Chapter 2

An icy wind cut through the Howling Mountains, echoing the haunting wolf calls for which they had been named. Winter had set in upon the land.
The first snow had hit hard, as if thrown from the sky. Within the first few weeks of the season, the countryside was blanketed in white to match the overshadowing crags. Rockslides had run on the heels of the first freezes, and now that snow and ice had spread itself down from the peaks nearly unto the brink of the sea cliffs, avalanches had become an added danger. Thus, through graveyard forests and deathtrap mountain passes, two wolves and a battered cohort of vermin came at last to the stronghold of Garhad Stormslayer, the Mountain Wolf.
The fearsome warlord had claimed for himself a vast honeycomb of natural caves in the heart of the mountain range. The huge main entrance was situated high above the timber line, looking out onto all the Mountain Wolf's domain. On clear days, the sea could be seen glittering on the horizon. A great rocky overhang fended off most snow slides that would turn into avalanches as they progressed downwards. Inside was a long, cavernous hall dimly lit by torches. The flames cast flickering shadows, creating a grisly illusion of the restless ghosts of the unfortunate creatures whose pelts lined the walls. The ceiling could not be seen from the ground; darkness seemed to swallow the cave mere pawlengths above the wall sconces, and hung threateningly just overhead. Nobeast save their inhabitants could enter the caves without apprehension. The air smelled of death.
A nervous group of captains followed their leaders through the unsettling entrance hall. Hordebeasts, no matter of what rank, were generally not allowed into the mountain domain of the wolves. Few lesser creatures were, save for the chieftans or matriarchs of various tribes that roamed the Howling Mountains. Even so, those audiences often ended in blood.
Whatever the misgivings of his subordinates, Branog Thunderpaw was the picture of arrogance. One of the Mountain Wolf's five sons, he and his brother Uthor were par for the largest. And strongest. In fact, they vied continuously for superiority it speed, skill, and anything else that would win their father's favor. Just recently they had been sent along with their other brother, Verdok, to quash a few stirrings of rebellion in the western forests. Uthor had stayed behind, wanting to push out to the coastlands, where he felt their father's grip had been too lax of late. They needed a reminder, he had said, of who their ruler was.
Let Uthor play in the coastlanders' sandbox, thought Branog to himself. While he wastes his time, I'll be the one to crush the largest resistance movement since this land was conquered.
As if he had read his brother's mind, Verdok quietly inquired, "Don't you think Mother and Father will be less likely to grant your request when they see you've broken their own laws and brought this mite-ridden rabble in?"
Branog was irritated by the question, but refused to have his good mood ruined. "First off, I'm not requestin' anything; I'm telling 'em I'm going, and that's that. And two, this here riff-raff is for show - I want th'ould man to know my warriors is the bravest we got. That's why they're gonna come before 'im proud as you please and not a smidgeon of fear on their faces. Isn't that right, captains?" He bared his fangs in what might have been a smile at the vermin behind him. They had no choice but to mask their fear with confident grins and swaggering. Any sign of weakness would certainly be the death of them now, either by the claws of Branog or those of his parents, whose throne room they entered.
The chamber gave one the impression of stepping into the mouth of a monster. Spikes of rock jutted from both floor and ceiling like great sharp teeth. A narrow carpet of hare fur dyed crimson ran from the doorway to a central pair of ornate seats carved from two massive stalagmites. Upon them reclined two wolves. On the left was the female, whiter than the purest snows, absently stroking the head of another, smaller wolf sitting below her. The male was an even larger, even more terrible version of Branog. His thick fur was mottled black and gray and white. The shaggy beginnings of a beard and prominent touches of silver betrayed his many seasons, but although there were bags beneath his dark brown eyes, they were still as hard as stone. Adorned with silver gauntlets, mail, and a gleaming breastplate, seated resplendent in barbarity, the Mountain Wolf growled severely through bared yellow fangs.
