A Wolf Story (5 page)

Saul hesitated at the crest of a thorny hill. His old body, slashed and beaten, was failing. He had struggled to run faster, but his legs lifted more painfully, more slowly, with every step.

He gazed behind him into the darkness and sensed the evil presence tracking him through the night. For a moment he stared into the gloom, but the last of his fear was quickly disappearing. No longer did he look only into the night. For in the passing hours he had begun to sense a new land, where stars shone eternal and green hills rolled forever, a land he had always hoped for, and awaited. As he rested, a silent sense of love warmed him, and he knew that the Lightmaker had not left him alone, even in this terrible hour.

Saul lowered his head, breathing heavily, perceiving that he was only struggling out his part in some drama that had always awaited him. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his mind, Saul had anticipated this moment
all his life. Raising his head, he gazed quietly, hopefully, at the stars.

His flesh was hardening with frost, and stabbing pangs of agony made his breath pale and weak. Yet Saul felt strangely alive, ready to fight to the death.

The stars are so much like us, he thought. Bright and beautiful, full of wonder and light, yet surrounded by such terrible darkness. And even so, the darkness cannot overcome them, for they shine on and on through the painful night, casting light for all the world to see.

Saul smiled weakly, praying, hoping that the Lightmaker would be pleased with him when the battle was done. Then he staggered down the hill toward a wide, white glade.

Slowly at first, snow began to spin swirling patterns across the old hare's path. Saul limped on through the mist, resisting the deathlike weariness that crippled his body. The storm continued, gathering strength. But still he pushed defiantly onward, refusing to lie down and allow the hateful night to force a swift and cruel ending to his pain. Finally the storm lashed across him with demonic frenzy, crushing him with sheets of ice and swirling snow. Ice coated his chilled gray fur and numbed his strength.

Yet still he stumbled blindly forward, sensing his own death, leading the beast onward with the last, undying flame of his will.

* * *

seven

Lost in the memory of that dark night, Aramus was returned to the storm by slashing ice. The assault penetrated his thick coat, chilling his bones with hateful cold. In defiance he shook his head violently, splashing moonlight in a white shower of snow.

He raised his head to watch the dark swaying trees whispering their ancient song. Aramus had not spoken a word to his father on the long day's journey from their mountain home to the Deep Woods. And finally, when the majestic gray wolf had left him alone, to return in the morning, Aramus had become still as stone, watching the shadows grow long and deep and cold. He had known every whisper of leaf and bush, caught the scent of all that moved in the south, where the wind was born. And as the night had slowly passed, he had begun to feel a thin sense of safety, for he sensed that no creature moved or lived where he rested now.

In the morning, after his father returned for him, they would begin the long journey north to their mountain home. But first he must survive the night. And it was not just the darkness he feared. More, he feared Baalkor, the beast that had passed him in the night not so long ago. Aramus' blood chilled at the memory of that nightmarish face poised in the shadows—grinning, tasting his weakness.

Then, as he had done a hundred times, Aramus lowered his head against a freezing blast of arctic air that rushed across the glade like the deadly breath of some evil, ancient beast. And when the crippling cold had passed, he raised his eyes again to search timidly along the faraway treeline, his mind beginning to crumble with his body beneath the cold assault. It was so easy to be brave in the daylight, he thought, where he was warm and safe and protected. It was a different thing to be shivering in the dark, cold and alone, with only his faith to protect him from his fears.

If he were running with the pack within this storm, they would simply bury themselves beneath it, escaping the freezing gale. But tonight there would be no escape. Tonight there would be only the darkness, the shadows that cloaked his doubts, and the howling wind that slowly froze his body with ice and frost. And there would be the heaviest burden to his tired soul: the yearning for safety and family and the comfort of the pack. Always his fa
mily had been his strength, and although Gianavel had taught him to hunt and survive alone, Aramus had always leaned upon the old wolfs awesome strength.

As the chilling wind slowed and the snow fell heavily
over him, the silver wolfs mind turned again to a warm, cozy den, his family at his side, and his father's soothing voice talking of the Lightmaker, the Old Story, and a glorious world awaiting. Even now, amidst the icy mist and deepening snow, Aramus felt his father's strength, so close.

