A Wolf Story Read online

  Saul looked long enough to see the dark shape hurtling across the field, the long legs devouring the distance between them with incredible speed. Then he turned and raced into the woods, running left, then right, then left again. He heard the creature crash into the forest edge and hesitate, confused at his direction. And silently, with all the skill and cunning of his years, Saul began to pick a careful path into the Deep Woods.

  Behind him, a dark cloud hovered over the face of the beast. Red jaws thirsted for the blood of his foe, the one who resisted him. For a long moment it searched the woods with hungry eyes. It would usually hunt by sight. But the old hare was cunning. He would make no sound and leave no sign.

  The beast poised in the night, angry and confused. Then a familiar scent reached out, the scent of a dying foe, and the blood he shed. Bending its gigantic black head, the dark wolf found the faint trail, the life and death of his enemy. Grinning hideously, eyes flaming with hate, it moved slowly forward, following the thin, scattered droplets of blood through the blackened forest as surely as a river.

  *

  six

  A silent wind swirled snow and fallen -leaves across the forest floor, through haunting shadows cast by a haggard moon and past a silver wolf that sat motionless beside a wide, white glade of snow and ice.

  An arctic storm had descended on the dying sun, leaving the forest a white landscape etched with skeletal silhouettes and darkened pits of gloom. And already snow was climbing in an icy tomb at the young wolf’s feet, as if seeking to bury him here, within the storm, in these ghastly, nightmarish woods.

  In the silver wolf’s mind it seemed that even the dark, swaying trees had taken on terrible life and would reach down to tear and rend him. Only the knowledge that his tracks through the forest were hidden beneath the falling snow gave him comfort. For he knew that even the beast he might face tonight could not destroy what it could not find.

  Fearfully, as he had done since darkness descended, the wolf searched the distant treeline, half-hidden in the swirling storm. A relentless terror seemed to cripple his strength, even as ice coated his silver mane. Medianically he swung his gaze back and forth across the forest glade, searching the mist that had brought the snow. He knew that if death came for him tonight, it would come out of the storm.

  Yet despite his wasting fear, the silver wolf knew he could not leave this lonely place until the morning sun dawned golden on the glade before him. For tonight was the Watch, the Ritual of Power, when a young wolf spent his first night alone in the Deep Woods without the protection of the pack.

  It was the hour when he must prove himself worthy of leadership if he would gain his rightful place on the Council. Yet it was a dreaded test, and the silver wolf had lived in fear of it, for he knew that servants of the Dark Lord roamed this cursed forest at night. And those who worshiped the Dark Lord were eternal enemies of his pack, the gray wolves who roamed the North and worshiped the Light maker.

  "I am Aramus, son of Gianavel," the silver wolf said softly to himself. "I won't be afraid."

  Yet his heart chilled when he imagined what might come for him before the dawn. And only his great love for Gianavel, his father who had long been king of their kind, gave him strength. For he found no peace in the Old Story, or the Promise of the White Wolf. He believed in the Lightmaker, who had created the world, but his faith had never given him victory over his fears. Hunching forward, Aramus lowered his head against a blast of freezing air that sliced through his thick fur. And he remembered another night not so long ago, in a forest far from this lonely place, where he had first seen the enemy of his pack, that dark destroyer of lives. For the horror of that sight had forever scarred his heart....

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It had been a good day for the males of the pack, a day of hunting and playing, and the Elders had run ahead to scout for fresh trails, leaving the young wolves alone in the night, listening to the distant howls that slowly ranged across the hills and then turned toward them again. It was a time for frolicking in the snow, wrestling playfully in tests of strength. And the surrounding forest had been forgotten, along with the death that walked its darkened corridors, when, suddenly the night about them grew eerily still.

