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."
