A Wolf Story

by James Byron Huggins

  Silently, the old wolf stood, hidden within the shadow of an ancient elm. And as the long moments passed he prayed, asking the Lightmaker to conceal his presence.

  A long time the old wolf stood, acutely searching the source of every whispered sound, his heart beating heavily in his massive chest. His breathing grew strained and tense, but still he did not turn his shaggy gray head for a better look at the darkened ridge. He knew that patience and discipline would determine the victor of this battle.

  Then, as if a living shadow had separated from the darkness, Gianavel suddenly saw a faint movement.

  Quickly he focused on the shape, previously obscured within the greater gloom of the hillside, and it rapidly grew clearer. The old wolf read every shade, every pattern of darkness surrounding the shape. And as the moments passed he began to recognize the dim outline of a great, lionlike beast standing silently on the slope. Though the beast was partially hidden by boulders and shattered rock, Gianavel recognized its dark aspect. And he knew that if Incomel had not made the mistake of moving, he would never have seen it at all.

  Ages, it seemed, the lion stood upon the hill, motionless again in the darkness. And it stood for so long that, had Gianavel not already felt its hideous strength, he would have doubted that he had truly seen the slight movement. He would have doubted that the shadow had ever shifted, would have suspected that it had all been a trick of his tired eyes. But the great wolf knew in his heart that the lion was there. It had made one mistake. But it was enough.

  Long years of hard discipline gave Gianavel the edge, allowing him to remain still, his breath so hushed, so shallow, that not even his acute ears could detect any sound. And finally, after an eternity of watchful tension, the lion turned soundlessly on the hillside, moving away, and vanished over the ridge.

  Yet, still, Gianavel did not react. Endlessly patient, he stood in the night, attempting to detect another unseen presence, wary of a trap. His gray eyes searched the shadows with intensified alertness, leaving nothing unexplored.

  Only after his cautious wisdom was satisfied did the old wolf finally move again, stepping in absolute silence, an old gray ghost that defied the dead, conquering demons and flesh together with his spirit and skill.

  *

  nine

  Cunningly concealed beneath a slab of black ice, Windgate waited and watched as a pale dawn rose above the mountain, casting a slight hue through the storm clouds.

  Breathing hard, he gathered his strength, recovering from the ordeal of descending the path from the Abyss. For only by the boldest of risks had he narrowly avoided two wolf packs, once desperately throwing himself beneath a sheet of dark ice that rested on the trail itself, so that the wolves almost stepped upon his still form.

  How the dark sentinels missed his scent, Windgate would never know, but they had passed over him in ignorance as he lay, shivering, underneath the ice. Nervous and exhausted, anticipating at any moment a fatal attack, he had finally reached the plateau as the last stars vanished from the night sky.

  And now he waited, patiently and silently, for another nightfall, knowing that Gianavel would not come up the path in the revealing light of day. He shifted beneath the cold concealment, fighting off the chill that crept upon him from the blackened ice, and wondered how long he could last before his senses were numbed by the merciless cold. He glanced up at the dark clouds encircling the mountain, crowning the glacier in a storm of lightning and snow and ice. And he frowned, despising their strength. Then he looked back to the trail beneath him.

  Fighting off sleep, Windgate struggled to remain alert, knowing that his scent and tracks still marked his path to the plateau. Eventually, he knew, he would be discovered. And as the thought came upon him, he looked back over his shoulder at his escape route.

  A narrow ledge, treacherous and glazed with ice, began behind him, running alongside a sheer cliff that bordered a gaping chasm. Windgate had carefully studied the ledge after he had arrived, calculating that he could negotiate the path safely enough, though any creature of size would be hard put to pursue. On impulse, the big hare glanced into the chasm, deep and frightening and heavy with snow. And he smiled, laughing silently. He would like to see a wolf follow him over that.

  The trio of dark wolves were beneath him almost before Windgate heard their muffled steps. Cautiously, he peered down upon the trail from the shadow of his icy lair.

  The wolves were studying the tiny tracks that ran up the slope to his place of hiding. Dark eyes peered suspiciously upward as they searched along the plateau.

