Thrown To The Wolf (Pack Heat Book 3)

by Sam Hall

  The rest of the day was quiet and monotonous. Basting, turning, resting, rinse and repeat. For a while, I rested my head against the wall and tried to snooze, and Brandon moved in to provide a softer surface to lie on. I let his arms encircle me despite the heat, needing that comfort. With the rhythmic grind of the spits turning and the peace, it didn’t take long for me to drop off.

  I floated, soft and weightless on a big fluffy cloud, the breeze gentle as it washed over me, keeping me the perfect temperature. The cloud was soft, so soft, which was interesting for a big mass of water vapour. I snuggled down into it, burrowing my face in the plush surface, willing my mind to go still and quiet. Instead, it spoke up.

  Watch.

  I opened my eyes in protest, pretty sure no dream was worth whatever my subconscious wanted to show me. I just wanted long, featureless nothing for a bit.

  Watch, it insisted, so I pulled myself over to the edge and looked down.

  Leifgart spread like a poisonous stain across the land below, the bright green surrounding it almost struggling to retain its vibrancy against the sullen blackness of the city. People moved like ants, scurrying around it, too small to be able to tell what exactly they were doing. As if in response to that thought, we zoomed in.

  I was glad I was hovering above it all.

  The description Finn had given was nothing compared to watching whatever the hell Longest Night was. There was no religious festival, no carrying of effigies or laying offerings at the feet of their gods—or rather there was, in a particularly Volken way.

  They boiled out of the building the banquet had been held in like a swarm of angry ants. Initially just as small, as we got closer and closer, we saw it. Torches that had been brought out purposefully were lit, some put to the closest building, the ornately carved wood catching fire fairly quickly. Others were tossed into windows and doorways, the subsequent conflagration taking a little longer to start.

  But start it did. Volken dragged out possessions, theirs or others, and started dumping it in piles, then setting that alight as well. Some protested, clinging to this thing or that, but their brothers soon showed them the error of their ways. Crystals flared red as fists were driven into their faces or limbs were pinned to sides, turning those abused men into meat, just like the rest of the charnel house.

  Servants who’d scurried around to clean and cook and sew and fix for the Volken were rudely ripped from their tasks. Whatever tools or products they’d been working on were tossed away. They were not valued for their labour anymore. In a society that routinely took what it had built and razed it to the ground, creators were no longer of use.

  Creators and destroyers, I thought, remembering Finn’s words back at Slade’s mating party. No matter which camp you sorted the members of my pack into, they had nothing on these guys.

  Wicked knives, swords, bows and arrows, and guns all tore through the screaming, crying servant class. Sometimes to strip them bare so a more intimate destruction could be wreaked on their bodies. Others carved their menials up like one would slaughter an animal, slicing their throats and, as their hands went to the gaping wounds, stabbing them through their hearts. Limbs were hacked off for no other reason than the wild grins on the Volken’s face, then tossed on the now burning piles of Leifgart detritus.

  Living in the country, I was all too aware of dogs gone bad. Prompted by instincts gone haywire or just pure thrill killing, I’d seen those dogs that tore through a paddock of sheep, ripping the throats out of the poor bleating animals, over and over. Not for food, not because they were a threat, but for the simple, brutal pleasure of it. I watched the horde spread out beyond the wall that ringed Leifgart, which was beginning to crumble under the onslaught, and into the farms and homes beyond.

  I scanned the fields, sure that this would be the point it would stop. No food, no Volken, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be the ones to work the land. But god, I was wrong.

  Plants tended carefully were trampled and ripped from their roots in seconds by the rampaging Volken. Tools were smashed, water barrels tipped over, and fire put to the remains. Then they turned their energy towards the animals.

  Starting to shift restively in their pens, animals that looked a bit like sheep or cows watched the approaching Volken with rolling eyes, their massive bodies colliding with the barricades that kept them penned in as the Volken approached. Some were able to kick their way free, but running did little. The Volken whooped as they stampeded away, the similarities between the Uldariel and the Volken immediate. Just like their fan boys, the Volken ran down the beasts, throwing rapidly spinning knives after the beasts and dropping them with considerable precision.

