Ash: The Wolves of the World's End

Chapter 17

The burns Samson had received still stung at his chest. Even the news that the pack had found the renegade wolves hiding in a cave not too far from the Haven wasn’t enough to make it worth it. Only your blood, Ash, he thought. When you’re laying dead at my feet I’ll be happy. He wanted to be there when they captured Ash, but since his wounds prevented him from running distance, he would have to wait for the news.

     He should’ve been glad they found anything at all. The howling wind and the snow of the blizzard had forced them to shelter at the Haven for most of the night. Arget had suggested he use the den, but he had bluntly refused. The wolf-dog who was his equal apparently wasn’t familiar with his concept of a den. All wolves knew that a birthing den was used only once a year, when the dominant female went to give birth to her pups. Not even the fiercest of blizzards would convince Samson that rooming there was acceptable; besides, he was too big to fit inside. So he slept outside with the rest of his pack, restless from waiting, pained by his burns, and ready to tear Ash’s gut open with his fangs.

     And now he waited again as Arget had left with the pack to go and smell out the wolves. He couldn’t complain about her vigor, but he wanted to join them in the hunt. Pacing the snow covered rock floor near the den, he tried to work the muscles around his chest, but they only bit back at him in flaming agony. Ash didn’t deserve to die easily, he concluded. If he had the ability, he would hold Ash’s body to the fire, watch his tail catch fire until it burned him alive.

     Wait. Something didn’t feel right. The air, although already cold, felt damp and wet, as if something was breathing. Samson hurriedly spun his head, looking for the source, but he was alone. “Where are you?” he challenged this being, whatever it was. “Show yourself!”

     All was silent for the moment, and Samson felt the awkwardness of talking to an imaginary being. Don’t be so scared, he scolded himself. You’re the only one here.

     Then he heard a reply. It was a whispering voice, but it was filled with an ancient anger and malice. “I… appear… for… no one, “ it whispered. “Who are you that I should show myself?” He began to tremble even harder as the darkness began to conglomerate in front of him into a hazy form. Samson cleared his throat shakily. “I am Samson, leader of this pack, and I command you, stranger, to reveal yourself.”

     “A pack?” the voice hissed. “I don’t ssss-see a pack here. But, if you wish-” The dark cloud in front of Samson began to twist and contort, and he whimpered with his tail between his legs as the shape took the form of a wolf. Two glowing, red eyes formed out of the darkness, staring into Samson’s soul. Samson whispered, “Who are you?”

     The dark wolf may not have had a mouth, but Samson heard every word he said. “There are some who call me Fenrir, the wolf of the dead. You have not heard of me?” Samson nodded his head; he knew the stories. In the beginning of time, Fenrir and his sister, Lupa, created the wolves, in a different world. She was his light sister, and he was her dark brother. But the inhabitants, fearing the wolves, banished our race to this world. Although Lupa was at least respected in her exile, Fenrir was sentenced to roam among the dead for an eternity. But that was just legend.

The piercing red eyes stared at him, without pupils, as if they were only orbs of light. “I can assure you that I am much more than legend, Samson. My power is still weak, but that will change, very soon. Lupa has given her fire to a mortal wolf now.”

     “Ash.” This was beginning to make sense.

     “Yes-sss, Ash. I know that you want him dead, so I will make you an offer. Join me, help me restore my strength, and I will give you Ash’s live, and more.” The misty wolf stood in front of Samson, neither on the offense or the defense, but Samson was too flabbergasted to speak. “I can smell your uncertainty,” Fenrir continued, “so I will give you a token of my power.” The wolf prowled closer to him, clouds of mist emanating from his paws each time they touched the ground. Samson felt something cold touch his burns, like ice, sucking the heat away. He tensed at the feeling, then realized how painless it felt. Tilting his head as the ghostly wolf backed up, his eyes astonished him. A new layer of tawny brown fur had grown over where the wound had been, and as he felt at it with his muzzle, he saw that the skin was as new as a pup’s. “Thank you,” Samson barely got out. “It’s as if it’s new.”

     “You still have doubt in your heart,” Fenrir sensed. “Very well, hear me out. Your pack, led by your mate, has gone to go try and find the escaped wolves. Ash is not there though; he and his pack have already fled.” Images popped up in Samson’s vision, images of the cave, and of Ash waking the others at the dogs’ excited barking. He could smell every detail of the scene, as if he had been there himself. The vision ended, and he found himself back at the Haven.

     “I would gladly join you, my lord,” he stammered, “but my mate-”

     “Arget will be perfectly fine. It was I who talked with her, who put it in her mind to retaliate against the humans. Her and your future pups will be protected as long as you are in my service.” Samson understood without Fenrir saying it. If he wanted protection for his future family, he would serve. If he did not, then… well, Fenrir was probably even more dangerous than he appeared. There’s no choice now. “Fine then,” Samson said. “When do we start?”

     If he could see Fenrir’s mouth amongst the wolf’s billowing, smoking form, it would have been grinning. “Right now,” Fenrir answered, evaporating into a cloud of fog, enveloping Samson. As his vision cleared, he saw that the landscape had changed: it was much darker, without even the moon to light it. The ground felt hot and rough under his paws. “Welcome to the land of the shadows,” Fenrir said. “Let’s begin.”