Tales of the Wolf: Book 01 - The Coming of the Wolf

by A. E. McCullough

  The gnomish guards waited patiently but alertly while their companion placed the chains on the three captives. Roughly leading them from their cells, they started the long trip to the arena.

  Rjurik grunted loudly. “Mortharona I see you’re still pleased about going to the Pit?”

  The dark haired twin winked at the old dwarf. “Yes I am. Sitting in this dark cave is depressing. Besides, I get a chance to kill these little buggers and that defiantly makes me happy.”

  Listening to his brother’s eagerness to kill their enemies, Khlekluëllin’s heart felt sad. His thoughts kept returning to the strange images his saw in his twin’s mind through their shared link and thought, ‘Something is wrong with my twin, I know it! But what? Mortharona had always been headstrong and unforgiving in battle but never malicious or sadistic. Now it seems that he was slowly becoming as evil as Blackfang. Maybe Mortharona’s hatred for Blackfang was poisoning him? Yes, that was probably it. If I am going to save my brother then we need to escape soon!’

  After about a hundred feet or so down the passageway, the captives met up with another group of gnomes which were carrying their clothes and weapons. This was something the three captives hadn’t yet figure out. Every time the twins fought, they were outfitted in their own clothes and given their own weapons but not Rjurik. He was always left to fend for himself in gaining a weapon. Why Blackfang did this was a mystery to them? They just figured that it proved a greater challenge or thrill to the crowd. That was something Blackfang was very aware of, the crowd. He played to them, giving them just what they wanted but at the same time making sure it was the same thing he wanted.

  After traveling for about thirty minutes through the winding tunnels, they felt a cool breeze on their face and knew they were approaching their destination, the Pit. Coming out of the dark tunnel they were once again faced with an awesome sight. They were high on one of the walls which overlooked an immense cavern that was located somewhere to the east of the fortress. Below them was the arena for the night’s games. It was roughly fifty feet deep and probably two hundred feet across. Crude bleachers had been erected around the edges of the Pit for the spectators. These were filled to capacity and even overflowing with warriors. The three captives could see gnomes, cyclops, highlanders, shadow elves and several hundred trolls. Glancing up, they could see the night sky overhead. The stars blinked and twinkled in the cold winter sky. Just seeing them and feeling the cool breeze on their faces refreshed and invigorated them.

  Winding their way down the side of the cavern, the captives noticed that tonight’s games had already begun.

  The games consisted of throwing combatants into the Pit and letting them fight to the death, all the while the armies of the Dark Alliance cheered or booed their pleasure or displeasure. When a combatant won, he would seek the crowd approval for a kill or a pardon. In the three weeks the captives had been forced to fight in the games, no one had ever been pardoned. Every fight was to the death.

  After they reached the holding pens, one by one their chains were taken off and they were given their clothes but not their weapons… not yet.

  Dressing in silence, Khlekluëllin studied the crowd seemed larger and more bloodthirsty than normal. The pens were full of combatants. Most were gnome, goblin or highland warriors who had somehow received this as punishment. Khlekluëllin had found in the past that most were here because of a dereliction of duty; sleeping on guard duty, disobeying a superior or something like that. Victory would absolve them of their crimes while failure meant death.

  The holding pens also housed several animals. There was a large grizzly bear, two sabre-tooth tigers, a dozen wolves and something extremely large in the furthest most pen. Khlekluëllin couldn’t make out what it was due to a large tarp covering most of the pen but when it moved the whole pen shook. The blue-haired elf had a bad feeling about tonight’s games.

  Glancing at his friends, he noticed that Rjurik was studying his brother with an intense look. Mortharona was staring off into the distance at something or someone on one of the balconies. Casting a quick glance that way, Khlekluëllin could not see what his brother was looking at.

  Letting it go for the moment, he broke the silence. “I think tonight is the night for our escape.”

  Rjurik’s head snapped over to look at him. “I agree! We will be armed, let’s cut our way to the surface!”

  Mortharona snickered. “You foolish old dwarf! We wouldn’t get a hundred yards down one of those tunnels before they overwhelmed us.”

