A Wolf Story Page 8

  Gianavel looked fully at Razul when he finally spoke again.

  "I know that it is my place, as King of the Gray Wolves, to defend the pack. And rarely do I leave the mountain because of this. But now, for some reason, I am compelled in the spirit to find my son. I only hesitate because I sense that the pack is also in great danger. I'm not afraid to tell you, brother, that I'm troubled. Tell me what you see, Razul. Are we in agreement? Has an attack been launched against us?"

  Gianavel's gray eyes searched for some assurance that his senses had not betrayed him. And Razul gazed back at him, the old eyes reflecting deep concern, but veiled from caution and long habit. Not quickly did the elder wolf reveal his mind, always weighing his words heavily; discerning, forever seeming to test his mortal thoughts against his matchless knowledge of the Truth. And Gianavel looked again across the darkened sky, waiting patiently, respecting the Elder's ancient wisdom, his august understanding of things past and present. Long ago, Gianavel had realized that even the future was not beyond the scope of Razul, so sensitive was he to the Lightmaker's spirit. The older wolf would speak when he would speak, and not before.

  For a long time they watched from the high ridge, Gianavel focusing on the distant darkness, concentrating with hard gray eyes to read the night. And after a time, the wind altered its gusting pace, and he perceived a faint and grievous tone, a soft cry, subdued and saddened, as if the blood of all those crushed by cruelty were crying out to him from the earth; a cry that echoed with the endless pain forced upon the world by the Dark Lord. Gianavel lowered his head, sensing the suffering, the incomprehensible suffering inflicted since the dawn of time by that cruel hate. And as the wind died, leaving a grave stillness upon the high place, he heard Razul speak.

  “It is said," the old voice rang clear and crisp in the cold air, "kill the head and the body will die. That is why the Dark Lord will try to destroy the greatest among us, and scatter the rest. You are King of the Gray Wolves, Gianavel. You are the strongest defender of the faith. And you are hated and feared by all who worship the Dark Lord. Even Baalkor fears you, knowing that the Lightmaker's spirit within you proclaims his doom. And because they fear you, they will kill you, if they can.

  “I, too, sense that Aramus is in great danger, and you must go to him. You must go to him tonight. But 1 also sense that there is a great battle before us, a battle that will go far beyond your son. And I fear that we shall see much death before victory is won. For I perceive that the true plan of the Dark Lord is to destroy you, Gianavel, by somehow using your child against you. And when you are dead, the Dark Lord's servants hope to crush the faith from the Earth.

  "My spirit compels me to warn you, brother. I know that you are strong, and your strength has delivered you many times in battle. But beware, for your strength can also destroy you. The Dark Lord is provoking you, even now, to strike back in your great anger, and wrath, hoping that you will betray the Lightmaker. For they know that if you are standing close to him they cannot defeat you. Yet they also know that if, somehow, they can cause you to forsake him, then you can be destroyed.

  "I perceive in my spirit, I know in my heart, that this is the trap laid for you, Gianavel. But I will pray for you, as I have always prayed for you. And I know that you will overcome, even in this.

  "Wisdom will guide you, my friend, wisdom gained from a long life of knowing and understanding the way of the Lightmaker. And with wisdom, remember your courage. These will deliver you from even the strongest attack. Then, when the battle has ended, as all our battles have ended before this, I hope that we will stand together again, as we stand now."

  For a long moment Razul lifted his head, as if listening, or speaking. Then he looked again upon Gianavel, his ancient eyes keen and bright with knowledge and understanding.

  "Unleash your strength, brother. The time of waiting has passed. Go, as the spirit within you compels you to go. And I will assemble the Elders, following at dawn."

  Gianavel looked solemnly upon his old friend and nodded, his gray mane cloaked with an unflinching courage that seemed to transform him into a new creature. And the night grew still as the old king rose, standing dauntlessly beneath a dark wind that whispered of war and suffering and death.

