Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1)

by Graham Diamond

  *

  Not so very far from the meadow where Hector’s pack lived there was a large clearing, a place of flat, soft earth surrounded by sharply sloping hills filled with many varieties of trees. And in the center of the clearing, not far from the brook that rambled down from the hollow, there was a large pond.

  Today the clearing was so still that even the snap of a twig would sound like a crash of thunder, and the pond was covered with a layer of ice. As the sun began to drop behind the western horizon, a small herd of deer cautiously made its way down the rugged slope from the top of a hill. They were white-tailed deer, a small but swift breed. Just then the wind gusted fiercely all around, swirling the top layer of snow above their heads. The deer stood frozen. Not because of Aleya — they were accustomed to her song — but because of what lay on her breath: danger!

  The deer began to race across the clearing. From behind the ridges of the nearby hills leaped a pack of wolves. Fanning out, they snarled and barked to frighten the already petrified deer. The deer scattered and began to run helter-skelter in all directions. But the wolves were too clever for that ploy; they concentrated their efforts on just several, paying scant heed to the others, who managed to dash from the clearing and back up the slopes.

  Soon one wolf had felled a buck and after dragging the carcass to the thicket gave a low, throaty growl that pierced the frigid air like a knife. The hunters at the farthest edge of the clearing stopped immediately and turned around. The cry was clear. Enough food had been caught and the hunt was over. Slowly they made their way back to their companions.

  “The grandfather will be pleased,” growled one of the hunters.

  The wolf from the pond snarled. “It’s the best we’ve done in a week,” he replied.

  “You chose the timing well, Casca,” barked a third.

  Casca shrugged in wolf-fashion. “We were lucky. I never dreamed so many would come. They made it easy for us.”

  It took some hours before the hunters had managed to drag their prey back to the winter lair of the pack. About a day’s travel from the meadow there was a tall, craggy hill filled with rock and tall pine and fir trees. The pack had chosen this place carefully, noting that the shelter of the boulders would provide good walls from Aleya’s winter wrath, while the denseness of the trees gave a blanket-like protection from the snow. Along the hill’s broad ridges the pack had dug its dens, deep, open holes beside the rocks, cave-like, from which the females, many already pregnant and ready to deliver in the spring, could rest easily and watch for the hunters to return.

  As Casca and the others approached home, they were greeted with the familiar cries of the cubs hailing their arrival. Within moments the entire pack came out into the night and stood happily, tails wagging and beating against the snow as the hunters dragged their prizes along the escarpment for all to see. A large she-wolf, with icy silver-gray fur and slightly-slitted eyes, dashed from her den and stood panting before Casca. Momentarily forgetting both his prey and his hunters, he nuzzled his snout beside her own. The female smothered his face with long wet kisses from her tongue and a soft purring sound, strangely catlike. Casca stepped back slightly and let his eyes gaze up and down her sleek body. Then he smiled in that curious way that only wolves can. “Who do you love?” he asked.

  The female, Athena, growled complacently. “Wild flowers and fresh meat,” she replied.

  Casca snarled jokingly. “I asked who, not what.”

  Athena laughed and again smothered him with wet kisses. After a few moments together in this fashion, Casca barked several commands and watched as several wolves, those either too young or too old to hunt, began to tear chunks of juicy meat from the deer’s belly and apportion them properly.

  “Where’s the grandfather?” asked Casca, looking about in some bewilderment. It was unlike Hector not to be in the forefront when the hunters came back. And he had always demanded that he personally make certain that each member of the pack was fed his due amount.

  Athena lowered her eyes and turned her head away from Casca’s sharp stare. “He rests in his den,” she whispered sullenly.

  “Then let’s wake him.”

  Athena shook her head. “He cannot be awakened. I tried. Dedra tried. Even Old One tried. He’s in a deep, deep sleep.” Athena fought back tears.

  Casca felt his heart miss a beat. “Has the sage tended to him?”

