A Wolf Story (8 page)

Unmoving and majestic, Gianavel rested beneath the brow of
snowy white, his great head lowered, just as Aramus knew it had been lowered through the fight to watch the glade, the battle, and the death of a king. And Aramus knew his father had never truly left him alone but had only wanted him to face his fears. And if his life had ever been at the edge of death, Gianavel’s wrath would have been Baalkor’s doom.

Then h
is father was beside him, the noble head bowed in respect. His mane was coated in ice, even now melting in the dawn, but he seemed untouched by the cold, the great shoulders strong and enduring, beyond the world's power to destroy.

"You were with me through the night," said Aramus, "and yet I never knew."

His father's presence was close about him in the growing warmth of day. "1 was with you through the night, it's true," Gianavel said. "But it was not just of me that he spoke."

Aramus glanced toward the place where Baalkor had vanished into the thinning mist, but his heart lay beside his fallen friend.

"Endure ..." he whispered. "That's what he said. And always strength comes for the task." .

Searching silver eyes looked upon Gianavel.

"Is that the reason I was here? Was it so that I would find the strength to endure?"

Old and wise, the gray wolf nodded once.

"It was something I could not give. Only the Lightmaker, in his grace, could lead you to this place.

Though had the beast struck you down once more, my wrath would have been his doom. But I stayed my strength, so that you might find yours, as I knew you would
... in the end."

Then his father's voice grew solemn and grave, and he gazed tenderly at Saul's still form.

"Now he will run forever in fields green with laughter and light, where death has no dominion. And one day, too, you will run there beside him, friends forever."

Silently, gracefully, the old wolf then turned and walked toward the mountain trail that led north to home and safety and the comfort of the pack. At the trail he turned back again, his august form splashed with the golden dawn, to bid farewell. And even in the thin forest light Aramus could see love borne on the gaze of those deep gray eyes. Then with a whisper of the wind he vanished into the mist.

Aramus was alone with the dawning of the day. No longer did he feel his wounds, or his fears, or the cold that had chased him through the dark. And somehow, in his heart, he knew that he would never again fear the night. A quiet strength settled in his spirit as he turned to gaze at the southern treeline.

The mist still obscured the forest edge, but was thinning with the growing warmth of day. He did not know what dwelt beyond the distant woodline, but he knew his journey would be long. And after that, the long return home, to Lucas, and the pack, and a new life awaiting.

A single tear pierced the soft snow as the wounded wolf gently lifted his friend. And as the night's last stars slowly died in dawn's growing light, he turned solemnly south, and vanished into the mist, as well.

* * *

Book Two

And if one
prevail against him,

two shall withstand him;

and a threefold cord is not broken quickly.

one

Solemnly the great gray wolf poised atop his mountain domain.

Gray eyes, wise and strong with ancient strength, gazed into the darkness as if to read the shadows, or the wind, or the moonlit night. And though the old wolf's shaggy mane waved slightly beneath the gusting breeze, he seemed unaware of the touch, the august head bent as if sensing a sad cry that carried faintly from some faraway place.

Silently, from the shadows that cloaked the cliff, another wolf stepped slowly into the moonlight. The wolf appeared older by far than the first, its gray mane blending white on the grizzled head and back. Yet though smaller in size than the massive creature it approached, the elder wolf moved with a lean, aged strength. And its hard, scarred face did not seem to know mercy or weakness, until it spoke, and the gray eyes softened with concern.

"The child has not returned, Gianavel?" asked Razul.

As if unable to look away from some distant foe, Gianavel shook his head. "No," he said, and sighed deeply, piercing the cold night air with his breath.

Gianavel continued to gaze into the distance, where sky and forest were lost beneath the conquering power of night, and his gray face hardened.

"We both know that the Lightmaker is doing a work in the child," said Razul. "And we both know that he must suffer much to gain his full strength. But you are troubled by something beyond this, brother. What is it you see in the night?"

Again Gianavel shook his head and gazed down the cliff beside them, seeming ready to descend the mountain with his thoughts.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I believe that the Lightmaker is working within my child. But it goes beyond that."

Razul said nothing, the ancient face tense. And together for a time they gazed, listening, into the night. Often Gianavel would raise his head, as if hearing something in the cold dark, but there was nothing. And although the great wolf did not move, his stance made lies of his stillness; a stance that spoke of fierce, savage strength, long held but now aroused, trembling to be unleashed.

Gianavel looked fully at Razul when he finally spoke again.