  For a breath Gianavel gazed down the steep cliff, its depths concealed within the swirling, chaotic darkness. And from somewhere within the gray eyes, a light, unearthly and unconquerable, emerged, defying the power of Night. Then, with a single movement, the great gray wolf moved boldly over the edge.

  Like a thunderbolt Gianavel fell through the darkness, finding quick, narrow steps in the night, certain that his foot would not slip nor his courage fade, coming down from the mountain.

  *

  two

  A lone in the white wilderness, high on a moonlit ridge, Aramus rested, searching for life in the forest night. Silent and still, he watched, and waited, while dark winds waved the shadowed trees and the pale moon cast frosty light across his high place.

  After his journey south the Deep Woods had come alive with fiendish howls echoing long through the night. Dark wolves, enraged and vengeful from Baalkor's defeat, had quickly enclosed him within the forest. And the hunt had begun, a hunt that would never end until he was dead.

  Aramus understood the deadly game, and for past nights his cautious skills had evaded the demonic search. But it was a game that could not last. Sooner or later, he knew, he would make a mistake and they would trap him, as they had trapped his father long ago.

  Often he had heard their vengeful howls pursuing his trail, and with the iron endurance of youth he had run relentlessly in ever-widening circles, crossing over his own tracks and circling again, exhausting and confusing his pursuers until the frustrated cries had faded into the night.

  Afterwards, weary with his efforts, Aramus had thanked the Lightmaker for his escape, knowing that the spirit of the Living God had stood by his side, strengthening him. And knowing that survival depended on returning home, he had tried each night to slip through the wolf packs guarding the border of the Deep Woods. And each night he had failed, driven back again to the south by that killing zone.

  Aramus breathed once, deeply, as he rested, and thought solemnly of Saul. He had never truly known death until that fateful night in the glade. And it troubled him still. He had carried the grief with every step he had taken to the caves by the brook, where he had laid Saul. And when his promise to the old hare was finally fulfilled, the pain had become a deep wound in his soul, an inescapable emptiness within him. The wolf’s heart weakened to think that never again would he speak with the old hare. Saul was gone, a life left behind. Now Aramus would have only what the future held.

  Despite his faith in the Lightmaker's promise, Aramus knew that each time he allowed his mind to return to those final few moments with Saul, he would know anew that sorrow of separation, a wound that would grow dim with days but endure for a lifetime.

  Silver eyes closed as his heart gazed upon the lonely sight that had greeted him at the southern caves: the sight of the small, forlorn hares gathering sadly about the body of their fallen king. Aramus had watched the scene from a distance, his promise kept, his heart at peace.

  The colony had stood a long time, solemn and weary, holding one another to ease the pain of their loss. And then, silently and strangely, they had parted, as one larger than the rest emerged from the caves. The big hare's dark fur was streaked with half-healed wounds, though he bore his pain bravely. And the others separated respectfully as he knelt beside Saul's still form, bowing their heads as one.

  Even across the distance Aramus could see the sorrow that struck the massive figure. And here, he knew, was one who had loved his king much; a worthy son, a noble heir. A long time the big hare rested, silent and broken, his great form cloaked with his grief.

  But as Aramus continued to watch, the hare suddenly started, as if sharply awakened from a dream, and raised his head. Aramus saw the bold, suspicious eyes quickly scan the glade and su
rrounding woodline. It took only a moment before the creature searched him out atop the distant hill. Then the hare stood up on its hind legs, instantly defiant, dark eyes focusing intently.

  Aramus held the gaze, his silver eyes casting a sad shadow that seemed to span the separation between them. And as they stood, the hare's suspicious gaze slowly clouded with a strange and curious awe.

  It dropped low, came forward a pace, and raised itself up again, its eyes no longer challenging, but touched with a searching hope. A long time they shared their sorrow, each face reflecting a grievous loss, a solemn pain beyond the expression of words or deeds. And then slowly, carefully, Aramus lowered his head, revealing his respect. The big hare seemed struck by the gesture, and continued to return the gaze a moment more. Then he also bent his head, once, and lowered himself again upon his four paws.

