Chapter 1: First Strike
This is the first story I've written this far. Criticism and comments encouraged please. My ego is starving for something.
-BGA
Also, while only Wolven are written about here, there are many more races to be introduced.
Chapter 1: First Strike
Sparks flashed of the clashing blades. Light gray and black fur covered arms thudded into each other, the impact causing the blades to shiver against one another. The blades swung apart and the two combatants stared intently at one another. The blades kissed and slid past again. The gray Wolven pivoted and shot a vicious kick at the black one's belly. His claw-blades swung down, the dull edges bruising the unprotected flesh. The momentum caused the gray Wolven to fall tail first on the ground. Before he could begin to regain his defense, the black Wolven's feet held his paws to the ground and a claw-blade pricked at his throat.
The black Wolven pulled the blades away and stepped off. "Not bad Toral, but you are still too impatient. You sacrificed your balance for a quick win and if this were a real fight, at best you would lose that foot, at worst, dead." He reached down and heaved Toral to his feet.
"Yes, Blademaster Koloth." Toral said, head bowed. He took his stance, claw-blades at the ready. He panted with exertion, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The Blademaster stood, blades by his sides, eyes wandering off towards the river that weaved through the town. Toral lunged to Koloth's right, blades pointed towards his shoulder. Koloth ducked down and swung his own blades in a great arc, forcing Toral to jump awkwardly to avoid them.
Toral twisted in the air, landing on his feet facing Koloth's back. He jabbed his blade toward Koloth's neck when he was catapulted several feet back. Toral's breath rushed out of him and he clutched his stomach in pain, doubling over. He glimpsed Koloth, one powerful leg extended behind him.
"Good! You turned a handicap into an asset, although it was a bit too obvious." Koloth set his leg down and looked up towards the sun. "We are done for this sun. You need to see to your duties." Koloth turned and started for the barracks. Absentmindedly he shouted, "And do not be late or his Lordship will have your ears!"
Toral looked up. The sun was in late falltime, less than an hour for him to get ready for Lord Cyrik's dinner. He hurried towards the Hall, pulling his training blades off his paws as he ran. Meyrn the steward came walking out the great doors at the entrance, eyes on the ground before him. He looked up and his yellow eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the young wolf running full tilt toward him. The old steward jumped clumsily aside, barely avoiding Toral.
Toral shouted an apology to Meyrn as he left the shaken steward behind. He weaved through a group of servants on their way to prepare the table. They glanced at him in mild annoyance, but said nothing. He skidded to a halt outside his chambers. Toral pulled the oak door open and hurriedly searched for his formal attire. He tossed his blades at the foot of the bed and stripped off his soiled clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Grabbing a damp cloth from the wash basin, he wiped as much dirt and dust out of his fur as he could. He quickly dressed in his court clothes, a soothing blue and green, and hopped out the door with his second boot halfway on.
Maybe Dreus will not be too mad at me for being late, Toral hoped. Turning into the serving area, he looked around quickly for Dreus. A sharp cuff on the back of his head told Toral that the Mastercook was not pleased.
"Damnit Toral! When I said evetime I meant it!" Dreus shouted, his lip curled in irritation. "I don't care if you are a Lord's whelp! If you're late once more I will beat you just like any other deviant servant boy! Do you understand, my little lordling?!"
Toral dropped his head and muttered.
"I can't hear you, boy!"
"Yes Mastercook!" Toral shouted.
"Good. Now, take his Lordship's wine out to him." The master cook pointed with a massive furred paw to a lone crystal goblet and an elegantly wrought blue bottle. "You're to remain with him until he sends you back to me. He's feasting an important Lord tonight, Thi-something or other, and-"
"Lord Thius?" Toral blurted.
Dreus cuffed him again. "Don't interrupt me boy. Now old Meyrn told me this Lord is caught up in some trend from the south, so be polite and don't draw attention to it." A pan clattered to the floor, spilling several loaves of bread. Dreus turned and roared at the servant, who ran as fast as his legs would carry him to fetch another pan. Dreus looked back and saw Toral still standing where he was. "The hell are you doing? Get to it!"