  In a single breath the young wolves sensed the deadly change and fell silent, searching the night for sight or sound of an enemy. And even as they raised their heads to test the air, the scent of something strange and hideous reached them on the wind. With the first faint smell, they tasted its hate. And swiftly, silently, they huddled together, afraid even to breathe. The forest about them became heavy and cold as a tomb. Then the scent grew stronger, as if some ancient abomination had stepped forth from its hellish grave. And the wolves shivered, shoulder to shoulder, listening anxiously for the howls of their fathers approaching.

  Darkness fell so thick that Aramus could barely see beyond the trees that enclosed him, but he did not need his eyes. He knew the beast was already beside them in the night, so near he could feel its black breath warming the arctic air. The young wolves trembled with fear, and Aramus searched the night with wide eyes, dreading what he might see.

  Long moments passed, and the scattered howls of their fathers grew nearer. Then, from within the shadows, Aramus saw something emerging from the forest gloom, a nightmarish face of dark flame framed by Night.

  Shrouded by living darkness, a pair of hungry eyes peered at him for a long moment. Then slowly, more horrible than the malignant stare, a grin of jagged jaws spread beneath. A long time the ghastly sight was poised in the night. And Aramus caught the shocking scent of something dead, or living in death.

  Suddenly the Elders broke into the nearby clearing at full cry. The malignant, sinister eyes blinked angrily, hesitating, and then vanished. Aramus sensed the thing pass close beside him as it moved deeper into the shadowed forest. And as surely as he breathed, he knew that here was a beast who lived only to slay the living.

  When the Elders had rejoined them, the frightened young wolves excitedly told their fathers of the harrowing ordeal. Gianavel, Aramus' father, listened patiently as his son spoke, his deep gray eyes unreadable. But the old wolf would sometimes turn his massive head, glaring into the darkness, as if challenging what dwelt there. And as Aramus finished his tale, his father turned to him again.

  "I know this one," Gianavel spoke slowly. "He is an old and evil wolf. His name is Baalkor, and he has slain many of our kind. He is a sworn enemy of all who worship the Lightmaker. If we hadn't returned, he would have attacked you. But even Baalkor is no match for the strength of the pack, so he fled."

  Aramus glanced fearfully at the forbidding forest. Every shadowed pit of the betraying darkness seemed to conceal that unearthly beast, its nightmarish shape hidden ... waiting.

  Then he heard Gianavel's commanding voice again.

  "There are still some things I haven't told you about the Dark Lord, my son. You know already that many have surrendered to the darkness. There are wolves and lions and countless other beasts that make war against the Lightmaker. But now, I see, that the time is upon us when 1 must tell you more.

  "All those who worship the Dark Lord are led by an evil alliance of three, known as the Dark Council. And it has sworn eternal war against all who worship the Lightmaker. Baalkor, the black wolf, is one of the Council. Second among them is Incomel, a cruel mountain lion that has long ravaged the land. And chief of the Dark Council is Corbis, a godlike beast of a bear, supreme on the Earth in strength.

  "Baalkor was once the strongest of our pack and roamed the mountains of our homeland. Long ago, when I was young, as you are, I hunted beside him. But when he reached the age to endure the Watch, he turned away from his faith to pursue the pleasures of the Night, rebelling against the Lightmaker to worship the Dark Lord. Since then, he has slain many of our kind. Years ago he hunted down our beloved king, Karidural, and killed him in the Deep Woods. And as you know, upon Karidural's death I was chosen as king.

  "Soon after, Baalkor hunted me down
also when I was alone in the frozen North. He trapped me on a ledge of ice and demanded that I swear allegiance to the Dark Lord. But I told him that I was a servant of the Lightmaker. 'Always, I said, I stand between you and the world.'

  "We fought through the long night, with only the stars to see the savage outcome. I did not ask for mercy, nor did I give any. The ledge was torn and bloodied by our struggle, and today I bear the scars of that conflict. Then with morning the ravaged ice collapsed beneath us, and we tumbled together into the White River. Even as we fell, we fought, taking the battle to the death. Then we crashed together into the swirling waters and were separated. When I reached the shore he could not be seen. But I knew that he had survived. He had escaped me to attack me on another night when I would be low in strength. And that is how he will attack you."

