The Wolves of Gryning: Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Molokhn Slain
Our world is very old, and full of ghosts. Across these sprawling, ancient lands, there is no place without spirits, no town without ruin. But there is one place and one name alone which stands cursed above the rest. Gryning. For there, in the Seat of Gryning, the wolves ruled. There they lived and there they died, issuing commands from within the fortress-city. From this one place sprung the greatest histories of the land. And as they say, no history ever was without sorrow. Behind the city's walls they lost sight of the outside world and their pride drove them inward into each other, into themselves, until nothing remained but bones.
But before death, life; and before ruin, glory. So the histories of our world weave themselves.
Who has not heard of the mighty Wolves of Gryning, who ruled with pain and blood? Who has not seen the Sign of the Tree, and turned in fear? Indeed they were fierce, and their enemies were none, for all those who oppressed them were handily destroyed. It was a time marked by violence and bloodshed. Many innocent beasts met the cruel grip of steel, icy in their veins, with nobeast left alive even to bury the dead. The leader of this most recent conquest was the Mad King Molokhn, remembered even today as the founder of that cruel institution, the Prison of Molokhn.
Molokhn was a massive beast, taller than any wolf on the guard, his huge frame wrapped in fur as cold as snow, as white as ice. Out of his brow burned the light of two blinding blue flames that he called eyes; and in his heart burned a rage as fierce as any firestorm. He took delight in fear and relished the pain of his subjects -- such that even his own people grew to fear him.
The extent to which Molokhn and his wolves terrorized the denizens of the North was known across the world, but he dared to venture no further than the Salt Flats. His guards could be seen even as far down as Silnja's Hills, but the boundary of the Salt Flat and the Ternish desert marked the territory of the South; the Southern Kingdoms, ruled by the Queen Silva in the trading capital Brand, lived in a tenuous balance with the North. Neither one of them would claim dominion over the other, though each felt it. Beasts rarely crossed over the boundaries to the North anymore. Far better to remain near the capital, or perhaps near the Fractured Isle and its chapter of the Order, along with the protections that such a life would afford.
It was the Order and their faith which Molokhn detested most. Upon his reign all acolytes were driven out of Gryning, and cathedrals across the North were ransacked, demolished. He had forgotten the power of the old gods, Valenthi and Siljna, and of the one Flame that binds all things; and so he rounded up as many followers of the Flame as he could find, and one by one he had them slaughtered.
But for every misdeed of the Mad King, his son Besegrare made note, swearing to right his father's wrongs. The Prince's life became driven by a desire to avenge his own oppressed people, to make amends for the sacrifice of life and love over the years.
"A King must know how to fight," said Molokhn to he, upon the eve of his youth. And thus from pup to wolf the young Besegrare grew, with weapons and duels thrust constantly upon him. His father was insistent upon the training. He ran with the guard daily and studied the lessons of generals and duelists past. Upon the day of his crowning, he knew more of war and of the martial arts than any king prior. Prince Besegrare was tall, like most wolves, though shorter than the fiend he called father. His fur was silver like the moon, mottled along the back with dark stripes of black. And his eyes were not blue like his father's, but yellow. He supposed he'd inherited that from his mother, but she had died when he was much younger, surrendering suddenly and viciously to a fever that took her in the night. His life was to be marked by tragedies, beginning with his coronation.
And here is how he acquired his crown.
The prince didn't see along the same lines as his father. He did not understand that beast's hatred or his delight in torture, and he made secret trips into the homes and villages of beasts to bring food and medicine. He couldn't bear to see his people hurt; but he knew it was only a matter of time. "It is real madness," they told him. "Molokhn is no king. He is a lunatic, and he'll kill us all." Besegrare didn't want to think of his father that way, but he saw too many precious lives ending. Brimming with rage and overconfident, Prince Besegrare invoked the Right of the Duel challenging his own father for the throne.
"You must think me mad," said Molokhn, "To even consider this worthy of my time. Even the suggestion of such foolishness is offensive to me."
But Besegrare knew his father, and to this he replied, "Mad? No, I do not think you mad. Quite the opposite in fact, I'd think any beast very wise to avoid a challenge he knows he cannot win." At this the temper of Molokhn flared, and he would not or could not deny his son any longer.
With pointed swords they met in the courtyard. Grass grew thinly across the winter soil, ice and frost enveloping the last of the season's green. Besegrare, well-versed in the royal customs, raised his sword in salute and bowed to his opponent. But Molokhn, expecting this, broke tradition to gain the upper hand in battle. Rather than salute and bow in response, he turned his sword upon his son too early, and struck him a mighty blow. The ferocity of this attack left Besegrare entirely numb in his left side. A great outpouring of blood dampened his shirt.
"Fight with your mind as well as your might," said Molokhn, snorting a laugh, "Learn this, and you will never lose."
"You ask me not to fight against my opponent, but against the rules of the duel. You ask me to fight against the traditions."
"Traditions live to be broken," said Molokhn, advancing with his weapon poised to strike again.
Acting quickly, Besegrare poised the lethal tip of his blade and, being both faster and more skilled than his father, drove the point through the heart of the King. He wept as he moved his hand, for even with all of his evil, the beast was still his father, and he still his son.
"Consider this another broken tradition," said King Besegrare, even as the lifeless body fell from his blade. From that moment forward he pledged never to turn his blade upon another beast, for as long as he should live. As it would turn out, he would use the blade one more time... One last and fateful period of his life was marked by blood. A period of his life that had yet to come.