Toral started and hurried to compose himself for the dinner. He smoothed down his ruffled headfur, schooled his expression to one of polite interest, grabbed the wine and entered the hall. Amber sunlight and torches illuminated the dining hall, causing the crystal goblet to glitter. The table was a massive thing, made from some unknown wood from across the White Sea. The black surface was etched with intricate vines in the center. It could have easily filled a small chamber. Lord Cyrik sat at the head, the farthest end from the entrance, and was engaged in quiet conversation with Lord Thius. Toral could not help but stare a bit. On Lord Thius, every visible strand of fur was dyed with a red and yellow swirl. The short glimpses of the fur under his sleeve hinted that the coloring was body wide. He wore a mid-sleeve half-robe and baggy leggings, marked with his court colors, black and mountain brown. Lord Cyrik beside him looked quite normal by comparison. Mottled gray and black fur covered his paws and head, an intricate latticework of white patches surrounded his eyes, giving the illusion of decoration. Cyrik wore the same style of clothes as Thius, but were colored with yellow and sea green.
Suddenly conscious that he had stopped mid-stride to watch, Toral made a brisk walk to stand behind Lord Cyrik.
"-Cannot deal with these beasts!" Lord Thius finished.
"I agree with you Thius, by the Sol I do! But this must be discussed in court. We cannot take action by ourselves." Lord Cyrik turned and saw Toral standing behind him. "Ah Toral, you know of Lord Thius, yes?" Toral nodded. "Good! Lord Thius, this is Toral, son of Lord Seil, who is serving me for a time."
"A pleasure to meet you Toral."
"You honor me Lord Thius." Toral replied, bowing.
"And how is your father? I hear he is spending his private coin to build farms." Lord Thius said in a playful mocking tone.
"He is well, Lord." Toral paused to pour Lord Cyrik his wine. "As for the farms, father believes that by supplying them he can increase the overall production of the citizens."
Lord Thius' eyes widened in surprise. "Is there any result of this? And just call me Thius, we are close enough to equals to allow that."
"Father does not expect any real results for at least a couple years." Toral explained. He hesitated. "Thius, if I may ask?"
"You may."
"What were you and Lord Cyrik talking about before?"
Thius glanced at Lord Cyrik, who gave a small nod. Thius placed his paw beneath his muzzle, half closing his blue eyes. "We have been having...difficulties with the north. I cannot go into detail until this matter has been discussed in court, but there is a slim possibility that, if unaddressed, it could lead to war."
"War?" Toral stared in shock. Neirdolen had not been to war in almost seventy years.
"A slim chance at best Toral. Nothing to be overly concerned about." Thius reassured him, sipping from his wine cup. He licked his muzzle and sighed appreciatively. He set down his cup. "That is enough depressing talk for now," Thius swept a red-yellow furred paw in front of him and Toral saw that the rest of the table had filled. Blademaster Koloth sat half way down the table and Meryn sat at Cyrik's left. The rest of the table was filled with other, less important, wolven who came for Lord Cyrik's hospitality. Thius thrust his paw into the air, "Let the feast begin!"
Toral groaned as he pulled his boots off. Cursing Dreus roundly, he massaged his aching feet. He slumped on his bed, sighing in relief. The feast was a blur in his mind, shifting colors and garbled conversation. He remembered being sent back to the Mastercook for Lord Cyrik's dinner and somehow along the way he had shifted to serving guests in general.
He pulled off his clothes while lying on his bed, the expensive cloth soiled by the krien, a mild narcotic tea, of an over-indulged guest. Grunting in disgust, he tossed the clothes into his wash basket. Krien, while not dangerous or illegal, was scorned by Lords and to be seen drinking it was an instant disgrace. A few decades back, in Toral's grandfathers' time, a Lord drinking krien had almost started a war by insulting a council member from the southern Empire when intoxicated.
Toral reached down to pull his Sigil band off his wrist. His paw closed on naked fur. Toral swore softly, wondering where he had lost it. He considered waiting to search for it the next sun, then winced as he recalled the verbal beating he had received from Meryn the last time he lost it.
Toral sat up and stood, muscles protesting loudly at the injustice. He fumbled around in his dresser in the dark, fingers finally clasping a thin nightrobe. He pulled it on and quickly tied it closed on his way out of his room.
