"No," he said quietly. "Not brave. I know fear a lot better than I know courage. Not too long ago I thought that my days of fear were over. But now I know. But I'm a lot stronger than I used to be. Now I just want to live what I believe—"
Aramus hesitated, his face suddenly more noble, more beautiful, yet sad with a sadness that transcended words. Kaleel sensed the change, the solemn pain that descended upon the silver brow.
"What is it?" the bear asked.
Aramus lowered his head, as if his thoughts were too much to endure, too much altogether.
"But there's a price to pay for living what you believe," the wolf said softly, and closed his eyes. "I have seen the bravest fall ... the bravest... the best."
Kaleel rested beside the wolf, not understanding the words but finding peace and strength in the companion' ship.
Aramus shook his head.
"1 wasn't ready for this," he said. "I've made too many mistakes. It was right to stand beside you on the hill, but we shouldn't have rested. We should have pushed on through the night. We could have made it to the North. And we shouldn't have followed the stream for so long. It trapped us and led us to this place."
Aramus looked again at the land before them. The sun was still high, but its fierce heat did not descend upon the rocky edge of the chasm. The place seemed remote from the world, submerged beneath a separate chill that conquered the day with disturbing strength. Aramus studied the forest cautiously. The trees seemed cloaked with a defiant cold, a cold that refused to retreat before the light of day. It was almost as if they stood beside a vast, eternal grave, shrouded by a pale darkness, invisible with the day but which would come alive with the night, ruling this dying land.
"I don't even know where we are," Aramus said quietly. "I've never seen this part of the Deep Woods before, and I don't like it. There's no life in this place. Nothing. Maybe we can—"
Howling fiendishly a dark wolf leaped over the edge of the chasm. Aramus roared and twisted desperately to evade the form, but its jaws tore a deep wound in his side. Aramus staggered back and fell, realizing bitterly that he had made even another mistake by failing to maintain a lookout on the gorge below.
He saw the next two movements as if they were one. The snarling black shape leaped upon him again, and then Kaleel was there, roaring and leaping forward in a single motion to strike the demonic shape full across the breast, impaling it upon his great, curved claws. The bear's mountainous strength continued the blow, hurling the creature far over the edge of the ravine, and a dying howl descended with the beast.
Instantly Aramus was on his feet.
"Run!" he shouted, sensing injury and defeat together, cursing himself for his carelessness. But Kaleel was already charging down the slope.
Aramus leaped to the cliff to chance a quick glance over the edge and caught the shocking sight of dark wolves swarming up the granite face, sinister in their silent attack.
Instantly Aramus was after Kaleel, feeling in his heart that doom was upon them. He passed the bear before it reached the trees, and turned back to see another dark shape leap atop the cliff. As the wolf caught sight of them, it unleashed a horrendous howl that boomed down the slope, reverberating against the dead trees.
"Hurry!" Aramus shouted.
Kaleel thundered past him, sweeping into the forest, and together they ran, searching for a defensive position as more cries blasted from the ridge. And in moments they burst through the barren stand, emerging into a small clearing dominated by a low, windswept hill.
"We'll fight them on the hill!" Aramus shouted.
They climbed the low ascent until they stood on the highest tactical ground, ready to meet the bloody assault. And together they turned as they reached the crest to behold malignant black forms exploding from the desolate stand, howls blasting through the glade.
Enraged, Aramus snarled savagely at the onrushing pack, and Kaleel towered upon hind legs, lowering his head to roar thunderously. The bear struck eagerly at the air, foam flecking the fiercesome, gaping fangs, its great strength aroused once more.
Slowing at the base of the hill, the wolves advanced as one force, rolling forward in a black tide of hated shapes.
Kaleel's first great blow caught a fiendish form in midair, hurling the dark creature aside. And Aramus tensed to charge at an advancing wolf, prepared to die beside his friend, when suddenly he felt something attacking from behind. Aramus whirled, far ahead of conscious thought, to glimpse a gigantic lion, if lion it could be called, descending upon Kaleel.