  Those beasts that didn’t run, with their great slabs of muscles twitching with the effort of staying in one place, didn’t fare any better. Volken grabbed them with the sort of casual intimacy farmers use, yanking their necks back and then dispatching them just as swiftly. Volken stepped into the sprays of blood like children under a sprinkler, basking in the gore.

  I knew what was coming next. I had to. It was logical that their focus would turn now to the servant’s houses, but it didn’t stop me from fighting that realisation.

  No, I said, but the cloud didn’t listen as the first door was kicked in. No, no, no. This makes no sense. They need that food to eat, these people to clean and look after them. Still, screaming people were pulled from the house, a mother with a baby in arms, a father, their sons. Those kids will become future workers!

  I was arguing with a cloud and people who didn’t, couldn’t listen.

  Through death, comes regrowth, the voice said to me.

  What kind of bullshit aphorism is that? I said as tears choked me. The family clung together as the Volken approached, screaming, clawing at each other’s limbs as they were torn apart. Then the Volken took hold of the children.

  The degradation and harm of anyone is harrowing, but the gut deep instinct to protect children, anyone’s children, made it all the worse. We hate that piercing scream in the supermarket aisle precisely because it galvanises you. Hard coded in us is the need to help the child, give it what it needs to stop crying, and the irritation springs from a resentment of this instinctual burden.

  I buried my face in the cloud, rolling away from the edge when the screams started. It didn’t help me or them, I had too much material to use to fill in the gaps of what I wasn’t seeing. The sounds of kids crying and screaming just got louder and louder, the children begging, for help for their parents, for someone, anyone to do the things they couldn’t. This just spread as more and more families were torn from their homes. My teeth ground so hard, I thought they’d crack as I fought the sound. I couldn’t do anything. I was strong, but no more than any one of the Volken. I’d fucked around, literally, never learning to use the souped up new body I’d been given, too myopically focussed on my heart and my clit.

  I dashed away the tears angrily. I had no right to cry. I was part of the problem, just listening to this horrific symphony of pain. I lay there, each scream a baton used to bludgeon me, until finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw myself off the back of the cloud.

  Wind whipped past my face as I plummeted to the ground. All sense of self-preservation was gone. I wanted, craved the inevitable collision. To say I was surprised when I landed with the kind of cat-like grace superheroes demonstrate in Marvel films was an understatement.

  I watched the Volken tear children from their parents, only to slash at them with knives, my eyes struggling to take in what was happening. I saw some ripping at their clothes, pulling them around by their hair, tossing babies to the ground, and my head titled.

  Everyone can dream, but magic is the ability to turn that dream into a reality. The White Wolf’s words echoed in my mind as I watched the horror play out.

  This was a dream, or a nightmare really, but whichever it was, I was doing so lucidly. I could control what was happening.

  For a second, there was just that rush, that beautiful kno
wledge that I could do anything I damn well pleased in the bizarre reality that was this dream-vision. I looked down at my hands and smiled when a couple of flaming swords appeared, which would normally be cause for concern.

  Me, sharp objects, and fire weren’t a great combination, but in the dream realm, they could be. I imagined myself right in the fray of Volken, waving the children away into safety with one hand, healing all injuries, mental or physical with another. It was so seductive, this simplistic wish fulfilment world. The kids looked on now, wide eyed, their parents rushing to take them in hand. Good thing too, as I raised my swords.

  What I did was hazy. Never having really played a lot of role-playing computer games or watched many sword and sorcery movies, I couldn’t tell you exactly what I did, it just kinda happened. One minute, I was holding my swords, and in the next, the Volken were chopped into mincemeat before me. I looked at the bits of leather-clad flesh and felt nothing but burning vindication.

