A Wolf Story

by James Byron Huggins

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  Light died beneath a darkness that began long before the sun descended upon the foreboding, oppressive hills. Aramus had felt the heaviness of the night even as he traveled through the light, disturbed and confused by the endless sea of nothingness that enveloped him on all sides.

  In every place he looked, sweeping into the distance, he saw no living creature, no green leaf. Even the fallen limbs that covered the land like a gray, wrinkled blanket were dry and wasted from long death. The entire forest was drained of life, as if all beauty, all hope, had been mercilessly crushed from everything that lived.

  Desperate for encouragement and strength, Aramus thought back to the battle in the glade when Saul had stood beside him, and he struggled to remember all he had learned from the heroic hare. But somehow, Saul's wisdom was drowned out by the chaos within his mind.

  Broken in heart and hope, Aramus moved onward with the menacing escort. Step by step, he was worn down by his doubts, his guilt, as they journeyed across the vast landscape that stretched, barren and desolate, into only more nothingness. As far as he could see there was silence, with solemn forests marking an endless grave. Not even a sparrow or swallow could be heard in the gray evening light.

  Unearthly, unreal and unendurable, the land oppressed him. And as they journeyed ever deeper into the foreboding darkness, Aramus felt something within him growing colder and more distant from that source of strength he had cherished only days before, his weakness made greater by the knowledge that he would soon stand before Corbis.

  Together the thoughts tore at his heart until he felt an overwhelming panic rising in his soul, a panic of dread expectation. In agony he remembered his father, who might even now be searching for him. But even as that desperate hope strengthened his heart, the voice of raging, screaming doubt rose in his mind, telling him that Gianavel would never find him, or even dare to follow him into this ghastly land. And in moments Aramus was convinced that, perhaps, it was true: he was lost and alone in this hateful place.

  In his suffering Aramus knew the true weaknesses of his flesh, understanding how much within his heart remained like the land surrounding him, saddened and starving for the force that would give it life. Yet in his spirit, through some last, surviving sense that defied the gathering gloom, Aramus perceived that, even as a deeper life and victory had been delivered unto him in his battle with Baalkor, a deeper life and victory would also be delivered to him in this persecution, if he would only hold to what he believed.

  With each weary stride Aramus had watched a mountainous glacier of black ice, crowned by darkened storm clouds, coming closer. Now, as the sun finished its slow descent, they began to climb the steep path that led to the icy dome, Aramus following in a daze until the ground lay hidden beneath the hardening ice and steadily falling snow.

  Aramus knew that they were climbing above the treeline where nothing but rocks and snow and ice could endure. Everything around him was as hard and sharp as the black ice that hung from the sweeping cliffs, lending an indescribable aspect of doom. Aramus faltered, stumbling, as his wounds and deep fatigue weighed him down and the trail grew more difficult. He was tired now and needed to rest, but he could not rest, driven on by these cruel creatures of darkness.

  On and on they climbed, slashed by the lightning and ice that descended hatefully from the darkness crowning the nightmarish peak. The storm seemed eternal, and Aramus had to force himself to walk, shivering beneath the embracing arctic air that grew colder with each tortured step. He concentrated on climbing, his exhausted gaze fixed solidly before him, his numb mind focusing on his efforts. A long time he continued at his bone-weary pace, oblivious to how far they traveled or how high they climbed, following whatever dark shape moved before him, dark shapes that seemed to grow stronger and fiercer with each step they took toward the icy summit.

  Yet as they crossed a jagged section of black granite, Aramus lifted his head, suddenly sparked by a dynamic, mysterious strength. Despite his fatigue, the silver wolf raised his eyes to see that the trail ran directly beneath a wide ledge, flat and black in the rising moon. The ledge towered commandingly above the path and seemed accessible only by way of a steep slope that glistened with dark ice. Strangely curious, Aramus studied the gloomy precipice, silver eyes memorizing every wrinkle of the expansive ridge. Then, as suddenly as the mysterious strength had come upon him, it passed, and he lowered his eyes to the trail.

