FARHAYVEN: VENGEANCE (54 page)

     Spirit followed the paw-prints in the snow. He was careful to keep a good distance away from the pack. He was aware that he was too weak to challenge the dominant male wolf, the father of the ‘family’. He had survived on forest mice and the occasional squirrel ever since the death of his own family, but now he was beginning to hunt antelopes again. He was trying to build back his strength slowly, and although it was a slow process, it was a sure one. He could feel the strength returning to his weakened muscles as the days went by. And like all good hunters, he had never lost sight of his prey, his ultimate prey, the soft-furred female wolf. There she was, 200 human paces away, close enough for him to be intoxicated by her scent but far enough for him not to be killed by her angry father. He stared dazed at her distant form and thought he saw her looking back at him. Was he imagining it
?
  Surely he was. Or maybe he was not. He barked out to her. She turned her head and wagged her furry white tail. And again he was reminded that he had a beating heart. He wished it would stop beating so hard, the increased blood pressure to his brain was giving him a headache and affecting his balance. He shook his head to wake himself up from the daze he was in. The sun shone bright in the sky. The breeze was light and cool. It was good to be alive.

     A month passes and Spirit is now back at full strength. The sun radiates its heat directly over his head. He takes bold steps forward in the white softness of this cold wilderness, undeterred by the fact that he could lose his life in what he is about to do next. The large white wolf stands between Spirit and the rest of the pack. Spirit stares aggressively at the large wolf. The large wolf returns the stare with equal aggressiveness. Both wolves bare their teeth, pulling back their lips and exposing their razor sharp fangs. Their low growls turn into ferocious barks.

     Spirit advances forward, one step at a time. The large wolf remains stationary. As fast as a flash of lightning, Spirit jumps forward and lands on the large wolf. Both wolves lock themselves in the most ferocious of combats. Spirit slams his jaw shut on the left side of the large wolf’s face, while the large wolf’s sharp claws scratches deeply into Spirit’s neck. Crimson liquid sprays in all directions, creating a drastic and gory contrast against the whiteness of fur and snow. Bites and scratches ensue as both wolves wrestle, each trying to use their body-weight to bring the other tumbling to the ground. The other wolves begin barking, some in support of the large white wolf while a few are asking, and perhaps pleading, for both the combating wolves to stop. In a final exhaustive effort, Spirit slides sideways and sinks his fangs into the large wolf’s neck. A sudden cry of pain is heard, followed by the high-pitched whimper of submission. The large wolf begs for mercy. Spirit’s eyes are now blood-soaked red. The frenzy of the fight has released the utmost ferocity within him and he has lost all capacity for reasoning. The large wolf’s legs begin to crumble.

     Then there comes the gentlest of barks, the softest of pleas that Spirit has ever heard. The soft-furred female wolf is begging for her father’s life. She approaches slowly and lowers her head, turning her snout to the side ever so slightly. Spirit stands frozen but the pressure on his jaws slowly eases off. The large white wolf breaks free and stumbles away. Spirit stares deeply into his new bride’s eyes and she returns his stare just as deeply. The large wolf limps away to rejoin his pack. The pack moves on without the female wolf. As the sun sets over this white, cold wilderness; two white wolves walk side by side, setting out to make a new future together.

     Two seasons had passed. Silk, the soft-furred female white wolf, looked lovingly at her husband, Spirit. He returned the look, but behind the forced show of affection lay a deep feeling of concern. There was a nagging feeling in his instinct telling him that something was wrong. His life was perfect, too perfect
!
He had a beautiful wife, three loving wolf cubs, plenty of prey nearby and a comfortable lair. As he searched every corner of his restless instinct, a white furry little wolf cub rubbed his head passionately against his legs. Spirit surrendered to the distraction, pushed his troubled thoughts out of his mind and licked his son, Sprint, behind the ear, giving the little wolf cub a grooming and some fatherly love. The two remaining wolf cubs rushed to their father’s side, waving their furry white tail while giving him cute puppy looks. But before Spirit could give them his attention, the first cub was already pouncing on his two siblings and now all three of them were locked in the traditional wolf pup wrestling. Night fell and Sprint, the eldest of the wolf pups, was curled up beside his father while Flow, the youngest and only female pup was curled up beside her mother. Strike, the remaining sibling, being more curious than the other two wolf pups, lay asleep besides Spirit’s head. Life was too perfect indeed.

