The White Wolf (Half-Breed Book 1)

by Brittany Comeaux

  “Where are your parents?” Milea asked. “Surely they wouldn't want you to live this way.”

  “I don't have any,” Erril spat.

  “Oh . . . I'm sorry,” Milea returned.

  “Don't give me your pity,” Erril retorted. “I ran away from an orphanage two years ago and started living in the woods. I hoped to be offered at least a small meal and a place to sleep, but none of these selfish bastards wanted a worthless little waif around. I had to start stealing the little food I could get my hands on just to stay alive.”

  Milea had no response for the girl. She could not imagine the horrible life this poor girl lived, and she knew she alone had to do something to help. Milea produced two loaves of bread from her bag and handed them to Erril. “Here, this should last a few days. What else do you need?”

  Erril looked as though she wanted to argue, but instead she lowered her head in shame and muttered, “A blanket.”

  “Wait here,” Milea said gently, and then left Erril to return to town. She later returned to find the orphan girl eating a piece of bread as if it were precious gold.

  Milea approached the starving girl and gently rested the new supplies next to her. “I have here a blanket, shoes, and a knife for hunting and defense. Now you won't need to steal your food.”

  “I've never hunted before,” Erril said after a gulp of bread.

  “I can give you a quick lesson,” Milea offered. The half-elf knelt next to the girl and brandished the knife. After showing her a few quick slashing moves, she then said, “You will need to start small, like with rabbits and foxes. A deer or an elk would be too big for someone of your size to handle, but with enough practice you could take them down from a distance with a bow. Be sure to skin the animals and collect their pelts too.”

  “Why would I need the fur?” Erril asked.

  “Once you skin the pelts, you can give them to the villagers to make up for what you stole, then after the debt is repaid you can sell the pelts or make clothing out of them,” Milea said.

  “Thanks Milea,” Erril said. “You must know a lot about this. How long have you been a hunter?”

  Longer than you can imagine, Milea thought. “Take care, Erril.”

  As the girl darted back for the woods with her new supplies and fresh food, Milea decided to return to the village and head to the inn. As she rounded the corner of the mill, a flash of white caught her eye. She looked in that direction and saw that it was Varg facing away from her and standing on the other side of a brush patch along the outskirts of the village. She knew she'd promised to stay out of his way, but her curiosity got the best of her. She tip-toed behind him and did her best to leave him undisturbed.

  Milea could see that Varg looked down at something, but the brush hid the object from view. As she came closer, she saw stone statues in the small yard, and beneath them lie several stone slabs. The dreadful sight of the old graveyard made her wonder why he chose to visit this solemn part of Wild Valley.

  Varg stood in revered silence at the foot of the one of the oldest headstones in the yard. He produced a handful of wildflowers and placed them on the grave. As he knelt before the decrepit stone, Milea quietly approached him from behind and tried to read the gravestone. Though the carved letters were worn with age, she was able to make them out. It read:

  Here Lies Treasa

  Even in death, your love will stay with us forever.

  Before Milea could stop herself, she suddenly asked, “Who is Treasa?”

  Varg bowed his head and took a deep breath. “A woman I knew a long time ago.”

  Milea tried to place her hand on Varg's shoulder, but before she touched him, he stood up. He did not face her, but quietly responded, “If you don't mind, I'd like a few more moments to myself.”

  “Of course,” Milea responded bashfully. “I'll go check into the inn.”

  Varg then turned towards the entrance of the graveyard, still without facing Milea, and walked into the woods. Milea was unsure why Varg refused to face her, but one look upon the grave suggested a theory. Milea examined the flowers and saw what looked like a tear stain on one of the petals.

  Varg debated to himself on whether or not to turn around and tell Milea the truth, but he finally settled on spending time to collect his thoughts first. His chest felt empty when he thought of Treasa, and no amount of women or mead could mask the pain.