  The memory of that shared encounter had been the single, bright place in Aramus's long journey. For he had slept seldom, still disturbed and restless from his frightful encounter in the Deep Woods, the deadly battle that ended his long night in the storm.

  Lost in the memory of that quiet encounter, Aramus raised his head sharply as howls, unmerciful and hungry, were hurled across the moonlit night. Action and thought were one as he poised on the ridge, still and alert, senses reaching out to test the air, the wind. And almost instantly he knew that a chase was moving away from him, lower into the hills. He frowned, listening intently, strangely disturbed.

  Not marked by the cold communication of a search, the convening cries suddenly slashed the frosty night with a malignant, merciless lust. Aramus recognized the cries for what they were: the thrilling howls of killers closing upon a kill. And from the manic, gleeful din, he understood that the fiendish pursuit was near its end.

  Making no sound, Aramus rose from the rocky ground. The howls were quickly gathering, not so far away. Then a roar shattered the night, not merciless or cruel, hut fearful, enraged. The roar carried above the chaos of the hunt, superior for a moment before it was covered by a descending chorus of demonic cries.

  Aramus began to step forward, his spirit reaching out to that tortured soul. But the old fear, that instinctive desire to preserve his own life above all else, immediately stilled his step. Then he remembered a snow-covered glade, and another wounded creature that had freely given far more than he had received, and Aramus smiled; a sad smile, but wise, and content with the knowledge that actions must follow faith, or faith is dead. And he stepped forward.

  As a pale shadow Aramus moved quickly down the moonlit ridge and was soon gliding gracefully through the blackened corridors of the forest night, sensing the life of every creature he neared and moving away before it could know his spectral presence. With sure steps and unerring skill Aramus slowly increased his loping gait until he was running silently through the shadowy gloom, crossing the forest floor with supernatural grace, searching out the conflict with the gathering howls. And as he neared the ridge where the battle raged, Aramus instinctively slowed, moving even more carefully, alert to everything at once. Creatures hiding from the raging battle half-raised their heads as he neared, glimpsing the ghost of a wolf that never touched the earth, moving without sound through the forest night, and was gone.

  Aramus reached the ridge crest and waited, concealed within the shadows of the treeline. Gazing intensely across the wide, gray granite of the slope, he saw a swarm of dark wolves chasing a wounded bear. The wolves were closing upon the creature with hideous howls, and a quick glance revealed that the bear was near the end of its strength.

  Torn by guilt, Aramus knew that he had been the true prey, but his stealth had eluded the pack's hateful search. And now, frustrated by his unending escape, the dark wolves had abandoned their hunt to turn upon any creature that crossed their path. Aramus watched, his brow furrowed with compassion, as the bear staggered up the rock-strewn slope, a brave and noble creature soon to die beneath those pursuing shapes. And he wondered if there would ever be an ending to this fight. The thought disturbed him, but he had no more time for thought. He knew that if he was to move, he must move quickly or not at all.

  Even as Aramus thought, he slid silently from the concealing gloom of the woodline, gliding undetected across the ridge toward the bloodcurdling battle, choosing without hesitation to stand beside any creature who stood against that dark force.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Wounded and weary, the bear stumbled up the moonlit slope, breath heaving in hot blasts from his gasping mouth to cast a frightened glance over his shoulder. Behind him, emerging from the deeper gloom of the trees, he saw pairs of yellow eyes, fixed and hungry. The black shapes that followed moved more quickly then he, sliding as shadows from the darkness, their forms revealing no fatigue, no heaviness as the heaviness that weighed down his legs and caused him to stagger clumsily, pitifully, up the boulder-strewn hillside.

  At dusk the dark army had descended from the hills, launching yet another attack upon him and his father. And he had fought bravely beside his sire until the old one fell, struck down by a great lion with eyes of flame.

  His courage shattered by his father's death, the young bear had turned in panic, running blindly through the forest. And so he had run since dusk, staggering on and on through this strange land, weary and broken. But his desperate efforts were doomed; the wolves had remained apace with stronger, fiercer ones taking the lead when the closest tired, continuously eroding his crumbling strength, leaving him easy prey for the fight.