     The night sky is clear, brightened by the radiance of the full moon. Spirit and his family are in deep sleep. Then comes a disturbing thought. There is something gnawing at Spirit’s wolf instinct, but he is too tired, too deep asleep to pay it any intention.
Yelp!
  Spirit jumps to his feet, but it is too late. Strike, his middle pup, is gone. A pale human-like arm reaches out to him, yet it is too pale to be human, because it is not just pale but greyish too. Spirit’s yellow eyes open wide as he realises what is going on. He sinks his fangs into the pale greyish arm and wriggles his head with all his might. He feels himself being pulled out of his lair as he clamps his jaw tightly around the greyish arm.

     There in the bright moonlight, Spirit sees for the first time the very face that will haunt him for a life-time, the pale greyish face of a man in red uniform clothing. On his shoulders Spirit can see shiny materials. The pale man wears a circular cap of some sorts, made of fur,
wolf’s fur!
Grey leathery wings fold behind the man’s back. Looking around, Spirit cannot see Strike anywhere. He shifts his focus back on the man. Spirit releases his hold of the man’s arm and assumes a crouching stance, preparing himself to pounce upon the intruder. His eyes stare at the pale jugular of the man. He bares his fangs. The man, to Spirit’s utter surprise, bares his fangs as well.

     There is something unnatural about this human, Spirit can sense it. The man points a finger at Spirit, and Spirit could see that the man does not have fingernails like normal humans. Instead, he has long, curved, sharp claws.

     “Wolf, you are a proud creature
!
Your off-springs shall serve me well. You should be honoured
!
I, Lord Deathclaw, shall grant upon them immortality. But for you and your mate, my hungry stomach awaits. Both your souls’ energy will replenish mine and your flesh will bring pleasure to my tongue. Now wolf, prepare to die
!
” says the man to Spirit, with a cynical smile.

     A black shiny orb of dark energy burst forth from a narrow split on the pale man’s forehead. At the same time, Spirit launches himself at the man. The dark energy orb misses Spirit, whose jump is of an arc above the straight path of the orb, but as he reaches the man’s jugular; long, curved sharp claws cut across his face and sends him tumbling into the snow-covered ground. His vision blurs and his eyes slam shut. In his semi-conscious condition, Spirit could hear the fearful and desperate yelps of Silk and their pups. Then the yelps stop. Everything stops. And silence ensues…

    Spirit felt cold, but it was of a different kind. It was of the kind that he could not bear. It was not the cold that he felt on his skin, but in his heart. This was the most hurtful kind to feel, but he was immersed in it. Tears flowed from his eyes and even though they were still shut, he knew what horrific scene awaited them. He could smell the blood,
wolf’s blood
. The morning sun shone with all its brightness, but Spirit felt not its warmth. With a heavy heart, he pulled himself up. Slowly, he opened his eyes. There were frozen patches of crimson liquid everywhere. The stiffened bodies of Silk and Flow laid out on the ground, the missing flesh from their bodies appeared to have been ripped from the bones. Spirit howled in sadness. He looked around. There were no traces of Sprint or Strike. Perhaps there was still hope, yet Spirit would not allow himself that hope. He barked out a call to them. There was no response. He barked out again. Again, there was no response. He barked out again. There was silence.

     The thick flakes of snow fell upon this near desolated frozen landscape. A lone white wolf walked on aimlessly. Spirit seemed the very shadow of his earlier self. He was skinny and filthy. His fur was covered with numerous patches of brown, frozen mud.

