A Wolf Story (11 page)

Painfully, Aramus shook his head, shocked, and could not return the stare. He lowered his head, struggling to breathe again, swaying unsteadily. He felt as if his strength had been obliterated by those colossal blows, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. He tried to focus, raised his head with an effort, and beheld the demonic gaze directed hatefully upon him.

Aramus did not want to remove his eyes from the lion's monstrous shape, but he chanced a quick glance toward Kaleel. The bear was staggering up slowly from the cold ground, casting frightened and stunned looks about, as if searching for the horrendous beast that had struck him down. And though Incomel seemed aware of the bear's movements, it did not turn.

"Corbis has instructed me to bring you to the mountain," it growled, its jagged jaws threatening Aramus for a long, chilling instant, its guttural roar trembling the ground beneath them. "So you will come with me or I will destroy you. Do you understand?"

Aramus knew he would live or die with his words. He glanced again at Kaleel, saddened that his poor leadership had brought them to this peril. Then he looked again to Incomel, who stood ready to drench the barren ground with their blood.

"And the bear?" asked Aramus.

Incomel threw a cold glance at Kaleel.

"He dies. Like his father."

Aramus hesitated, understanding for the first time the true advantage of tactics in this cruel war. He knew that Incomel feared Corbis, the one creature even more terrible in its wrath. And Aramus realized that, with cunning, perhaps there was something to be gained. He looked fully into the lion's glowering gaze.

"Bring the bear with us, and
I will go," he said. "But if you harm him, I will fight, and you'll have to kill me. And that will not please Corbis."

Incomel
’s growl rumbled in its deep throat, though its stance remained scornful and imperious. Then it smiled, although the jagged grimace never reached the murderous gaze.

"So
, you will outsmart poor Incomel?"

Aramus said nothing.

And Incomel laughed: a roaring, demonic laugh that caused Aramus's mane to bristle. For a moment the beast roared on in its mirth, until the laughter died, and it heaved a deep breath of the pale air, enjoying its amusement.

"At least you have spirit," it intoned, and paused a moment longer. Then it looked at the sky, setting defiant eyes against the heavens.
"The bear may come with you," it added, regarding Aramus once more. "Whether I kill one of you, or both, does not matter to me. But I don't want to drag your dead body all the way to the Abyss."

Incomel turned to Kaleel.

"Come."

For the briefest moment Kaleel seemed ready to test his strength once more against the lion. The bear's dark eyes focused intently on the beast, struggling to contain some devastating rage, s
ome vengeful wrath that threatened to overcome his control.

Kaleel's face seemed as stone when he spoke.

"The Lightmaker will make you pay for my father's death," he growled.

Incomel's gaze revealed nothing.

A moment more did the tension last, with Incomel poised to strike a blow that would kill like lightning. Kaleel cast a smoldering look toward Aramus, who shook his head sharply. And finally, slowly, the bear lowered his gaze to the ground, and Aramus nodded, breathing easier. He knew that the Lightmaker might yet provide a chance to overcome this cruel enemy. But not here, and not now.

Undisturbed by the bear's challenge, Incomel turned and moved menacin
gly down the hill, casting a despising glance toward the fiendish pack as if it might slay them together with a look. The wolves cringed as one, falling silently back.

Kaleel and Aramus followed brokenly in the lion's wake, and in a moment they were enveloped by the desolate land; a disturbing, evil land that stretched into nothingness, silent and dead, tomblike and still, as if everything living had been slain together and crushed
into dust by some hellish force, and the land alone remained, mourning its loss of life.

♦    ♦    ♦

Unseen and unheard, the burly shape rose cautiously from behind the cluster of boulders bordering the glade, gazing intently at the silver shape being led away.

Windgate had not known what had compelled him to leave the safety of the caves earlier in the day. He only knew that he had felt driven to venture north into this oppressive wilderness, greatly troubled in spirit. And now, with the savage battle he had just witnessed he sensed that, at last, the true reason for his mysterious journey was clear.