At a distance, Aramus much resembled his massive sire, although the older wolf held a distinct advantage in the balance of sheer weight and solidness of strength. But Aramus had inherited the promise of Gianavel's giant frame and symmetry, and already the young wolfs hard muscles rolled and swelled beneath his silver coat. Yet where his father's mane was deep gray from the long years, Aramus bore a mane of willowy silver. And where his father's gray eyes seemed to forever cloak wisdom and strength, Aramus still looked upon the world with shining silver eyes that always betrayed his thoughts, feelings, and fears.

For a moment Aramus thought of Lucas, his friend and companion, who would one day also endure the Watch. Only yesterday they had rested together, warm in the sun, on a rocky crag. They had sworn to always be together, friends forever, until death separated them, at last.

Lucas had been the first to speak of the ritual awaiting Aramus. His voice was thin, and the sun
seemed subdued and shadowed as he spoke, though the sky was clear.

"I'm afraid," he said, as a bright red bird fluttered about his head. "They say that evil wolves live in the Deep Woods. And some of the Elders have suffered terrible battles there. If you go alone, as your father says you must, then something might happen to you. But I know what we can do. I can follow you. And we can go through the Watch together. No one will know. Then you will be safe."

Aramus had smiled sadly.

"No, my friend," he said. "I must go alone. My father has spoken. But he tells me that I can overcome the things I fear."

Lucas had fallen silent, and Aramus pondered his father's words.

"Sometimes... my father confuses me. He says there is nothing in the darkness that I should fear. But it is hard for me to believe that. I believe in the Lightmaker, but I don't know how to believe like my father. And sometimes when I ask him about it, he only says that my time hasn't come. He says that when the test of faith is upon me, the Lightmaker will give me the strength to endure. And then he talks a lot about living what I believe. I agree with him, and nod my head, but I really don't know what he's talking about."

Aramus paused, considering the words of the old wolf.

"He tells me that when I love the Lightmaker with all my heart, I'll find the secret of strength. But I'm not
sure what he means. I already believe in the Lightmaker. And I'm still afraid."

Lucas remained silent, his white face reflecting the doubts that dwelled within. "I don't think that you'll survive the Watch," he said. "I had a dream last night that you were lost in a storm and something horrible was coming for you out of the dark. Its eyes burned with hate. Its fangs were wet with blood. And it was calling your name. But someone was with you, someone who loved you, who would protect you. I couldn't see who it was. I only know that he was strong and silent and close. Then the beast came, and there was a terrible battle, and death. I don't understand. I don't want you to go."

Aramus felt his mane bristle as he listened to Lucas describe his dream. For a moment his mind raced, searching for a meaning. But he knew he would find no answers. Finally, he leaned forward and nudged his friend.

"I don't understand, either," he said. "But I know that my father has spoken, and he's not going to tell me twice. It's my time for the Watch. But you and I will always be friends."

Lucas had gazed at him quietly, a mournful shadow casting his snow-white head.

"Friends forever," said Lucas.

Aramus nodded his head. "Friends forever."

And then night had cast long shadows, and the young wolves had returned to their dens. But Aramus did not
sleep through the long night, anxiously awaiting the journey that would begin with day.

Early, before the sun crested the horizon, he had begun the long run south with his father. As they loped easily toward the first high ridge that marked their mountain home, Aramus had felt eyes on his back. At the top of the ridge he hesitated, glancing behind, and saw Lucas gazing mournfully at him from atop a small hill. Aramus had raised his head, signaling that he would return with the morning. And Lucas had raised his head also, but with the gesture came a low and lonely cry that beckoned to Aramus across the distance, and carried through the forest at his back.

His friend's last cry had echoed in Aramus' mind every step of the journey, and Gianavel had seemed subdued and quiet, as if dreading the task at hand. Finally, at sunset, they had arrived at the border of the Deep Woods, where his father had led him to a wide glade. Then the great gray wolf had turned toward the trail that ran north, leaving him alone for the long night's ritual.

At the place where the trail disappeared into the forest, Gianavel hesitated, looking back. The mists of twilight swirled past the august head, and in that fleeting, transparent moment, Aramus sensed something hidden within his father's gray eyes, almost as if the old wolf were cloaking some sacred secret. The farewell that Aramus had heard so many times was all but lost in the wind, but he knew the words in his heart.

"Be strong. Be courageous. Do what you know is right," the old voice spoke against the night.

Then, in a ghostly, silent turn, he was gone in the gray mist.

The hours had passed slowly since his sire had vanished in the mist that had settled into a storm. Aramus shivered beneath his silver coat and blinked against the icy wind that howled across the glade. The storm was gathering strength.

