Authors: Blair Aaron
“The enemy comes near!” a red-headed man shouted from the crowd, nursing a bloody head wound with white garments soaked in ice.
“Yes,” Rollus answered. “For the next three days you will enjoy unrestrained rest and recuperation!”
“And then?” another voice said, from somewhere within the crowd moans and groans.
“And then.we will fight the last battle of this war and be done for good!” Rollus put up his hands to the air, as if the news were giant basket of bread and wine for the men, which he intended to gift them for a job well done. The crowd didn't respond, though, and after a brief moment of awkward silence, Zamir walked his horse forward a little, in the direction of the crown of the mound. His men stared at him, their faces blank, their eyes staring past him, far into their tumultuous future in the next few days.
“My men!” he said, and the warriors locked eyes with him, loyal to him even in their extreme exhaustion. “I come to you today, to request the last ounce of trust you can muster on the behalf of me, your Commander. I see the fear in your eyes. I sense the deep exhaustion emanating from your souls. And I notice the pain in your cries at night, from the wounds I have inflicted on you.
“But today I tell you this. Your fighting will not have been in vain. Ask yourselves, how would your wives want to find you when this terrible war ends. What will your children, aunts, and uncles wish to see--your victorious visage walking back to their open arms, ready once more to resume your place as their great protector? Or would they rather see your ashen face, pale and lifeless, crushed under the murderous foot of an Obotrite? And what's more, what will our people's fate be, should we give up in this last hour?” He paused to let his words sink in. In the crowd, Zamir could see some of the men look down, believing their great leader could see the shame in their hearts for being too tired to go on, willing to give in. Others continued their locked gaze in his direction, hanging on his every word. “Tell me, my great warriors. What plans do these Obotrites have for your families? They will surely not bestow as much grace on your families as you show right now.” He could hear some of them get up, crushing their heels into the brittle snow and ice, ready for one last fight. “You have been so good to me, and should some of you fail in our duties to protect those we love and care for, our duties which we cannot escape as good men, I will one day meet you in the afterlife, where Odin himself welcomes you into his arms, holding you on his shoulders as a true hero, in the only place it matters.” They hooped and hollered. “Go with me now, do your duties as men with families and children, show these monsters what you're made of. Help me protect my village, my country, my tribe. Our tribe that we love so dearly!” He unsheathed his silver sword from his belt and held it up to the air. Nearly the entire tribe of men followed suit, holding up the ground down battle axes, chipped ball and chain flail, and the strongest daggers. Two younger men held up an older warrior with a giant gash in his side, which he had stuffed with dirt and ice to stop the bleeding. All of them chanted Zamir's name in rhythm, once again confident of his leadership and poise. Zamir's pulse sped up as he ran his eyes over the crowd of proud, hard-working warriors, backing him to the bitter end. He looked down at Rollus, who smiled despite himself, his heart swelling with courage and admiration for his best friend, the man who would in time become the Alpha Wolf, the strongest and bravest Dane to grace the presence of the Maglamoisan people.
CHAPTER 35
That night, as Zamir perused the perimeter of the camp, trotting next to the edge of the forest that bordered the barren field, he found himself overcome with the vague feeling someone or something deep within the forest was watching him. The night was quiet and the horse's hooves cracked the dried leaves as he continued watching over the camp. In the distance, he could hear faint laughter and general craziness his boys were making before going to bed. Then, the sound of a breaking twig caught his attention. He turned around to face the darkness of the woods.
“Who's there?” Silence.
Zamir, being a master hunter, could almost smell the scent of anyone who came near his camp. But this was different. He knew the Obotrites were far too tired to make it over to their camp, if they could even find his men. He waited for a moment, staring into the black void, as he sat atop his horse. But there was nothing. But something red and glimmering in the woods caught his eye, and he walked his horse forward just a little to get a better look, thinking perhaps his tired eyes were playing tricks on him, as they sometimes did. A single point of red light, first soft and fuzzy in his vision, then sparkling and bright, grew more intense as he continued walking forward into the black void. The light cast the trees in a silhouette radiating red around the contours of bark. Zamir found himself intoxicated by the light, drifting toward the light, anxious to find its source. But then something snapped him out of his hypnosis, as he heard commotion coming from his main camp. He looked back out of the forest, seeing he had ventured farther into the woods than he thought. A small point of yellow fire in the distance caught his attention, and he realized his men had started a bonfire. He kicked his horse into high gear, galloping at full speed out of the forest, but the edge of the forest continued to recede before him. His horse ran faster until he caught up.
