Tales of the Wolf: Book 01 - The Coming of the Wolf (12 page)

Climbing off the travois, Tatianna got her first look at Hawkeye since their encounter with the trolls earlier that morning. He was filthy. His lower half was covered in mud and snow while briars and sticks matted his beautiful fur. Looking exhausted, he panted heavily as his sides heaved with the day’s exertion. Tatianna quickly unhooked the sled.

Still in his wolf form, Hawkeye turned back to the entrance. Stopping briefly Hawkeye glanced at Tatianna, turning his head he looked at a small pile of firewood that lay next to the entrance. Looking back at her again, he flashed a quick wink. Understanding that he wanted her to start a fire, she nodded and Hawkeye trotted off into the night.

Gathering wood from the small pile, she laid it in the fire pit. Being cold and tired, Tatianna decided to use her magic to start the fire. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she pointed her right index finger at the wood and said, “Anar!”

A bright blue flame about twelve inches long sprang from her index finger and quickly spread to the dry tinder. The roaring blaze gave off a comforting warmth that soon filled the small enclosure. With the light from the campfire, she was able to study her surroundings and noticed that the enclosure must have been man-made. The trees had been placed in such a fashion that their branches interlaced to form walls and a dome, while the only entrance faced the rock wall of the ravine, cutting down on the wind and adding a small degree of protection.

“Judging from the firewood and fire pit this must be a hunting lodge for the Highlanders. I can't imagine anyone else wanting to live here.”

After a while, Hawkeye returned carrying two large rabbits in his mouth. Laying them down next to her, he walked over to the travois and shifted back into his human form. As he quickly dressed, Tatianna couldn't help but stare.

Although numerous scars criss-crossed his back, his physique was magnificently muscular and firm. Feeling herself blush, she turned her attention to the rabbits. Skinning them quickly and efficiently, she turned to find Hawkeye staring at her.

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think an elf would know how to do that.”

Flashing him a crooked smile, she replied, “An elf or a female?” 

Hawkeye laughed. “Okay, a female elf. I always assumed only hunters would know how to do that. Not that there is anything wrong in a female hunter.”

“My brothers and I used to go hunting all the time back home.” Her smile growing bigger at the memory, she continued. “I was always taught you must eat what you kill. I remember this one time my brother Khlekluëllin killed a wild boar and….”  She froze as tears welled up in her crystal blue eyes.

Rushing to her side, Hawkeye knelt by her side. “Tatianna, are you okay?”

Quickly burying her face in his chest, Tatianna cried. All the pain and frustration of the last several days came out in her tears. Gently drawing her into the circle of his arms, Hawkeye pulled her close. Stroking her beautiful crimson hair he whispered, “Let it go.”

She stopped crying several minutes later but remained buried in his arms and chest. She felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen while she was there. Hearing his stomach grumble, she broke the embrace. Although he didn’t want to release her, he didn’t resist. Feeling slightly embarrassed Tatianna busied herself with the rabbits again. Placing them on spits, she set them on the fire. Noticing her discomfort, Hawkeye rose and said, “I’ll fetch some water.”

Gathering up several flasks, he left the enclosure. When he returned carrying more firewood and water, the rabbits were ready and they ate in silence.

Once they were done, Hawkeye spoke. “We will be at Itasca late tomorrow night. Hopefully the snow won’t get much worse between now and then. Sleep near the fire and take all of the furs. The fire will die long before sunrise and it will get very cold in here.”

“But what will you do for warmth?” asked Tatianna.

With a sly grin, Hawkeye pulled off his mantle and shifted into his wolf form again before lying down near the fire. Gathering up his furs and adding them to her own, Tatianna lay down next to him. It was not long before they both were asleep.

The next morning they set off before dawn and continued throughout the day without a single break. The snow continued to fall until there were snowdrifts taller than a man. Even though Tatianna was covered with several thick layers of furs, she still shivered from the cold.

By midday, her toes were numb and still Hawkeye trudged on as the snow got deeper and deeper. Eventually, Hawkeye had to shift into his hybrid form but still he continued on; driving forward with his powerful legs while using his arms to help push the snow back. Around dusk the snow stopped but the heavy clouds remained. Coming to the crest of a small hill, Hawkeye paused briefly.

