Corbis swayed in the Abyss, grasping futilely at the blackness that cascaded down his colossal form. And he leaned against the darkness, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling as if beckoning to some otherworldly power that had finally forsaken him, at last. Then, with a slow, mountainous descent, the Beast crashed across his earthly throne.
*
seventeen
Grievously wounded, Gianavel watched with Aramus beside him as the dark wolves were beaten back and routed. Unleashing the full measure of their wrath, the vengeful Elders struck down demonic shapes even as they fled, driving them deeper into the corridors of the glacial mountain.
Windgate was standing beside him before Aramus heard the hare's quiet footsteps. Aramus looked down to see Windgate carefully studying Corbis, peering at the gaping fangs and glaring eyes, now fixed forever in a ghastly stare. The hare nodded softly to himself, as if measuring the Tightness of the end. Then Windgate raised his face toward Aramus, smiling. And despite the pain of his own great wounds, Aramus felt himself smiling back in return.
Kaleel and Razul lay down beside them, moving slowly and painfully. Kaleel's shoulder was torn and broken, but he could move with a halting gait, and Aramus knew the bear's stout courage would overcome his wound. Razul bore a terrible injury, and moved even more slowly, but his old eyes smoldered fiercely in the faint light, undying and defiant, and Aramus knew that he, too, would survive the conflict.
Finally, when the remaining Elders had finished the fight, they moved also to the throne, surrounding the dead form of Corbis. Each gray shape was torn and slashed, yet Gianavel's wounds were the greatest, and he bore them the lightest, seeming to neither notice nor care about his wounded flesh, the fatigue of his gray eyes pierced from within by an enduring light, keen and commanding.
Solemnly, he gazed about the room.
"The price was great," the old wolf said softly. "Those who have fallen will be honored. And in the world to come, they will be glorified."
Gianavel looked into each weary face.
"Never forget this hour. It was the hour when you stood your ground, enduring the great test of suffering. Despite your pain, despite your weakness, you did what you knew was right. And I know that the battle was fierce. But you were brave, and you stood to the last. And now we must not grow weary. For an end to our suffering is in sight, and the Lightmaker's grace will sustain us."
Gianavel nodded to Aramus, delegating his authority.
"Let us leave this place of death," the old wolf said.
With Windgate beside him, Aramus led the pack up the subterranean hall that led to the icy ridge. Aramus remained intently alert for an ambush, but the caverns and the halls and the Abyss were void of danger, shrouded in utter defeat. Gianavel and Razul followed slowly, surrounded and protected by fearsome Elders.
In force they emerged into the early dawn, full into a cold north wind that howled across the blackened ridge. The mountain seemed angry at their victory, and slashed them cruelly with sleet and ice, but they ignored its wrath.
Leading the way, Aramus guided them skillfully through the darkness, down the dangerous trail. As he moved, he perceived that everything appeared different, somehow. The trail was not so difficult, nor so cruel. And he negotiated the descent with easy grace, careful to keep the pace measured and slow.
In time they reached the base of the mountain, moving from beneath the dark clouds, emerging into the morning sun. Defensive to the last, they crossed the landscape, prepared, always prepared, for some unseen danger, some hidden threat. But there was nothing. The power of darkness had been broken, unable to withstand the ancient strength that had descended upon it. And Aramus noticed that the land was strangely brighter, warmer, than before.
At a ridge crest Aramus and Windgate suddenly turned, touched in their spirits, to look back at the darkened mountain. All the others, unaware of the sensation, continued past them, until the silver wolf and the hare stood side by side atop the barren hill.
In the distance they saw that a high, vengeful wind had come against the storming darkness of the mountain. And the wind, fiercer and stronger in the higher reaches of the sky, tore at the storm clouds until the darkness was slashed with light from the ascending sun.
Yet as he watched the darkness fall before the glowing dawn, Aramus' mind turned away from the mountain, and he thought solemnly of Saul. He looked down at Windgate, and the big hare gazed up, dark eyes softening, and Aramus knew that Windgate, too, was remembering their fallen friend, even as they heard the quiet words that whispered with the wind...
"Always strength comes …"
With shining silver eyes Aramus watched as conquering white clouds rushed across the sky, driven by the relentless wind, sweeping over the mountain until the ice and the storm and the darkness together were overcome by the Light.
*
epilogue
Long years passed and Aramus was climbing a snow-covered peak far to the south of his mountain home. But as he crested a sharp ridge he turned and saw, stretching out before him, a barren and desolate plain.
Aramus hesitated upon the ridge, his shaggy coat waving in the cold breeze, and recognized the plain from an earlier time in his life. He studied the land, face hardening with painful memories, but he perceived no movement in the desolation; the land was as empty and lifeless as it had ever been.