  Finally, when they had climbed high onto the mountain, Aramus saw that they were emerging onto an icy ledge; a white, frostbitten plateau that led to a brooding black cave. Guarded by dark wolves, the sepulchral entrance was framed by the pale light of night.

  Even as Aramus saw the cave he knew that he had seen it before, in his nightmare beside the stream. Unconsciously he halted, staring at the cavern, listening intently to thoughts that promised him failure and pain and persecution beyond all endurance. And as he hesitated, he sensed that his newborn faith, the faith he had gained beside Saul, was nearly exhausted. His fatigue and his pain and the consuming hopelessness of his fears only confirmed what his dark thoughts accused: that here was the end of all hope, the beginning of a suffering he had never known or imagined.

  Incomel turned, regarding Aramus and Kaleel with gleaming eyes. A smile twisted the cruel mouth, and the lion looked into the cave, then back again.

  "You fear what dwells within?" the creature rasped. "And well you should. For in a moment you will stand living before the throne of Corbis. And then you will die."

  Casting a contemptuous smile, the lion turned and walked into the cave. And as if compelled by some dark, supernatural dread, Aramus followed, beside Kaleel, and was swallowed by the grave.

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  Windgate circled the blackened dome of ice, cautiously avoiding the cavern entrance. Moving with long bounds, remaining on hardened ice to avoid tracks, he picked a soundless path along the slope, moving up and down the treacherous incline, searching for what he knew was there.

  Following the silver wolf to the mountain had not been easy. Often and with alarming haste he had been forced to find a cunning hiding place to avoid marauding wolves abroad in the land. But he had remained undetected, his long experience and unflinching nerve serving him well.

  Only moments before, concealed within a snowy mound near the entrance, he had watched the silver wolf descend into the pit. And even there he would follow, if he could only find a way.

  But the entrance was too well-guarded. There would be another way, he knew. And with silent, cautious movements, he began to circle the mountain's frozen dome. Yet even as he ascended the slope, ice and sleet and the howling wind lashed savagely at his frozen fur, and he began to shiver strongly from the cold.

  Descending with crushing strength, the ice storm that crowned the mountain had suddenly released its full strength upon him.

  Shivering, Windgate resisted the freezing embrace that coated his fur, using the agony of the killing cold to make himself more determined, more methodical, in his search. Quickly he moved up the slope and down, careful to keep his scent from the cavern entrance. And though he moved with desperate speed, he still failed to find what he sought.

  Jagged lightning blazed across the blackened sky as if the mountain were angry at his secret approach, and a hideous rage electrified the air. Windgate sensed the hellish anger, and he laughed, even as his shivering increased and the gloom enclosed him in a deathly shroud. Defiantly he continued his savage hunt, moving rapidly, relentlessly, using even the brief lightning to spy out the deep crevices hidden by shadow.

  For an eternity, it seemed, he searched and searched until finally, despite his fierce resolve, Windgate began to feel a deep exhaustion in his limbs, and his violent shivering began to slow. Yet he continued to move, slower now, and with clumsy steps, dimly perceiving that his thoughts were becoming disjointed and confused, as if his mind were freezing with his blood.

  On and on he stumbled, searching across the frozen
dome, aware that his once-careful movements were becoming reckless. His efforts seemed suicidal, but somewhere in his frozen mind he knew that if he did not soon find a way into the mountain, he would die on this blackened ice. And as he wearily crossed a sharp ridge, the jagged edge hardened by the killing wind that chilled him deep with cold frost, he found it.

  Hidden within the obscure shadow of an icy slab, a darkened pit loomed open and unguarded before him. Windgate smiled at the carelessness, laughing silently into the mist that howled across him. Then he scowled, brown eyes gleaming fiercely as he crept stealthily forward, and was submerged by a darkness beyond anything he had ever known.

  *

  seven

  Alone in the vast Abyss, Aramus sensed the end of all things. The air was still, but the darkness lived. Thicker, more substantial than darkness, it seemed to ebb and flow, struggling to be unleashed.