Windgate knew that the silver wolf had somehow stood beside Saul in his death, for the wolf had brought Saul's body home from the Deep Woods. And now the wolf was a prisoner of those same dark forces that had killed Saul. Windgate frowned as he watched the pack disappearing into the forest. And he knew that a debt of service remained; a debt that he would pay for his fallen king.

Even as Windgate watched, fearfully weighing the heavy task before him, he shifted in his quiet stance. It would not be easy to help the silver wolf; unknown dangers and unlimited powers were locked in some conflict that might well destroy the land. And he was no match for wolves.
But even as the big hare considered the precious price he might pay, he laughed scornfully, knowing that he would never retreat from those who had slain Saul.

For a brief moment more Windgate waited, until the dark shapes were lost in the distant trees, pursuing a narrow trail far into the Deep Woods. Then he stepped slowly forward, moving from behind his place of concealment with cautious grace.

Without cover he crossed the clearing, knowing that any casual, backwards glance from the disappearing pack would instantly reveal his presence. But his choice was made, his way clear. And in a moment he had crossed the small glade, defiantly following the silver wolf into an immense and foreboding forest of graves.

* * *

six

G
ianavel relentlessly tracked the faint scent, following the trail across wide fields of melting snow, through ragged forests, spectral and haunting in the haggard light of the moon, until day had dawned with a crimson sun. And still, unresting and unyielding, the old wolf steadfastly pursued the path that would take him to his son.

Gray and massive in the ascending sun, Gianavel tracked with every skill of his long years, making no sound, leaving no sign and always careful the wind did not carry his scent before him. On and on the old wolf moved with ghostly stealth, sacrificing haste for caution. He was increasingly anxious to find his son, but his disciplined mind would not forget wisdom and patience. Instead, he grew even more methodical, channeling his great concern into his strength, allowing no rest,
wasting no time, and missing nothing that marked the faint trail.

With long bounds he followed it up the shattered granite cliff that bordered a stream to emerge cautiously on the summit, for experience warned him that the narrow ledge was a likely spot for an ambush, but as he landed, ready to meet any threat, he saw that he was alone.

Not persuaded so quickly, Gianavel stood listening, reading the terrain before him, a frown darkening his face. The land stretched out with gravelike stillness, and the old wolf knew he stood near the center of the Deep Woods. And though he met no attack, he felt a sinister sensation, a sensation of disturbing intensity. He scowled, glaring into the surrounding forest, observing nothing but perceiving a deadly and faintly familiar threat in the pale air. He sensed something unearthly was close beside him, or had passed this way not long before. And the knowledge frightened him, for he knew that Aramus had also come this way.

Cautiously he moved down the hill, tracking his son, until he came into a small clearing dominated by a low hill. Head bowed and eyes wary, Gianavel moved to the hill, searching, searching. And in moments he found the blood of his son, beside the scent of
... Incomel.

Even as he found his son's blood and the hellish scent, Gianavel's great fangs emerged in a rumbling snarl, and the gray eyes smoldered, like thunderclouds struggling to contain the storm within. He scanned the
surrounding woodline, hoping there would indeed be an ambush so that he might release his anger. But there was nothing. Only tracks that led on into the forest, toward the heart of the Deep Woods—the Abyss.

For a long, tense moment Gianavel stood, breathing heavily in his wrath, until his spirit began to still his blood, enabling him to think clearly. Strength would not deliver, he knew. Flesh would never prevail against spiritual forces more powerful than flesh.

Briefly Gianavel closed his eyes, searching his heart, communing with the spirit of the Lightmaker who had long ago graced him with wisdom and strength. Then, staring across the desolation, his mind suddenly filled with the image of the son he loved more than life. The old wolf’s love for his child was like a mortal wound and his breath caught in his massive chest, pained to know that his son had been crushed by the cruel power of the Beast. And Gianavel bowed his head, enduring his wounding grief.

A long time the great gray wolf stood, head lowered, while the lonely darkness thickened about him and the Lightmaker's spirit rose within, strengthening his heart as it had strengthened him for long years past. Gianavel nodded, knowing his God as he would know an old friend, finding all that he sought in that sacred life. And when the sun had descended well below the soundless horizon, the old wolf raised his head again.