  From death comes regrowth.

  I looked up at the sky, searching for my cloud, but instead saw the White Wolf moving ponderously slowly across the landscape. She was massive, taking up the whole sky, her head moving so slowly to look back at me, her eyes gleaming like emeralds. Each step she took shook the earth, but not in any catastrophic way, more like the feel of the earth’s heartbeat. Boom, boom, boom. Until the gaps between the booms bled into one another, and the reverberations turned from vibration to an actual earthquake. Everyone’s eyes turned to the top of the plateau where the buildings shook like jelly on a plate. They collapsed like sandcastles, dissolving into rubble to make way for what came.

  His paws were what came first, followed quickly by his muzzle. Black as night, his fur seemed to absorb all other light as he pulled himself out of the ground. Buildings, people, the plateau itself, all collapsed in to make way for him—Lonan, the Black Wolf. My eyes swung to the White Wolf, expecting to see her start to move faster, run, rally, fight back, or something. Instead, she continued to plod along at her same pace. The Black Wolf was initially much smaller, but he soon expanded, now that he was freed from the confines of his cave. He howled the moment he reached the same size as her, the sound blasting through my ears so loudly, I could only hear part of it. And then he was on her.

  Her reaction was so slow, I wanted to scream, her head swinging, swinging, swinging as he launched himself on her back and started tearing into her flesh. Blood ran down her sides, soaking the earth beneath her, turning the burning, rubble strewn horror into an abattoir. Her screams of pain filled the sky, her teeth bared, ready to attack, but he was so damn fast. Seemingly sick of chewing chunks off of her, he launched himself at her throat, tearing it out with brutal efficiency. She crashed to the earth, blood fountaining out, her body twitching as the last of its life left her.

  From death comes regrowth. Prepare for the Great Rite.

  The voice was little more than a whisper in my head as I watched in horror. Then he turned, scanning the mass of people desperately trying to escape, and launched himself at us. We stared down the velvety black throat, a maw of complete nothingness, where no growth, no life could exist. People screamed and ran, but I didn’t bother. This was the wolf that ate the world. It bit the sun, devoured the stars, and our puny efforts were nothing by comparison. Still or running, we were all swallowed up, sent to the Black Wolf’s gullet.

  Then the world narrowed down to two things—darkness and cold. I couldn’t see my hand in front of me, couldn’t feel it move. There was nothing but a frigid sensation. Minutes, hours, days passed, I had no way of knowing. There was no movement, no action with which to estimate time, not even my own heartbeat. It was all frozen.

  So when the green came, I had no response. It was little points of colour at first, which was odd, since to even notice them, I had to have eyes. That consciousness brought with it an awareness of my body, though I couldn’t see it at first. It was only the slowly unfurling seeds of green, growing and broaching the blackness, then appearing to eat it up, taking in the gloom like other plants would the sun and then photosynthesising it into long wispy tendrils of growth that curled and twined, drawing higher and higher. Until finally, something popped.

  Sunlight rained down upon the lot of us, a rich verdant landscape rolling out where there had been nothing. And people, no Volken, no uniforms, just people and animals and plants and rivers and birds…and the Great White Wolf, surveying the lot of it with a gentle eye, panting lightly as the bright light was reflected off her snow-white pelt.

  “Jules!”

  I woke up with a start, finding Finn and Slade looking down at me in concern, but Brandon and I turned to Sylvan. Brandon’s hand shot out and took mine, his fingers wrapping around mine as we stared at the wide-eyed seer.

  “What the hell is the Great Rite?”

  26

  “No,” Sylvan said, shaking his head and getting to his feet when we wouldn’t look away, only to be pushed back down again by Slade and Aaron. “No, we have to get out of here. We need to run.”

  “That didn’t help anyone in my vision,” I said.

  “Stop with the theatrics,” Brandon said. “Explain, now.”

  “Where’s this coming from? How do you know what that is?” Sylvan asked though narrowed eyes, but his fingers still clawed at the fabric of his pants.

