A/N: This is very much based on the wonderful Waylander books, by David
Gemmell. I don't know whether I should continue with this or not, but please
R/R and tell me what you think. This is my first fanfic, but don't let that mean
that you have to be nice to me. Flames appreciated. We could do with some
warmth here!
This is being reposted chapter by chapter. If you've read this before, bear with me. If not...enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they belong to the fab JK Rowling. Concept is David A.Gemmell's. I just thought it would be a nice
idea one day to combine the two. Don't sue me, all you'll get is...*counts
money* £2.80.
Wolfshead stalked along the corridors of the immense manor, taking care to keep in the shadows and avoid notice. The servants took no notice of him as he walked among them, as he was dressed in their garb. And that suited Wolfshead, it would make his task a lot easier. He wanted to avoid
as many innocent deaths as possible.
In a sense, he was relishing this task. For that would mean the end to the
nightmare, the end to the quest he'd set himself on that day, fifteen years
ago.
He shuddered at the memory, blotting the picture out of his mind. Thinking about it still caused him immense pain, even after this long. He focused his pain and rage into the task ahead of him, and it was that focus that made his footfalls silent, his senses sharp.
He hefted his weapon. It was a beautifully crafted double crossbow, nestling in his hands like a gun, perfectly balanced. The sword in his scabbard brushed against his leg. Expertly skilled with both weapons, they were said by many to be enchanted by demons. That was at least partly true; the crossbow was enchanted, and never missed the targets he aimed at. But not by a demon. Enchanted by Wolfshead, the last bit of magic he had ever
used, at great risk to his life.
Twenty years ago, the Dark Forces had seized control of the land, in what
was commonly known as the Battle of the Fall. Most of those who opposed
them were dead. Some were still in hiding. A minority of those were actively
opposing the Dark Forces, working as brigands, Nadir warriors. Others said
they had been converted, hoping for survival. The use of magic by anyone
other than the Dark Lord and his most faithful of Death Eaters was outlawed,
the use of which being punishable by death.
Fifteen years ago, he had been a humble farmer, his family left alone as a mark of respect of his family's allegiance with the Dark Brotherhood, even
though he had been banished for treason and forced to live out the role of
a farmer in order to survive. But he had been twenty one, he'd had a
beautiful wife, a son of three years old whom he adored, and two baby girls,
twins. And they had been happy.
But one afternoon that happiness had been destroyed. He'd gone out
hunting for their dinner. He remembered the kiss his wife, Ella, gave him,
the crude clay man his son had given him after working on it all morning.
And the squeals of laughter as he rode out, the sounds of his wife and son
chasing each other around the garden.
And when he had returned, all had been silent. No sound at all, save for
the twittering of birds in the nearby trees. Loading his crossbow, he had
approached the house. And encountered the most terrible sight of his life,
the sight that haunted him today, the one that spurred him on to be this
terrible, feared assassin.
His son was lying in a flowerbed. He had been tortured before the killing
spell had been administered, and blood stained the flowerbeds. He looked
peaceful.
Inside the house, the babes were still in their cots, untouched, apart from the mark of the spell upon them.
And in the bedroom, the cruellest sight of all. His wife tied to the bed,
undoubtedly raped, and tortured - their were fierce cuts all over her body.
Finally, they had turned the killing spell on her too.
And that day, he had changed. No longer was he the peaceful farmer and
friend that most knew him to be. He swore vengeance, swore a blood oath
in front of the bodies of his family, to hunt down and kill the men who had
done this to him. Enchanted his crossbow to never miss. And shut away all
memories of love and compassion.
That day, he had become Wolfshead, the cold blooded assassin, living
outside the law, feared by all.
It had taken him fifteen years to find them all. He started off travelling,
asking questions as to who they were, and their whereabouts.
He'd found out that they were a bunch of mercenaries, bored by the end
of the war and even though the Dark Lord had promised them sport enough
at their own settlements, they had met up again and went looking for some
sport of their own.
He acquired their names. There were twelve altogether. Some of those he knew. There were Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Some of the old Death Eaters -Avery and Macnair. One of those among the thugs surprised him: George Weasley. Embittered, it turned out, by the death of his twin, Fred, he had sided with the Dark Brotherhood, swayed by their promises of
revenge and glory. Most of the band he hadn't known. All of them he had
killed.
And purposefully left this last one until last. This one he had known well.
Extremely well. And he had left him until last, because he'd known that the
reports of the deaths of the others would have reached him. And that
would have made him feel fear. The certainty that the man whose life he
had helped to destroy all those years ago was wreaking his revenge on those
who had wronged him. And, as one by one the others died at the hands of
this man, he would have known that Wolfshead was coming for him. Any
day now, Wolfshead could strike. He would be panicking, of course.
