FARHAYVEN: VENGEANCE

by S. K. Ng

  A white paw steps forward in the snow, then is followed by another and another and yet another. The slow pace quickens into a sprint. As Spirit leaps into the air, he pulls back his lips and bares his sharp, deadly fangs. Spirit lets out a growl of brutal anger as his fangs sink into the neck of the first human. The man lets out no sound at all, but his eyes open wide in disbelief. Spirit, with his fangs buried deep, swings his head from side to side in order to tear wider holes in the man’s neck. Blood sprays forth like a fountain. The other human drops the fur that he is holding. His pants become moist as he loses bladder control. He tries to run but ends up stumbling to the ground. Spirit holds on tight to his first victim, driving his fangs deep and wide. The bloody fountain dries out and the first victim collapses lifelessly onto the red, muddy snow.

  Spirit steps forward. He stares deeply into the remaining human’s eyes. In his heart and in his mind, he tells his would be victim ‘You will die. You will die slowly and painfully. And I will hunt for you in the afterlife and I will kill you a thousand times over. Be it in heaven or in hell, I will kill you a thousand times over!’

  The living male human sees in the eyes of this white wolf an obsession, a burning passion, to torture and kill that he has never seen before even in the eyes of the cruellest of human beings. He turns and crawls in the wet snow, his legs too paralysed by fear to support him. He manages to crawl but a few paces before he feels the heavy weight of a full grown wolf on his back and its sharp fangs anchoring deep into his neck. The sudden sharp pain is quickly followed by a crushing pressure and the side to side movement that tears bits of flesh from his neck. Blood begins to flow down into his throat and he slowly drowns in his own blood. He tries to cough and vomit, a desperate though pitiful attempt to clear his throat of his own blood; but the pressure exerted on his neck makes this effort impossible. Then his pain stops. His body feels numb.

  Then a vague vision appears before the male human’s eyes. He sees figures, millions of human shaped figures, being tortured in the cruellest of ways. There are large human-like beings of great radiance, chopping off the heads or cutting off the tongues of many skinny human beings. There are so many more unimaginable tortures in this vision. He tries to close his eyes, to shut out these horrible images, but nothing happens. His eyes are already closed, he just does not realise it. The visions become more solid and real. Then he feels himself being grabbed by the back of his neck. As he turns around, he loses his breath as he realises that the being who has grabbed him is one of those beings of great radiance; and his feet moves unwillingly but surely towards a decapitation platform. He tries to speak, but the radiant being speaks first.

  “Human, you are here to pay for your transgressions. Welcome to hell,” says the radiant being in a very casual, yet professional tone.

  Spirit sat down on the blood-soaked muddy ground, in the middle of a circle of soggy redness surrounded by cold whiteness. His eyes had lost its blood-shot redness and his anger had subsided. He stared at the raw exposed flesh of his dead family members. A feeling of emptiness gripped his heart. It squeezed and squeezed until Spirit felt that his heart had totally disappeared into the void. Tears began to drip from his eyes. He held his feelings back. He held it further, then when he could not hold it back anymore, he howled out with all his might; loud, long howls of loss and mourning. The entire white wilderness seemed to be silent. Perhaps nature was trying to show its respect. The sun set over the horizon, yet Spirit sat there unmoving, statue-like. There was no reason for him to move. There was no reason for him to do anything anymore. There was no more reason for him to live. So he sat there, awaiting the reach of the cold arms of death. And he waited, and waited.

  Several seasons had passed. Spirit walked on aimlessly in the white wilderness. The cold blizzard wind struck hard against his body. Yet Spirit sought not for shelter. He walked and walked, with his mind lost in thoughts of hopelessness. Why is nature so cruel to him? Why did nature not kill him like it did all his family members?

  Suddenly, Spirit smelt a scent he had not smelt for a long time, the smell of wolves. He looked around, but the blizzard interfered severely with his vision. The scent, however, was strong. He was sure that it was the scent of wolves. He took excited and positive steps forward, seeking with his sensitive nose the source of the scent. Then, just as suddenly as it was there, it was gone. He paused and sniffed the cold air searchingly. But the scent was gone. Was this another cruel taunt of nature? He did not know and he no longer cared. He collapsed onto the thickening snow and closed his eyes. He was so cold. He was so empty.