  “A vision. Now, how about you tell us what it is,” Brandon said.

  Sylvan settled back against the wall with effort, his eyes still darting around the room. He seemed to be paying undue attention to the architecture, and I couldn’t work out why.

  “I told you Volken society was initially nomadic. We didn’t settle, grow, or make anything. We just rode from place to place and took what we wanted. It was only when Lonan drew us here, after he’d retreated from Eomis by the look of things, that we started to put down roots. We built Leifgart, created the city. Well, we’ve created it several times over.”

  “What? The Volken do makeovers?” Jack said. “Who’d have thought it?”

  Sylvan shook his head at that, fingers trailing over the stone step he sat on. “Not…that. The Great Rite happens at the end of the Longest Night festival on a timetable that only the elite are privy to. Usually just before a major battle or large campaign.” He looked up at us, but his eyes were soft and unfocussed. “Lonan is powered by death, destruction, and degradation. We destroy everything. Every building, possession, man, woman, and child that is not Volken, and even some of the weaker ones go under the knife. Then we rampage. The surrounding land has been largely depopulated because of this. Too many waves of destruction. We have to collect and build more in the down time.”

  “To allow you to go further to create more destruction,” I said in little more than a whisper, remembering the lumbering White Wolf and her inability to rally against the much nimbler Black Wolf.

  “Dear boy, you lack faith. We have never really attempted to broach the thing in any major way. I find it highly unlikely that whatever puny magics the bitches have mustered would withstand the full force of the Volken host and our lord. No, we’ve let them be for some time—a mistake if you ask me—and they have spread like any other vermin. Sourcing the nest of a pest always takes work, but I do not believe it beyond our capabilities.”

  Brandon’s eyes whipped around to meet mine, as if he heard the Volken lord’s words himself.

  “Fuck…” I said, my mouth falling open.

  “They’re going to use the Great Rite to punch their way through our portal,” Brandon finished when I couldn’t get the words out.

  “We’re bugging out, now,” Aaron said. I watched the shake in those big, strong hands with alarm. There was something rock like and implacable about Aaron, that to see him so affected only added fuel to my already merrily raging anxiety fire. “I don’t want to leave the guys here but—”

  “The matriarchs need to know. The CO’s needs to know. We have to get this information back to them,” Slade said, starting to pace.

 
“OK, everyone needs to calm down and take a breath,” Finn said, holding out his hands.

  “Because deep breathing will help things?” Jack shot back. “This isn’t a mindful meditation session.”

  “And getting hysterical is an improvement?” Finn replied.

  I felt the warm weight of Brandon’s hand in mine, the Great Wolf’s words reverberating through the both of us. From death comes regrowth. Whose death, and for what to regrow?

  “What about the people here?”

  Hawk’s words created a calm over the room that had been sorely missed. His arms were firmly crossed over his chest, and he surveyed the room with a dark eye.

  “Pretty sure the kids here would be hurt just as bad as ours. They’d rape the women and the men here, just like they would at home. You think you can sacrifice these kids and these women to keep ours safe, but you can’t. You let that mongrel fucking thing take the people here?” His eyes switched from one to the other of us. “You give him fuel to come and take ours.”

  “So what do we do? Make a last stand?” Aaron said with a snort.

  Hawk shook his head. “Right now, we’re in the belly of the beast, and they don’t know we’re here. I say we gather information, find out the lay of the land, and then we work out a way to strip the prick of everything he has.”

  The earth rumbled underneath us, as if in answer to Hawk’s suggestion, but he remained resolute, not moving an inch as the ground vibrated.

  As if summoned, Adam appeared at the doorway with several buckets in hand. “You still want to feed the prisoners?”

  27

  I could have done with some regrowth right about now. We were trekking down the worn steps, all the finely made rooms of the surface level bleeding away to dank, dripping stone and lichen spidering across rough-hewn walls.