Silently Gianavel moved into the darkened forest, hunting as before, with head bowed and eyes wary. And then, slowly, he increased his pace until streams and distant hills grew visible, neared, and passed, but his endurance did not waver. Driven by the power within him, the old wolf increased his speed even more, and more until he ran with powerful, leaping strides that mysteriously knew no fatigue and no pain, carrying him through the darkness with unerring skill, releasing the full measure of a strength that hurled his ghostly shape through the night like the wrath of a vengeful God, coming to deliver justice to the Earth.

♦    ♦    ♦

Light died beneath a darkness that began long before the sun descended upon the foreboding, oppressive hills. Aramus had felt the heaviness of the night even as he traveled through the light, disturbed and confused by the endless sea of nothingness that enveloped him on all sides.

In every place he looked, sweeping into the distance, he saw no living creature, no green leaf. Even the fallen limbs that covered the land like a gray, wrinkled blanket were dry and wasted from long death. The entire forest was drained of life, as if all beauty, all hope, had been mercilessly crushed from everything that lived.

Desperate for encouragement and strength, Aramus thought back to the battle in the glade when Saul had stood beside him, and he struggled to remember all he had learned from the heroic hare. But somehow, Saul's wisdom was drowned out by the chaos within his mind.

Broken in heart and hope, Aramus moved onward with the menacing escort. Step by step, he was worn down by his doubts, his guilt, as they journeyed across the vast landscape that stretched, barren and desolate, into only more nothingness. As far as he could see there was silence, with solemn forests marking an endless grave. Not even a sparrow or swallow could be heard in the gray evening light.

Unearthly, unreal and unendurable, the land oppressed him. And as they journeyed ever deeper into the foreboding darkness, Aramus felt something within him growing colder and more distant from that source of strength he had cherished only days before, his weakness made greater by the knowledge that he would soon stand before Corbis.

Together the thoughts tore at his heart until he felt an overwhelming panic rising in his soul, a panic of dread expectation. In agony he remembered his father, who might even now be searching for him. But even as that desperate hope strengthened his heart, the voice of raging, screaming doubt rose in his mind, telling him that Gianavel would never find him, or even dare to follow him into this ghastly land. And in moments Aramus was convinced that, perhaps, it was true: he was lost and alone in this hateful place.

In his suffering Aramus knew the true weaknesses of his flesh, understanding how much within his heart remained like the land surrounding him, saddened and starving for the force that would give it life. Yet in his spirit, through some last, surviving sense that defied the
gathering gloom, Aramus perceived that, even as a deeper life and victory had been delivered unto him in his battle with Baalkor, a deeper life and victory would also be delivered to him in this persecution, if he would only hold to what he believed.

With each weary stride Aramus had watched a mountainous glacier of black ice, crowned by darkened storm clouds, coming closer. Now, as the sun finished its slow descent, they began to climb the steep path that led to the icy dome, Aramus following in a daze until the ground lay hidden beneath the hardening ice and steadily falling snow.

Aramus knew that they were climbing above the treeline where nothing but rocks and snow and ice could endure. Everything around him was as hard and sharp as the black ice that hung from the sweeping cliffs, lending an indescribable aspect of doom. Aramus faltered, stumbling, as his wounds and deep fatigue weighed him down and the trail grew more difficult. He was tired now and needed to rest, but he could not rest, driven on by these cruel creatures of darkness.

On and on they climbed, slashed by the lightning and ice that descended hatefully from the darkness crowning the nightmarish peak. The storm seemed eternal, and Aramus had to force himself to walk, shivering beneath the embracing arctic air that grew colder with each tortured step. He concentrated on climbing, his exhausted gaze fixed solidly before him, his numb mind focusing on his efforts. A long time he continued at his bone-weary pace, oblivious to how far
they traveled or how high they climbed, following whatever dark shape moved before him, dark shapes that seemed to grow stronger and fiercer with each step they took toward the icy summit.