  Windgate did not move. He knew that, even though he was hidden well within the shadows, any sudden movement would reveal his presence. Motionless, as motionless as the shadows that shrouded him, he waited, and stared back.

  Below, the dark muscular forms tensed, as if debating whether to explore the curious tracks or resume their patrol. Windgate watched their deliberation in strained silence, knowing that, while difficult, it would not be impossible for a wolf to pursue him along his escape route. And as the moments passed, he unconsciously scowled at the beasts, beginning to hope that they would, indeed, pursue him along the narrow trail. For with cunning and courage, he might take one of them with him over the edge. He smiled grimly.

  Death would be sweet in such a bitter embrace.

  Finally, the sentries began to slowly climb the narrow slope, following the trampled snow to discover the cause of the curious tracks.

  Moving with experienced stealth, Windgate eased backwards from beneath the blackened slab until he stood unseen on the plateau. Then he bounded quickly and quietly to the chasm, its icy depths hidden beneath clouds, and leaped onto the ledge.

  So narrowly and slenderly did the ledge slant away from the slope that Windgate had trouble maintaining balance. But he knew he had only moments before the wolves emerged upon the plateau and saw his fleeing form, so he raced down the edge, intent on rounding a bend in the chasm wall before they saw him. If they did not observe his retreat, they might be more reluctant to pursue.

  Concentrating, he bounded along the ledge through the first sharp bend, hoping that the slender path might eventually widen, allowing secure purchase. But as he passed the curve, he saw that the trail only twisted on and on along the darkened wall, narrow and treacherous and broken.

  He stopped and waited on the far side of the wall, listening to the wolves as they reached the plateau and began pacing near the ledge, knowing his direction but hesitant to pursue along the treacherous path. He laughed silently, feeling safe once again. He would rest here until they decided to return to their patrol. Then he would resume his watch for Gianavel.

  As Windgate waited, he looked out across the chasm, studying the relentless ice walls, cold and cruel and conquering, and he was strangely awed by the desolation, and saddened by the depth of the power before him. For it seemed, in the timeless solitude of the moment, that nothing could resist such cruelty, such ageless might. At once and in total, Windgate thought he perceived the true scope of the Dark Lord's wrath. And for one brief moment, as he stood alone and cold and isolated on that perilous edge of the void, he feared that perhaps, indeed, the forces of darkness would prove stronger in the end.

  Then, almost with thought, a resolute spirit flooded through him, strengthening him with that mysterious power that always enabled him to stand firm when his flesh was afraid. Windgate had never really understood that unknown power, how it encouraged him or what awakened its strength. But he knew that it was the Lightmaker's touch. And, still, after all these years, he was amazed at how that spirit caused him to stand when his knees trembled.

  He turned, intending to chance a quick look at the plateau, when he spotted a narrow crevice behind him, all but concealed by overhanging ice. Alarmed that he had not noticed the cleft earlier, he studied the opening suspiciously.

  Narrow and ominous, the slender cleft was slashed viciously with ice. And as he looked closer, Windgate realized that he had not earlier seen the narrow o
pening because it was hidden well behind an outcropping of black rock.

  Carefully Windgate crept forward, strangely frightened but intrigued by the cave. He knew that it would be a good hiding place. For even if the dark wolves found the courage to pursue him along the ledge, they would not likely come this far. And if they chanced a cautious look around the bend, they would still not see this place of concealment, hidden from that direction by ice and rock. They would see only the narrow trail running endlessly and dangerously along the chasm wall.

  Wasting no time once his decision was made, Windgate leapt through the narrow entrance and turned, positioning himself to evade the chilling wind. Almost as soon as he was inside the cavern, a wave of contentment swept over his frosted form, making him feel suddenly warmer, safer. Quietly and comfortably he rested, enjoying his satisfaction in having escaped the cold wind and the wolves with his daring move.

  It was a long time before he felt, with a sudden thrill of fear, the stare that rested on his back. And then a wolf scent reached him, so real and so close that he almost leapt, livid with fear, back upon the ledge. But even as he knew the scent, Windgate realized that something was strangely wrong or he would have already been attacked.