  The morning sun shines brightly even in this cold, white wilderness. Spirit opens his eyes and drew in deep, refreshing breaths. There is that scent again, the scent of wolves. He looks around. In the shortest flash of a moment, he thinks he sees white fur in the distance. He stands up and steps forward. There it is again, a flash of white fur. He runs forward. Then he sees them, a pack of seven snow-white wolves. He is excited. He barks his greetings to them. There is no reply. He runs after them.

  Then something white, large and heavy crashes into Spirit’s ribs. He falls sideways from the force of the impact. Then a pair of large white fangs greets his eyes. The large, dominant wolf of the pack, which makes the actual total of the pack to be eight, is giving him a stern warning. He is telling Spirit that he is not welcomed. Spirit bares his fangs in return. The two wolves face each other off. Both have their lips pulled back, baring their fangs and rows of sharp teeth. Like a flash of lightning, both wolves leap at each other. Jaws clamp shut and claws scrape fur and skin in this canine combat.

  It is over in a few heartbeats. Spirit acknowledges his defeat. He is too weak and his opponent is too big and heavy. Spirit backs away for the moment, but for the moment only, for he has seen a new prey. Though this prey is not the same as his other preys. This one is different. Her soft white fur calls out to him alluringly. Her soft ears stand up like tranquil snow-capped mountains. No, this is a different type of prey altogether. This will be a different type of hunt, the type that he has never done before. His heart beats fast. He has forgotten that it was still there, but now he is reminded of it. But he is patient. All forms of hunting require patience.

  Spirit followed the paw-prints in the snow. He was careful to keep a good distance away from the pack. He was aware that he was too weak to challenge the dominant male wolf, the father of the ‘family’. He had survived on forest mice and the occasional squirrel ever since the death of his own family, but now he was beginning to hunt antelopes again. He was trying to build back his strength slowly, and although it was a slow process, it was a sure one. He could feel the strength returning to his weakened muscles as the days went by. And like all good hunters, he had never lost sight of his prey, his ultimate prey, the soft-furred female wolf. There she was, 200 human paces away, close enough for him to be intoxicated by her scent but far enough for him not to be killed by her angry father. He stared dazed at her distant form and thought he saw her looking back at him. Was he imagining it? Surely he was. Or maybe he was not. He barked out to her. She turned her head and wagged her furry white tail. And again he was reminded that he had a beating heart. He wished it would stop beating so hard, the increased blood pressure to his brain was giving him a headache and affecting his balance. He shook his head to wake himself up from the daze he was in. The sun shone bright in the sky. The breeze was light and cool. It was good to be alive.

  A month passes and Spirit is now back at full strength. The sun radiates its heat directly over his head. He takes bold steps forward in the white softness of this cold wilderness, undeterred by the fact that he could lose his life in what he is about to do next. The large white wolf stands between Spirit and the rest of the pack. Spirit stares aggressively at the large wolf. The large wolf returns the stare with equal aggressiveness. Both wolves bare their teeth, pulling back their lips and exposing their razor sharp fangs. Their low growls turn into ferocious barks.

  Spirit advanc
es forward, one step at a time. The large wolf remains stationary. As fast as a flash of lightning, Spirit jumps forward and lands on the large wolf. Both wolves lock themselves in the most ferocious of combats. Spirit slams his jaw shut on the left side of the large wolf’s face, while the large wolf’s sharp claws scratches deeply into Spirit’s neck. Crimson liquid sprays in all directions, creating a drastic and gory contrast against the whiteness of fur and snow. Bites and scratches ensue as both wolves wrestle, each trying to use their body-weight to bring the other tumbling to the ground. The other wolves begin barking, some in support of the large white wolf while a few are asking, and perhaps pleading, for both the combating wolves to stop. In a final exhaustive effort, Spirit slides sideways and sinks his fangs into the large wolf’s neck. A sudden cry of pain is heard, followed by the high-pitched whimper of submission. The large wolf begs for mercy. Spirit’s eyes are now blood-soaked red. The frenzy of the fight has released the utmost ferocity within him and he has lost all capacity for reasoning. The large wolf’s legs begin to crumble.