  Silver eyes adjusting to the thick gloom, Aramus rested on the cold granite floor, every sense alert to detect motion or life in the cavern. A ghastly light, pale and unnatural, hung like frost in the tomblike air, but there was nothing he could see or hear in the shadowy gloom.

  Aramus did not know where the wolves had taken Kaleel. He hoped his friend was unharmed, but their separation in the darkness had been so silent and fast that before Aramus realized what had happened, he was standing alone in the cavern. Even Incomel had slid nervously into the shadows.

  Aramus felt a soft wind stirring from some unseen corridor, and he sniffed. Strange scents permeated the cavern, making identification difficult, but Aramus found Baalkor's scent, and Incomel's. And other scents were strong, as if the creatures waited, silent and close.

  His hopes crushed, Aramus lowered his head, pondering his dark fate, a fate so different from what he had envisioned only days before. After his victorious battle with Baalkor he had dreamed of returning home to a new life, a life of leadership and happiness. Now all his dreams were gone, gone, leaving only memories to ease the loneliness in his soul.

  Suddenly an appalling scent emerged from the stygian gloom before him. Instantly, mane bristling, Aramus was on his feet, snarling at the horrifying presence. Prehistoric and primordial, the scent held the taste of something hellishly evil, something that worshiped dead things and feasted on the living.

  Even stronger than before, the darkness about Aramus seemed to condense, as if demonic strength were claiming corporeal form, congealing into a burdening mass that weighed down his flesh as closely as horror weighed down his heart. And as the conquering black tide swirled about him, dominating the frosty light, Aramus strained to see the shape that was commanding the Night.

  Almost before he realized what he beheld, a faint outline loomed dimly visible before him: a colossal, godlike entity that rested, unmoving, upon a gigantic throne of black granite. Aramus could not comprehend how the massive creature had moved upon him without sound. But it was suddenly there, and it had not been there before. Aramus blinked, focusing, his keen eyes scanning its gigantic girth.

  Monstrous and brooding, the entity dissolved into the darkness, blending into the blackness of the cavern, as if it were one with the Abyss. Yet the massive head was visible, outlined by the faint gray light.

  Aramus counted the moments with nervous breaths, waiting, and watching, his mind beyond fear as he had known it. Whether the thing was bear or lion or god he did not know, but it was before him. And standing in its unholy presence he felt an awesome and unreal power, as if he stood before the full scope of created might, the end of all strength.

  Mountainously, rumbling with brute, beastly power, the colossus shifted. A cavernous breath sighed into the tomblike air, weary and aged. And Aramus knew that he stood before Corbis, chief of the Dark Council.

  "You bleed," a ponderous voice echoed in the Abyss.

  Aramus waited, silent.

  "So..." it whispered. "You are the son of Gianavel."

  Aramus struggled to speak.

  "I am the son of Gianavel," he said quietly. "And like my father, I defy you."

  Corbis's thunderous laugh blasted past him, hot with hate.

  "Defy me?" the voice continued, amused. "A wolf cub defies me?"

  Aramus did not know how to reply. Vaguely, he expected to be struck down by the Beast. But Corbis only laughed.

  "And what do you defy?" the Beast asked softly,

  Aramus stared, confused.

  "Do you think darkness dwells only within the Abyss?" the voice whispered. "No, young cub, the darkness that embraces you even now is only the darkness of your heart. Yes, listen closely, and you'll know my words are true. You alone know your own lusts, your failures, your secret desires. But you know that they rule your heart. For how often have you enjoyed those hidden pleasures, young cub? How often have you turned your back on what you knew was right? Yes, many, many times. I know you. I know you, even as I know myself. How often have you embraced evil when you could have chosen good? Is that not the darkness of your heart?"

  A rumbling laugh shook the cavern.

  "Behold ... the darkness of your heart."