Except for a few night servants, the halls were empty. The hightime moon cast its light over everything, giving it a surreal glow. Toral hurried to the dining hall. He needed to find his band quickly, for he had battle training next sun and had to get some sleep. The hall door was slightly ajar, most likely an absentminded servant forgot to close it. Toral slipped past, the dim torchlight illuminating the thin soft material of the nightrobe.
This might not have been a good idea, Toral thought, looking at the nearly translucent material. Turning from that, he looked across the table. All the dishes and remains had been removed and the table scrubbed clean, only a faint odor of the feast was left. A faint glint of firelight on metal at the far side of the hall caught his attention.
Toral walked over to the glint, which came from behind Lord Cyrik's chair. Picking up the metal bracelet, he saw that the fall had damaged his namesign. It would need to be repaired, and reworking it would be costly. He cursed softly, then froze as a quiet but sharp sound, like glass on glass, cut through the air. In the absolute silence that followed, the murmur of voices barely touched his ear.
"...Possibly...cannot draw...actions yet." One said.
"But...soldiers...sustained for...time!" Another exclaimed.
Toral edged closer to where the voices seemed to come from. He stopped and leaned against a tapestry next to the entrance of Lord Cyrik's common room.
"Can you send foragers to the camp? If we can get enough foragers the camp can sustain itself." The first one said.
"I can send seven of my men to the camp, any more and it would draw suspicion." A third voice said. It had the lilting, almost sing-song accent of the western kingdom, a female voice.
"I can ask my huntmaster to give a few of his apprentices to the camp." The first voice said. It was so familiar that Toral was worrying at his lip trying to place it.
"How many can, or will, he give us?" The lilting voice asked.
"At best? I suppose he would part with up to three of his less promising pupils." The first one said. Finally, Toral recognized the voice. Lord Thius!
"I can send four of my foresters to help." Thius realized that he must be Lord Cyrik. "They can train a few soldiers to forage, so we should be able to continue building."
There was the sound of a chair being pushed away and the telltale tinkling of swaying jewelry. Toral stiffened against the wall. Do they know I am here?
"Well, Lords, I need to return to my country before risetime." More tinkling jewelry. "Farewell."
"Until the black moon, Magistrate Miiri." Cyrik and Thius responded in unison.
Toral relaxed, then stiffened again immediately. He had to move or they would catch him eavesdropping. Pulling away from the wall as stealthily as he could, he turned and headed off into a serving hall, taking the longer route to his chamber.
When he finally reached his room, he slumped down on his bed, not bothering to remove his robe. His body was charged with nervous energy and his mind was in conflict. Part of him wanted to run to Lord Cyrik's chamber and demand to know what was going on, as an equal Lord. The other part, however, desired to turn tail, go back to his father and tell him what he heard. But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he could not go to his father. In the four long months Toral had served Lord Cyrik, he had never once seen him do something without purpose, and this...treason of building up an army without the courts' permission must have a great need behind it. Toral decided that he would, if he ever worked up the courage, ask to know what the build-up was for.
Secure in his choice, Toral slipped under his sheets and slept.
Toral landed on his tail with a grunt.
"End!" Koloth called and the large gray and black Wolven opposite of Toral relaxed. "Good fight Vion, that was a wonderful counter." Koloth, who stood an impressive six feet tall, had to tilt his head back to look at the giant that was the apprentice blacksmith Vion. Pulling the dulled bastard sword from Vion's paws, Koloth walked over to Toral. He planted the blade in the ground and leaned against the hilt, staring down at Toral.
"Now, I could see several ways for you to prevent that counter, and you should have seen at least two. So tell me, why you are sitting tail in the dirt and not Vion?"
Toral bowed his head. "My apologies Blademaster, I did not get much sleep last night."
"Cavorting with a servant after the feast, little lordling?" Koloth asked, eyes glittering with amusement.
"No, Blademaster." Toral said, ears laid back slightly with embarrassment. "I just did not sleep well."
"What? The lordling is not allowed to enjoy the company of a female?" Koloth said, a light mocking lilt colored his voice. "Or might it be he is incapable?" A few of the other pupils were grinning now.
Probably enjoying the fact that Koloth is making fun of his favorite for once, Toral thought. His teeth were clenched and his lip was raised in anger. He was just about to strike out at Koloth when a light shower of dust fell on him, followed almost instantly by a hard crack on his head, knocking him flat.