  Athena nodded. “He’s with him now. But there’s nothing he can do. Grandfather will not wake. Not for me, not for anyone.”

  Casca lowered his head, beating his tail against the snow in the rhythm of a clock, back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps this deep sleep was a blessing, he thought. Perhaps it would be better if the grandfather never awoke. At least there would be no more pain for him. Ever since the day Khalea had gone back to the Valley, Hector had become worse — and now.

  “I want to see him,” said Casca flatly, commandingly, more in the tone of a lord than a husband.

  “Is it wise?” asked Athena. “Surely the sage —”

  “I’m not awed by that hocus-pocus and mumbo-jumbo,” snapped Casca. “The sage can do nothing for him. You told me that yourself.” And without waiting for an answer, Casca ran along the slope to the last den on the side of the hill, the side that was the first to see the light of dawn.

  The cave was dark. Even with his superior night vision Casca was hard pressed to see anything inside. But his ears heard much. There was the low growl of the sage, praying lowly to sleeping Fara, and there was a heavy rasping sound from Hector as he lay in his coma. Casca felt a cold chill race through his body. With his right paw forward he stepped warily inside. The sage, an old wolf with brittle brown fur and bloodshot eyes, faced Casca and stared without missing a single beat of his chant. Bowing wolf-fashion, Casca lowered his head and stretched out his front paws in submission. In this way he told the sage that even he, soon to be lord of this pack, respected him for both his office and his wisdom.

  “How long has the grandfather been like this?” he asked after the sage acknowledged his presence.

  “Since before you left this dawn. Dedra tried to wake him this morning but was unable.”

  “Will his lips accept water?”

  The sage shook his head glumly. If a sick wolf turned from water, it could mean only one thing — that death was at hand. Or so the wolves have always believed.

  Casca sighed. At that moment he felt like an unweaned cub, frightened and forlorn, with no mother or father to raise him. And he recalled how, when his own father had died under the hooves of a wild moose maddened with fever, his grandfather had taken special pains to see that he was trained and raised by the best family in the pack. And the grandfather had always favored him, even as he favored the child of men, Khalea.

  “What’s to be done, then?” he asked at last.

  The sage cast his eyes above, as though looking to Balaka. “We wait for him to slip from us,” he said sadly. “We wait for him to run with Fara. But for you, Casca, there is much to be done. You will be our lord now. You must go among your flock and speak with each wolf. It’s our law. The pack must accept you.”

  “And the other packs must be told of Hector’s grave sickness. There will be many lords who will wish to pay their respects.”

  “You must send out the messengers tonight, Casca. There is no time to be lost. Lord Hector is known far and wide in this forest. Even beyond. As you said, there will be many to mourn his passing.”

  Casca felt a searing glare from the sage. The wolf was sizing him up, he knew, looking to see if he were truly wolf enough to follow in his grandfather’s tracks. To be a leader of the pack was something that he had often craved, yet now that it was close at hand, perhaps only a day or two away, he was not so sure of himself. The responsibility involved would be a heavy weight on his shoulders. If now, as the sage observed him on the sly, he were to show the lightest hesitation or indecision, the sage and others would proclaim his weakness, and some other wolf would cha
llenge his right to lead. And that other wolf would be doing exactly as he himself would do had circumstances been different. A weak lord is no lord at all, and the entire pack would suffer for it. A leader must not waver in his judgment or commands. He cannot afford to. Too many lives depend on him.

  For a long moment Casca stood silent, pondering these thoughts and gazing down at the shivering body of his grandfather. He wanted to cry and howl at the moon like a jackal, but now was not the time for the luxury of grief. Important tasks were at hand, the pack must be reassured, encouraged to respect his authority and have confidence in his judgment. Tall and proud, he turned and faced the watchful eyes of the sage. “Fetch a female to lie beside my grandfather and keep him warm,” he commanded. “There’s no more you can do for him.”

  The sage raised his brows. “But the prayers, Casca.”

  Casca stared icily. “You can pray outside.”