Glancing over her left shoulder, Tatianna got her first glimpse of Itasca, the northern village of the Highland Nation. It was not what she expected.

Blackfang moved through the bowels of the fortress until he reached a wooden door with a huge lock that barred his way. Pulling out a large key from underneath his filthy furs, he unlocked the door and stepped into the immense chamber. The intense smell of blood, urine, rotting flesh and fear assaulted his nose; Blackfang smiled at the horrifying smells. It was heaven to him.

To his immediate left was a large fireplace; although it was not burning at the moment, it was already laid out for the next fire. Nearby was a large table, full of pokers, shackles, thumbscrews, manacles, knives, bottles of salt and many other items Blackfang didn’t recognize. All were cleverly designed devises used for torture. They each had a unique way of causing great pain without letting the prisoner die.

Directly across from the main entrance were two doors of cast iron leading to the prison cells. Some of the filthy cells had inhabitants, soldiers who were delinquent in their duties or captured prisoners. On the walls to the right, hanging at different heights were iron shackles. Most were empty but some still held the remains of their last inhabitants; skeletons and a few corpses that had not completely decomposed. There were also three elves and one dwarf hanging from these shackles.

The elves hung limp in their chains with their heads bowed low and their wrists bloody and raw from the strain of holding up their weight. They were stripped completely bare and bore the many marks of torture. Mostly bruises, burns and cuts that had been left open to fester and rot. The torturer had gone to great lengths during their last session trying to make them beg or scream for mercy. He had failed. Not once during the many sessions of torture had either of the elves even uttered a single sound.

To an elf, the pains of the body can be endured. An elf just places his mind far away from the body and stays there until the session is over. It is what the pain has done to the soul that cannot be undone. The worst punishment Blackfang or anyone could do to an elf, was to place them deep underground, away from the light of the sun, the feel of the wind and the scents of the forest. The pain done to the body is preferable to the chaining of an elf’s soul deep underground.

As bad as the elves looked, the dwarf had it worse. He was suspended by both of his arms and legs while the tension pulled in four different directions; his wrists and ankles bloodied and raw from the strain of holding up all of his considerable weight. He was also stripped bare, showing several long cuts across his midsection and arms. But again, the punishments to his body though considerable were not the worst punishment the dwarf was made to suffer.

They had shaved him.

Every single hair on his body had been shaved off. His fiery red beard and long mustache were gone. Shaved clean by the wicked gnomes as punishment which was the most humiliating punishment one could inflict upon a dwarf.

To the dwarven culture long hair and beard were a symbol of a dwarf’s courage and physical prowess. For when a dwarf enters hand to hand combat, they must get in close because of their small stature. Any opponent could easily reach out and grab the dwarf’s long beard or hair, pulling them off-balance. Only a warrior who was sure of his skills in battle would give his opponent such an advantage. The length of your beard and hair was a great symbol of pride and honor to a dwarf. To be clean shaven or to even have short hair was to be without honor. And to a dwarf, honor is everything. A true dwarf would rather die honorably than to live shamelessly.

Blackfang punched one of the elves on the chin and shouted, “Wake up, Elfie! Your master is here!” 

As the elf’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, his eyes popped opened and he glared at the Highlander. Even in the dim light Khlekluëllin’s dark hair still shimmered with blue highlights which gave him a foreboding look. “Good morning, Blackfang.” 

Looking over his left shoulder Khlekluëllin called, “Wake up, Mortharona! We have a visitor.”

Lifting his head slowly, Mortharona answered through a yawn, his voice was dry and wispy. “Good morning brother, is breakfast ready yet?”

Spitting out blood, Khlekluëllin aimed for Blackfang but missed. “I don’t believe so but someone let in this smelly mutt. You know it is so hard to find good help these days.”  Twisting his head so he could see the dwarf he asked, “Wouldn’t you agree Rjurik?” 

Clearing his throat, Rjurik spoke slowly. “Aye lad. Tis strange hospitality we have had ta endure these last few days. Personally, I think da host should be drawn and quartered.” 

Smiling Blackfang walked over to the chained dwarf, reached out and grabbed Rjurik’s genitals. Pulling on them hard, he slammed his knee into his midsection. There was a loud grunt, as all the air in dwarf’s lungs was forced out. Groaning, Rjurik fell silent.