  Then there comes the gentlest of barks, the softest of pleas that Spirit has ever heard. The soft-furred female wolf is begging for her father’s life. She approaches slowly and lowers her head, turning her snout to the side ever so slightly. Spirit stands frozen but the pressure on his jaws slowly eases off. The large white wolf breaks free and stumbles away. Spirit stares deeply into his new bride’s eyes and she returns his stare just as deeply. The large wolf limps away to rejoin his pack. The pack moves on without the female wolf. As the sun sets over this white, cold wilderness; two white wolves walk side by side, setting out to make a new future together.

  Two seasons had passed. Silk, the soft-furred female white wolf, looked lovingly at her husband, Spirit. He returned the look, but behind the forced show of affection lay a deep feeling of concern. There was a nagging feeling in his instinct telling him that something was wrong. His life was perfect, too perfect! He had a beautiful wife, three loving wolf cubs, plenty of prey nearby and a comfortable lair. As he searched every corner of his restless instinct, a white furry little wolf cub rubbed his head passionately against his legs. Spirit surrendered to the distraction, pushed his troubled thoughts out of his mind and licked his son, Sprint, behind the ear, giving the little wolf cub a grooming and some fatherly love. The two remaining wolf cubs rushed to their father’s side, waving their furry white tail while giving him cute puppy looks. But before Spirit could give them his attention, the first cub was already pouncing on his two siblings and now all three of them were locked in the traditional wolf pup wrestling. Night fell and Sprint, the eldest of the wolf pups, was curled up beside his father while Flow, the youngest and only female pup was curled up beside her mother. Strike, the remaining sibling, being more curious than the other two wolf pups, lay asleep besides Spirit’s head. Life was too perfect indeed.

  The night sky is clear, brightened by the radiance of the full moon. Spirit and his family are in deep sleep. Then comes a disturbing thought. There is something gnawing at Spirit’s wolf instinct, but he is too tired, too deep asleep to pay it any intention. Yelp! Spirit jumps to his feet, but it is too late. Strike, his middle pup, is gone. A pale human-like arm reaches out to him, yet it is too pale to be human, because it is not just pale but greyish too. Spirit’s yellow eyes open wide as he realises what is going on. He sinks his fangs into the pale greyish arm and wriggles his head with all his might. He feels himself being pulled out of his lair as he clamps his jaw tightly around the greyish arm.

  There in the bright moonlight, Spirit sees for the first time the very face that will haunt him for a life-time, the pale greyish face of a man in red uniform clothing. On his shoulders Spirit can see shiny materials. The pale man wears a circular cap of some sorts, made of fur, wolf’s fur! Grey leathery wings fold behind the man’s back. Looking around, Spirit cannot see Strike anywhere. He shifts his focus back on the man. Spirit releases his hold of the man’s arm and assumes a crouching stance, preparing himself to pounce upon the intruder. His eyes stare at the pale jugular of the man. He bares his fangs. The man, to Spirit’s utter surprise, bares his fangs as well.

  There is something unnatural about this human, Spirit can sense it. The man points a finger at Spirit, and Spirit could see that the man does not have fingernails like normal humans. Instead, he has long, curved, sharp claws.

  “Wolf, you are a proud creature! Your off-springs shall serve me well. You should be honoured! I, Lord Deathclaw, shall grant upon them immortality. But for you and your mate, my hungry stomach awaits. Both your souls’ energy will replenish mine and your flesh will bring pleasure to my tongue. Now wolf, prepare to die!” says the man to Spirit, with a cynical smile.

  A black shiny orb of dark energy burst forth from a narrow split on the pale man’s forehead. At the same time, Spirit launches himself at the man. The dark energy orb misses Spirit, whose jump is of an arc above the straight path of the orb, but as he reaches the man’s jugular; long, curved sharp claws cut across his face and sends him tumbling into the snow-covered ground. His vision blurs and his eyes slam shut. In his semi-conscious condition, Spirit could hear the fearful and desperate yelps of Silk and their pups. Then the yelps stop. Everything stops. And silence ensues…

  Spirit felt cold, but it was of a different kind. It was of the kind that he could not bear. It was not the cold that he felt on his skin, but in his heart. This was the most hurtful kind to feel, but he was immersed in it. Tears flowed from his eyes and even though they were still shut, he knew what horrific scene awaited them. He could smell the blood, wolf’s blood. The morning sun shone with all its brightness, but Spirit felt not its warmth. With a heavy heart, he pulled himself up. Slowly, he opened his eyes. There were frozen patches of crimson liquid everywhere. The stiffened bodies of Silk and Flow laid out on the ground, the missing flesh from their bodies appeared to have been ripped from the bones. Spirit howled in sadness. He looked around. There were no traces of Sprint or Strike. Perhaps there was still hope, yet Spirit would not allow himself that hope. He barked out a call to them. There was no response. He barked out again. Again, there was no response. He barked out again. There was silence.