Wolfshead knew the extent to which this man's fear reached; twenty-four
hour supervision by guards, bodyguards outside his bedroom door, a
personal taster in case his food had been poisoned. Charms and curses set
up everywhere. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, the lingering doubt
that Wolfshead would somehow avoid these traps and get to him.
And of course, he had. It hadn't been easy. Getting past the curses and
obstacles had been the easy part; he knew this man, and knew exactly the
way his evil mind worked. Getting past the bodyguards should have been
fairly easy, if only he could find a bodyguard to - ahem - borrow the uniform
from.
And by sheer luck he had encountered one coming back to the manor
with provisions. It was widely known that this man entrusted the buying of
his food and drink solely to his bodyguards. Wolfshead had simply
borrowed the uniform from the guard, who hadn't resisted- well, it was
quite hard to with a crossbow bolt jutting from his head. The fool. Wolfshead hadn't wanted to kill him, he'd only planned one death for today,
but the idiot had attacked him with his wand. That was the only thing that
went wrong with Wolfshead's plans - too many other people, usually
people trying to kill Wolfshead, ended up dead.
But today, Wolfshead vowed, as he approached the man's chamber
with the goods, it would stop. He would go back to being the quiet, peaceful
man he had been so many years ago.
But will you be able to, whispered the little voice in his head. This has been your way of life for so long, will you ever be able to go back? Will the
memories be just too painful? He ignored the voice, as ever, and pushed
open the door of the chamber.
"Ah, Nott, you are back already?" whispered the man sat by the fire, facing
away from him. He stood and turned to face his guard.
And froze.
"You!" he hissed, the blood draining away from his face, which was rapidly
becoming a mask of sheer terror. "You came for me!"
"Yes, I came," replied Wolfshead. "Did you honestly think that your
pathetic attempts to stop me would work?" He shook his head. "I vowed to
make them all pay for what they did to me and my family. And you're the
only one left. And now, Father, it's time to die." The old wizard went for
his wand, but Wolfshead was quicker. His right arm flashed up, and two
crossbow bolts appeared in the old wizard's chest. Lucius Malfoy died
without a sound.
And that was the end of it. All over. His task was finished.
So what now?
Gemmell. I don't know whether I should continue with this or not, but please
R/R and tell me what you think. This is my first fanfic, but don't let that mean
that you have to be nice to me. Flames appreciated. We could do with some
warmth here!
This is being reposted chapter by chapter. If you've read this before, bear with me. If not...enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they belong to the fab JK Rowling. Concept is David A.Gemmell's. I just thought it would be a nice
idea one day to combine the two. Don't sue me, all you'll get is...*counts
money* £2.80.
Wolfshead stalked along the corridors of the immense manor, taking care to keep in the shadows and avoid notice. The servants took no notice of him as he walked among them, as he was dressed in their garb. And that suited Wolfshead, it would make his task a lot easier. He wanted to avoid
as many innocent deaths as possible.
In a sense, he was relishing this task. For that would mean the end to the
nightmare, the end to the quest he'd set himself on that day, fifteen years
ago.
He shuddered at the memory, blotting the picture out of his mind. Thinking about it still caused him immense pain, even after this long. He focused his pain and rage into the task ahead of him, and it was that focus that made his footfalls silent, his senses sharp.
He hefted his weapon. It was a beautifully crafted double crossbow, nestling in his hands like a gun, perfectly balanced. The sword in his scabbard brushed against his leg. Expertly skilled with both weapons, they were said by many to be enchanted by demons. That was at least partly true; the crossbow was enchanted, and never missed the targets he aimed at. But not by a demon. Enchanted by Wolfshead, the last bit of magic he had ever
used, at great risk to his life.
Twenty years ago, the Dark Forces had seized control of the land, in what
was commonly known as the Battle of the Fall. Most of those who opposed
them were dead. Some were still in hiding. A minority of those were actively
opposing the Dark Forces, working as brigands, Nadir warriors. Others said
they had been converted, hoping for survival. The use of magic by anyone
other than the Dark Lord and his most faithful of Death Eaters was outlawed,
the use of which being punishable by death.
Fifteen years ago, he had been a humble farmer, his family left alone as a mark of respect of his family's allegiance with the Dark Brotherhood, even
though he had been banished for treason and forced to live out the role of
a farmer in order to survive. But he had been twenty one, he'd had a
beautiful wife, a son of three years old whom he adored, and two baby girls,
twins. And they had been happy.