Yet as they crossed a jagged section of black granite, Aramus lifted his head, suddenly sparked by a dynamic, mysterious strength. Despite his fatigue, the silver wolf raised his eyes to see that the trail ran directly beneath a wide ledge, flat and black in the rising moon. The ledge towered commandingly above the path and seemed accessible only by way of a steep slope that glistened with dark ice. Strangely curious, Aramus studied the gloomy precipice, silver eyes memorizing every wrinkle of the expansive ridge. T
hen, as suddenly as the mysterious strength had come upon him, it passed, and he lowered his eyes to the trail.

Finally, when they had climbed high onto the mountain, Aramus saw that they were emerging onto an icy ledge; a white, frostbitten plateau that led to a brooding black cave. Guarded by dark wolves, the sepulchral entrance was framed by the pale light of night.

Even as Aramus saw the cave he knew that he had seen it before, in his nightmare beside the stream. Unconsciously he halted, staring at the cavern, listening intently to thoughts that promised him failure and pain and persecution beyond all endurance. And as he hesitated, he sensed that his newborn faith, the faith he had gained beside Saul, was nearly exhausted. His fatigue and his pain and the consuming hopelessness of his fears only confirmed what his dark thoughts accused: that here was the end of all hope, the beginning of a suffering he had never known or imagined.

Incomel turned, regarding Aramus and Kaleel with gleaming eyes. A smile twisted the cruel mouth, and the lion looked into the cave, then back again.

"You fear what dwells within?" the creature rasped. "And well you should. For in a moment you will stand living before the throne of Corbis. And then you will die."

Casting a contemptuous smile, the lion turned and walked into the cave. And as if compelled by some dark, supernatural dread, Aramus followed, beside Kaleel, and was swallowed by the grave.

♦    ♦    ♦

Windgate circled
the blackened dome of ice, cautiously avoiding the cavern entrance. Moving with long bounds, remaining on hardened ice to avoid tracks, he picked a soundless path along the slope, moving up and down the treacherous incline, searching for what he knew was there.

Following the silver wolf to the mountain had not been easy. Often and with alarming haste he had been forced to find a cunni
ng hiding place to avoid marauding wolves abroad in the land. But he had remained undetected, his long experience and unflinching nerve serving him well.

Only moments before, concealed within a snowy mound near the entrance, he had watched the silver
wolf descend into the pit. And even there he would follow, if he could only find a way.

But the entrance was too well-guarded. There would be another way, he knew. And with silent, cautious movements, he began to circle the mountain's frozen dome. Yet even as he ascended the slope, ice and sleet and the howling wind lashed savagely at his frozen fur, and he began to shiver strongly from the cold.

Descending with crushing strength, the ice storm that crowned the mountain had suddenly released its full strength upon him.

Shivering, Windgate resisted the freezing embrace that coated his fur, using the agony of the killing cold to make himself more determined, more methodical, in his search. Quickly he moved up the slope and down, careful to keep his scent from the cavern entrance. And though he moved with desperate speed, he still failed to find what he sought.

Jagged lightning blazed across the blackened sky as if the mountain were angry at his secret approach, and a hideous rage electrified the air. Windgate sensed the hellish anger, and he laughed, even as his shivering increased and the gloom enclosed him in a deathly shroud. Defiantly he continued his savage hunt, moving rapidly, relentlessly, using even the brief lightning to spy out the deep crevices hidden by shadow.

For an eternity, it seemed, he searched and searched until finally, despite his fierce resolve, Windgate began to feel a deep exhaustion in his limbs, and his violent shivering began to slow. Yet he continued to move, slower now, and with clumsy steps, dimly perceiving that
his thoughts were becoming disjointed and confused, as if his mind were freezing with his blood.

On and on he stumbled, searching across the frozen dome, aware that his once-careful movements were becoming reckless. His efforts seemed suicidal, but somewhere in his frozen mind he knew that if he did not soon find a way into the mountain, he would die on this blackened ice. And as he wearily crossed a sharp ridge, the jagged edge hardened by the killing wind that chilled him deep with cold frost, he found it.