  Slowly, eyes moving far ahead of his stiffening flesh, Windgate turned, searching, dreading what he might find. And behind him, standing silently in the gloom of the icy cavern, he saw it.

  Gigantic and majestic, the gray wolf stood in the darkness, motionless as the granite walls. Its massive form struck Windgate with both fear and relief, for even in the shadows he knew the symmetry of that powerful frame, recognizing instantly the father from the son.

  Yet, as Windgate looked more closely, the old wolf seemed somehow weary and haggard. The stern face drawn, as if from the ordeal of a long and difficult journey. And the gray coat was ragged, windblown, and torn with thorns.

  Windgate turned to face the great wolf, who watched him through veiled eyes. No trace of emotion or threat was visible in that gray visage, and Windgate knew that here was a creature who, dangerous though he could be, bore no ill will toward the world. Then, with cautious steps, Windgate approached the great form, and the stern gray head bowed, respectful and kind.

  Windgate's words trembled as he spoke.

  "I am Windgate, king of the Colony near the Deep Woods," he whispered. "And I bear words for Gianavel ... from his son."

  Windgate felt as if the old wolf had instantly moved closer, though he knew it had remained still. Then the gray eyes narrowed, seeming to know far more than they revealed. And the kingly face smiled down upon him.

  "I am Gianavel."

  *

  ten

  Strange days," Windgate whispered. "I would never have found you if the Lightmaker had not led me to this crevice. I have been waiting and watching for you to approach the mountain. I didn't think you would already be upon the ice."

  "I came upon the ledge last night," the great wolf said quietly. "I know that I am close to the Abyss. I have been here before."

  Windgate glanced over his shoulder at the narrow, icy ledge and wondered at the dauntless courage that had enabled the great wolf to hazard that treacherous trail, hampered by darkness. Yet Gianavel seemed to think nothing of the task, his stern visage despising the challenge of the ice and ledge and mountain together. His gray eyes gazed down, commanding and inspiring.

  "And what do you know of my son?" Gianavel asked.

  Even standing in the presence of this natural enemy, Windgate sensed no danger. Rather, he felt accepted and shielded by the power of the great wolf, embraced by the warmth of its spirit and strengthened by its majestic presence.

  "He is a prisoner in the Abyss," Windgate said, his words spilling out rapidly, "but I have found a secret entrance – a way that is unguarded! Still, Aramus would not leave without another who is being held there. He is Kaleel, the bear."

  Gianavel nodded solemnly, as if confirming what he had long suspected.

  "Aramus has befriended the bear," he said. "I perceived as much. I have followed their scent together since their first battle on the ridge. But how is my child? I know he fought with Incomel in the forest."

  "His wounds are not great," said Windgate. "He will survive. But he says that Baalkor is to kill him when he returns. As I said, I tried to get him to come with me but he wouldn't leave Kaleel. So he sent me to warn you. This is a trap. Corbis does not care about Aramus. Corbis wants you. All this has been a trick to lure you here. I overheard Corbis when he was talking with Incomel. The lion is supposed to hunt you down. They know you are going to come for Aramus. Incomel is hunting you even now."

  Gianavel shook his head.

  "Incomel will hunt for me only at night, hoping the darkness will give him the power he needs to overcome me. We have many hours of daylight remaining, so we don't have to worry about him until then. He will stay within the Abyss during the light."

  Windgate scowled, considering.

  "But he fought with Aramus in the light," he said.

  "He was not afraid of Aramus," said Gianavel, simply. "Now tell me; where are they keeping my son and where is the bear?"

  "1 couldn't find the bear. But Aramus is not far from the throne of Corbis. There are guards everywhere. It is no easy thing to get close to him. But I know the way! We can go there now!"

  Gianavel shook his head.

  "No. Not now. Incomel remains within the Abyss. If we are discovered, with the lion inside the cave, we will not survive the fight. My pack is coming. Today, or tonight at the latest. Then we will have strength on our side. Did you say that Baalkor returns soon?"

  "Yes. Perhaps tonight."