  Rjurik bowed up to his full height of four feet. “Now listen here, you snot-nosed, pansy loving, bark eating elf! I, for one, don’t plan on just waiting around until Blackfang gets tired of us and has us taken to the kitchens like your father. If I’m gonna die, then I’m gonna take a few with me!”

  Mortharona’s face turned red with anger and he was about to fire back another insult, when Khlekluëllin’s voice broke in. “Calm yourselves my friends. We have enough enemies surrounding us right now! We don’t need to argue amongst ourselves.”

  Mortharona glanced at his brother with a pained look plastered on his face. “But he said…”

  Khlekluëllin held up his hands. “I don’t care! You started it by insulting him first. Of course he’s going to insult you. It was only fair but you are both even right now and that’s the way it’s going to stay! Besides, something feels different about tonight’s games. The crowd seems more bloodthirsty.”

  Rjurik scratched the week old growth of whiskers on his chin. “You know, I think you’re right. Something does feel different about tonight. Besides, where’s Blackfang? He should be down here any minute to gloat over us.”

  No sooner had the words left Rjurik’s mouth, than Blackfang came striding through the pens. All of the captives, except the animals and the three friends bowed as he passed. Reaching their cells, Blackfang stopped and studied them.

  “Well my friends. It seems we’ve been here before.”

  Mortharona flashed him a wicked smile. “Are you going to fight tonight coward?”

  “No Mortharona I’m not. My goddess has decreed that you will not die at my hands but at the hands or teeth of a combatant in the Pit.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry my friend, I wish it could be different. I would love to teach you a lesson about combat.”

  Shooting his arm through the pens bars, he tried to reach Blackfang’s throat but he was just out of reach. Mortharona retracted his arm quickly and said, “One day, you and I will meet in combat.”

  Blackfang turned his back on the elf and walked away, laughing. Passing some guards, he barked out an order. “Bring the dwarf! He’s next!”

  Sprinting to do his bidding, they grabbed Rjurik out of the cell and dragged him to the side of the Pit. At a signal from Blackfang, he was pushed in and the crowd went wild. They loved when the dwarf or the elves fought. Once the roar of the crowd died down a bit, a large club was thrown in for Rjurik to use.

  This was normal. Blackfang always gave the dwarf an inferior weapon. Rjurik casually picked it up and went through a few practice swings to judge its balance and waited calmly. He didn’t have to wait long before three gnomes out of the crowd jumped into the Pit. Gnomes and dwarves are racial enemies. This hatred runs so deep and long that no one living can remember why or when the enmity between the two races started.

  The three gnomes were well armed and outfitted. Each wore leather armor and carried short swords in each hand. The gnomes, laughing and jeering, tried to taunt Rjurik who just stood there. The gnomes rushed him with a loud yell. Rjurik launched himself into a dive and rolled right under the trio’s clumsy swings. Coming up behind one of the gnomes, he broke his club over its skull with a vicious two-handed swing. The unfortunate gnome dropped like a stone and the crowd went wild!

  Before Rjurik could pick up one of the fallen swords, one of the remaining gnomes ran at him with his sword held out like a lance. Rjurik stepped to the side and let him run by. Of course, he did put out his foot to t
rip the charging gnome, which fell face first onto the sandy floor. Not waiting for the fallen gnome to get up, Rjurik pounced on his back and grabbed the gnome’s head. He pulled it as hard as he could straight back. The gnome’s neck snapped with a loud pop!

  The crowd roared their approval.

  Blackfang watched as the crowd began to cheer on the dwarf. They didn’t care who was winning they just wanted blood. And as long as they got it, Blackfang didn’t care who won either. For no matter who won or lost, Blackfang was the true winner and that made him happy. Turning back to the action, Blackfang watched as Rjurik picked up one of the fallen swords.

  Rjurik studied it for a moment. The sword was not very pretty. He took it through a few passes and shook his head in disgust at the crude weapon. Slowly turning towards the last of the gnomes, he advanced. The gnome held his two swords in front of him in a guard position. Striding right in confidently, Rjurik parried the gnome’s first swing easily. The second parry was even easier. Then, with a thrust that came as an afterthought, Rjurik ran the gnome straight through the heart.

