A Wolf Story (14 page)

Patiently, patiently, Gianavel found a silent path, avoiding twigs and rocks, moving with infinite grace and infinite skill, always searching, relentlessly alert for a guard. But there was nothing, only shades of black and gray in the gloom.

Gianavel followed the haggard stand of trees as it curved away from the path. He could move more quickly if he remained on the trail that tracked out across the shattered ridge before him. But the treeline would cross the path again on the other side of the slope. And he would have to avoid detection to reach his son. He was too close to the Abyss to survive a physical conflict in the open ground.

So quiet, so subdued, was the mountain that Gianavel felt compelled to forsake caution for speed. Yet he controlled his desire for haste, moving with disciplined steps along his careful path. And whether it was sound or scent or something half-sensed, Gianavel would never know, but a deadly thrill suddenly alerted him to a threatening presence traveling through the darkness along the ridge.

Even as he felt the presence Gianavel's great gray form froze, unmoving in the night, one foot held aloft. Still as stone, the old wolf listened intently, searching
every whisper for what had alerted him, but he recognized nothing. He stood listening, listening, but only the wind whispered in the night. And Gianavel began to fear that whatever he had sensed might also have sensed him.

Slowly, without moving his gray head, Gianavel turned his eyes to look cautiously at the darkened hillside. He stared intensely at the ridge, seeing nothing. Yet still he did not move, knowing that his senses had not betrayed him. Something he could not identify had alerted him to a hidden danger, so he stood silently and waited. And with acute skill he searched the wind, but the air was still, deathly still, as if it, too, were afraid to move.

Suddenly, hideously, Gianavel sensed a demonic power reaching out for him, searching the night – a power he had known before. And he was certain that the unseen beast, too, had felt him traveling through the darkness. Without movement or sound Gianavel suppressed a snarl. He had no wish to fight, no wish to kill, but fight and kill he would, to save his son.

Silently, the old wolf stood, hidden within the shadow of an ancient elm. And as the long moments passed he prayed, asking the Lightmaker to conceal his presence.

A long time the old wolf stood, acutely searching the source of every whispered sound, his heart beating heavily in his massive chest. His breathing grew strained and tense, but still he did not turn his shaggy gray head for a better look at the darkened ridge. He knew that patience and discipline would determine the victor of this battle.

Then, as if a living shadow had separated from the darkness, Gianavel suddenly saw a faint movement.

Quickly he focused on the shape, previously obscured within the greater gloom of the hillside, and it rapidly grew clearer. The old wolf read every shade, every pattern of darkness surrounding the shape. And as the moments passed he began to recognize the dim outline of a great, lionlike beast standing silently on the slope. Though the beast was partially hidden by boulders and shattered rock, Gianavel recognized its dark aspect. And he knew that if Incomel had not made the mistake of moving, he would never have seen it at all.

Ages, it seemed, the lion stood upon the hill, motionless again in the darkness. And it stood for so long that, had Gianavel not already felt its hideous strength, he would have doubted that he had truly seen the slight movement. He would have doubted that the shadow had ever shifted, would have suspected that it had all been a trick of his tired eyes. But the great wolf knew in his heart that the lion was there. It had made one mistake. But it was enough.

Long years of hard discipline gave Gianavel the edge, allowing him to remain still, his breath so hushed, so shallow, that not even his acute ears could detect any sound. And finally, after an eternity of watchful tension, the lion turned soundlessly on the hillside, moving away, and vanished over the ridge.

Yet, still, Gianavel did not react. Endlessly patient, he stood in the night, attempting to detect another unseen presence, wary of a trap. His gray eyes searched the shadows with intensified alertness, leaving nothing unexplored.

Only after his cautious wisdom was satisfied did the old wolf finally move again, stepping in absolute silence, an old gray ghost that defied the dead, conquering demons and flesh together with his spirit and skill.

* * *

nine

Cunningly concealed beneath a slab of black ice, Windgate waited and watched as a pale dawn rose above the mountain, casting a slight hue through the storm clouds.

Breathing hard, he gathered his strength, recovering from the ordeal of descending the path from the Abyss. For only by the boldest of risks had he narrowly avoided two wolf packs, once desperately throwing himself beneath a sheet of dark ice that rested on the trail itself, so that the wolves almost stepped upon his still form.

How the dark sentinels missed his scent, Windgate would never know, but they had passed over him in ignorance as he lay, shivering, underneath the ice. Nervous and exhausted, anticipating at any moment a fatal attack, he had finally reached the plateau as the last stars vanished from the night sky.

And now he waited, patiently and silently, for another nightfall, knowing that Gianavel would not come up the path in the revealing light of day. He shifted beneath the cold concealment, fighting off the chill that crept upon him from the blackened ice, and wondered how long he could last before his senses were numbed by the merciless cold. He glanced up at the dark clouds encircling the mountain, crowning the glacier in a storm of lightning and snow and ice. And he frowned, despising their strength. Then he looked back to the trail beneath him.

Fighting off sleep, Windgate struggled to remain alert, knowing that his scent and tracks still marked his path to the plateau. Eventually, he knew, he would be dis-covered. And as the thought came upon him, he looked back over his shoulder at his escape route.

A narrow ledge, treacherous and glazed with ice, began behind him, running alongside a sheer cliff that bordered a gaping chasm. Windgate had carefully studied the ledge after he had arrived, calculating that he could negotiate the path safely enough, though any creature of size would be hard put to pursue. On impulse, the big hare glanced into the chasm, deep and frightening and heavy with snow. And he smiled, laughing silently. He would like to see a wolf follow him over that.