"Control yourself! If it is that easy to rile you up it is a wonder that you are here at all!" Koloth sighed and rubbed his muzzle. Pulling his paw away, he stared hard at Toral. "Pay very close attention boy. This is the most important thing I will ever teach you." He turned and shouted at the others, "All of you!" He turned back, now with everyone's focus. "When you are fighting, never let yourself become angry. Anger makes you foolish, foolishness leads to mistakes and if you make mistakes fighting, you die." Koloth relaxed a bit and took on a conversational tone. "Now I have instructed the servants to insult, mock and harass you at their leisure. Every time any of you shows a reaction, or even if they think you are angry, they will inform me and you all will be set a long boring task to do, such as pulling rocks out of the river. This will continue until I have no incidents for two weeks. Is this understood?"
"Yes, Blademaster!" Toral and the other dozen pupils replied in unison.
"Now, I think we are done for the sun. You are free until evetime." Koloth began gathering the discarded training equipment. The dozen pupils headed for the barracks. Toral picked himself up, rubbing his sore head and wondering what he should do with his free time. He had just decided to study the history of the Council when he heard a shout.
"Hey Toral!" Vion shouted from across the yard. "You comin' or not?" A few others waved for him to join them.
Toral hesitated for a second, then shrugged. Why not? Toral thought. He jogged over to them and set himself at the edge of the group.
Vion gripped Toral's shoulder and shook him a bit. "I want to be the first to welcome you to the group Lord Toral."
"Group?" Toral was confused.
"Yeah, everyone who Koloth has insulted, mocked or scorned is in it. We've been waiting three months to invite you in, but Koloth just didn't get you probably because you're a Lord's whelp." Vion explained to the nods and grins of the others. "Now that you're in, we need to celebrate!"
"Where we meetin' Vion?" One of the others asked, a small, wiry brown-furred youth.
"How about the outer bend?" Vion suggested. Toral knew what that was. The outer bend was the curve in the river just before it entered town. "Has your ale been discovered yet Choal?"
"Nah, they aren't going to find it." The brown Wolven, Choal, replied smugly. "Want me to bring some?"
Vion snorted derisively. "Of course I want you to bring some! What kind of celebration is this, admission to the Sol?"
The Sol, guardian priests of the Howlers, the gods of Neirdolen, who led the Wolven people to their homeland. The Sol, sworn to their service, cannot drink any alcohol, may never beget or have cubs and must forgo all ties to family and friends outside the Soleum. They are viewed as beings of the highest honor and strength, the elite warriors of Neirdolen, whose skill had saved the country many times over the centuries. Almost every cub dreams of becoming a Sol priest, but very few actually attempt it and fewer still enter after the acceptance because of the restrictions on their person. Despite this, the Sol are viewed as beings almost divine in nature.
"Might be. It's just as important!" Choal joked, dodging a playful swipe with ease.
"Whe' is't goin' to be?" One of the younger Wolven asked, his words slurred greatly by a swollen jaw, courtesy of an early training bout with Choal.
Vion shrugged, "Let's do it about an hour after evetime, plenty of time to get ready after dinner. Invite whoever you want, we want a big welcome party for Toral." Everyone shouted in agreement. "Alright! Lets head to the river. We have a couple hours to do what we want, lets initiate Toral!"
Toral looked at everyone questioningly. Initiate? But amid the cheers and jostling no one noticed. It did not take Toral long to figure out what the initiation was. It was a game that the group played whenever they had time. The goal was to knock whoever you could into the river while dodging others attempts to force you in. Punching and kicking were not allowed, but tripping and shoving were the main tactics of the game. Throwing thumb-sized rocks was allowed, mostly just as a distraction. The one who was dunked in the river least was the winner of the game.
When they got to the riverbank there was a subtle change in everyone's movement. They became more foot-conscious, looking at the ground to see if anything would slip them up. They watching the others with more intensity and began distancing themselves from the group. Choal bent down and grabbed a small rock, clutching it loosely in his paw. No sooner has Toral stepped onto the rocky riverbed when Choal hurled the stone at him, striking Toral squarely on the knee. Toral cringed at the slight sting. Suddenly he felt himself being hurled into the air, catching a bare glimpse of Vion smiling behind him at he flew towards the river four feet away. He windmilled his arms in a vain attempt to avoid the water, but failed and sunk into the cold liquid. He came up out of the water sputtering, seeing the others dodging around each other. The game had begun.