When he got to the camp, his men were drinking mead and chanting into the night air. “Oh, there was a steamy lass, we really loved her ass, but when got sleepy, we couldn't fuck her weakly.” Zamir cut them off.
“What are you fools doing?” he said, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Do you know you're being watched? You have given our location away!”
“We were cold, Your Grace,” said a stubby bald man, a grin on his face that spoke defiance.
“You were cold, were you?” Zamir asked, stepping slowly in the man's direction. “Tell me your name, warrior.”
Now the bald man retreated, his drunken feet failing beneath him. “I'm sorry, My Lord. Please forgive me,” he said, dropping his goblet onto the floor, spilling all his mead in the dirt. He could not meet Zamir's gaze, as his general and mighty commander came closer to him, his massive frame dwarfing even the formidable height of the bald man.
“Maybe you'll continue to ask forgiveness when we offer you up to the barbarian horde only two miles away, when they arrive with their swords and knives and hungry guts. How far will forgiveness take you then, sir?”
“I--I don't know.”
Zamir whirled around to face the rest of his men. “Tell me. Who's responsible for this?” But he got no immediate answer. “I said, who's idea was this, to throw a party here in such a dangerous place? Speak now, or be the first on the battlefield to die!”
“Sir, it was your Rollus who accepted our proposal.”
“Rollus?” Zamir asked, as Rollus emerged from behind the crowd, having finished shaving his face. He wiped his hands on a dirty cloth, looking around the room. “We must needs speak of this in private, my Grace.” Zamir agreed and they retreated to Zamir's private tent. Inside was a humble bed, though full of cover and heat, compared to the outside air. One might expect a mighty General's tent to filled with a rich sack of treasure, say, or maybe ornate quilts and tapestries, or perhaps even a garish and plush resting area, big enough to bed multiple women while away on business from his spouse. But Zamir's tent was small, almost as small as the greenest soldier he had. On the left was his sleeping area, a small wooden mat rolled out onto the cloth canvas. On the right was a wooden table, atop which sat a box full of writings and scrolls, old military scripts from yesteryear, which his father had given him in preparation for his first battle. Since that time, Zamir's curiosity for war strategy had been sated by more scrolls, and he had pursued the answers to his questions through numerous interviews with various venerable warriors of his past, even going so far as to travel through neighboring villages, scores of miles away, in the hopes he could learn even more.
He removed his armor vest and sat it in the corner of the tent. “What were you thinking?” he said to Rollus, his tone more subdued now that he was speaking with someone whom he viewed as an equal.
Rollus shifted onto the side of his foot and scratched this top of his forearm, an idiosyncratic tic he was prone to when nervous. “my Grace, as I said, the soldiers were hungry and cold. This is the dead of winter, and you can't tell you all of them will survive the ensuing battle, do you?”
“I never bring my men into a battle I think they cannot win. Every death affects me.”
“Be that as it may, I thought maybe they would do well to relax a little before possible death.”
“Relax? Have you lost your mind? The last thing they need to do is relax. Those who relax, die. You know this Rollus,” Zamir said, his eyes penetrating deep into his friend's soul. In addition to being an accomplished military general, an undefeated hunter, Zamir was also a fantastic judge of character. He could sense with some super consciousness whenever someone withheld any shred of truth from him. Never before would he have believed this superstition, which came and went from his mind of its own accord, as if it stemmed from another personality altogether, would slither to life in the presence of his best friend. Zamir took a step closer to Rollus, who stared at him, stone faced through his crystal blue yes, small and embedded in his skull like ghostly marbles.
“My dearest friend,” Zamir said, looking Rollus' face through and through. “Is there something you want to tell me?” Rollus didn't answer Zamir for a few seconds, and the two men just stared at each other, Zamir studying him for any imperceptible sign that would betray his intentions, and Rollus was immovable, with not a single sign there was anything in his heart roiling beneath the surface of his placid demeanor.
“No, my Grace. My heart and mind are with the ensuing battle, which we intend to win.”