  Aramus stared into the night. His legs still trembled from his ordeal, and he stiffened them to conceal his fear.

  "If you defeat him," Gianavel continued, "he will retreat. But he will always return. On another night, when you are tired, weak, or afraid, he will come to you again. He will wait until you are beaten down by the world, attacking when you are weary. He will lure you with pleasures and the secret desires of your heart. It will be a great struggle. But you must endure it. You must endure. The Lightmaker will not allow you to suffer more than you can bear. Always, his grace is sufficient for the task.

  "Remember this and it will give you hope. And when your great suffering has ended and you stand again in peace, then you will possess a deeper strength and understanding. You will be more than you were. And your heart will be great, guiding you with wisdom and knowledge."

  Often, his father had spoken of the spirit, the endless need for strength and faith, and being set free from the world. But Aramus had never really understood the old wolf’s teachings. Always, it seemed, no matter how faithful he tried to be, his fears defeated him.

  Now his father looked upon him, noble and wise. And no trace of disappointment could be heard in the soothing voice as he spoke again.

  "I know you don't understand now, my son. But the time will come when the Lightmaker will enlarge your heart, renewing all that is within you, making you strong with his strength. And then you will see even as I do."

  His father's kingly head turned again toward the darkness, and Aramus knew that nothing could hide the dark wolf from those piercing gray eyes. After a moment the eyes softened, looked upon him once more.

  "Do not fear Baalkor," his father said, smiling. "Death and the power of darkness have been conquered. You are a child of the Lightmaker, and there is nothing that Baalkor can take from you."

  Yet Aramus found little comfort in his father's words. He only remembered the nightmarish face poised in the night, and he stared silently into the shadows, ashamed to admit his fear.

  Gianavel smiled gently, and the shadows seemed to retreat from his presence. The majestic voice was strong and clear in the night.

  "The battle is beyond the flesh, my son. Our victory has already been promised, an end made sure. Cling to what you have learned, and it will be life for you when death is near. Be strong. Be courageous. Do what you know is right."

  They had returned home in silence that night, Aramus lost in his thoughts. He had traveled close to his father's side, thinking again and again of the malevolent red eyes and hideous face grinning at him from the stygian night. His faith seemed broken, shattered. He wondered if he would ever have the strength to face his fears.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Saul ran now with less caution. His old legs were heavy and the cold air tore at his ravaged lungs with each ragged breath.

  Deeper and deeper he had fled into the woods, feeling the darkness thicken as if the night itself were alive and battling in concert with the creature that chased him. He stumbled over rocks and branches, bruised and shaken. He tumbled painfully over ledges that descended into pits of gloom, running, always running.

  The cruel air was colder with every step he took toward the deepest part of this cursed forest. It was farther than he had ever been before. Already he had run for hours through the darkness, using every trick he possessed to confuse his enemy. Three times he had descended into freezing waters and let them carry him downstream. The shock alone had almost killed him. But he had forced himself to remain in the flowing channels until he felt a deathlike cold in his heart. Then he had numbly climbed onto the opposite bank, picking a careful trail, doubling back and circling again in a desperate attempt to confuse his enemy, his strength failing more with each step.

  Now, as Saul crept from the final, freezing stream, the arctic air swept across him with killing cold, stiffening his damp mane with ice, and he knew that he had reached the heart of the Deep Woods, where winter never leaves.

  It was the land of the Dark Lord's servants.

  Now it was tracking him in the forest it knew best. Saul realized that in this evil land there would be no tricks that could deceive that destroyer of lives. But he would never surrender. He would struggle against his persecutor until it fell upon him in its unholy rage, and then, too, he would resist. Though Saul had not heard its infernal howl for several hours, he sensed that it had not lost his trail. It was hunting him with ancient patience. And it would find him, in the end.

