It was dark, and the air was cool. The White Wolf would have normally stood out among the dense brush and gnarled brambles. One might mistake him for a ghost, one of many such claimants to the hauntings of this fell, forested valley, where so many men had met so many terrible deaths over the centuries, but indeed he was as much flesh and blood as the young warrior he accompanied. The wolf was careful with his feet, setting them softly on the ground with each cautious step, head low, back straight, tail between his legs. But his companion was beginning to grow restless. The howl of some fell creature beyond inhumanity, beyond damnation, had echoed throughout the forest over an hour ago, followed by a warning call from the Guardian Towers. But after that, nothing.
In the west the full moon lingered against the blackness of night, pinpricked by starlight and blanketed by cloud, and silhouetted against it was the Western Guardian Tower: its foundations were laid along a lone promontory of dark rock, looking out over the forest from high in the mountains. The soldiers nicknamed it the Left Hand of Laros, one of two that had guarded this dark valley since the first years of the South-realm. And here they had hid themselves, in the brush amid the twisting, writhing trees, looking, smelling, listening, waiting. But there had been no sign since then. No movement between the trees, no rustling of branches. No stench of death that was so indicative of the werewolves of Kânavad, Kânín as the Wolven named them in their ancient mothertongue.
Though the air hung still about them, there was a chill that cut through it like a knife. It was more than just a feeling of cold; it was a foreboding that played on the mind. For in this place the Wolven called Degos Enath all manner of fell, unseen horrors lurked in the shadows of the trees, phantoms of death and worse. Feral werewolves, denning in caves along the mountain-walls, sought to sate their insatiable hunger for flesh and blood, emerging under the full moon to hunt those valiant warriors of the Wolven army who chose to live and defend the realm here, in the treacherous reaches of the world. They were ravening, mindless creatures that had long forsaken what little humanity they had left. And those werewolves from the north, thralls of the Betrayer, sought to maraud their way into Ánovén’s borders and ransack her people, and those warriors here were in a state of ceaseless caution, their swords ever sharpened, their bows ever notched, ever on guard for the attack that would inevitably come out of the night. And through all of this the hereditary Wardens of the Guardian Towers, descendants of Laros himself, stood eternal guard over this ancient borderland of gloom and fog for the sake of Ánovén and her people.
The White Wolf’s companion, the young man in the dark hood, crawled silently beside him like a snake on its belly. In the light of the moon his fierce eyes cut through the shadows upon his face: a piercing blue, determined, without fear, ever roving this way and that. He gripped the bow in his left hand and held an arrow between his clenched teeth, ready at a moment’s notice to cut through the air and into the flesh of these accursed beasts.
They had been together for four hundred years, the wolf and he, and their bond was unique in that they thought each other equal. The White Wolf did not take commands from the young Wolven like some simpleminded hound, and in turn the White Wolf imparted wisdom and guidance to him, and fought willingly alongside him in battle. It was a connection that ran deep, deeper than blood, deeper than soul, an unbreakable bond of the spirit, forged by a fragment of creation itself, but also by death, the dying plea of a mother whose son was now orphaned in the world, far removed from his kin.
He was the only White Wolf in all of Ánovén, the first in twelve thousand years and more: Elekan, a direct descendant of Íne the eldest of the Elder Beasts, held in veneration by the Wolven. But he spent his time here with the one he was proud to call friend, in the thick of war unceasing, forgoing the safety of temples and citadels so as to be on the front lines to protect the very people who had given him shelter in his time of need.
“Anything yet?” the warrior whispered, matching the passing breeze as its invisible tendrils played at the leaves and branches around them, and the moon above shone on them like silver.
Aktethion, Elekan replied in the negative.
(Nothing.)
But he spoke too soon, for as the breeze died away a foul scent caught the wolf’s nose. It was putridly pungent, reeking of blood and death. The smell of wetness on matted fur… the padding of feet on underbrush…
Elekan’s companion had caught the scent as well. He raised his head and inhaled deeply. “Another raiding pack…” he guessed correctly. His eyes shimmered, and from under his tunic radiated a soft golden light. “Twenty, maybe thirty at the most…” His voice trailed off and his eyes darted this way and that, searching. “Nac’vae, where are you?”
They were drawing nearer. The wolf could hear the audible growls and barks amidst the rustling trees. Commands being issued, orders being followed… As they drew nearer a cloud passed over the moon, concealing their faint silhouettes against the darkness, wraiths draped in black fur and armed with poisonous, yellowed fangs… And still with no sign of anyone else.
He could wait no longer. Standing to his full height the young warrior drew his bow taut, and even in the darkness the silver arrowhead glinted coldly. Like so many others before it, this night would end in bloodshed, one way or the other…
* * *
At the head of the horde rode Kéle’il of Néktas, tall, proud, and of high Wolven descent. Fair-skinned with eyes like ice and hair of a deep brown color that fell past his shoulders, his dark armor flashed like obsidian in the moonlight. Behind him rode fifty Wolven warriors, valiant and brave, on this cloudy night amidst the tall, twisting trees canopying above their heads like a foreboding cathedral.