Zamir took a breath, his black hair obscuring the left eye. He placed a strong hand on his friend's shoulder. “Make sure to watch over the men tonight, as I sleep. Even great generals need their rest.”
“I will make sure of that, my Grace,” Rollus said, turning on his heel toward the exit of the tent. Near the exit, Zamir stopped him.
“Oh and Rollus,” he said.
“Yes, my Grace?”
“Make sure they put that damn bonfire out, before the wolves attack us in our sleep.”
“Most certainly,” Rollus said, without turning to face Zamir. Then he left the tent without another word. Zamir removed his undershirt, revealing a tan, massive chest and chiseled abs. He removed his underpants and crawled onto his sleep mat. He lay there for half an hour, his arm hanging across his forehead, his eyes staring past the ceiling of the tent, thinking. His instincts were never wrong, not when he wasn't even trying to probe for information from Rollus. His friend's behavior outwardly revealed nothing was amiss in his intentions, but other variables pushed the animal part of Zamir to think there was more than meets the eye. But, perhaps he was wrong. He had been wrong before, he thought, as he finally rolled over onto his side and fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 36
The night was quiet for several hours after all Zamir's men fell asleep. He was never a deep sleeper, so when the noise from the intruder came, his eyes opened directly. He jumped out of bed, pouncing onto his feet, naked and without armor, and peeped through the small opening in his the entrance of his tent. He could see nothing except several of his men sleeping, some atop the wooden tables, some right on the ground. The dying embers of the bonfire lay at the center of all the guys, their swords strewn all over the place. This chaotic site boiled Zamir's blood, not just for the danger it posed should the Obotrites attempt an ambush, but the fact that Rollus would never let this happen. Something was definitely up with him. Zamir pulled on a pair of pants, grabbed his sword and slipped out of his tent. He covered all directions around him, to see nothing out of the ordinary. Then he stepped over the men strewn through the camp, still asleep. He heightened his sense of sound to any to all directions. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him, as he looked out once again to the now black sea that was the barren field in the darkness. The stars shone in the night sky, diamonds tossed on black velvet. The chill air sliced through Zamir's clear nostrils, waking him up for good now. He remembered the woods earlier, before the bonfire had distracted him, and the brilliant red light obscuring his vision. The memory sent panic through his spine, as he paced onto the side of the camp, the point on the perimeter nearest the edge of the forest. He stood there watching the trees, still as rods, not a single sign of life. There was movement in the shadow of the forest. Zamir could not mistake it, and being the proactive leader he was, he decided to meet the intruder head on, whoever he was. He feared a Obotritian scout had located their hideout and informed the rest of his troupe. They might have sent an assassin to scope things out, or take advantage of Rollus' bad decision when he let the men start the bonfire. He ran straight into the wood, on his bare feet, chasing the shadow as it withdrew into the heart of the darkness. Faster and faster he ran, his heart pounding out of his chest, and he could hear the sounds of the spy getting closer. Zamir's speed continued to pick up as he came upon what appeared to be a person running on all fours, his arms and legs down below him, moving effortlessly through the tangled limbs and logs, the cold puddles, the mix of snow and ice, all through the freezing air. But Zamir felt no fear, and instead he continued giving cash, determined to catch whoever had broken the perimeter of his camp. The shadow then morphed into something else, a half wolf-half man, his legs extending out past him, elongating, his knees buckling under the weight of his transforming frame. The man's jaw extended down past his chin, and his teeth sharpened themselves before Zamir's very eyes. The man stopped against a tree, backed up against a rocky area of the forest, staring straight into Zamir's eyes. The creature continued to transform itself through and through, growing black fur on his back, tearing its clothes off, as his hands became massive paws, his fingernails became razor-sharp claws, and his backside lengthened itself into the shape of a dark, furry tail. The man's nose emerged from this change as a wolf's nose, after the change was completed. Zamir feared nothing when it came to his own safety, but did stand there in awe of the site he witnessed, a veritable werewolf, stories he had forgotten since the time he was just a boy. The wolf was massive, with black fur and green eyes, as he stood there growling and barking at Zamir. He could tell the wolf didn't feel fear either, as his green, glowing eyes emanated a mysterious yet appealing force of nature Zamir seemed all too familiar with. The wolf stopped growling at him for a split second, and the two creatures just stood there in silence, watching each other.