Almost three hours later, when the game ended, Toral was soaked to the bone with river water and several angry welts adorned his body. He had not imagined the skill and experience needed to play this simple game. Vion, Choal and the others slid around the riverside with water-like fluidity, only one or two of them in the water every ten minutes. Pebbles were thrown with needlepoint accuracy, and they dodged with dancer-like agility. Toral, being new to the game, was forced into the water several times more than everyone else combined and for every accurate pebble he threw, three missed their target. About halfway through the game, Toral and Vion made an impromptu truce and Toral did a bit better with Vion's help, but he was still the worst player in the game.
"Wow Toral!" Choal shouted for the river bank, shaking off water from his fresh dunking. "Are you sure this is your first time playing?" Toral nodded. "Damn! Most of us here have been playing for five years or more and you...damn!"
"But I was the worst player here." Toral said bewildered. "What are you praising me for?"
"You may have been knocked into the river more times than anyone else, but you got at least four of our veterans and you got me in! Vion is the only one who gotten me in more than once a game, and that's only because he's so damn big! When Aex started," Choal waved at the white Wolven with the swollen jaw. "He could barely get one of us in. Isn't that right?"
"Yup, tha's true." Aex said jovially, but his ears were laid back a bit in embarrassment. He absent-mindedly rubbed his chin. Looking up at the sky, his eyes widened in surprise. "S'all most ev'time! We hafta go!"
The others looked quickly and cursed. After several hurried goodbyes they fled to their masters.
Toral looked and saw he still had a good two hours until he was needed. He started walking leisurely towards the castle, holding his arms wide to dry his fur and clothes as best he could in the setting sun. A few small cubs played on the edge of the woods on the side of the path, watched contentedly by their parents.
Toral smiled and slitted his eyes. How peaceful, he thought, letting out a soft sigh. His thoughts wandered to his home. The bustling city of Marnsralm, filled to the brim with various species plying their trades, surrounded by an expanse of lush cropland. The small holding Lord Cyrik ruled was nice, but it could not compare to the sheer amount of life in the city. The shouts of merchants hawking their goods, the cajoling calls of street cubs playing. Toral grinned a bit as he remembered his father scolding him for walking among the city folk. He felt a short pang of homesickness and wondered how much longer his father would keep him serving Lord Cyrik.
Toral, when he was in the commons at home, had seen the city guard arrest a young Wolven with whom he had a pleasant relationship. Using his position as the Lord's Heir, he commanded that the Wolven be freed. The guards, unable to argue with Toral, released him. He learned later that the captured adolescent was a rather high-profile thief wanted in several other cities. Toral's father, more than a little upset with his impulsive son, had sent him to learn some control.
Toral spared a few minutes of thought to ponder what happened to the thief. After returning from his revere, he flapped his arms to find them only a little damp as he neared the castle. A couple of guards waved at him from the gate as he approached. The sounds of servants preparing for the evening meal echoed through the gate invitingly. Toral smiled politely as he neared the guards.
"Welcome back Lord Toral." One of the guards said, bowing. "How was your lesson?"
"It was more pleasant than usual captain." Toral replied.
"I heard that Koloth really got under your fur." The other guard said, ignoring the reproving glance of his captain.
Toral's eyes narrowed. "Yes, he did somewhat."
The guard grinned. "Your father must be sad that his line will end with-"
"That's enough!" The captain was livid. "You will show proper respect to Lord Toral, as is your duty! No matter-"
"It is quite alright captain." Toral interrupted. "Words like that from someone like him mean nothing." He smiled maliciously at the guard, whose grin had faded.
"Someone like me?" The guard asked, eyes glittering dangerously.
Toral leaned forward and whispered. "I heard you were born in Resh."
For a minute the guards just stood there, jaw gaping in shock. Then his lip curled into a snarl and he grabbed for his sword, pulling the iron blade partially out of its sheath.
"Merk, stop now!" The captain shouted, grabbing the guard's arm. By obvious force of will, Merk forced his sword into the sheath. His body trembled with the intensity of his rage.