  Varg kept a slow and steady pace as he passed several trees and came to a dense brush. By the time he found a clearing, his chest hurt even more because of what he saw. A beautiful clearing surrounded by a wall of brush and trees, hidden from the world, lay before him. The small pond nearby was surrounded by the thickest patch of wildflowers in the valley. Their bright and exuberant color brought back Varg's most beautiful memory, but also his most painful.

  He closed his moist, silver eyes and allowed the memory to overtake him . . .

  The night was quiet and the full moon shined its brilliance on Wild Valley. Varg crept up to the side of Treasa's house and scaled the wall up to her window, all the while trying not to wake her sleeping parents. She was waiting just inside with a warm smile and open arms. When he reached the top, she opened the window and met him with a kiss.

  When Varg removed his trembling lips from hers, he whispered, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I am,” she assured him. When Varg tried to climb into the window, however, she put a hand on his chest and added, “But we mustn't do it here. My mother and father could hear, and I want no interruptions.”

  “Where did you have in mind then?”

  “Follow me, I know the perfect place,” Treasa said with a high spirit.

  Varg allowed Treasa to climb onto his back, then he climbed down from her window her her arms around his shoulders. Once they were on the ground and away from the village, she gently pulled him along by his hand through the brush a short ways outside of Wild Valley. Her flaming red hair and white shift blew in the night breeze, all the while Varg eagerly awaited to see where she was leading him.

  They came to a beautiful moonlit clearing. A small waterfall trickled into a pond that was jeweled by blooming buds. Beside the pond, a blanket lay spread out on the grass. The tree canopy opened to allow the moonlight to flood the small clearing, nearly bringing tears to Varg's eyes.

  “The flowers here are the most beautiful in Wild Valley. When I decided to give myself to you, I could think of no other place to do it,” Treasa whispered.

  His love approached the blanket and took a deep breath. From there, she pulled her shift over her head. The moonlight illuminated her pale, bare flesh as she allowed the shift to fall in the grass. Varg tore his eyes from the forbidden sight only momentarily to remove his own clothing. His face flushed as he dared to approach her. With weak arms he held her and kissed her quaking lips. He gently lay her down onto the blanket and relied only on his instinct to guide him through the best night of his life.

  CHAPTER 7

  VARG MET MILEA AT THE INN just as she was getting ready for bed. Neither said much as he walked in, and he preferred to keep it that way for the time being. He was thankful that Milea respected his wishes and didn't pry, but deep down he wished she would say something.

  “Everything all right?” she finally asked.

  “Just thinking,” Varg answered.

  “If you need to talk, just let me know,” Milea said.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine,” Varg assured.

  In an apparent effort to ease the uncomfortable silence, Milea changed the subject. “I've been checking around the village all day, but so far I haven't found any evidence of the gang's activity.”

  Varg conceded to the change in topic. “We know they use fear and violence to keep people quiet about their presence—as we were unfortunate to discover with Horatius—so anyone could know anything about what they are up to. The fact that we have almost nothing to go on save for a foreign journal, an odd symbol, and cryptic message does little to ease my m
ind.”

  “For starters, we need to find the stronghold,” Milea said, “but as far as I can tell the journal doesn't give an exact location.”

  “Then how are we going to find it?” Varg wondered aloud.

  The conversation was abruptly interrupted by a high shriek that echoed from outside. Varg and Milea both jumped and rushed to the window to investigate. Outside, they could see several villagers rushing around with torches trying to find whoever screamed.

  Varg darted from the window to the door and said, “Let's go.”

  He waited for Milea to collect her equipment, and then they both rushed outside into the commotion. The men of the village went door to door to find the source of the scream while the women clung to their children and ran back inside.

  “It came from the woods to the north,” one man said.

  A group began to march towards the woods with their hounds and makeshift weapons ready. Varg and Milea trailed behind the group to offer assistance if necessary. When the group reached the edge of the forest, Varg heard one man shout, “Hold on, I've found a dagger.”