  And at that moment the sage bowed his head with respect. Young Casca had proved equal to the task. He said, “Yes, my lord,” crisply and clearly and strode from the den to find the female. Casca stepped to the entrance and looked about. Two of his best and closest hunters were standing meekly a few paces from the den. One held a large piece of meat between his jaws.

  “You didn’t have any supper,” the hunter said, laying the meat at his paws.

  “I can’t eat now, Pireaus. But thank you for the thought. I’ll leave it beside grandfather. Perhaps he’ll awake after all.”

  Pireaus looked at him quizzically. “Allow me to place it before Lord Hector,” he entreated. “Such work is no longer your task, my lord.”

  Casca winced slightly at the words. When the sage had called him “my lord,” Casca had thought nothing of it. But Pireaus was a friend. Such a title seemed awkward coming from a friend. “Grandfather will die soon,” he growled, still referring to Hector in his familiar rather than proper title. “I’ll need a messenger to run through the forest. And I want someone to leave for the mountains tonight. Grandfather has many friends there, and they’d want to be here.”

  “I’ll go myself,” said Pireaus. “I’ll travel as fast as I can.”

  Casca nodded gratefully, wearily.

  “Shall I go, too?” asked the other wolf.

  “No, Sonjii. I have other duties for you. Someone has to go to the Valley and find Lord Nigel. I know grandfather would want him to be here.”

  Sonjii and Pireaus bowed low and scampered out of sight. Casca watched them go, then turned back into Hector’s den, the meat between his teeth. And while he waited for the sage to bring the female, he closed his eyes and cried.

  Chapter Six

  All night long Nigel tossed and turned fitfully in bed, restless and tense, unable to sleep. Something dim, something he could not get at, was nagging at the back of his mind. An uneasy feeling, the kind that made him shiver and clutch tightly at the blankets.

  From the tightly shuttered window came a low rapping. A single sharp sound that almost sent him leaping from his bed. Nigel stared at the window. Was it his imagination? The wind, perhaps? No. The shutters were locked as tight as drums. It couldn’t be the wind pushing against them. Again the rap — this time three short knocks, in sequence. He bounded from the bed and clumsily began to unlatch the bolt, afraid to find what would be waiting outside. A strong gust of wind blew harshly against his face as the shutters were slightly cast to the sides. Nigel stood dumbly. On the ledge there was a bird, a large falcon. Small eyes stared up at him, blinking furiously.

  The falcon fluttered his feathers slightly. “A message for you, Lord Nigel,” he squeaked in Common Tongue.

  Nigel held his breath and whispered, “From the forest?”

  The bird nodded darkly.

  “Is it...Hector?”

  Again the bird nodded. “Lord Casca bids that you come at once if you care for your friend. There is a hunter waiting to escort you.”

  Nigel glanced down toward the hickory tree in the garden. He could see the silhouette of a young wolf standing in the shadows beneath the lengthy branches.

  “I’ll dress at once,” he said, unaware of the urgency in his own voice. “Please bear with me. It will take just a few minutes.”

  “Be swift, my lord,” answered the bird. “There is no time to lose.” And before Nigel could turn from the window the pointed wings fluttered and the bird soared off into the clouds. Nigel hastily threw off his nightclothes and began to pull his tunic over his head. Gwen opened her eyes, watched silently for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Nigel sighed. “It’s come,” he said glumly. “There was a bird at the window. Casca’s calling for me. There’s a hunter waiting in the garden.”

  Gwen sank back against the pillows and covered her eyes with her hands. “Is it...the...end?”

  Nigel shrugged. “It must be. Casca would never send for me like this in the middle of night if it weren’t.”

  “I want to come, also.”

  Nigel shook his head firmly. “I can’t wait for you, Gwen. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I have to go now”

  Gwen looked at him through watery eyes. “What about Stacy? You promised to tell her — “

  “I know, I know. But I can’t wait for her, either,” he said. “When she wakes, tell her what happened. Have her horse saddled. She’ll know where to find me.” He leaned over and kissed his wife long and hard on the lips. “Take care, Gwen,” he whispered. “I’ll send word back to you as soon as I can.”