  Earlier, when the hellish horde had cornered him, he had turned, enraged, and struck sweeping blows with his great, curved claws. Two were crushed instantly, for even in his small frame there resided the awesome, inherent power of his kind. But during the savage encounter he had also been wounded, torn and slashed by the remaining predators who had descended upon him in a frenzy, shredding his dark fur and flesh.

  Realizing with searing pain the futility of open combat, the bear had turned and fled as before, knowing that these were no ordinary wolves. Even with the howls that boomed through the night, he sensed that they were driven by some darker lust, some unearthly rage. And as he began to realize more clearly their deeper purpose, an indescribable horror had gripped his soul, a horror that whispered of cruel torment and suffering.

  The beasts were nearly upon him again, he saw, with another backward glance. He neared the crest of a ridge, staggering beneath the weight of his fatigue, and ran toward two large boulders that could provide slight protection on his sides. Here, he knew, he would make his final stand. And even as he neared the rocks, he felt their hot breath upon him.

  He reached the granite walls and turned, rising onto his hind legs and roaring a challenge that rattled dead leaves and shattered the night. The boldest, largest of the dark horde leapt upon him, and the bear struck savagely, his rage rising to overwhelm his horror. Then the pack was upon him, white fangs flashing viciously in the starlight, dark shapes leaping like shadows amidst the deafening din of war.

  The bear defiantly stood his ground, roaring, striking crushing blows with his heavy paws, his last painful thoughts of the father he had lost in the wilderness, wishing the old bear were by his side.

  *

  three

  A sweeping blow of the bear's paw struck a sadistic shape from the air, sprawling the wolf across the rock-strewn slope. But before the bear could see whether it lived or died, the others were upon him, covering him beneath a swirling storm of white fangs. He struck wildly in his rising fear and panic, his courage submerged beneath a wave of horror that shattered his instinct to fight.

  One huge wolf collided against his legs, and the bear staggered, swaying against the roaring tide. And with a thunderous roar he fell, half-rolling on the steep incline. He lashed out blindly at his attackers as they flooded over him, a black sea of demonic forms and slavering fangs.

  Malignant and horrible, one black wolf leapt upon his torn chest, its jaws horribly distended, prepared to draw deep blood. And the bear felt his
last desperate hopes shatter with the sight.

  Then a white avalanche of strength descended, roaring and striking, into the fray; a great silver shape that collided full against his snarling foe, sending the dark wolf careening wildly into the night. In a ferocious display of raw power the ghostly shape spun, a magnificent silver wolf, and struck another demonic shape that howled in agony and tore away.

  As if suddenly resurrected from some nightmarish land of cruelty and despair, the bear roared, and with a volcanic effort threw off another fiendish form to gain his feet. Realizing instantly that what was not against him was for him, the bear stood shoulder to shoulder with the silver wolf, and the dark wolves were shaken by the sight.

  Inspired by desperate hope and enraged by his searing wounds, the bear struck even more savagely than before. And the silver wolf also dealt deadly blows, striking like lightning to send two more of the dark pack staggering back with wounds.

  In a moment it was over. As one, the fiendish pack broke away, howling and cursing in frustration, retreating as quickly as they had come. Angry cries followed the demonic horde as they raced down the ridge, fleeing into the night to merge chaotically with the darkness.

  "Follow me!" shouted the silver wolf, and the wounded bear obeyed, too disoriented from the shock of combat to debate. And together, the silver shape leading, they ran across the ridge to fade into the treeline. The bear trailed clumsily, his great weight smashing a wide, bloody path through the forest.

  A long time they ran, until the ridge was left far behind and they arrived together, exhausted, beside a wide, moonlit stream that rumbled soothingly beneath outstretched branches of the shadowed night. Speechless and fatigued, they rested.

  Aramus lowered his head to drink from the stream, and the bear followed his motion. They drank, and rested, and drank still more until they felt their strength returning. Finally, when Aramus had recovered from the quick but savage battle, he stepped back from the stream and gazed quietly at the bear.