Some wounds heal slowly, he thought.
Motionless, Aramus stood on the ridge, his silver shape etched against the golden glow of dawn, and gazed quietly toward the haunting, half-hidden shadow dominating the horizon. Obscured by clouds and a winter haze, the Abyss was almost lost against the skyline, but he could still discern its towering shape.
Aramus smiled faintly as he searched out the mountain in the white mist, for never again had the Dark Council risen from the land, its power crushed completely in that last, great battle. But as Aramus continued to gaze at the Abyss, a disturbing premonition began to settle upon his heart, a strange uneasiness that resurrected ancient ghosts. And a curious need slowly grew within him, a need to know, to be sure ...
Only a moment did Aramus hesitate, and when he moved again he was descending the ridge, toward the barren plain. In time he reached level ground and eased into a loping run that carried him purposefully across the desolation. Behind him the sun rose above the horizon, chasing shadows from the land, but Aramus continued to move steadily forward, driven onward by his questioning heart.
And through the day he ran, moving tirelessly and relentlessly over stream and ridge and field until at last he began to ascend the mountain. Yet, still, he did not rest, did not slow his gait until he reached the icy trail and ascended the path, finally emerging upon the summit to stand boldly before the cavern.
Deep in shadow, the sepulchral entrance remained thick with the darkness that had long ago ruled its depths. Aramus peered into the gloom and sniffed, but he could detect no presence. Nervously, he turned his head toward the descending sun, sharply aware of the shadows and chill that embraced him, and his courage wavered. But he had to know. And with an effort of will he moved carefully forward, stepping through the foreboding entrance to be submerged by the gloom.
Alert, he eased cautiously down the darkened, subterranean tunnel, searching for a threat, but he sensed nothing living about him. There was only a strong scent of decay overpowering the dusty air, and within that scent, a devastating defeat. Moving steadily and silently Aramus continued forward until he stood within the main hall, the throne room of Corbis.
Ghastly in the pale light, the cavern floor gleamed like an ancient grave, scattered with bones of the long dead. But those were not the bones Aramus sought. And he moved across the chamber, threading a silent path through the ghostly remains.
Upon reaching the throne he mounted the steps, his fear gathering with each stride until he leaped lightly past the final stone to land fully upon the blackened granite, finding his answer at last.
Even more terrifying in death, the skelet
on of Corbis stretched possessively across the throne. Titanic and spectral, the massive bones shone dully in the frosty light, fangs still fixed in a frozen roar. But the eyes were filled only with shadow, void of the fire that had filled them in life.
Aramus stood quietly over the immense shape and saw that the bones were dry and pitted, unnaturally ancient with decay. And he remembered what colossal strength, what proud might and irresistible will the beast had commanded while alive. But that great strength meant nothing now, crushed by a power that ruled the living and the dead.
A soft wind stirred in the chamber and Aramus lifted his head, listening. Then the wind rushed past him and Aramus listened closer, his heart rising to memories of heroes, of courage and love and faith that conquered kingdoms. And Aramus looked down again, silver eyes casting their own light from within even as the wind swept across the throne, shifting the bones that fell, shattering, crumbling into dust.
James Byron Huggins emerged from the cobwebs of Alabama in 1993 and literally stunned both the American East Coast and West Coast with multiple million-dollar movie and book deals to create some of the most admired story lines and characters in recent fiction.
After creating his allegorical first novel, “A Wolf Story,” Huggins switched to the counterintelligence genre with the ground-breaking, “The Reckoning.” Long hailed as the first true thriller with the backdrop of a profoundly religious plot, “The Reckoning” remains a favorite of actions fans. Then Huggins wrote “Leviathan” – the story of a Komodo Dragon transformed into the biblical Leviathan and the havoc it wreaks upon those who must destroy it before it destroys the world.
Million dollar deals were immediately signed for “Cain,” and “Hunter,” before Huggins could even finish the books and overseas rights were sold before the novels were even released in the United States. Even now Huggins remains one of the most sought-after action screen writers in Hollywood.
Raised in a small Alabama town Huggins grew up to become involved in fantastic adventures that took him to the far side of the world and so very far from his beginnings. After spending several years in Europe smuggling people and materials in and out of the Iron Curtain to assist those suffering religious and political persecution in nations doomed to war, Huggins became a decorated police officer in Huntsville, Ala. But he resigned from police work in 1993 after publication of his first novel.
Huggins continues to write and to speak and frequently holds writing seminars for libraries, book clubs, colleges, high schools and churches. Anyone wishing to have Huggins visit your group or edit your work before publication or theatrical production need only contact him through this site.
http://jamesbyronhuggins.com/
Table of Contents
Book One
Book Two
epilogue
A Wolf Story Page 17