunt them from up wind but Dori said that the animals were so stupid they would not panic even when they smelt the wolf pack approaching. But as things turned out they had no time to locate them and carry out an attack. Anval had stopped and turned his head from side to side, ears pricked, straining to pick up the low frequency noise he thought he had heard. The others did the same.

  ‘What is it?’ Dori asked.

  But it was too late to answer. The noise suddenly became much louder. As it thundered towards them, there was a moment of indecision. Then, without any further warning, five men on horseback burst from the woodland that lay ahead and to the right.

  The horses still seemed a long way off but it didn’t stop the long reach of the men’s loud firing sticks hitting two of the pack, sending them crashing head over tails into the long, brittle grass. The rest of the pack ran. There was only one option; to flee back along the plain and try to reach the cover of the trees. The wolves were agile and fast but, with four small cubs, they were losing ground rapidly as the horsemen cut across to intercept them. Anval barked an order for them to split up. ‘I’ll take two cubs and you take two,’ he barked and, without waiting, grabbed Seth and Powla in his mouth and set off to the trees. Dori picked up the other two, but they were big now and she was smaller than Anval, and as she ran, she kept dropping Rhamin. Silvah came to her rescue and picked him up, her teeth firmly around his shoulders as they bounded into the cover of the trees.

  But the horsemen hardly slowed. Their horses crashed through the brittle undergrowth now only yards behind Dori. Rhamin heard a loud crack and a yelp. He wasn’t sure what was happening but Silvah just panted, and kept on running. Now she was alone with Rhamin hanging, wet with saliva from her mouth. For a while Rhamin thought they were clear of their hunters, but then, just as Silvah was going towards a rocky overhang under the roots of a massive oak tree, he heard another crack and, almost at the same moment, a rush of burning air above made Silvah drop him. There was a whining sound as sparks flew up from the base of the rock spitting hot particles into the parched grass which lay further ahead. Silvah yelped. The invisible point of death had nicked her face, and Rhamin, feeling her jaws relax, had fallen helplessly to the ground with a thud. Silvah spun around, jerked to one side as another invisible missile whined off the rocky ground beside her and came running back towards him. She swept him up with two teeth sunk deep into the loose skin of his neck, and hurdled a fallen tree. She spun around again and, quickly p
ushing the cub into a hollow beneath the tree trunk, she left him there as she sped off and veered to the right.

  Rhamin crouched down, petrified. The drumming sound of the horses’ feet deafened him as they thundered after Silvah. Black shadows engulfed him as the animals and their riders sailed over his head, blocking out the light. The riders hadn’t seen him huddled beneath them as they hurtled past, but he was sure that one of the horses had spotted him. But, not slowing, it seemed to be driven on, mindless of quarry or danger, only doing the man’s bidding. Its eyes were wide, almost frantic, its nostrils flared as its chest heaved to suck air into its huge lungs. As it landed far beyond Rhamin’s hiding place, he watched as the legs of the man kicked into its sides, driving it on, urging it not to lose any of its speed or momentum.

  Rhamin began shivering with fright as the sound of horses and men, crashing through the brush and undergrowth, subsided into the distance. He buried his face in his tail, not daring to even lift his nose to see whether the hunters were near. His body was wet and steaming with saliva from Silvah’s mouth. He felt dizzy and rested for a moment trying to think what to do. There was an unfamiliar smell in the air. It frightened him; he had never smelt it before. In moments less than he could count, a dark grey, choking, acrid cloud enveloped him. All he could do was hug the bare ground hoping it would pass, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, he heard a crackling sound, every second getting closer and closer. Hardly able to breathe, he sucked at the pocket of air beneath his belly and tried to hold the breath in his lungs as long as he could. The crackle suddenly got louder and then, hot, orange and yellow flames like tongues of a thousand wild creatures broke through the dense cloud and crashed about him, consuming the brittle grass and eating up the dry ivy that hung above his head. The flames licked at his wet fur. He could smell it singeing with the heat. And then he felt a searing pain. The dry fur on his ears melted and curled as the ivy that had dangled above his head, combusted. He cried out in agony but nobody heard him.

  The flames passed as suddenly as they had appeared and, with their departure, brought in new and cleaner air that enabled Rhamin to breathe again. There was still some smoke but now it was a lighter grey and becoming wispy, gradually dying as each scorched stem of grass dropped to the ground as a string of black dust. His eyes running with tears, he lay there, sneezing and coughing and shaking his head in pain. Eventually he cleared his streaming nose. He listened for long seconds and then sniffed at the air. The danger seemed to have gone. He waited and listened again for what seemed forever, but the hunters did not return and, eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  It was dark when he awoke. All around him the stench of charred wood and grass filled his nostrils. Gradually, he gathered his senses and, piece by piece, remembered what had happened. He thought about the other wolves, wondering if any of them had escaped the horsemen. He wasn’t sure about his mother; her yell was still ringing in his ears. His ears! They hurt. They were burned. His black fur was grey with ash, and under the ash his coat was a scorched and dirty brown. His eyes were still smarting with the effect of the smoke and dust. Apart from the memory, still thundering inside his head, everything around him was silent.