The trio of dark wolves were beneath him almost before Windgate heard their muffled steps. Cautiously, he peered down upon the trail from the shadow of his icy lair.

The wolves were studying the tiny tracks that ran up the slope to his place of hiding. Dark eyes peered suspiciously upward as they searched along the plateau.

Windgate did not move. He knew that, even though he was hidden well within the shadows, any sudden movement would reveal his presence. Motionless, as motionless as the shadows that shrouded him, he waited, and stared back.

Below, the dark muscular forms tensed, as if debating whether to explore the curious tracks or resume their patrol. Windgate watched their deliberation in strained silence, knowing that, while difficult, it would not be impossible for a wolf to pursue him along his escape route. And as the moments passed, he unconsciously scowled at the beasts, beginning to hope that they would, indeed, pursue him along the narrow trail. For with cunning and courage, he might take one of them with him over the edge. He smiled grimly.

Death would be sweet in such a bitter embrace.

Finally, the sentries began to slowly climb the narrow slope, following the trampled snow to discover the cause of the curious tracks.

Moving with experienced stealth, Windgate eased backwards from beneath the blackened slab until he stood unseen on the plateau. Then he bounded quickly and quietly to the chasm, its icy depths hidden beneath clouds, and leaped onto the ledge.

So narrowly and slenderly did the ledge slant away from the slope that Windgate had trouble maintaining balance. But he knew he had only moments before the
wolves emerged upon the plateau and saw his fleeing form, so he raced down the edge, intent on rounding a bend in the chasm wall before they saw him. If they did not observe his retreat, they might be more reluctant to pursue.

Concentrating, he bounded along the ledge through the first sharp bend, hoping that the slender path might eventually widen, allowing secure purchase. But as he passed the curve, he saw that the trail only twisted on and on along the darkened wall, narrow and treacherous and broken.

He stopped and waited on the far side of the wall, listening to the wolves as they reached the plateau and began pacing near the ledge, knowing his direction but hesitant to pursue along the treacherous path. He laughed silently, feeling safe once again. He would rest here until they decided to return to their patrol. Then he would resume his watch for Gianavel.

As Windgate waited, he looked out across the chasm, studying the relentless ice walls, cold and cruel and conquering, and he w
as strangely awed by the desolation, and saddened by the depth of the power before him. For it seemed, in the timeless solitude of the moment, that nothing could resist such cruelty, such ageless might. At once and in total, Windgate thought he perceived the true scope of the Dark Lord's wrath. And for one brief moment, as he stood alone and cold and isolated on that perilous edge of the void, he feared that perhaps, indeed, the forces of darkness would prove stronger in the end.

Then, almost with thought, a resolute spirit flooded through him, strengthening him with that mysterious power that always enabled him to stand firm when his flesh was afraid. Windgate had never really understood that unknown power, how it encouraged him or what awakened its strength. But he knew that it was the Lightmaker's touch. And, still, after all these years, he was amazed at how that spirit caused him to stand when his knees trembled.

He turned, intending to chance a quick look at the plateau, when he spotted a narrow crevice behind him, all but concealed by overhanging ice. Alarmed that he had not noticed the cleft earlier, he studied the opening suspiciously.

Narrow and ominous, the slender cleft was slashed viciously with ice. And as he looked closer, Windgate realized that he had not earlier seen the narrow opening because it was hidden well behind an outcropping of black rock.

Carefully Windgate crept forward, strangely frightened but intrigued by the cave. He knew that it would be a good hiding place. For even if the dark wolves found the courage to pursue him along the ledge, they would not likely come this far. And if they chanced a cautious look around the bend, they would still not see this place of concealment, hidden from that direction by ice and rock. They would see only the narrow trail running endlessly and dangerously along the chasm wall.

Wasting no time once his decision was made, Windgate leapt through the narrow entrance and
turned, positioning himself to evade the chilling wind. Almost as soon as he was inside the cavern, a wave of contentment swept over his frosted form, making him feel suddenly warmer, safer. Quietly and comfortably he rested, enjoying his satisfaction in having escaped the cold wind and the wolves with his daring move.

It was a long time before he felt, with a sudden thrill of fear, the stare that rested on his back. And then a wolf scent reached him, so real and so close that he almost leapt, livid with fear, back upon the ledge. But even as he knew the scent, Windgate realized that something was strangely wrong or he would have already been attacked.

Slowly, eyes moving far ahead of his stiffening flesh, Windgate turned, searching, dreading what he might find. And behind him, standing silently in the gloom of the icy cavern, he saw it.

Gigantic and majestic, the gray wolf stood in the darkness, motionless as the granite walls. Its massive form struck Windgate with both fear and relief, for even in the shadows he knew the symmetry of that powerful frame, recognizing instantly the father from the son.

Yet, as Windgate looked more closely, the old wolf seemed somehow weary and haggard. The stern face drawn, as if from the ordeal of a long and difficult journey. And the gray coat was ragged, windblown, and torn with thorns.

Windgate turned to face the great wolf, who watched him through veiled eyes. No trace of emotion or threat was visible in that gray visage, and
Windgate knew that here was a creature who, dangerous though he could be, bore no ill will toward the world. Then, with cautious steps, Windgate approached the great form, and the stern gray head bowed, respectful and kind.

Windgate's words trembled as he spoke.

"I am Windgate, king of the Colony near the Deep Woods," he whispered. "And I bear words for Gianavel ... from his son."

Windgate felt as if the old wolf had instantly moved closer, though he knew it had remained still.
Then the gray eyes narrowed, seeming to know far more than they revealed. And the kingly face smiled down upon him.

"I am Gianavel."

* * *