The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

you’re strong enough for a game of catch-wolf? It’s what we’ve been playing, see, and being the sorts we are, well we’ve always room for another.”
    “Yes,” he said again. “Th-thank you.”
    Dolmar and his group—there couldn’t have been more than five or six of them—sauntered up and formed a circle around him. He spun, trying to keep track of them all. A low buzzing noise began in Simon’s head and he tried to shake it free. He had no idea what it was.
    “What’s the matter? Got the fever, out-worlder?” This was from another of Dolmar’s friends—a boy he couldn’t name. “Don’t you want to play?”
    Dumb, Simon nodded, and they began to move in a slow circle around him, one or two of them jabbing him in the shoulder or ribs as they walked. The buzzing in his head grew louder.
    “Hey, he wants to play.”
    “Bit too cocky, isn’t he?”
    “Yeah, I think so. Comes right up and wants to join in.”
    “It’s not right.”
    “But what do you expect from someone like him? Someone with his mother, anyway?”
    “Yeah, I agree. What do you think we should do about it then?”
    “Teach him a lesson?”
    “Teach him how to really be a catch-wolf?”
    Laughter then. Which stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
    “Yes,” said Dolmar, all laughter faded from his mouth. “Let’s do it.”
    Before Simon could even think what they might mean, they were upon him, fingers scrabbling at clothes and skin. He opened his mouth to yell, but someone—he couldn’t see who—landed a punch in his stomach and he half-fell, winded. A globule of spit landed on his cheek and somebody pinched his arm. Raising his hands to his face and pushing back to drive the boys away was useless. Simon lost his footing and landed on the earth, scrabbling to get to his feet again, but they kicked him back down.
    “What do wolves do?” Dolmar’s voice was close to Simon’s ear, barely audible over the continued buzz in his thoughts. “What do wolves do?”
    Simon didn’t know what answer he might possibly want, but he was still speaking.
    “They feed on the earth,” he said. “Come on.”
    Somebody grabbed his shoulders and somebody else his legs and dragged him away from the path and towards the woods. Unable to defend himself, Simon began to scream, and the noise in his head turned somehow to a wild stream of red. The next moment it was gone, and he was left empty and gasping.
    Another moment later, the trees were a net above him, and the rancid taste of mud filled his mouth. When Simon tried to spit it out, a hand clamped his lips shut and he was forced to swallow some of the thick, black substance. He struggled against his attackers but it was no use; they were too strong and his face was slammed in the mud once more.
    It was then that it happened.
    Something bright and hard shot from Simon’s face and hit Dolmar on the soft flesh of his neck. He cried out and began to choke, letting Simon go. Taking advantage, Simon kicked out at his legs and he fell. Hand clawing at the mud, Simon pushed some of the black filth into Dolmar’s mouth in return and he cried out again, the words lost. For a moment, he caught sight of a line of silver at the older boy’s throat before it vanished, leaving a thin, red scar. In the place of its vanishing, something slotted into position within Simon’s mind and he gasped at the feeling of completeness.
    Dolmar spat the mud away, screaming over and over again, “What did you do? What was that? What did you do?”
    With each word, he pummelled Simon on his back. The ring of boys around them meant he couldn’t escape, and he swallowed mud and small stones, struggling for breath.
    Just when he thought he had no more strength for the fight, the pressure above lifted, and Simon slithered around, gasping and crying, to see Dolmar lying on his side a dozen yards away. A ring of light was flashing around his body and he thought for a moment or two that the boy might be dead. Then his eyes opened and he looked at Simon. Or rather through him.
    “What. Have. You. Done?”
    Each word breached the air as if standing alone by itself. Simon knew the question this time wasn’t directed at him and he swung around.
    His mother stood behind him, though Simon had had no inkling of her approach. She was wearing the clothes she used for herb-blending—a long, green skirt and a faded cotton tunic. Her hair was loose, however, in a way she only ever wore it at night, and the rich gold of it