  The color immediately drained from Milea's face. “No . . .”

  Without warning the half-elf rushed forward into the crowd. Varg sensed something was wrong, so he quickly followed as she nudged the men aside one by one. When she arrived to the site of the dagger, she let out a gasp.

  “Erril!” Milea cried.

  “Who's Erril?” Varg asked.

  Milea ignored him, but instead looked to the crowd with a storm brewing in her eyes. “Which one of you cowards hurt her?”

  The men looked at each other confused, and Varg broke the silence.

  “Milea, what are you talking about?” he asked.

  “I gave this dagger to a girl earlier today to protect herself,” Milea explained. She then gestured to a small group of men, “A girl who these three were beating senseless before I intervened.”

  One of the men who had a badly broken nose—Varg had a strong hunch that his fiery counterpart was the culprit—stepped forward and spat, “She's nothing but a no good thief. This village will be better off without her.”

  “She's a child!” Milea shouted.

  The men would hear no more of her protests and simply walk off to return to their homes. Milea calmed herself, then turned back to Varg.

  “We don't need them anyway,” Varg assured. “Let me see if I can find a trail to follow.” He then crouched to the ground and examined the grass. There seemed to have been a scuffle, judging by the level of disturbed soil, and two sets of footprints led north into the forest. “Here it is. Follow me.”

  The half moon was out and lit the path for them as they ventured north towards the forest. Varg followed the trail of disturbed grass and brush while Milea trailed behind with her bow ready. As they searched, Milea told Varg the story of how Erril was an orphan who regularly stole food and other necessities from the village.

  “She was also the one who stole our food,” Milea explained.

  “You think some of the village men may have done this?” Varg asked.

  “I did at first, but we only found tracks leading away from the village,” Milea said.

  “I just hope it wasn't the gang members,” Varg said. “I dread to think of what they'd do to her.”

  Milea appeared visibly disturbed by this thought, and answered, “Regardless, we have to help her. She cannot hope to defend herself against them.”

  Varg nodded. “Don't worry, I'm an excellent tracker. I'll find her.”

  Milea didn't seem any less concerned, but she nodded anyway.

  Varg kept his eyes on the ground, careful not to lose sight of the footprints. He noted that they were far too big to be a child's, so it was safe to assume that she was carried off by two people. He examined the bent blades of grass he passed and the brush that seemed to have been violently pushed aside. When he looked up, a dim glow in the distance caught his eyes. The footprints led Varg closer to the mysterious orange glow. Milea followed close behind quietly and patiently as he bent to examine the trail again and again until it finally led into a clearing.

  In the clearing stood a large, stone fortress. The glow came from fires lit on the four corner towers of the structure. Upon closer inspection, several gang members marched along the walls surrounding the building.

  “That must be the gang stronghold,” Varg said.

  Milea shook her head and muttered “It's just as I feared.”

  “What would they gain from kidnapping her?” Varg wondered. “She has no parents, as you said, so this isn't a ransom. If she stole from them, they would probably just kill her on the spot. Kidnapping her serves no purpose.”

  “This whole situation is becoming more bizarre by the second,” Milea said with a shake of her head. “Regardless, saving her is our top priority.”

  Varg nodded. “Any ideas on how we can get inside?”

  “We need to somehow avoid detection, first of all,” Milea suggested. Then she pointed to a tower to the west and said, “The old bell in that tower could be used as an alarm, so we should disable that first.”

  “Very well,” Varg said. “How do we get to it?”

  “Maybe we can scale the wall and sneak past the guard when he makes his round in the other direction,” Milea suggested.

  “Wouldn't it be easier to just kill him?” Varg asked with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Milea shook her head. “If the other guards find his body or even realize he's missing, they'll raise the alarm and be on full alert for intruders.”

  Varg nodded. “Good point, lead the way.”