Toral, speaking not a word, strode past them into the courtyard. Only when his own petty anger had passed did he realize the severity of what he had said to Merk. To accuse someone of being born in Resh, of visiting Resh, even being within a mile of its border was unforgivable. To say anyone was involved with Resh was to place them lower than feral beasts, below even the instincts of trust or care. Resh was a nightmare brought to reality. Bedmates slept with daggers at each others' throats, cubs were beaten for no more reason than it was fun. Murder had become so common that it was no longer even considered a crime there. The country itself was totally without legitimate rulers, its citizens oppressed by crime lords and murderers and cults. No sane being would ever choose to go there, so being sent to Resh was the capital punishment for nobles and rulers who committed treason or murder.
Toral had delivered one of the greatest insults one being can possibly give another to a loyal soldier of the castle. He laid his ears back in shame, wanted to kick himself and promised himself he would find Merk after dinner to beg forgiveness. They would be enemies for the rest of their lives no matter how much Toral begged, but this way it kept Merk from slitting Toral's throat when he slept.
Toral walked into the dining hall with Lord Cyrik's wine. The table was not as full as the last sun, but still respectable, around a hundred. Lord Thius had not arrived yet and Cyrik was speaking peaceably with Meyrn. Toral decided to stand back and wait for them to finish their conversation. He watched servants bustle back and forth, filling glasses and carrying trays laden with food. He noticed one minor land owner getting numerous refills of krien and was quite befuddled. Several Wolven around him were looking for other seats before he began hallucinating.
He must have been the one who spilled krien on me last night, Toral thought. He turned and saw that Cyrik and Meyrn had finished. Just as he was about to go to his place behind Cyrik's chair, the entrance doors opened.
Lord Thius walked in smiling pleasantly. Toral began to wave at him, but stopped. Something felt wrong. Thius' eyes seemed to stare without seeing and his smile did not waver in the slightest. Shrugging off his paranoid feelings, he walked towards Cyrik. He reached Lord Cyrik moments after Thius.
"You are a bit late Thius." Cyrik said smiling. This close to Thius, Toral noticed a definite vacancy in his stare, like someone unconscious. Toral was about to ask if he was alright when the doors slammed open. A lone figure staggered in, gripping its left shoulder. A faint smell of blood drifted into the suddenly quiet hall. The figure's clothes were ornate, colored black and brown and red-and-yellow swirled fur showed on the figure's face and right arm.
Is that...Thius? Toral thought.
"Cyrik! Get away from that!" The bloodied Thius shouted.
Chaos erupted. Koloth leapt onto the table and charged toward the smiling Thius, a butcher knife clenched tightly in his paw. Meyrn reached towards Lord Cyrik and Cyrik himself sat there in confusion, mouthing the word "two?".
Then the smiling Thius moved. It was not the way a normal creature moved, but with a kind of boneless fluidity that boggled the mind. His figure faded as it leaned towards Cyrik. It became a blob of darkness, limbs barely discernable. Before Meyrn had even touched Cyrik, it lunged forward and thrust a spike of black material through Cyrik's chest.
Everything seemed to slow down. Cyrik's mouth opened in pain and his eyes dimmed and in the span of a couple heartbeats, he was dead. The thing slowly drew its spike from the corpse's chest and turned towards Toral.
Toral froze. Every instinct and fiber in him told him to run, escape to anywhere that thing was not. And yet his legs would not move. The shadowy thing swirled and changed to a deep gray color, its body shifted, becoming familiar.
Before it could finish whatever it was doing, Koloth reached it and slashed at it with all his strength. The shadow shrieked, an unearthly sound that caused the few remaining guests to flee, paws over ears. Then it vanished. It did not disperse or fade, it just stopped being. Where it had been was a cub, eyes dead, the butcher knife embedded in her neck. She tumbled to the floor, body as limp as a doll.
Toral still just stood there. This is not happening, he told himself. This is just not real. It is all just an elaborate prank, another lesson of Koloth's. Footsteps came up behind him and he flinched away.
Thius stood near him, looking at his friend with tears coursing down his colored fur. Koloth has closed the body's eyes and laid it behind the Lord's chair, away from the cub's corpse. Koloth looked up.
"Thius."
Thius gripped his wounded shoulder harder, causing blood to flow faster out of the ripped flesh, further obscuring the delicate dyed pattern on his arm. He nodded at Koloth and said to the near empty hall.
"It has begun."