"I know that it is my place, as King of the Gray Wolves, to defend the pack. And rarely do I leave the mountain because of this. But now, for some reason, I am compelled in the spirit to find my son. I only hesitate because I sense that the pack is also in great danger. I'm not afraid to tell you, brother, that I'm troubled. Tell me what you see, Razul. Are we in agreement? Has an attack been launched against us?"

Gianavel's gray eyes searched for some assurance that his senses had not betrayed him. And Razul gazed back at him, the old eyes reflecting deep concern, but veiled from caution and long habit. Not quickly did the elder wolf reveal his mind, always weighing his words heavily; discerning, forever seeming to test his mortal thoughts against his matchless knowledge of the Truth. And Gianavel looked again across the darkened sky, waiting patiently, respecting the Elder's ancient wisdom, his august understanding of things past and present. Long ago, Gianavel had realized that even the future was not beyond the scope of Razul, so sensitive was he to the Lightmaker's spirit. The older wolf would speak when he would speak, and not before.

For a long time they watched from the high ridge, Gianavel focusing on the distant darkness, concentrating with hard gray eyes to read the night. And after a time, the wind altered its gusting pace, and he perceived a faint and grievous tone, a soft cry, subdued and saddened, as if the blood of all those crushed by cruelty were crying out to him from the earth; a cry that echoed with the endless pain forced upon the world by the Dark Lord. Gianavel lowered his head, sensing the suffering, the incomprehensible suffering inflicted since the dawn of time by that cruel hate. And as the wind died, leaving a grave stillness upon the high place, he heard Razul speak.

“I
t is said," the old voice rang clear and crisp in the cold air, "kill the head and the body will die. That is why the Dark Lord will try to destroy the greatest among us, and scatter the rest. You are King of the Gray Wolves, Gianavel. You are the strongest defender of the faith. And you are hated and feared by all who worship the Dark Lord. Even Baalkor fears you, knowing that the Lightmaker's spirit within you proclaims his doom. And because they fear you, they will kill you, if they can.

“
I, too, sense that Aramus is in great danger, and you must go to him. You must go to him tonight. But 1 also sense that there is a great battle before us, a battle that will go far beyond your son. And I fear that we shall see much death before victory is won. For I perceive that the true plan of the Dark Lord is to destroy you, Gianavel, by somehow using your child against you. And when you are dead, the Dark Lord's servants hope to crush the faith from the Earth.

"My spirit compels me to warn you, brother. I know that you are strong, and your strength has delivered you many times in battle. But beware, for your strength can also destroy you. The Dark Lord is provoking you, even now, to strike back in your great anger, and wrath, hoping that you will betray the Lightmaker. For they know that if you are standing close to him they cannot defeat you. Yet they also know that if, somehow, they
can cause you to forsake him, then you can be destroyed.

"I perceive in my spirit, I know in my heart, that this is the trap laid for you, Gianavel. But I will pray for you, as I have always prayed for you. And I know that you will overcome, even in this.

"Wisdom will guide you, my friend, wisdom gained from a long life of knowing and understanding the way of the Lightmaker. And with wisdom, remember your courage. These will deliver you from even the strongest attack. Then, when the battle has ended, as all our battles have ended before this, I hope that we will stand together again, as we stand now."

For a long moment Razul lifted his head, as if listening, or speaking. Then he looked again upon Gianavel, his ancient eyes keen and bright with knowledge and understanding.

"Unleash your strength, brother. The time of waiting has passed. Go, as the spirit within you compels you to go. And I will assemble the Elders, following at dawn."

Gianavel looked solemnly upon his old friend and nodded, his gray mane cloaked with an unflinching courage that seemed to transform him into a new creature. And the night grew still as the old king rose, standing dauntlessly beneath a dark wind that whispered of war and suffering and death.

For a breath Gianavel gazed down the steep cliff, its depths concealed within the swirling, chaotic darkness. And from somewhere within the gray eyes, a light, unearthly and unconquerable, emerged, defying the power of Night. Then, with a single movement, the great gray wolf moved boldly over the edge.

Like a thunderbolt Gianavel fell through the darkness, finding quick, narrow steps in the night, certain that his foot would not slip nor his courage fade, coming down from the mountain.

* * *

two

A lone in the white wilderness, high on a moonlit ridge, Aramus rested, searching for life in the forest night. Silent and still, he watched, and waited, while dark winds waved the shadowed trees and the pale moon cast frosty light across his high place.