"Branog . . . only those of royal blood were to appear before me today. And only those of wolven blood are to ever set paw in these caves." His eyes narrowed dangerously at the line of vermin behind his son. They managed to keep their form and stance, but more than one had affected a noticable quiver. "You'd better have a damned good reason for disobeying me on two accounts."
"I believe I do, m'Lordship," Branog lightly replied, turning and walking slowly down the lineup of his captains. Verdok glided unassumingly to one side as his brother continued. "These here are my finest captains. Every one of 'em played key roles in my suppressing of the uprising against you, Sir."
"And I suppose that should convince me to spare their lives for this offense?"
"Well, I . . . ." Branog stumbled over reminding his father that it was he who had ordered the vermin into the mountain. That might be another debilitating arguement in what was fast turning into a losing battle. Frantically he searched his mind for a possible foothold, brushing imaginary dust from a weasel's shoulder as a cover. "I should hope so, Sir. They keep the troops in such good order, y'know, and they're fine soldiers, every one of 'em. Very hard to find fighters of this quality, Sir." He turned to face his father again, whom he could tell was growing impatient. "Which is why I'd like to be keepin' 'em on. They'll be indispensible, y'see Sir, for when I attack Drakyndell."
The Mountain Wolf arched an eyebrow and let the silence hang heavy for a moment. "I see," was all he said, but his flat stare spoke volumes to his son, and Branog did not like what he heard.
"I don't believe we've so much as mentioned another campaign, son." Branog turned his head at the silvery voice of his mother. It always had an abrasive, slightly patronizing ring to it. Her tone was reflected in the eyes of the wolf at the foot of her throne, her other son, Skola Snowshadow. Like her, he was white, save for light touches of gray around his eyes and on his paws and tail.
"Yes, you wouldn't be trying to secondguess our dear parents, would you, brother?" said Skola in a light, snooty tone.
Branog resisted the urge to snarl at his smaller sibling. Mama's pet, he thought disgustedly. "I'm only trying to prevent a full'n'out rebellion, little Skola. Not that you'd know anything about it, playin' lapdog since autumn and not a scrap of work-" he cut his backlash short when he saw his mother's hackles rising. Her blood-red eyes threatened things far worse than loss of his command should he insult her favorite any further. Branog coughed nervously and appealed to his other parent again. "Somebeast needs to crush those dirty little maggots the same as we crushed the first resistance movement. If they're left alone much longer they could turn into a real big thorn in your side, Sir, surely you know this. Why not make an example of 'em now? Burn their city, kill their children, put fear back into the 'earts of those rotten lesser beasts in your valleys an' forests. I'm tellin' you, Sir, they're beginnin' t'forget who their rulers is down there. They're due for a reminder," he finished confidently, playing on his brother's own words to him.
Garhad Stormslayer regarded his son for a long moment. "Very perceptive of you, Branog," he rumbled at last. "I would expect nothing less from one of my best generals," he added with a significant glance towards Skola. "Yes, I have summoned you here to discuss a campaign against Drakyndell. However, your other brothers have not yet arrived. Wasn't Uthor with you and Verdok?"
"Oh, that great lug stayed be'ind when we finished with those miserable woodlanders. He took a third of my vermin to the coastlands on some stupid terror crusade. It's just like him to see to see to 'is own little fun an' games when there's a bigger problem t'be dealt with, Sir. I wouldn't expect th' irrisponsible loaf back 'ome for at least another fortnight. So if I may say so, Sir, what's to be discussed? Who better to smash Drakyndell into the ground than me?"
"Somebeast who's actually got an army at their disposal, per'aps?" All eyes came to rest on another wolf as he threw open the doors to the throne room and swaggered in grandly. He was mostly black-furred, with chocolate patches on his flanks and ashen paws and face. Like Branog and Skola, he had his father's eyes. At the moment they gleamed with a triumphant light. It wasn't often that Dargon Rawfang got the better of his larger brothers, but today would be different.