     It had been almost a year since Spirit’s wife and cubs were brutally slaughtered and ‘consumed’ by an abomination of nature. He tried to think, tried to analyse the situation that he was in, but to no avail. There was nothing that he knew about demons, except for the fact that they existed. He knew not of their history, their lair or their weaknesses. Vengeance was on his mind. He could not imagine facing his wife and pups in the afterlife without first having avenged their murders. It would be unacceptably irresponsible of him
!
But how was he to go about killing a creature that he had no knowledge of
?
  He needed knowledge about demons, but for wolf-kind, this knowledge did not exist.

     Gradually the white of snow turned dark and Spirit collapsed onto the wet, cold ground. He was exhausted. He was hungry. He had lost the will to live. And the most severe of all, he felt no hope. Perhaps this was when his journey would end. It would end in failure, but it would
end
nevertheless. He closed his eyes. There was comfort in this cold. It would be all over soon. He heard noises. He did not care. He could smell the scent of humans and blood, they must be hunters, but he was not concerned. They could have his fur. They could take his life. They would be doing him a favour.

    
But
… Spirit could not meet his end like this. He had to avenge his family. Giving up was easy, as a matter of fact, it was so tempting
!
  He still had one last duty to perform, a final burden to carry to completion. No, he must not die yet
!
  Not yet, not until the demon’s jugular was firmly in his jaw, then he would shut it tight and sink his fangs all the way in. Wake up
!
  He must wake up
!
Get up and fight
!
That was what his inner voice was telling him. Get up and fight, it was not over yet
! ‘Fight! Fight for your life! Let the world not decide your end, let it be that you decide how and when you wish to leave it! Let it be that you leave this world with your head held high, chest out and your jaw clutching the bone of victory!’

     Spirit’s eyes open wide. With a sudden burst of energy, he rolls sideways, avoiding the sharp blade of a hunter’s knife that is aimed at his neck. This sudden movement surprises the hunters, all four of them, who think that the pathetic looking white wolf will be an easy kill. Spirit stands on his feet. He eyes the hunters one by one, planning his strategy. The hunters circle Spirit to prevent him from getting away. Spirit stands in a light wobble, the energy in his legs are depleting fast. The hunters smile confidently at Spirit’s weakened condition. The first hunter is armed with a hunting knife and stands in front of Spirit. The second hunter stands to Spirit’s right, and is armed with a long spear. The third hunter, standing behind Spirit, bears a large axe. The fourth hunter, standing on Spirit’s left, grips his machete with a slight fidget.

     The second hunter lunges his spear forward, hoping to stab Spirit’s ribs with its sharp metal tip. Spirit leaps forward, but not towards the first hunter’s jugular as he would normally do, but to the wrist that held the sharp hunter’s knife. The violent snap of Spirit’s jaw and head sends the hunter’s knife flying, followed by a loud scream of pain. The first hunter falls to his knees as Spirit tears at his wrist. Then as suddenly as he had leapt, Spirit lets go of the bloodied wrist and runs off as fast as he can. He knows he is in no condition to complete the fight, and although he is an animal, he is no fool
!
He feels a sudden instinct to leap sideways and does so unquestioningly, just in time to avoid the spear thrown at him by the second hunter. Spirit keeps running. The fourth hunter is the closest to him now, while the third hunter follows several paces behind. The second hunter slows down to recover his spear and is now far behind the other two hunters. The first hunter follows the chase in a casual pace, holding the hunter’s knife in his uninjured hand.

     Judging by the sounds of his pursuers’ foot-steps, Spirit knows that the fourth hunter is approximately four paces behind him. With a sudden stop and reversal, Spirit leaps into the air and sinks his fangs deep into the unsuspecting human’s throat, ripping a wide hole and allowing warm crimson liquid to spray out like an eerie fountain. Spirit releases the wounded throat, lands on his feet and continues to run. The fourth hunter drops his machete and desperately grasps the gaping wound at his throat. Tears flow from his eyes as he realises that he is about to die, and there is no escaping this outcome. He falls on his knees, his lips muttering for the last time the silent words of a prayer to beg for forgiveness for his sins; then his eyes roll up and he falls lifelessly onto the slush of snow, mud and blood.