Suddenly Aramus caught an alien scent on the night wind. Instinctively he raised his head, and ice shattered on his silver mane as he lifted his nose to know the faint scent borne on the freezing gale. Fully alert, he searched the wind, the shadows, the air, to find the intruder's location. But as quickly as the scent had come, it was gone again, the icy wind shifting to rush at him from across the wide, white glade in a waving wall of sleet.

Shivering, Aramus remained poised, sensing the darkness mocking him. And he gazed restlessly into the night.

"Be strong," he repeated numbly, hearing the words from a distance. "That's what he said. Do what you know is right, and strength will come."

But it seemed so far beyond him now; his faith so small, his fear so great. He did believe. But he did not know how to find strength in what he believed.

A savage gale smashed ice across his silver head. Aramus winced, bending forward as the wind brought him to the coldest, cruelest cell of the storm. Struggling, he lifted his head, searching the sky with pleading eyes, but saw only desolation, darkness. He lowered his head wearily, sensing a devastating loneliness, as if whatever battle to be fought, whatever life he might have found... was already lost.

"Alone
..." he whispered. "I'm alone …"

* * *

eight

Suddenly a faint sound that did not carry with the hushed, swaying branches caught Aramus' attention. Even above the rushing wind he sensed shuffling movements to the south. And in the space of a single breath his entire body was poised, focusing on the whisper beneath the storm. With eyes keen to the dim light he searched the darkness, prepared to fight with a split second's warning. Instinctively his lips drew back, revealing two long canines that distended to his lower jaw, the warning that preceded combat. Yet he made no sound to reveal his presence, as he had been taught.

Almost instantly Aramus realized that the intruder was moving straight toward him, and would be upon him in an instant. He heard every step, every muffled footfall, every limb that bent before its motion, and his
mane bristled as he anticipated some dark and terrible creature that fed upon the night.

Then in a frantic rustling the movement hastened, the sound of something rushing through the night to his place of hiding. With quivering muscles Aramus followed each quick step as the intruder burst across the last remaining space between them. Then the dark figure hurtled out of the brush, only a small space away.

Aramus was a spinning silver wheel as he exploded from the snow, his roar shattering the night. Bounding blindingly to the side, he lashed out with a long foreleg to strike the intruder to the ground. But even as his foreleg flashed white in the starlight, the wolf recognized the small figure for what it was. And before his powerful blow would have crushed the life from its form, he turned the impact aside to send the intruder tumbling harmlessly into the snow, and effortlessly pinned it with a wide paw.

For at the last deadly moment Aramus had realized that the furry figure was not a creature feared by his kind. Rather, it was one of the fun-loving, peaceful creatures who lived beneath the hills and dales far to the south.

Aramus almost smiled as he pinned it to the ground, but even as he touched its wet chest, his nose caught the scent of blood on the night air and he knew that something was strangely, horribly wrong.

The smell of fresh wounds filled the night. And in the moment of silence that followed the confrontation, Aramus saw terrible slashes in the hare's chest and legs.

A mangling wound lay across its shoulder and foreleg, and one side of its furry face was matted black. One ear was ripped and bleeding, as if from thorns. And as the long moments passed, Aramus began to make out other, more serious wounds hidden beneath the matted blood.

Aramus did not know much about the hare's kind, but he had seen death enough in his life. Even though the creature still had the strength to run haltingly through the forest night, he knew its wounds were mortal.

For a long time he held it to the snow and studied its form more carefully. Slowly he realized, with a growing dread, that its injuries were the slash marks of a gigantic wolf. But the hare was strong and old in years, and did not die easily. Its face was drawn with pain, and it breathed haltingly, clinging to life with desperate strength.

The moments crept by in silence, and Aramus felt the small body growing cold beneath him. Remarkably, the hare seemed to be resting, never resisting his solid hold nor attempting to struggle away from the force that imprisoned him. Aramus had begun to think that it would never open its dark eyes when finally the soft brown lids parted, revealing shades of deeper brown staring back at him.

The hare did not appear afraid of the huge snout that hovered inches away. Rather, there was a sad, quiet resignation. Almost, it seemed, as if the small creature had abandoned hope of escaping whatever he had fled so frantically through the forest night.