  Throwing down the sword, he looked at the gathered crowd with undisguised disgust. Folding his arms across his body, he waited for the rope to be let down. The crowd roared with delight.

  When Rjurik arrived at the top of the pit, Mortharona was grinning. “What took you so long?”

  “I ran into some old friends and had to send them to the Abyss.”

  The three friends watched as the evening progressed. Most of the fights were quick and brutal, lasting only several minutes. There was a long drawn out fight between the grizzly bear and a small cyclops. In the end, the bear won but was put to death by the jotens' friends. Finally, it came to the last fight of the night. Mortharona and Khlekluëllin knew it was to be their turn.

  Stepping up to the edge of the pit, Blackfang raised his hands and waited for quiet. Soon, the gathered armies noticed him and fell quiet. Glancing around, Blackfang spoke in a loud voice that echoed off the cavern walls.

  “My comrades, tonight is a special night; one to be relished and celebrated. By the next full moon we will be at war. Our goddess has located our greatest enemy, the Chosen One.”Blackfang spit as he said the name and the armies gathered grumbled. “He is destined to be born on the spring equinox. We cannot allow that to happen. Clotho has shown us where the Chosen One will be and has charged us with his death. Will you march with me to war?”

  The crowd roared in one voice. “YES!”

  “Will you bring death to the Chosen One and his sworn protectors?”

  “YES!”

  Playing the crowd, Blackfang continued. “What was that? I could not hear you! Will you bring death to the Chosen One and his allies?”

  They roared again, this time even louder and the walls echoed with their answer. “YES!”

  Someone in the crowd started a chant. With each chorus, it got louder.

  “Death to the Chosen One! Death to the Chosen One!”

  This went on for several minutes. Finally, Blackfang pointed to the center of the Pit. A large spider shaped altar slowly rose out of the sand.

  “Behold! Our goddess demands a sacrifice. Who here, would lay down their life for our goddess and grant our cause her blessing?”

  A skinny svartaflar jumped out of his seat and ran to the edge of the Pit.

  Blackfang smiled at the young shadow elf and asked, “What is your name?”

  “Osha.”

  “Do you give yourself over to our goddess, Clotho?”

  Osha nodded his head. “I do.”

  “Then mount the altar of our goddess and embrace her power, so that she may bless us.”

  Osha jumped into the Pit and climbed onto the altar. The crowd was strangely silent as black strands oozed out of the altar to bind the shadow elf. Rjurik, Mortharona and Khlekluëllin looked around at the gathering, puzzled. Nothing moved in the cavern, yet a large shadow seemed to pass over the dark elf’s body. Then his mouth flew open and out swarmed hundreds of spiders, crawling all over his body. The spiders slowly devoured the skinny dark elf until there was nothing left but bones.

  The crowd went wild! They cheered, yelled and banged their shields and swords against each other or against rocks, anything to make more noise. The spiders crawled into the shadows of the Pit and disappeared into the darkness.

  Khlekluëllin and Rjurik looked away from the gruesome sight.

  Walking over to the edge of the platform, Blackfang glanced at the elves and laughed. Signaling the guards, the twins were brought to the edge of the Pit. Hopping off the platform, Blackfang drew close to them. They could smell the odor of sour wine and blood on his breath.

  “Soon we march on your sister and her rescuer, Hawkeye the Wolflord. Too bad you won’t be around to see it, for tonight you die.”

  With a nod of his head, they were pushed into the Pit.

  * * * * *

  Grunk had watched the games in complete disgust.

  Trained from birth to be a warrior, Grunk was no stranger to gladiatorial games. Shortly after being kicked out of his father’s home, Grunk found employment at the arena in Niflhim, the Joten capital, first as a simple worker, then as a shield bearer and finally as a gladiator. Grunk was talented and by the end of his second season he had risen to the rank of Gladiator Five but he never found glory in the roar of the crowds. He hated the way the crowd cheered at death, smiled at the blood or jeered a fallen competitor. He left the games and his kin behind on the day he was to fight for the title of Gladiator Two. The current holder had fallen from a chariot during a pre-game race and broken his back. The owners and medics rushed out to aid him. Seeing the injury, the owners had ‘retired’ him and announced a fight to fill his spot. Grunk had walked away that same day. His father had been furious and had him banished from Niflhim. Hearing the crowd cheer at the blood games brought back those memories, none of them good. It was appalling how easily his kin had been seduced into evil.