Sensing the attack, the bear spun, paws uplifted to strike. Yet even as Kaleel saw the horrific beast descending upon him, he staggered back, as if struck by some unseen force. The lion's massive foreleg appeared to lash out, too quick to follow with sight, and Kaleel's head was hit with a thunderous blow. As dead, the bear sprawled across the slope, a roar dying in his throat.
Aramus cried out as Kaleel rolled down the hillside, broken and unconscious, but he was unable to determine if his friend was dead or alive. Then Aramus had no more time to think as the lion turned toward him, and he knew its identity.
Incomel.
Aramus's silver eyes hardened above a defiant snarl.
More powerful, more loathsome than any mountain lion Aramus had ever known, the beast advanced with sinuous, measured steps. Massive and black, the huge rolling muscles of its gigantic form coiled and swelled with each imperious step, flexing with unimaginable strength; strength never used and never needed to destroy anything that lived. And an aspect of violence cloaked its entire essence; a visible violence born from violent needs and flamed hot by the pure release of deadly force, and death. The beast advanced until it stood before Aramus, horrible in its stillness, even its motionless stance whispering of unearthly power and strength.
The lion's gaze burned, shifting in shades, as if a thousand demonic lights danced within. Then it tilted its massive head and spoke.
"So ... we stand against each other," the deep voice intoned, echoing with suppressed strength. "A brave servant of the Lightmaker and a poor, deceived servant of the Dark Lord. Which one of us shall leave this lonely place?"
Aramus said nothing, but he knew this was the end of his life. His hopes were as dead as he soon would be.
Incomel laughed, leaving even the daylight distant and pale with its malignant presence. Aramus sensed that the wind had fallen still, as if held back by some sinister force.
Aramus searched for words to signal his defiance, but all he could remember were those closest to his heart; his fiercest faith, his strongest love. For all else passed away before the beast.
"I am Aramus," he said, "son of Gianavel, a servant of the Lightmaker. And—"
Incomel snarled, trembling the ground beneath them and Aramus instinctively dropped lower in his stance, snarling in return, flaming with fear.
Incomel laughed mockingly.
"What do you believe?" it rasped.
Aramus saw nothing but the great, distended fangs. Fearfully he weighed his words before he spoke.
"I am a servant ... of the Lightmaker."
Aramus never saw the blow that struck him but the thunderous impact hurled him from the ridge. In the next instant he was sprawling wildly down the hillside, spinning and careening off dark wolves that scattered beneath his chaotic descent. Then he reached the base, crashing heavily into a granite slab.
Dazed and disoriented, Aramus staggered blindly to his feet, unable to find the direction from which he had come. He stood on shocked legs, struggling painfully for breath even as a lancing wound pierced his side. He swayed unsteadily, catching brief, shallow snatches of air with each heaving effort. And through a red haze he saw Incomel standing before him again.
Its malevolent eyes burned with sadistic pleasure, measuring his agony. And its quiet words seethed with hate.
"What do you believe?"
Aramus blinked, barely beginning to catch his breath, and he felt his ribs bleeding from the piercing talons. W
ithout thought a snarl distorted his face as he cast his words.
"I am ... a servant—"
Aramus saw the blow this time and spun sideways but Incomel was lightning and the great force caught him across the neck. For a whirling, timeless instant Aramus felt as if he had been snatched up by a storm, spun through the air in a twisting wind, and smashed against the earth. He did not know how he landed, or where, but the bruising concussion left him dazed, on his side, his silver mane covered with dust. Dimly conscious, unable to speak, unable to think, Aramus struggled numbly to his feet and saw the lion before him again, its eyes glimmering with cruel mirth.
Painfully, Aramus shook his head, shocked, and could not return the stare. He lowered his head, struggling to breathe again, swaying unsteadily. He felt as if his strength had been obliterated by those colossal blows, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. He tried to focus, raised his head with an effort, and beheld the demonic gaze directed hatefully upon him.
Aramus did not want to remove his eyes from the lion's monstrous shape, but he chanced a quick glance toward Kaleel. The bear was staggering up slowly from the cold ground, casting frightened and stunned looks about, as if searching for the horrendous beast that had struck him down. And though Incomel seemed aware of the bear's movements, it did not turn.