In his curiosity Aramus forgot the night, the Deep Woods, and the Watch. For here was a small creature, caught in his grasp, gravely wounded yet running with its last strength through these cursed woods. And he felt something strange in the air about it, something terrible, and monstrous; something he had felt only once before – something so hideous that the arctic air seemed to grow warm with its hate.

A long moment passed, both creatures breathing in silence. In another time, another place, the hare would have been food for Aramus. But not here, and not now. For this small creature feared something beyond them both. Something that might even now be chasing it through the winter night to this lonely place.

Finally, when Aramus could wait no longer, he spoke.

"I will not harm you," he said.

The hare did not appear startled at his words. His eyes focused intently on Aramus, and for a long moment he did not reply. Aramus solemnly studied the creature in the frosty light, while the storm raged over his shoulders, swirling snow across their heads.

Then a small voice whispered to him in the misty air.

"No," the hare said quietly, and sighed. "You will not ... harm me ... this night."

Aramus forced himself to wait patiently as the creature recovered from his long effort. It was clear the hare had run far, driven by some final force of will. After a time the wounded creature managed to speak again, marshalling whatever strength still remained in its dying flesh.

"It is an evil far stronger than us both ... that hunts me through the night. An evil you should flee. For it will destroy you ... as well ... when it comes."

A long pause followed, with the hare drawing deep breaths, eyes closed. He was relaxed now, Aramus sensed. Whatever desperate strength had driven it on and on through the endless night was drained, depleted. Age and those deadly wounds had taken their final toll.

And as the wolf watched, the old hare opened his eyes again, and spoke softly. "I think I shall rest here ... for a while. I have run far enough. And I am growing cold ... with morning so close."

Aramus felt the hare's deep wounds quiver with his words. He removed his foreleg, shielding the small form as best he could beneath his thickly coated chest, protecting it from the merciless wind that slashed them with sleet and snow. Silently, he studied the hare's condition, wondering how long it would last before death followed those massive wounds.

"What has done this to you?" he asked quietly.

The hare breathed heavily, once, his chin resting upon his chest, then fell very still. For a long moment Aramus was afraid that he had died. Then the hare raised his head, as if fighting off sleep, and spoke.

"There is no time. I know ... that you are here ... for a purpose. I have heard of the gray wolves, and I know that they, too, worship the Lightmaker. But you must flee this place. A great beast is coming. He will kill you, too. So ... leave quickly. Or there will be no escape."

The hare breathed slowly, quietly, then stiffened, as if to escape some unendurable agony, before relaxing once again.

"Little time remains. I fear that already … too many have died. It lives only to destroy those who worship the Lightmaker."

Aramus knew.

"Baalkor," he whispered

The old hare looked into his eyes.

"That is its name?... Yes, so it seems."

Wounded breathing rasped in the night air.

"I have led it far from my home, deep into these cursed woods. And Windgate led my colony ...
his
colony, now ... south to the caves beside the brook. There, they will be safe. And now you must not stay. I sense your faith, and I know that you, too, worship the Lightmaker. But there is no cause for more sacrifice. To stay … is doom."

Aramus saw tears form in the tired eyes.

"So much love, yet we were too weak. I heard the cries of the little ones. And I did not see poor Benjamin rise. But for brave Windgate, we all would have been destroyed. It has no mercy. I have never seen its equal. You are young, and strong, but it is twice your strength, and more. Save yourself."

The hare's words ended with a quiet sigh, and he lowered his head again upon his chest. His eyes were closed and swollen from his mourning, and his breath became shallow and cold.

Sorrow touched Aramus to know that this small creature had endured such terror. Yet he was also seized by dread to discover that Baalkor, the dark beast who had killed Karidural and fought his father in the frozen North, was stalking through the forest night, hunting this hare to finish a fight that should never have begun.

Suddenly, a demonic howl hurled from some distant, darkened ridge invaded the night sky. And Aramus stood, startled, recognizing instantly a cry he had never heard. His breath caught in his chest, and if it were possible he would have looked across the endless night to behold the beast. But he could not. He looked again to the hare, his silver eyes searching.

The small creature gazed back at him, old and prepared.

"Yes," he
whispered with a nod. “It is coming."

Such death for the sake of death alone made Aramus' mane bristle. And in his mind he could see Baalkor, that ancient destroyer of lives, rushing silently through the night to this lonely place, fangs fresh with the blood of the innocent, dark eyes burning with hate.

In horror the frightened wolf remembered Lucas's dream: the dream of Death rising from its hellish grave …

W
hispering his name …

* * *