  "Then we'll wait until tonight. And if Baalkor returns early, then we must attack early even if we must attack without the pack."

  Gianavel paused, seeming to debate within himself.

  "I perceive that doom is upon the Dark Council. And I have sensed that the Lightmaker will destroy them before this fight is finished. But we must do all that flesh can do. We can't do anything about Corbis. He will not come out of the Abyss. And Baalkor isn't here, so we can't do anything about him. Incomel, alone, remains. If the lion is gone, then our chances of victory will be greater."

  Gianavel gazed quietly at Windgate, as if measuring the hare's resolve.

  "It seems that it's come down to the two of us," the old wolf said softly. "Will you stand beside me to destroy the beast?"

  Windgate nodded fiercely.

  "Your spirit is great," Gianavel smiled. "Saul would have been proud."

  "You knew Saul?" Windgate asked, his voice sharp with surprise.

  "I did," said Gianavel, eyes touched with memory. "I saw him battle Baalkor beside my son."

  Windgate's dark eyes softened. "Saul was great."

  Gianavel nodded.

  "Saul was great, it's true. But so are you, my friend. And the Lightmaker will use your courage for a purpose. We will strike tonight when Incomel comes forth from the Abyss. If we succeed, the lion will be gone. Then only the power of Corbis and Baalkor will remain. And we'll deal with them when the moment arrives."

  Windgate considered the old wolf's words.

  "It will not be easy," the hare said. "I have seen the lion fight. He is strong and fast."

  "I know," said Gianavel. "I have fought him before. But he is flesh, and he can be destroyed. Just as Corbis, despite his demonic power, is flesh. They will both fall. Only remember that when the battle becomes fierce we must not flinch from the fight. We must not allow fear to make us weak, or we will surely die. We will get no second chance against the lion. We must be perfect in our cunning, perfect in our attack. We must move with courage and determination, and strike with skill. And after we have done all that flesh can do, the Lightmaker will do the rest."

  "How will we destroy him?" Windgate asked, eyes flashing with excitement, charged for the fight.

  Gianavel smiled at the dauntless hare, then turned, staring out the entrance of the cavern. And as the mom
ents passed, Windgate sensed a devastating power awakening within the old wolf, an unearthly strength not stirred or conceived by mortal rage, but unleashed by the spirit within. Silent in a silence more terrible than any roar, Gianavel studied the ledge. And the gray eyes narrowed, measuring.

  "We'll give him what he wants."

  *

  eleven

  Concealed again beneath blackened ice, Windgate adamantly resisted the penetrating cold. He had lain all day until the wintry sun began to descend upon the distant hills, and now the gray evening was upon him. Not much longer, Windgate whispered to himself, shivering against the shadowy chill.

  Sleepy, fighting off the urge to doze in the cradling snow, Windgate continued his silent vigil until dusky shadows shrouded the mountain, cloaking black granite and dark ice together with the conquering power of night. Steadfast and enduring, Windgate maintained his watch, waiting, waiting for the one he knew would come down the mountain trail, emerging with the darkness to hunt beneath the haunting moon. And it would be then that Windgate would make his desperate move.

  A long time he waited, patient and alert, as the moments crept by in heavy silence. And slowly he began to fear that perhaps the lion had already come down the mountain and passed him unseen, concealed within its demonic power. Windgate shook his head, angry at the thought, and focused his keen eyes on the dim trail below him. The Lightmaker will provide a means of victory, he told himself, and concentrated on the shadows. And finally, after a time, a faint, ghostly outline moved in the night haze far up the trail, making no sound, gliding with supernatural grace over the shattered stone, descending.

  Dark and massive, the lion came down the path, its gigantic frame even more terrifying in the aspect of night. And as the beast descended, the image of irresistible strength, Windgate stood silent and challenging upon the cliff edge.

  Almost before Windgate had moved, the lion reacted, dropping into a crouch, a feral snarl exposing gaping fangs. The hare was struck by a wave of icy fear at the sight, and suddenly realized that this would be a true test of nerve. Quickly he asked for the strength, the will, to honor the Lightmaker with his life, or his death.