What was this, his twentieth tour? He’d forgotten how many times he had been assigned to patrol this godforsaken forest. A fell silence descended over the valley as they approached. Kéle’il pulled hard on his horse’s reins, forcing the steed to a halt, and the horde behind him followed suit. He raised his head, eyes closed, listening intently…
And then in the distance he heard it: a bloodcurdling howl, echoing from deep within the forest. The moon hung ominously above them.
Kéle’il’s lieutenant, Mehedir, rode up beside him. “Do you think it’s —?”
Kéle’il nodded grimly. “Damn the lot of them,” he cursed, spurring his horse forward. “Another raiding pack. To arms!” he commanded. He shifted the reins to his left hand, cried, “Bé-tathálij ktildo!” and almost instantly a long curved sword flashed into being in Kéle’il’s right hand. Following the howls of werewolves that filled more and more of the air as they drew nearer, they charged into the shadows of Degos Enath.
Kéle’il’s horse leapt over a rotting log, his rider pushing him harder, sprinting through the dense brush. Kéle’il ducked his head this way and that to avoid low-lying branches. Light and shadow flew past his face, fiercely focused ahead beyond the branches and leaves that reached out as though to snatch him from his saddle. The soldiers behind him chopped away at the branches with their swords to clear a path for the others behind, but more than once Kéle’il caught the brunt of a bramblethorn bush that was hanging off a low-lying branch.
On a sudden a black shape hurled out of the darkness of the forest and took out two riders behind him, hitting the ground, the sounds of rent armor and vicious snarls rising up out of the underbrush. A pyre of silver flame erupted and caught the wood, glowing bright amidst the darkness, and Kéle’il smiled; they were close.
Hacking his sword like a machete they burst into a clearing, and came upon a scene of utter chaos: some twenty-odd werewolves, between them the silvery blur of a White Wolf, and one lone warrior fighting from within the brush, barely visible in the moonlight, his face shadowed by a hood, firing silver-tipped arrows in quick succession into the fray. When his quiver was emptied he leapt forward, summoning a long curved sword of eversilver that flashed with cold bloodlust in the moonlight. Fire sprang all around him as he cut through the pack without fear.
“Attack!” Kéle’il cried, and the riders leapt off their horses, shouting names of fabled warriors and swords and kings as they dove headfirst into the mayhem. What followed was a blurred memory of yellow fangs and black fur and red blood, and silver fire that pierced the thick shadows of night. The White Wolf slashed with his claws and bit with his teeth, and the werewolves died from that deadly bite, snarling and growling and slashing and biting, a whirlwind of black fur and white.
At last the werewolves’ numbers fell, and Kéle’il stood facing one on his own. It was five feet tall at the shoulder, black-furred with a powerful chest and densely muscled shoulders and forelegs, and glaring eyes of an evil yellowish color. It snarled and barked, attempting to intimidate, and foul, poisonous saliva fell in great globs from its jowls. Its fur had been singed by its dying pack-mates, caked with the blood of felled enemies, altogether loathsome and depraved to look upon. Kéle’il stood with his sword at the ready as they circled each other, fighting as hard mentally as physically, each trying to pierce the other’s mind and preempt his next move. Kéle’il feinted right, but the werewolf pounced to its left. The rider was caught at unawares and the werewolf laid into him with a powerful shoulder, launching Kéle’il some yards back and into the trunk of a gnarled rowan.
Pain shot through Kéle’il’s back as he hit; here the armor served to do more harm than good. The werewolf paced around him, cornering its prey and savoring the taste of flesh and blood. Unless the moonlight was playing some trick on his mind, Kéle’il almost thought he could see the thing smiling. Kéle’il smiled back at his foe through his pain.
“So, that’s how you want to play it…” he said as he got to his feet. He was shaken, slightly, but otherwise unscathed. Kéle’il yanked his armor off, nonchalantly brushed some detritus from his shoulder and whirled his sword to the ready, diving forward, hurling the sword in a mighty arc for the beast’s neck, but the werewolf dodged out of the way, rolling on the ground and taking the high ground behind. The beast reared up on its hind legs and roared, then crouched and launched itself toward Kéle’il. He reached with his blade to impale the beast, but without warning an arrow flew out of the darkness and pierced its shoulder.
And then it was done. As the werewolf landed with a thud to the ground, sliding to a stop inches from Kéle’il’s feet, Degos Enath fell silent as a tomb. Kéle’il surveyed the scene: many of the horses were dead thanks to the werewolves, wantonly ripped to pieces during the chaos. Kéle’il had to step over one severed head as he made his way through, assessing his men.
As he looked among the dead he saw men he’d fought alongside for decades laying among them, their throats ripped away, entrails splayed on the soil like worms. It was a grim scene, to say the least, and Kéle’il said a silent prayer for each one he passed.
And suddenly a fell snarl chased away the silence, and another black shape burst from the between the trees, claws outstretched and mouth wide and ravenous. There was no time to react, and Kéle’il prayed to the Shaper for a quick death. But the thing burst afire, spraying Kéle’il with gore and ash. Kéle’il coughed and wiped blood and bile from his face. Standing before him was the hooded warrior with the curved blade, his face still hidden in shadow, ornate bow in hand and an empty quiver slung about his shoulders. And beside him, white fur stained with rubies of blood and crimson around the mouth and muzzle, was the White Wolf…
t:
enjoy!
the agent reading my sample pages rejected them. What's wrong with the story??