  Varg and Milea moved through the dense trees and brush until they came to face the west side of the wall. The tower was built directly in the middle of the wall with a guard patrolling on either side. Milea motioned to Varg to wait for her signal. Once both guards were looking away from their direction, she urged him forward.

  They ran up the the wall and flattened their backs against the cool stone. Milea reached for a vine, tested her weight, then started to climb when she discovered it was stable enough. Varg did the same with another piece of vine and followed her closely until they both reached the top. Milea risked a peek over the top of the wall, then gave Varg the signal that it was clear for them to move.

  With the reflexes of a wild cat, Milea hopped over the wall onto the walkway above and darted for the tower door without a sound. Varg followed, but barely remained as quiet and nearly tumbled forward with the grace of an inebriated troll. Milea gave him a warning glare, but Varg somehow managed not to alert any of the guards. A quick peek inside told Milea that the tower was empty, so she creaked the door open and closed it once she and Varg were safely inside.

  The tower had a wooden spiral staircase that followed upward along the wall. At the top of the tower, an old iron bell hung unguarded in a room with two windows on either side. The room seemed unkempt, as if no one had set foot inside for ages. The cobwebs on the brass bell leading up to the ceiling led them to believe that it was rarely used.

  Milea inched forward carefully and peeked under the bell. When she came out, a confused and suspicious look spread over her face. “This bell is inoperable.”

  Varg then realized what happened. “I can't believe we just fell for . . .”

  Before he could finish his sentence, a dozen hooded assailants dropped from their hiding places on the ceiling. With drawn blades that thirsted for blood, the familiar assassins surrounded the duo and dared them to make another move.

  Varg's expression fell in shame of his own stupidity. “. . . an ambush.”

  Varg immediately drew Frost Fang and prepared to fight his way out of the tower. The bounty hunter found himself in worse situations and came out of it without so much as a scratch, but his worry lie with Milea, who barely had time to draw her blade before she was quickly disarmed and apprehended by a small group of the assailants.

  With his blade held against her throat, one gang member looked to Varg and sa
id, “Drop the weapon.”

  Varg stared daggers at the gang member and eyed the others with equal contempt. Though Milea did not look frightened, the sight of the blade against her exposed neck gave Varg the incentive he needed. He grudgingly dropped his enormous blade onto the ground with an ear-shattering clank!

  Varg was then forced to his knees by several gang members. They grabbed his enormous arms and tied them behind his back, all the while making sure he saw Milea.

  A calm voice interrupted his thoughts. “Smart move.”

  Varg turned to his left to discover a man with dark, scarred skin and pale hair sat on the windowsill twirling a dagger to be the speaker.

  Varg growled under his breath and retorted, “It seems being confronted with an underhanded trick forces my intelligence to the surface.”

  “You call it underhanded, I call it business,” the man said. “I also find business runs smoothly when you rid yourself of interruptions, like someone who won't keep quiet for instance.”

  Varg didn't know what the man meant until he felt a blow to the back of his head and soon felt the weight disappear from his body and his vision went black.

  Varg moaned as his consciousness slowly came back to him. A dull glow which seemed to be coming from candle light hovered around him and made him dizzy. Varg lifted a hand to rub his temple, only his arm never moved. He soon realized he was tied to an old wooden chair; his arms were bound behind him and his legs were bound to the chair legs. Varg jerked his arms to try and break free of the ropes, but they were surprisingly strong.

  “Varg, are you awake?” Milea was apparently bound behind him, and she managed to touch his hand with hers.

  Varg shook his head to get it back in focus. Then he groggily asked, “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

  “No, but they took my equipment,” Milea said.

  “Mine too, I think,” Varg said.

  Their brief conversation was halted when a mysterious voice said, “Finally, you've awakened.”

  Varg's eyes began to focus and he searched for the source of the unknown voice. First he saw several black shapes and assumed they were more assassins. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, however, he realized that these men were far more composed and wore black hooded robes, much like the monks and priests in the different faiths Varg had seen. With obscured faces they waited patiently with their hands folded.