Pack (The Ulfhednar Saga bk 1)

Reveal and Rescue

They walked into the village cautiously. There wasn't a single person walking the streets, no smells of fire or signs of work anywhere. This could only mean that the whole village had succumbed to the illness inflicted by Ingrid. That or they were too weak to move about freely anymore, too weak to live normal lives.
"This cannot be good" he muttered. "Let's go to the hall, my parents are usually in there." He was nervous but he tried to keep his voice light. He suspected with a pack of experienced Ulfhednar at his side he couldn't hide a thing, but he was still going to try. He wasn't so sure he wanted them to know everything he was feeling. No matter that he was an alpha and heir, these Wolves made him feel like a pup.

Bran led them to the hall that usually smelled of roasting meat and honey mead, just like the hall in Ulfrheim. He remembered the last time he walked through the carved archway of his pack's mead hall. He must have been a full year younger then. His father had called him in to begin teaching him the role he must play when he was the ruler. How to meet with other villages, Kings and what was expected of a ruler. He had been so nervous sitting next to his father. The large yet jolly man that he was had a way of intimidating Bran to no end. He was so afraid of disappointing his father. He was afraid to rule, afraid to be an adult. Now all he wanted was for his father to be alive and for them to have a future, a chance to become what he was born to be.
He walked up the steps hesitantly, leading the motley band of wolves towards what he hoped was his parents on the throne. Stepping over the threshold he immediately knew something was wrong. There weren't any guards, not a single villager sat nor stood within the walls, no children were shouting and laughing within. He raised his head to the thrones only to see his father slumped over in a state of distress.
"Father!" he yelled and ran towards him. Bran grabbed his head, holding it steady, pulling his once yellow hair out of his face.
"Father? Wake up, what happened?" His father's grey eyes opened lightly and a smile played on his lips. "Bran?" He croaked, eyes wide. "I am so thirsty" he said, voice hoarse as if he hadn't had water in days. "Torstein, get some food and water" he ordered. "Where is mother? Is she ok? Where are the villagers?" He was frantic.
"Your mother is asleep, she is as well off as I. The villagers, if they are living, are in their homes. We had nothing left. I told them all to be with their families and pray for health and rescue." He looked desperate and sad. This wasn't the Rik he remembered. His father never would have waited for rescue and just allowed the pack to wither away.

"After Valdis left everything got worse. Some say she cursed us when she left. She was so angry and everyone got worse once she left, once you left." Bran was taken aback. He couldn't believe his father was saying such things. He wasn't going to allow them to become weaker than they had become, allow them anymore pain. Bran was angry now.
"Father, you are in no state to rule a thing. I will fix this because clearly you cannot." He saw pain flash across his father's face.
"Torstein, take a few of your father's men and round up the villagers that are living still. Father, bring mother out here. I have some news." He could feel the authority in his voice, the blood in his veins became fire and he was determined to make them see the truth. All the power afforded him as heir was roiling through his being and he was claiming it.

Within the hour the whole village was sitting in the mead hall. Not many were left, but at least some were. His pack had a chance. He had sent a few of the wolves off to hunt and bring back enough to feed the village. He was able to find a few stores of mead and water as well. He had started the fires and begun serving drinks to everyone in the hall while the meat cooked. His mother came and joined him dressed in an old gown, barely able to hold her head high in the manner he was accustomed. Her body had become so frail, her gown was hanging off of her bones. Her hair was thin and falling into her face. This wasn't the mother he was used too. If she hadn't been such a cold mother, he may have felt sorry for her.