“Listen here, you smelly earthworm,” Blackfang said. “If I had my way, you would’ve been dinner long ago. Dwarves make a great appetizer although their meat is a little chewy. But my allies think you could be useful in the future. They seem to think that you will tell us of a back way into your homeland before you to die.”              

Turning away from the groaning dwarf, Blackfang noticed that the fourth prisoner in the room hadn’t stirred yet. Turning toward him, Blackfang studied the pale elf. Corwin, the elven queen’s consort and father of the twins, hung limp in his chains. His naked body was extremely gaunt and bore the numerous marks of torture. Out of the four, he had been in the dungeon the longest and tortured far more than the others had and his body showed it.

Prodding Corwin’s chest with his knife, Blackfang screamed. “Wake up!” 

No response. Grabbing the elf by the shoulders, Blackfang brought his knee up into the elf’s groin, hard. Extremely, hard. Still no movement or reaction at all. Blackfang checked for a pulse and couldn’t find any. He threw back his head and laughed.

“It seems that I will eat well tonight after all. Your father has finally given in to death’s reward. You elves are so weak! He didn’t even last a month.”

Khlekluëllin spoke quietly in his native tongue. “Go to Aurora, Corwin Amarth. Pass from this realm to the Halls of the Sun and rejoice in the knowledge that you will be honored forever.”

Blackfang walked over to Khlekluëllin and punched him in the gut. “If you forsake your goddess, I’ll set you free.”

Regaining his breath, Khlekluëllin fixed Blackfang in a deadly stare. “If you set me free, I’ll rip out your heart with my bare hands.”

Blackfang ignored the idle threat and said, “Soon you’ll be begging for a quick death!” Turning his back on the helpless prisoners, he stormed out of the chamber. As he passed the two gnomish guards just outside the door, they snapped to attention. “One of the elves is dead. Take him to the kitchen.”

“By your command!” They both replied in unison and hurried to do the Blackfang’s bidding. Once out of earshot of their master, the gnomes grumbled to each other in their own tongue as they unceremoniously dumped Corwin’s body on the floor, grabbed the corpse roughly and dragged it from the chamber.

As soon as they were alone again, Mortharona said, “It has to be soon. We can easily overpower the guards.”

Khlekluëllin shook his head. “Father didn’t think that would be a smart thing to do and neither do I.  We might be armed but where are we going to run? There has to be at least three thousand troops in these ruins. No, we should wait until they go off to battle. It’ll have to be soon. Even Blackfang isn’t stupid enough to keep an army this size idle for too long.” 

Khlekluëllin looked over at the dwarf and asked, “What do you think, Rjurik?”

Rjurik nodded. “I agree with both of you. The chance to escape will have to come soon or not at all. We will have to be ready when it comes. It might be tonight or next week or next month. The important thing is to conserve our strength until then.” 

As each thought about their situation and the possibility of escape, an oppressive silence fell over the torture room. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the ever-present scents of death, decay and the oily smoke from the old lamps which burned slowly in the corners.

Finally, Mortharona broke the silence. “When we do make our escape, I hope we have an opportunity to kill Blackfang. I cannot wait till I get my hands on that filthy shape-shifter. His death won’t come quickly or easily. I’ll show him what torture truly is.” 

Pausing to think, he didn’t notice the horrified look on his brother’s face. A wicked grin slowly crept over Mortharona’s face as he imagined his actions.

“I think I’ll start with his toes. I’ll cut them off, one by one and throw them in the fire so he can watch them burn slowly. Then, I’ll do the same to each of his fingers. I’m going to take great pleasure in killing him.”

Khlekluëllin stared at his twin brother in disbelief. “Mortharona, that isn’t a nice thing to say, even about Blackfang. Your thoughts and words go directly against Aurora’s teachings.”

“And the sacred words of Bromois,” Rjurik interjected. “Although I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on Blackfang myself, I would like to face him one on one in battle. There is no honor in torture, only in combat.”

Khlekluëllin nodded. “I agree. I wouldn’t mind facing off with Blackfang myself in combat, blade to blade, skill versus skill.”