  According to legends, during the Dark Times when the Arachne were numerous and controlled nearly half of Terreth, his ancestors were just one small tribe of jotens living in the Southlands. They were no different than any other joten, with two perfectly good eyes.

  When the Arachne took control of the area, instead of resisting them which was Gaul’s will, their tribe’s chieftain made a pact with the Arachne. The legends differ as to the Jarl’s reasons why he made the pact. Was it fear of subjugation? Greed? A lust for power? No one truly knows but the legends state that the Jarl had a meeting with Clotho the Spinner and offered to serve the Arachne in exchange for the gift of prophecy for himself and his kin. Clotho agreed as long as every member of the tribe made the same pledge. Once the pledge was made, Clotho cast a might spell which ripped out the eyes of every tribesmen, combined them and thrust them into the middle of their forehead.

  As painful as the process was every tribesman gained the gift of prophecy which Clotho used to her advantage. The cyclops were placed in charge of the armies of Darkness and aided with their prophetic insights slaughtered every other joten and nearly overthrew the northern kingdoms. When the armies of darkness were finally defeated and the Arachne cast back into the void, Gaul took his vengeance on his wayward children. He could not undo Clotho’s magic, so he cursed them. He twisted the magic of the prophecy, limiting it to the day of their own death. So now, every day a joten is confronted with the knowledge of his or her own death.

  Due to Clotho’s Curse, Grunk knew that today was not his day to die but that didn’t remove the fear of being discovered. So far, he had been able to avoid associating with any of his kin while skulking around the caverns. However this gathering was so large that Blackfang had clustered the different races into separate sections with the exception of those working. Grunk found himself within twenty feet of his father. Luckily Thantos was preoccupied with the blood games and he hadn’t noticed him..yet.

  Grunk was about to slip out of the crowd when the crowd fell silent. He saw the twins pus
hed into the pit and his father’s grin. This did not bode well for the elven brothers.

  * * * * *

  Even with their hands bound, the twins executed flips to land softly on their feet. They took in the arena with a practiced eye; judging the condition of the ground and positions of the broken bodies and weapons of the last combatants. True warriors try to choose the battleground that would be the most effective for them and hinder their enemy. That advantage had been taken away from them but still knowing where the slick spots of pooling blood or a severed limb was located they could maneuver their opponent into was still an advantage. When their weapons were thrown in, the brothers retrieved their swords and cut their bonds. It was then that they realized that the crowd was strangely quiet.

  A loud screech broke the silence and echoed off the cavern walls.

  Looking around for its source, the twins spied five huge jotens surrounding the covered cell that Khlekluëllin had noticed earlier. The jotens, each at least nine feet tall, were having trouble dragging a bound and struggling creature in a large net. Whatever the creature was, it was extremely large and didn’t want to go with them. Suddenly the crowd roared and began banging on their shields again. They knew what was in store for the elves.

  Khlekluëllin and Mortharona backed towards the far side of the Pit and readied their swords. A magical light radiated from the twin blades, illuminating the bottom of the Pit in a pale yellow glow.

  When the jotens reached the edge of the Pit, they pushed their bundle into it with long poles. It landed with a large thump and for a moment nothing happened. When it finally started moving, a large reptilian tail flicked out of the net. It was forked and in the dim light of the pit it looked blue. Next, a large scaled body started backing out of the net, until the net caught on something. Thrashing back and forth violently, the net flew off it to land in a pile nearby.

  The twins were shocked when they realized their opponent was to be an Air Dragon. It was truly a magnificent creature. No longer than eighty feet from tip of its tail to the edge of its snout, its wingspan was probably twice that length. Its teeth were the length of daggers and its claws the size of short swords. Its scales glistened blue in the firelight and its eyes glowed yellow with anger. The twins realized it was not a particularly large dragon, probably still an infant but it was still terrifying to behold.