  The thick flakes of snow fell upon this near desolated frozen landscape. A lone white wolf walked on aimlessly. Spirit seemed the very shadow of his earlier self. He was skinny and filthy. His fur was covered with numerous patches of brown, frozen mud.

  It had been almost a year since Spirit’s wife and cubs were brutally slaughtered and ‘consumed’ by an abomination of nature. He tried to think, tried to analyse the situation that he was in, but to no avail. There was nothing that he knew about demons, except for the fact that they existed. He knew not of their history, their lair or their weaknesses. Vengeance was on his mind. He could not imagine facing his wife and pups in the afterlife without first having avenged their murders. It would be unacceptably irresponsible of him! But how was he to go about killing a creature that he had no knowledge of? He needed knowledge about demons, but for wolf-kind, this knowledge did not exist.

  Gradually the white of snow turned dark and Spirit collapsed onto the wet, cold ground. He was exhausted. He was hungry. He had lost the will to live. And the most severe of all, he felt no hope. Perhaps this was when his journey would end. It would end in failure, but it would end nevertheless. He closed his eyes. There was comfort in this cold. It would be all over soon. He heard noises. He did not care. He could smell the scent of humans and blood, they must be hunters, but he was not concerned. They could have his fur. They could take his life. They would be doing him a favour.

  But … Spirit could not meet his end like this. He had to avenge his family. Giving up was easy, as a matter of fact, it was so tempting! He still had one last duty to perform, a final burden to carry to completion. No, he must not die yet! Not yet, not until the demon’s jugular was firmly in his jaw, then he would shut it tight and sink his fangs all the way in. Wake up! He must wake up! Get up and fight! That
was what his inner voice was telling him. Get up and fight, it was not over yet! ‘Fight! Fight for your life! Let the world not decide your end, let it be that you decide how and when you wish to leave it! Let it be that you leave this world with your head held high, chest out and your jaw clutching the bone of victory!’

  Spirit’s eyes open wide. With a sudden burst of energy, he rolls sideways, avoiding the sharp blade of a hunter’s knife that is aimed at his neck. This sudden movement surprises the hunters, all four of them, who think that the pathetic looking white wolf will be an easy kill. Spirit stands on his feet. He eyes the hunters one by one, planning his strategy. The hunters circle Spirit to prevent him from getting away. Spirit stands in a light wobble, the energy in his legs are depleting fast. The hunters smile confidently at Spirit’s weakened condition. The first hunter is armed with a hunting knife and stands in front of Spirit. The second hunter stands to Spirit’s right, and is armed with a long spear. The third hunter, standing behind Spirit, bears a large axe. The fourth hunter, standing on Spirit’s left, grips his machete with a slight fidget.

  The second hunter lunges his spear forward, hoping to stab Spirit’s ribs with its sharp metal tip. Spirit leaps forward, but not towards the first hunter’s jugular as he would normally do, but to the wrist that held the sharp hunter’s knife. The violent snap of Spirit’s jaw and head sends the hunter’s knife flying, followed by a loud scream of pain. The first hunter falls to his knees as Spirit tears at his wrist. Then as suddenly as he had leapt, Spirit lets go of the bloodied wrist and runs off as fast as he can. He knows he is in no condition to complete the fight, and although he is an animal, he is no fool! He feels a sudden instinct to leap sideways and does so unquestioningly, just in time to avoid the spear thrown at him by the second hunter. Spirit keeps running. The fourth hunter is the closest to him now, while the third hunter follows several paces behind. The second hunter slows down to recover his spear and is now far behind the other two hunters. The first hunter follows the chase in a casual pace, holding the hunter’s knife in his uninjured hand.