I didn't speak to her after that. How could I bear it, knowing her mate died so I can live. I wanted to die. I would have been happy. Now all I feel is guilt. Knowing that I am to blame.
Why would anyone be so foolish. Haggar could still be alive. Who knows maybe the blow would not have been as hard if Scraggly beard struck me where I stood.
Jingling caught my attention. I heard some kind of feast off in the distance. My snout pointed in the direction of the noise. The cage seemed to be pulled in the same direction, I could hear the horses getting tired, but our captors whip them. Why do humans insist on enslaving or killing every thing they see? Including themselves?
The chestnut trotting next to the cart looks like it is about to fall dead. It's flanks are dripping blood but it's rider keeps hitting it.
They'll probably do the same to us. They're already doing the same to us. Some have died. Their bodies rot in the cage. None of the remaining 11 have reverted to cannibalism.
We travel past what I believe are houses. The bleakness of it all blend the houses together. A very lager house with pointy structures can be seen when I look up. The music becomes clearer by the minute, dread becomes more the louder the music becomes. Through the rot of the fallen wolves I catch the scent of sweaty bodies. There's laughter.
We are taken to a place that smells like horses. "Call for the old King." Scraggly beard yells at Jesper.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of War
FantasyAfter a massacre Bjorn's pack has 15 standing members, his luck worsens when he becomes a pet. Then someone unexpected saves him, worsening his luck.