  Saul hesitated at the crest of a thorny hill. His old body, slashed and beaten, was failing. He had struggled to run faster, but his legs lifted more painfully, more slowly, with every step.

  He gazed behind him into the darkness and sensed the evil presence tracking him through the night. For a moment he stared into the gloom, but the last of his fear was quickly disappearing. No longer did he look only into the night. For in the passing hours he had begun to sense a new land, where stars shone eternal and green hills rolled forever, a land he had always hoped for, and awaited. As he rested, a silent sense of love warmed him, and he knew that the Lightmaker had not left him alone, even in this terrible hour.

  Saul lowered his head, breathing heavily, perceiving that he was only struggling out his part in some drama that had always awaited him. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his mind, Saul had anticipated this moment all his life. Raising his head, he gazed quietly, hopefully, at the stars.

  His flesh was hardening with frost, and stabbing pangs of agony made his breath pale and weak. Yet Saul felt strangely alive, ready to fight to the death.

  The stars are so much like us, he thought. Bright and beautiful, full of wonder and light, yet surrounded by such terrible darkness. And even so, the darkness cannot overcome them, for they shine on and on through the painful night, casting light for all the world to see.

  Saul smiled weakly, praying, hoping that the Lightmaker would be pleased with him when the battle was done. Then he staggered down the hill toward a wide, white glade.

  Slowly at first, snow began to spin swirling patterns across the old hare's path. Saul limped on through the mist, resisting the deathlike weariness that crippled his body. The storm continued, gathering strength. But still he pushed defiantly onward, refusing to lie down and allow the hateful night to force a swift and cruel ending to his pain. Finally the storm lashed across him with demonic frenzy, crushing him with sheets of ice and swirling snow. Ice coated his chilled gray fur and numbed his strength.

  Yet still he stumbled blindly forward, sensing his own death, leading the beast onward with the last, undying flame of his will.

  *

  seven

  Lost in the memory of that dark night, Aramus was returned to the storm by slashing ice. The assault penetrated his thick coat, chilling his bones with hateful cold. In defiance he shook his head violently, splashing moonlight in a white shower of snow.

  He raised his head to watch the dark swaying trees whispering their ancient song. Aramus had not spoken a word to his father on the long day's journey from their mountain home to the Deep Woods. And finally, when the majestic gray wolf had left him alone, to return in the morning, Aramus had become still as stone, watching th
e shadows grow long and deep and cold. He had known every whisper of leaf and bush, caught the scent of all that moved in the south, where the wind was born. And as the night had slowly passed, he had begun to feel a thin sense of safety, for he sensed that no creature moved or lived where he rested now.

  In the morning, after his father returned for him, they would begin the long journey north to their mountain home. But first he must survive the night. And it was not just the darkness he feared. More, he feared Baalkor, the beast that had passed him in the night not so long ago. Aramus' blood chilled at the memory of that nightmarish face poised in the shadows—grinning, tasting his weakness.

  Then, as he had done a hundred times, Aramus lowered his head against a freezing blast of arctic air that rushed across the glade like the deadly breath of some evil, ancient beast. And when the crippling cold had passed, he raised his eyes again to search timidly along the faraway treeline, his mind beginning to crumble with his body beneath the cold assault. It was so easy to be brave in the daylight, he thought, where he was warm and safe and protected. It was a different thing to be shivering in the dark, cold and alone, with only his faith to protect him from his fears.

  If he were running with the pack within this storm, they would simply bury themselves beneath it, escaping the freezing gale. But tonight there would be no escape. Tonight there would be only the darkness, the shadows that cloaked his doubts, and the howling wind that slowly froze his body with ice and frost. And there would be the heaviest burden to his tired soul: the yearning for safety and family and the comfort of the pack. Always his family had been his strength, and although Gianavel had taught him to hunt and survive alone, Aramus had always leaned upon the old wolfs awesome strength.