After his journey south the Deep Woods had come alive with fiendish howls echoing long through the night. Dark wolves, enraged and vengeful from Baalkor's defeat, had quickly enclosed him within the forest. And the hunt had begun, a hunt that would never end until he was dead.

Aramus understood the deadly game, and for past nights his cautious skills had evaded the demonic search. But it was a game that could not last. Sooner or later, he knew, he would make a mistake and they would trap him, as they had trapped his father long ago.

Often he had heard their vengeful howls pursuing his trail, and with the iron endurance of youth he had run relentlessly in ever-widening circles, crossing over his own tracks and circling again, exhausting and confusing his pursuers until the frustrated cries had faded into the night.

Afterwards, weary with his efforts, Aramus had thanked the Lightmaker for his escape, knowing that the spirit of the Living God had stood by his side, strengthening him. And knowing that survival depended on returning home, he had tried each night to slip through the wolf packs guarding the border of the Deep Woods. And each night he had failed, driven back again to the south by that killing zone.

Aramus breathed once, deeply, as he rested, and thought solemnly of Saul. He had never truly known death until that fateful night in the glade. And it troubled him still. He had carried the grief with every step he had taken to the caves by the brook, where he had laid Saul. And when his promise to the old hare was finally fulfilled, the pain had become a deep wound in his soul, an inescapable emptiness within him. The wolf
’s heart weakened to think that never again would he speak with the old hare. Saul was gone, a life left behind. Now Aramus would have only what the future held.

Despite his faith in the Lightmaker's promise, Aramus knew that each time he allowed his mind to return to those final few moments with Saul, he would know anew that sorrow of separation, a wound that would grow dim with days but endure for a lifetime.

Silver eyes closed as his heart gazed upon the lonely sight that had greeted him at the southern caves: the sight of the small, forlorn hares gathering sadly about the body of their fallen king. Aramus had watched the scene from a distance, his promise kept, his heart at peace.

The colony had stood a long time, solemn and weary, holding one another to ease the pain of their loss. And then, silently and strangely, they had parted, as one larger than the rest emerged from the caves. The big hare's dark fur was streaked with half-healed wounds, though he bore his pai
n bravely. And the others separated respectfully as he knelt beside Saul's still form, bowing their heads as one.

Even across the distance Aramus could see the sorrow that struck the massive figure. And here, he knew, was one who had loved his king much; a worthy son, a noble heir. A long time the big hare rested, silent and broken, his great form cloaked with his grief.

But as Aramus continued to watch, the hare suddenly started, as if sharply awakened from a dream, and raised his head. Aramus saw the bold, suspicious eyes quickly scan the glade and surrounding woodline. It took only a moment before the creature searched him out atop the distant hill. Then the hare stood up on its hind legs, instantly defiant, dark eyes focusing intently.

Aramus held the gaze, his silver eyes casting a sad shadow that seemed to span the separation between them. And as they stood, the hare's suspicious gaze slowly clouded with a strange and curious awe.

It dropped low, came forward a pace, and raised itself up again, its eyes no longer challenging, but touched with a searching hope. A long time they shared their sorrow, each face reflecting a grievous loss, a solemn pain beyond the expression of words or deeds. And then slowly, carefully, Aramus lowered his head, revealing his respect. The big hare seemed struck by the gesture, and continued to return the gaze a moment more. Then he also bent his head, once, and lowered himself again upon his four paws.

The memory of that shared encounter had been the single, bright place in Aramus's long journey. For he had slept seldom, still disturbe
d and restless from his frightful encounter in the Deep Woods, the deadly battle that ended his long night in the storm.

Lost in the memory of that quiet encounter, Aramus raised his head sharply as howls, unmerciful and hungry, were hurled across the moonlit night. Action and thought were one as he poised on the ridge, still and alert, senses reaching out to test the air, the wind. And almost instantly he knew that a chase was moving away from him, lower into the hills. He frowned, listening intently, strangely disturbed.

Not marked by the cold communication of a search, the convening cries suddenly slashed the frosty night with a malignant, merciless lust. Aramus recognized the cries for what they were: the thrilling howls of killers closing upon a kill. And from the manic, gleeful din, he understood that the fiendish pursuit was near its end.

Making no sound, Aramus rose from the rocky ground. The howls were quickly gathering, not so far away. Then a roar shattered the night, not merciless or cruel, hut fearful, enraged. The roar carried above the chaos of the hunt, superior for a moment before it was covered by a descending chorus of demonic cries.