  It was as if the world had suddenly come to an end and he was left there alone in a dark hinterland, between death and the place his mother had told him all wolves go when they grow old and die. He struggled to his feet and coughed and sneezed, but with every breath he sucked in more dust. When he eventually stopped retching, his nose and mouth were dripping with black streaked mucus. He licked it away but the taste was too bitter. It made him retch again. He rested for a while, trying to sniff the air but his nose just wasn’t working. Slowly, pulling himself out of the hollow and now caring little whether the hunters were still around, he shouted for his mother. It was a short howl, not unlike the first one he had ever made, only this one didn’t surprise him as much as the first. He listened for a response but heard nothing. Everything around him was silent. Even the birds and the insects were muted. They had all disappeared. He was lost in this blackened, deserted wood.

  He racked his memory to try and remember if his mother or father had told him what to do if they ever got separated. It was hard to remember anything. He felt cold and began to shiver. There was no sign of the dark clouds that had engulfed him and, once again, the star studded night sky was clear. What had his father said about the stars? Was there some way to find your way home by following them? He couldn’t remember; and anyway, where was home? They had been travelling and camping in different sites. He couldn’t recall his mother or father saying that any place in particular was their permanent place of abode. He sighed and, kicking up a mini dust cloud as his oversized feet padded in the thick layer of ash, he plodded to the outskirts of the wood. The ground around him on the plain was no different to what he had left behind in the wood. It was black and dusty and smelled the same. A tear came to his eye. There was nobody about; none of his kin, nor even any other wild creatures. A thin, sickle moon gave a dim grey light to the plain, making it even blacker, and the dark woodland cast a murky, waving shadow towards him. He sat down and began to sob. In his short life he had never known such silence. He watched and listened and waited. Nobody came. After what seemed like forever, slowly and stiff with fatigue, he curled up, twined his tail around his face and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

  He didn’t know how long he had slept. He woke to the sound of a wolf ’s voice in the distance. He listened again and then, after a moment or two he heard the voice again, only this time it sounded a little closer. He sprang to his feet and began to run towards it, and then he remembered. He stopped, raised his head into the air, took a deep, deep breath, so deep that he thought his raw lungs would burst, and then he howled. That is what the pack did to call each other together; they howled. They did it every night to call and guide the rest of the pack back home. Suddenly he recognised the deep howl of his father. He howled back again and now another voice filled the night air. It was Silvah. He would know her voice anywhere. It was a triumphant howl, which filled the whole night sky and beyond, resounding and echoing back from the rocky hillside. Rhamin howled again… and again… and again, until the next thing he knew was that his father and Silvah were there licking him and wagging their tails as they danced around him with delight.

  Yes, Rhamin remembered man and what he was capable of doing. He remembered the guns that cracked like thunder and sent out hot, invisible teeth amidst a coat of flame, and the way men sat on their horses and drove them forward with their feet. He remembered the smell and the sound of the creatures, sweating and panting, and the lingering sickly-sweet smell of their hooves. And he remembered the sound of the men’s voices as they scented blood and chased for the kill. His father, Anval, had escaped to the hills with two of the cubs, but the hunters had killed his mother and the cub she carried with her. They had killed two other members of the pack as well that day, and now, four years later, he had to explain why hunting the animals that were enclosed by man, was not something they should do.

  Solin was a year younger than Rhamin. After the death of Rhamin’s mother, his father had taken a determined and ambitious young wolf, Rhiana as his mate and the following season Solin had been first born male of six cubs. Then, two years later, Anval had been mortally wounded when he was trampled by a buffalo. It was the nature of being a wolf. Very few wolves ever survived without some serious injury such as a broken leg or fractured skull or cracked ribs. Anval’s injuries were just too great to overcome and on his demise, Rhamin, who was by far the biggest and strongest contender for leadership became leader of the pack unchallenged except for a half hearted attempt by Solin.

  Rhiana was replaced as the alpha female by the younger and, by now, stronger and faster Yeltsa. She was one of three females from another decimated pack, hunted down by men, not on horses this time, but by men on noisy metal creatures with glaring lights and wheels that trampled everything in their path. Those creatures smelt of
death before they even got close. Those wolves of the Bardin pack had their own story to tell of fear and death and man. They supported Rhamin, knowing what hunting men’s animals would mean. They had seen men standing aloft on the back of the metal creatures and had seen them direct the beams of sunlight at their quarry so that there was nowhere to hide in the darkness. They had seen the men point their guns at the wolves as they ran to escape from the spotlights, and how their fellow creature would, with the crack of thunder rushing through the air, and pain thrusting through their bodies, simply roll over and die.

  All the wolves in Rhamin’s pack, and in many other packs which he had encountered, had made an uneasy and unspoken truce with the man kind. Never attack man and, by some unspoken law, man, in the last three years, at least, had not attacked the wolves. And “attacking men” included their animals which were penned in enclosures.

  Zelda told stories, passed down through generations, of how at one time wolves and man fought for the same prey. She was not only the oldest wolf in the pack; she was older than any other wolf living. Rhamin couldn’t even remember what relation Zelda was to him or the rest of the pack. She had been there for ever. Her face was dished and white with age, her bulging eyes seeing nothing but blurred shadows in daylight and nothing at all at night. Her coat was scraggy; a dark grey all over and there were tufts of last season’s under coat poking out from beneath her latest growth of guard hairs; she shed them like a dandelion sheds its seeds, pieces wafting about on the floor of the camp in the eddies of dry air. Her legs were bent, and she had but few good teeth. She relied on the regurgitated food of the younger wolves to survive. Yet they kept her and guarded her safely. No wolf knew as much as Zelda. She knew many things about the past but she also had some way of knowing what was going to happen in the future. And she had warned against this plan even before Solin had suggested it. ‘The plan is flawed,’ she had said in her sleep. Silvah had heard her say it many times. But now it was no dream.