Pulse: BBW Contemporary Rock Star Romance (27 page)

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.

“What are you?” Zamir asked. The wolf licked his lips before jumping full force onto Zamir, his powerful jaws aimed directly at Zamir's jugular. He fought the wolf off with all his might, screaming for the fight of his life, but the wolf was too strong. The harder Zamir fought, the stronger the black wolf seemed to get. He couldn't hold his violent snapping back for long, and before he realized what had happened, Zamir felt a powerful sting on his shoulder. He looked down at his shoulder to see a gaping wound, bleeding buckets as the seconds passed. He made on final push against the wolf, throwing him against the tree with all his strength, sending a searing hot jab through his exposed muscle tissue. He heard a small yelp from the wolf in the darkness, but once Zamir looked over at where the wolf had been, it was gone. Zamir blinked hard in his eyes for a second, trying to right his mind.

Screams reverberated through the forest, familiar voices of people he knew. His men. They were in trouble. Holding his shoulder, he ran back through the forest, blood trickling down his naked front, leaving small dabbles on the ground, bright red in contrast with the brown leaves. He ran as he heard the screams getting worse, now clearly intelligible.

“No! Fight the demon. Kill him. Joslyn help me!” Through the tree line he couldn't make out who exactly was shouting, as virtually every single one of his military warriors were attacking some bustling beast. The creature threw all them off like irritating ants, slamming them into the fire embers, against the wooden log tables, and into the dirty field. A shrill fighting voice rang out through the air, and Zamir doubled down his pace, trying to get there as quickly as possible, before all his men were killed. As soon as he got to the edge of the forest, he threw his massive arms down on the tree limbs in his way, breaking them in one fell swoop, ejecting his entire body into the air, out onto the airy black field. He looked to upper right, and saw the massacre taking place in his own camp. At least half of his warriors lay dead, splintered by the giant wolf which he himself had just fought off. The other half of his tribe continued to fight the creature, in the buff, their naked, hairy legs dangling from the massive beast's back, with nothing but the swords strewn piece meal through the whole camp. They had been woefully unprepared for what would find them tonight.

“Rollus!” he said, not having any idea where his friend was. The image of all the death and destruction before him devastated Zamir, but what's more, he was more devastated by the thought of his best friend in danger. He ran over to the carnage, glancing at the dead for no more than split second. The glint of silver caught his eye, and he turned to find one of his men holding up a sword in the air.

Zamir rushed over to him. “Joslyn,” he said, putting his hand on the man's chest wound, in an attempt to stop the blood flow. “What happened?”

“A--Ambush,” Joslyn said.

“Where is Rollus?”

“Can't breathe.” Joslyn put up his sword to Zamir, trying to tell him to fight the wolf. Screams came from behind Zamir, and he turned around to see the wolf tearing some meat from another warrior's back, gnawing and chewing him to pieces.

“You sonofabitch,” Zamir said, grabbing the sword from Joslyn's hand right as he expired from the bleeding. He pulled his own sword from its sheath, holding both in his hands. “You attacked my men, when they weren't ready. It's time I sent you back to the underworld, from where you came.” And with that, as the last few of his men continued their struggle to eliminate the beast from the camp, Zamir rushed behind them, holding his silver swords in a large X shape. “Die you supernatural creature!” he screamed right as he came down on the wolf, slicing through the back of its neck in one scissor-shaped swipe. Blood spewed everywhere, as the other men crept away from the scene as fast as they could. But the wolf's blood covered them as well. Zamir stood there, heaving great breaths from his body, his massive chest swelling and drooping in quick intervals. There was nothing but quiet in the camp, save the last dying weeps from the headless wolf lying at Zamir's feet. He looked around the camp, at the dead men missing limbs, at the crushed tents, at the dying coals from the fire, at the makeshift wooden barrel in which his warriors made mead for their last party, before battling the Obotrites. There would be no battle now. They had lost this one, and all other battles to come.