  He clambered down the stairs, raced into the courtyard and quickly made his way to the stable. He paused to have a brief exchange with the waiting wolf and saddled his horse. Then the dull clatter of hoofbeats sounded in the night as he raced down the street on his way out of the Haven and toward the forest.

  *

  When a wolf dies, all the forest knows. The howls of the pack fill the air, and the other Dwellers stop and listen, for they know that Fara has taken one of her children into her arms. And for that they are glad, for life would be meaningless without the assuring knowledge that after it is done there is a new forest to greet, a golden forest where food is plentiful and enemies cannot enter. In Fara’s own forest Aleya never blows cold; Khal never dims. But only Dwellers who are deserving may reach Fara’s wood. They must be pure in spirit and mind and must have led a life that was unselfish. As for Hector there could be no doubt. Was there ever a more noble and worthy wolf? Was there ever one more devoted to his duties and obligations to his tribe? The question hardly needed to be asked. Many believed that Fara would even wake from her winter sleep to have the joy of greeting one so noble into her home.

  From far and wide they came to the winter home of Hector’s pack. From the deepest reaches of the forest they traveled, league upon league, never once pausing for rest. Some came from the south, the land of steamy swamps and bitter soils; others marched proudly from the east, the lands of windswept plains and rugged grasslands; and still others came from the west, from the mountains that divided the Valley from Newfoundland. For these it was the hardest travel, over treacherous passes and peaks deep with winter snow, iced rivers and thunderous winds that blew down from the sea. Yet even all this did not deter them one whit; Lord Hector was waiting.

  In all the land, from the fjords to the southern forest below the Valley of Men, no wolf had ever been more revered than he. He was not a king — although he might have been had he desired — but a humble hunter, a lord who sought neither glory nor ambitions, whose only wish in a long, rich life was to see wolves and men live in peace together. When he passed on into Fara’s arms, it would create a void that wolves could not recall, for Hector, if not in name, truly was their king. And when he died, would there ever be another wolf like him?

  *

  Stacy jumped from her mare and left her standing awkwardly beside a cluster of firs. From the top of the hillock she could see the deep tracks in the snow from the steady stream of wolves who had made their way to the sloping, craggy hill near the hollow whe
re the pack, already being called Casca’s pack, had their lair. The forest was quiet. To Stacy’s surprise there were no howls from the hunters, nor even soft moans or whimpers from the females. Along the escarpment of the hill, standing in snow almost up to their bellies, was a line of hunters. Their faces seemed impassive, as though they were wearing masks to hide their grief. Immobile, save for an occasional tail that beat softly in the snow, the hunters formed a line of mourners, waiting for the sage to bring word the moment Hector left this life. And when that word came, these hunters, many of them Hector’s grandchildren, would begin the task of running through the forest and howling the word for all to hear.

  Moving slowly, face partly covered by a scarf, Stacy tightened her woolen coat, flicked snowflakes from her collar and made her way along the narrow path between the juniper trees. At the foot of the hill she saw the gathering. There must have been hundreds of wolves all squatted together along the small ice-filled stream, growling quietly among themselves. Many Stacy recognized. There was Bruli, Lord of the South, standing beside Athena with his head hung low and his tail curled between his legs. Off to his left she saw old Sula, the once-feared black wolf of the eastern wood, whose packs were renowned for their fierceness and martial abilities. All waives organized themselves in military fashion, she knew, but few with the skill of Sula’s breed. Once upon a time men had feared wolves such as he more than they feared the vicious wild dogs that once ran rampant near the Valley. And with good reason, for Sula was the true descendant of kings, great-grandson of Dinjai, who lost his life lighting valiantly in the Forest Wars. When a wolf such as Sula growls, all take notice. And his presence here at Hector’s side was all the more honor because it showed just how much affection everyone in the forest felt for the dying wolf.