But one afternoon that happiness had been destroyed. He'd gone out
hunting for their dinner. He remembered the kiss his wife, Ella, gave him,
the crude clay man his son had given him after working on it all morning.
And the squeals of laughter as he rode out, the sounds of his wife and son
chasing each other around the garden.
And when he had returned, all had been silent. No sound at all, save for
the twittering of birds in the nearby trees. Loading his crossbow, he had
approached the house. And encountered the most terrible sight of his life,
the sight that haunted him today, the one that spurred him on to be this
terrible, feared assassin.
His son was lying in a flowerbed. He had been tortured before the killing
spell had been administered, and blood stained the flowerbeds. He looked
peaceful.
Inside the house, the babes were still in their cots, untouched, apart from the mark of the spell upon them.
And in the bedroom, the cruellest sight of all. His wife tied to the bed,
undoubtedly raped, and tortured - their were fierce cuts all over her body.
Finally, they had turned the killing spell on her too.
And that day, he had changed. No longer was he the peaceful farmer and
friend that most knew him to be. He swore vengeance, swore a blood oath
in front of the bodies of his family, to hunt down and kill the men who had
done this to him. Enchanted his crossbow to never miss. And shut away all
memories of love and compassion.
That day, he had become Wolfshead, the cold blooded assassin, living
outside the law, feared by all.
It had taken him fifteen years to find them all. He started off travelling,
asking questions as to who they were, and their whereabouts.
He'd found out that they were a bunch of mercenaries, bored by the end
of the war and even though the Dark Lord had promised them sport enough
at their own settlements, they had met up again and went looking for some
sport of their own.
He acquired their names. There were twelve altogether. Some of those he knew. There were Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Some of the old Death Eaters -Avery and Macnair. One of those among the thugs surprised him: George Weasley. Embittered, it turned out, by the death of his twin, Fred, he had sided with the Dark Brotherhood, swayed by their promises of
revenge and glory. Most of the band he hadn't known. All of them he had
killed.
And purposefully left this last one until last. This one he had known well.
Extremely well. And he had left him until last, because he'd known that the
reports of the deaths of the others would have reached him. And that
would have made him feel fear. The certainty that the man whose life he
had helped to destroy all those years ago was wreaking his revenge on those
who had wronged him. And, as one by one the others died at the hands of
this man, he would have known that Wolfshead was coming for him. Any
day now, Wolfshead could strike. He would be panicking, of course.
Wolfshead knew the extent to which this man's fear reached; twenty-four
hour supervision by guards, bodyguards outside his bedroom door, a
personal taster in case his food had been poisoned. Charms and curses set
up everywhere. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, the lingering doubt
that Wolfshead would somehow avoid these traps and get to him.
And of course, he had. It hadn't been easy. Getting past the curses and
obstacles had been the easy part; he knew this man, and knew exactly the
way his evil mind worked. Getting past the bodyguards should have been
fairly easy, if only he could find a bodyguard to - ahem - borrow the uniform
from.
And by sheer luck he had encountered one coming back to the manor
with provisions. It was widely known that this man entrusted the buying of
his food and drink solely to his bodyguards. Wolfshead had simply
borrowed the uniform from the guard, who hadn't resisted- well, it was
quite hard to with a crossbow bolt jutting from his head. The fool. Wolfshead hadn't wanted to kill him, he'd only planned one death for today,
but the idiot had attacked him with his wand. That was the only thing that
went wrong with Wolfshead's plans - too many other people, usually
people trying to kill Wolfshead, ended up dead.
But today, Wolfshead vowed, as he approached the man's chamber
with the goods, it would stop. He would go back to being the quiet, peaceful
man he had been so many years ago.
But will you be able to, whispered the little voice in his head. This has been your way of life for so long, will you ever be able to go back? Will the
memories be just too painful? He ignored the voice, as ever, and pushed
open the door of the chamber.
"Ah, Nott, you are back already?" whispered the man sat by the fire, facing
away from him. He stood and turned to face his guard.
And froze.
"You!" he hissed, the blood draining away from his face, which was rapidly
becoming a mask of sheer terror. "You came for me!"
"Yes, I came," replied Wolfshead. "Did you honestly think that your
pathetic attempts to stop me would work?" He shook his head. "I vowed to
make them all pay for what they did to me and my family. And you're the
only one left. And now, Father, it's time to die." The old wizard went for
his wand, but Wolfshead was quicker. His right arm flashed up, and two
crossbow bolts appeared in the old wizard's chest. Lucius Malfoy died
without a sound.
And that was the end of it. All over. His task was finished.
So what now?