Aramus began to step forward, his spirit reaching out to that tortured soul. But the old fear, that instinctive desire to preserve his own life above all else, immediately stilled his step. Then he remembered a snow-covered glade, and another wounded creature that had freely given far more than he had received, and Aramus smiled; a sad smile, but wise, and content with the knowledge that actions must follow faith, or faith is dead. And he stepped forward.

As a pale shadow Aramus moved quickly down the moonlit ridge and was soon gliding gracefully through the blackened corridors of the forest night, sensing the life of every creature he neared and moving away before it could know his spectral presence. With sure steps and unerring skill Aramus slowly increased his loping gait until he was running silently through the shadowy gloom, crossing the forest floor with supernatural grace, searching out the conflict with the gathering howls. And as he neared the ridge where the battle raged, Aramus instinctively slowed, moving even more carefully, alert to everything at once. Creatures hiding from the raging battle half-raised their heads as he neared, glimpsing the ghost of a wolf that never touched
the earth, moving without sound through the forest night, and was gone.

Aramus reached the ridge
crest and waited, concealed within the shadows of the treeline. Gazing intensely across the wide, gray granite of the slope, he saw a swarm of dark wolves chasing a wounded bear. The wolves were closing upon the creature with hideous howls, and a quick glance revealed that the bear was near the end of its strength.

Torn by guilt, Aramus knew that he had been the true prey, but his stealth had eluded the pack's hateful search. And now, frustrated by his unending escape, the dark wolves had abandoned their hunt to turn upon any creature that crossed their path. Aramus watched, his brow furrowed with compassion, as the bear staggered up the rock-strewn slope, a brave and noble creature soon to die beneath those pursuing shapes. And he wondered if there would ever be an ending to this fight. The thought disturbed him, but he had no more time for thought. He knew that if he was to move, he must move quickly or not at all.

Even as Aramus thought, he slid silently from the concealing gloom of the woodline, gliding undetected across the ridge toward the bloodcurdling battle, choosing without hesitation to stand beside any creature who stood against that dark force.

♦    ♦    ♦

Wounded and weary, the bear stumbled up the moonlit slope, breath heaving in hot blasts from his gasping mouth to cast a frightened glance over his shoulder. Behind him, emerging from the deeper gloom of the trees, he saw pairs of yellow eyes, fixed and hungry. The black shapes that followed moved more quickly then he, sliding as shadows from the darkness, their forms revealing no fatigue, no heaviness as the heaviness that weighed down his legs and caused him to stagger clumsily, pitifully, up the boulder-strewn hillside.

At dusk the dark army had descended from the hills, launching yet another attack upon him and his father. And he had fought bravely beside his sire until the old one fell, struck down by a great lion with eyes of flame.

His courage shattered by his father's death, the young bear had turned in panic, running blindly through the forest. And so he had run since dusk, staggering on and on through this strange land, weary and broken. But his desperate efforts were doomed; the wolves had remained apace with stronger, fiercer ones taking the lead when the closest tired, continuously eroding his crumbling strength, leaving him easy prey for the fight.

Earlier, when the hellish horde had cornered him, he had turned, enraged, and struck sweeping blows with his great, curved claws. Two were crushed instantly, for even in his small frame there resided the awesome, inherent power of his kind. But during the savage encounter he had also been wounded, torn and slashed by the remaining predators who had descended upon him in a frenzy, shredding his dark fur and flesh.

Realizing with searing pain the futility of open combat, the bear had turned and fled as before, knowing that these were no ordinary wolves. Even with the howls that boomed through the night, he sensed that they were driven by some darker lust, some unearthly rage. And as he began to realize more clearly their deeper purpose, an indescribable horror had gripped his soul, a horror that whispered of cruel torment and suffering.

The beasts were nearly upon him again, he saw, with another backward glance. He neared the crest of a ridge, staggering beneath the weight of his fatigue, and ran toward two large boulders that could provide slight protection on his sides. Here, he knew, he would make his final stand. And even as he neared the rocks, he felt their hot breath upon him.

He reached the granite walls and turned, rising onto his hind legs and roaring a challenge that rattled dead leaves and shattered the night. The boldest, largest of the dark horde leapt upon him, and the bear struck savagely, his rage rising to overwhelm his horror. Then the pack was upon him, white fangs flashing viciously in the starlight, dark shapes leaping like shadows amidst the deafening din of war.

The bear defiantly stood his ground, roaring, striking crushing blows with his heavy paws, his last painful thoughts of the father he had lost in the wilderness, wishing the old bear were by his side.

* * *