"Corbis has instructed me to bring you to the mountain," it growled, its jagged jaws threatening Aramus for a long, chilling instant, its guttural roar trembling the ground beneath them. "So you will come with me or I will destroy you. Do you understand?"
Aramus knew he would live or die with his words. He glanced again at Kaleel, saddened that his poor leadership had brought them to this peril. Then he looked again to Incomel, who stood ready to drench the barren ground with their blood.
"And the bear?" asked Aramus.
Incomel threw a cold glance at Kaleel.
"He dies. Like his father."
Aramus hesitated, understanding for the first time the true advantage of tactics in this cruel war. He knew that Incomel feared Corbis, the one creature even more terrible in its wrath. And Aramus realized that, with cunning, perhaps there was something to be gained. He looked fully into the lion's glowering gaze.
"Bring the bear with us, and I will go," he said. "But if you harm him, I will fight, and you'll have to kill me. And that will not please Corbis."
Incomel’s growl rumbled in its deep throat, though its stance remained scornful and imperious. Then it smiled, although the jagged grimace never reached the murderous gaze.
"So, you will outsmart poor Incomel?"
Aramus said nothing.
And Incomel laughed: a roaring, demonic laugh that caused Aramus's mane to bristle. For a moment the beast roared on in its mirth, until the laughter died, and it heaved a deep breath of the pale air, enjoying its amusement.
"At least you have spirit," it intoned, and paused a moment longer. Then it looked at the sky, setting defiant eyes against the heavens. "The bear may come with you," it added, regarding Aramus once more. "Whether I kill one of you, or both, does not matter to me. But I don't want to drag your dead body all the way to the Abyss."
Incomel turned to Kaleel.
"Come."
For the briefest moment Kaleel seemed ready to test his strength once more against the lion. The bear's dark eyes focused intently on the beast, struggling to contain some devastating rage, some vengeful wrath that threatened to overcome his control.
Kaleel's face seemed as stone when he spoke.
"The Lightmaker will make you pay for my father's death," he growled.
Incomel's gaze revealed nothing.
A moment more did the tension last, with Incomel poised to strike a blow that would kill like lightning. Kaleel cast a smoldering look toward Aramus, who shook his head sharply. And finally, slowly, the bear lowered his gaze to the ground, and Aramus nodded, breathing easier. He knew that the Lightmaker might yet provide a chance to overcome this cruel enemy. But not here, and not now.
Undisturbed by the bear's challenge, Incomel turned and moved menacingly down the hill, casting a despising glance toward the fiendish pack as if it might slay them together with a look. The wolves cringed as one, falling silently back.
Kaleel and Aramus followed brokenly in the lion's wake, and in a moment they were enveloped by the desolate land; a disturbing, evil land that stretched into nothingness, silent and dead, tomblike and still, as if everything living had been slain together and crushed into dust by some hellish force, and the land alone remained, mourning its loss of life.
♦ ♦ ♦
Unseen and unheard, the burly shape rose cautiously from behind the cluster of boulders bordering the glade, gazing intently at the silver shape being led away.
Windgate had not known what had compelled him to leave the safety of the caves earlier in the day. He only knew that he had felt driven to venture north into this oppressive wilderness, greatly troubled in spirit. And now, with the savage battle he had just witnessed he sensed that, at last, the true reason for his mysterious journey was clear.
Windgate knew that the silver wolf had somehow stood beside Saul in his death, for the wolf had brought Saul's body home from the Deep Woods. And now the wolf was a prisoner of those same dark forces that had killed Saul. Windgate frowned as he watched the pack disappearing into the forest. And he knew that a debt of service remained; a debt that he would pay for his fallen king.
Even as Windgate watched, fearfully weighing the heavy task before him, he shifted in his quiet stance. It would not be easy to help the silver wolf; unknown dangers and unlimited powers were locked in some conflict that might well destroy the land. And he was no match for wolves. But even as the big hare considered the precious price he might pay, he laughed scornfully, knowing that he would never retreat from those who had slain Saul.
