Last Tales of Mercia 10: Osbern the Son Page 3

  *

  In the darkness, Osbern heard slurps, groans, and whispers. He struggled to breathe through the thick stench of filth and decay.

  “Play the role properly.”

  Play the role properly …

  A gleam of light against mud revealed a shape coming towards him. It arose from a swamp of moaning corpses. Nonetheless, as it stepped forward, the sludge ran off its fur and faded into the marsh. A coat of silvery hairs shifted like small blades in the moonlight. A soft snarl rumbled through the shadows.

  Osbern watched, breathless, as black lips pulled back to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Stinking breath poured over him as he looked into the eyes of the wolf.

  Osbern screamed.

  He awoke gasping in the dark, still trying to recover his breath. Sweat poured down his face and neck. His blankets were soaked. He climbed out of bed and staggered to the small aperture in the wall to inhale the night breeze.

  No matter how deeply he breathed, he could not rid his nose of the stench of the swamp, nor stop hearing the snarl of the wolf.