"Greetings, m'Lord, m'Lady Mother," he intoned, bowing respectfully. "Since my discovery of Drakyndell and, er, encounter with their forces, I've taken those under my command all along your mountains, Sir, and recruited 'undreds of vermin for your Painted 'Ordes. I even managed to get a pretty bunch from that polecat tribe we've been 'aving trouble from. After a little persuasion, of course." He grinned unpleasantly. "Th' ones left alive are now in your service, m'Lord, an' eager to please."
"Well, goody-good for you, then, brother," Branog cut in before their parents had a chance to reply. So the little show-off thought he could gain the upper claw, did he? "I 'ope it makes up for all the 'ordebeasts you lost in your blundered li'l 'encounter'. I b'lieve it's only fittin' these recruits get transferred t'me - they need a gen'ral that won't walk 'em straight int' the enemy an' get 'em all slaughtered."
"You seem to forget, son, that Dargon was able to turn the tide of the battle," Ingrata Frostfur smoothly interjected. She was not appreciative of Branog's constant bullying, which more often than not was aimed at Skola. She didn't often take part in the squabbles of her offspring, but she wasn't opposed to speaking for her other sons if only to spite Branog. "He returned to us victorious, and with a very important report. We would not have been aware of Drakyndell's existence if not for him."
"But he-"
"I know how the enemy fights, dear brother. I have a plan, and an army t'put it to use. Your pitiful troops are tired'n'ragged after your last campaign. They couldn't fight their way out of a hole in the ground in their condition." Dargon's steady gaze flicked sharply at the sweating vermin, who had been trying their best to remain unnoticed. "And it looks like you'll soon be short another six captains. What a shame."
One of the captains finally broke and let out a frightened whimper. Furious at having lost to his self-assured brother, Branog wheeled on the hapless creature and ran it through with its own sword. As he stormed out of the chamber he yelled to Skola, "Why don't y'make yourself useful an' clean that up, y'great white whelp!"
"Branog!" Ingrata rose indignantly, but her mate waved her back down, chuckling.
"It's enough punishment that he's lost face and command to Dargon, my pretty shedevil. But if you want someone to maim, I'll hand the rest of these lawbreakers over to you." He gestured towards the rest of the vermin, now cowering against the wall of the room closest to Ingrata's throne.
A weasel broke from the group and made a desparate dash for the entrance. Skola was up in a flash, closing the distance between him and the would-be deserter in three long bounds. He lept in front of the weasel, who tried to stop but tripped and fell headlong to the rocky floor before Skola's paws.
"Shall I escort them to your . . . entertainment room, Mother?" he inquired, placing one paw firmly on the quaking vermin's back and keeping his eyes on the others.
Ingrata Frostfur's crimson eyes glimmered cruelly, the promise of torture on her tongue. "That would be lovely, dearest. I won't be disturbed for supper." With that she stood and stalked gracefully from the room. At a sharp look from Skola that mirrored his mother's malice, the unfortunate vermin reluctantly slunk after her, all save the weasel --- he had fainted out of sheer terror, and was carried disdainfully by Skola.
"Verdok," boomed the Mountain Wolf after they had left. "You've been awefully quiet through all this." He didn't wait for a reply, anticipating none. "You're to go with Dargon and advise him in directing his army. I presume you're not overly weary from your last excursion?" he added with a touch of contempt.
"No, my Lord," replied Verdok in a voice like an echo off the mountains. "As you know, I am more a tactician than a warrior."
"Hrumph. Pretty way of saying you don't fight worth fodder. I'd hardly consider it an excuse if you weren't so good at what you do. You may go now. You will depart for Drakyndell on the morrow."
Verdok and Dargon inclined their heads with a joint "Yes, my Lord", and turned to leave.
"Dargon . . . ." growled the Mountain Wolf suddenly just before his son passed through the doorway. "If you fail to destroy Drakyndell this time, you'd do better to take your own life than return here."
All the wolf's former pomp deserted him at the sound of his father's dark injunction. He had seen the Mountain Wolf's wrath inflicted upon other creatures; just to think about it tied his gut in knots. He turned himself around on shaking paws and bowed his body unsteadily to the floor.
"Y-yes, m-m-my Lord."