David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“You ask what you will soon know,” she said. “Is that the patience of a Wolf King?”

“And is it the place of a shaman to command a king?”

Her yellow eyes, dulled and filled with veins, showed a hint of their former youth as she laughed.

“King, pup, or warrior, we of the moon fear none, and speak truth to all. Let us hurry, though, if you so desire. We are almost there.”

The ground grew more uneven, and the grass healthier as they neared the river. The clouds deepened, and he felt glad for those on the other side of the Gihon, forced to patrol in the miserable daylight to ensure no one villager escaped, nor any outsiders stumbled upon the situation. At least with the shade they might find rest for their eyes. Silver-Ear led him to the north, stopping twice to track the ground. Sensing they were near their destination, she slowed and began talking, her voice still low.

“I watched your father raise you from a pup,” she said. “I know you are a wolf like all others, but you are to be Wolf King. In others’ eyes, you must be greater. Your pack listens to me when they must, but I know what I am to them. I am an old gray-fur to help their mates birth their pups, and to crush herbs when sickness makes their noses run and their teeth bleed. But other packs are not like ours. The shamans of the moon hold great sway over their leaders, and there are some who are ruled by their whims. You must convince them as well, and they will not bow to sheer strength.”

“Then what will convince them?” he asked.

She led him into a thick copse of trees, and in its center, he saw a cave.

“You pass the rite of the moonless dark.”

The cave at first seemed little more than a hole in the ground, but as he looked down he saw it was very deep, the rock twisted and worn. At the bottom it curled inward, and he could see no further.

“What is this rite?” he asked, apprehension swelling in him. He knew he’d wished for a cave, but something about this one seemed dangerous.

“Sit, and I will explain.”

She had tied little pouches about her arms with string, the only human form of clothing any of them wore. Opening one, she crushed its leaves and scattered them into a small ring. Chanting ancient words that held no meaning for him, she cast her hands across them. The leaves burst into flame, then quickly petered out, leaving only a heavy trail of smoke rising to the sky.

“Breathe in deep,” she ordered. “Goldmoon is foul to eat, but its smoke has purpose.”

Its scent was bitter, and he could not focus on its color, for it seemed to change. He felt his head go light and his stomach cramp.

“It will pass,” Silver-Ear said. “While the moon sleeps, you will enter a darkness never touched by her light. All shamans must pass a cave like this somewhere in the Wedge, and we guard them carefully. The goldmoon you have breathed in will open your mind to this darkness. You must conquer it, for it will be filled with your fears. Do not turn back, Wolf King. There is but one way, and you must pass through. I will be waiting at the other side.”

“What if I do not return?”

She grinned at him, her mouth missing many teeth.

“Then you were never truly our Wolf King. Go into the cave, Redclaw. Go face your fear.”

He descended, using the jagged edges of rock as hand and footholds on his way down. The scent of the cave was strong, wet stone, undisturbed earth, and the distant odor of a strange animal’s shit. He glanced back at Silver-Ear, but she was gone. His stomach lurched, for it seemed the trees above shivered, and their color grew more and more vivid until at last he did not want to look anymore. Mustering his courage, he crawled into the cave.

Redclaw’s eyes were no stranger to darkness, but once he passed the second turn, he found himself in its truest form. No touch of light came here. This was a place the moon never saw. Normally he might use his nose to guide himself, but everywhere was the smell of musty stone. Only the animal shit could guide him, though he still had to inhale deeply. Trying to know where it was strongest was like staring at two blades of grass and trying to determine which was the thicker.

Step after step he went, his back hunched, until there was only room to crawl. His sharp ears heard only the echoes of his claws clicking against the stone. No, that was wrong. He heard other things, but he wanted to believe them only in his imagination. It was a rustling sound, maybe a heavy fluttering…

“I am not afraid,” he growled, but immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound seemed weak, insignificant compared to the massive amount of stone surrounding him. He was like an ant in the earth, just a lowly ant. His back brushed a column, and he knew at any moment everything could collapse. All his strength, all his dreams of glory, would mean nothing to the rock. Following the thread of scent, he crawled.

Several minutes in, Redclaw saw the first of the visions. Silver-Ear had told him to expect his fears, but this wasn’t the combat he had anticipated. Sights hid at the corner of his vision. He heard sounds, but strangely, they did not echo. He heard snarls and growls, and his fur stood on end. Many times it came from straight ahead, but he told himself he would fear nothing. He would back down from no challenge. Random streaks of color flashed before him, never lasting long. He ignored them best he could. His head felt even lighter, and he occasionally shook it and wished he had something to eat. If only he could think clearly, fill his belly with blood and meat to make the sensation go away.

The cavern suddenly opened up before him. His back touched no stone, and a chill wind blew against him. Willing to risk it, he stood, holding an arm above him so he did not bump his head. He touched nothing. Sucking in the cold air, he howled at the top of his lungs, defying the darkness. The noise echoed, seeming to grow with each passing second. His ears ached, but he would not give in. The colors before him merged, taking form, and then he saw the fear the shaman warned him of.

It was his father, Skysight. He had been pack leader, and before his death, commanded a mighty force of four hundred strong. His eyes were a clear blue, and they sparkled with an intelligence most wolf-men could only dream of.

“Why have you come?” asked his father.

“Because I must,” he said. “I am Wolf King. I must know no fear.”

Skysight laughed.

“Stupid pup. Have you known fear before?”

Ashamed, he nodded.

“And do you know it now?”

“I do.”

Another laugh. For a moment Skysight faded, then reemerged. He seemed so bright in the darkness, his body almost entirely white, as if a great moon shone upon him.

“Are you defeated now? Are you no longer Wolf King? What does it matter if you are afraid?”

Redclaw swallowed. His father was dead; he knew this, for he had witnessed his death, along with the near shattering of his pack in a vicious battle against another group of wolves. What was it he spoke to? A spirit? A vision? Or was he hearing only what he wanted to hear?

“It matters,” said Redclaw, “for you were never afraid. You were greater than I, yet you were never Wolf King. By what right can I claim it if you never did?”

Skysight shook his head.

“You ask the wrong questions. You make wrong answers. I died, while you lived. I fell to Grassgut, yet you tore out his throat and scattered his pack. How can I be the greater?”

His father shimmered, became a corpse, became bones, and then was gone. Redclaw was once more alone in the cave. Snot ran from his nose, and water leaked from his eyes.

What does it matter if you are afraid?

What indeed? He wished to live. That was all. More than anything, he savored life, and the life of his pups. It gave him purpose. It gave him strength. And when his opponent sought to end his life, more than anything he refused to let them. His fear was from a desire for life, and he knew that, as long as he never succumbed to it, he would be the greater. He was a wolf-man who knew fear when all others knew only bloodlust. Would that be his legacy? Would that understanding grant him the rule he desired?