  Aramus opened his mouth to speak, but his thoughts were instantly submerged beneath a swirling darkness that burst forth from the cavern and into his mind, drowning his thoughts beneath a cascade of accusing voices, condemning him for every failure, every evil desire, conceived or imagined, and every careless word. For a moment Aramus resisted, but the attack was overwhelming, its strength beyond the strength of flesh to endure.

  Corbis continued, commanding and unrelenting.

  "Yes, behold, young cub. Darkness shall always win in the end. There is no power that can defy the Dark Lord. But still you refuse, don't you? Yes, I sense your spirit resisting the Dark Lord's might. Then listen to your heart, and it shall teach you. For darkness is the first power, and the last. It has always ruled your heart, and always shall. Nothing can resist."

  Silver eyes focused fiercely upon the Beast.

  "Saul ... resisted," Aramus whispered. "He never ... surrendered."

  Corbis seemed moved by the quiet words. And Aramus felt, even through the darkness, an immense power suddenly stir within the colossus; something cosmic, infinite and irresistible.

  "Yes ... the great Saul," Corbis muttered, a hated remembrance echoing in the words. "And tell me, where is the great Saul now? He is dead, destroyed by his own stupidity and cut to pieces while he lived! Don't be a fool, young cub, as he was. Serve me! Cease this foolish resistance!"

  Aramus stared fully into the hated glare.

  "I will serve ... the Lightmaker," he whispered, but felt his strength crumbling under the long physical strain of his ordeal. "My life is with him. You have ... no real power."

  "Power?" Corbis laughed, hateful and cold. "Behold ... power!"

  Suddenly memories long dead and long buried were resurrected together, reminding Aramus of all he had ever loved, and lost. Aramus closed his eyes against the pain, lowering his head, groaning with wounds that cut deeper than fang ever could. He shook his head, trying to throw off the true horrors of his life. But when he concentrated, his thoughts were like nothing at all. Corbis laughed again, invading his mind with the sadistic mirth. Aramus felt as if he stood alone, in space, with only the Beast before him.

  "I ... still ... resist you," Aramus said softly, though his voice sounded muffled and indistinct.

  "Then you must understand ... what you resist," whispered the Beast. And the wolf's silver mane shivered, as if from a dark wind.

  Submerged within the hideousness of its hate, Aramus sensed a vision rising before him, a vision of a wide, expansive darkness that unfolded, crushing the cold earth beneath a merciless wrath. And all flesh was cast down together beneath the darkness. And the night was filled with hopeless cries and hopeless prayers, each voice a merciful plea, but only darkness answered. Aramus saw the darkness sweep across the earth, echoing with shrieks of pain, and suffering, and pain again. And all the living beheld one another in their fear, saw the hopele
ssness of their lives, and there was horror and madness and death. Yet there was no war, for life and death and treasures together had become meaningless beneath the domination of night. And those who were still living looked upon each other with faces of flame, amazed at the terror that had befallen them, while suffering winds swept barren beneath the moonless sky, bearing nothing with the pale air but the doom of lost and lonely souls, alone in the endless void. And on and on the darkness swept, as day and light were forgotten, defeated by the power of Night that slowed the earth, slowed it, until all that was, was no more.

  "So ... now you know," Corbis's voice echoed in the stillness. "And do you still resist that force which shall be the end of all things? Or will you rule beside me in the world to come? What shall it be, young cub? Shall it be life? Or shall it be death?"

  Aramus's thoughts were lost beneath the darkness sweeping across his mind. So confused, so defeated was he that he could not remember a time when he had been victorious over his fears. This conflict was beyond him, beyond his strength, beyond his years, beyond all the wisdom and knowledge he possessed. He opened his mouth to speak, and realized he was only staring vacantly at Corbis. Yet, with a trembling effort, Aramus managed a word, hardly remembering the question but knowing that his answer must be somehow defiant.

  "Death," he said weakly.

  Corbis glowered upon him, the brooding frown casting a cold presence across the cavern.

  "So shall it be," came the godlike whisper. "Yet 1 will not stir my strength to destroy you. When Baalkor returns from the border of your mountain home, he shall spill your blood in the Abyss."