For a brief moment more Windgate waited, until the dark shapes were lost in the distant trees, pursuing a narrow trail far into the Deep Woods. Then he stepped slowly forward, moving from behind his place of concealment with cautious grace.
Without cover he crossed the clearing, knowing that any casual, backwards glance from the disappearing pack would instantly reveal his presence. But his choice was made, his way clear. And in a moment he had crossed the small glade, defiantly following the silver wolf into an immense and foreboding forest of graves.
*
six
Gianavel relentlessly tracked the faint scent, following the trail across wide fields of melting snow, through ragged forests, spectral and haunting in the haggard light of the moon, until day had dawned with a crimson sun. And still, unresting and unyielding, the old wolf steadfastly pursued the path that would take him to his son.
Gray and massive in the ascending sun, Gianavel tracked with every skill of his long years, making no sound, leaving no sign and always careful the wind did not carry his scent before him. On and on the old wolf moved with ghostly stealth, sacrificing haste for caution. He was increasingly anxious to find his son, but his disciplined mind would not forget wisdom and patience. Instead, he grew even more methodical, channeling his great concern into his strength, allowing no rest, wasting no time, and missing nothing that marked the faint trail.
With long bounds he followed it up the shattered granite cliff that bordered a stream to emerge cautiously on the summit, for experience warned him that the narrow ledge was a likely spot for an ambush, but as he landed, ready to meet any threat, he saw that he was alone.
Not persuaded so quickly, Gianavel stood listening, reading the terrain before him, a frown darkening his face. The land stretched out with gravelike stillness, and the old wolf knew he stood near the center of the Deep Woods. And though he met no attack, he felt a sinister sensation, a sensation of disturbing intensity. He scowled, glaring into the surrounding forest, observing nothing but perceiving a deadly and faintly familiar threat in the pale air. He sensed something unearthly was close beside him, or had passed this way not long before. And
the knowledge frightened him, for he knew that Aramus had also come this way.
Cautiously he moved down the hill, tracking his son, until he came into a small clearing dominated by a low hill. Head bowed and eyes wary, Gianavel moved to the hill, searching, searching. And in moments he found the blood of his son, beside the scent of ... Incomel.
Even as he found his son's blood and the hellish scent, Gianavel's great fangs emerged in a rumbling snarl, and the gray eyes smoldered, like thunderclouds struggling to contain the storm within. He scanned the surrounding woodline, hoping there would indeed be an ambush so that he might release his anger. But there was nothing. Only tracks that led on into the forest, toward the heart of the Deep Woods—the Abyss.
For a long, tense moment Gianavel stood, breathing heavily in his wrath, until his spirit began to still his blood, enabling him to think clearly. Strength would not deliver, he knew. Flesh would never prevail against spiritual forces more powerful than flesh.
Briefly Gianavel closed his eyes, searching his heart, communing with the spirit of the Lightmaker who had long ago graced him with wisdom and strength. Then, staring across the desolation, his mind suddenly filled with the image of the son he loved more than life. The old wolf’s love for his child was like a mortal wound and his breath caught in his massive chest, pained to know that his son had been crushed by the cruel power of the Beast. And Gianavel bowed his head, enduring his wounding grief.
A long time the great gray wolf stood, head lowered, while the lonely darkness thickened about him and the Lightmaker's spirit rose within, strengthening his heart as it had strengthened him for long years past. Gianavel nodded, knowing his God as he would know an old friend, finding all that he sought in that sacred life. And when the sun had descended well below the soundless horizon, the old wolf raised his head again.
Silently Gianavel moved into the darkened forest, hunting as before, with head bowed and eyes wary. And then, slowly, he increased his pace until streams and distant hills grew visible, neared, and passed, but his endurance did not waver. Driven by the power within him, the old wolf increased his speed even more, and more until he ran with powerful, leaping strides that mysteriously knew no fatigue and no pain, carrying him through the darkness with unerring skill, releasing the full measure of a strength that hurled his ghostly shape through the night like the wrath of a vengeful God, coming to deliver justice to the Earth.
A Wolf Story Page 10