Chapter-3-1

⁠—⁠—⁠— I ⁠—⁠—⁠—

“Hrraarh!”

Guin’s terrific battle cry scorched the air in the boulder-strewn clearing as the first of the attacking wolves arced toward him, its long fangs bared, its tongue a firebrand in the gloom.

The wolf’s vicious howl mingled with Guin’s cry. A moment later, the two opponents—beast and half-beast—collided in mid-air.

Nospherus was a trackless wilderness, regarded by every human society as an utter wasteland, the veritable end of the earth. The Kanan range stood at its far eastern edge, extending a ragged spur of ridges and foothills deep into the desert—a spur that included the tallest peak in all of the range, the peculiarly shaped Mount Pherus, known to the Sem as the Dog’s Head. The rugged terrain here was distant indeed from domains of men, nor had anyone or anything ever attempted to bring even a vestige of order or civilization to its wildness.

Even the Sem avoided the land around the Dog’s Head, preferring the lower lying valleys further to the west for their homes. The mountain was not a place for those who spoke with words, but for those who ran in packs and hunted in the night. It was the beasts’ domain—or perhaps it belonged not to the beasts, but to some higher powers that kept the beasts there as a guard to protect the inviolate sanctity of their realm.

The rocky crags rose black and silent, while among them the stone-mimics and desert wolves moved with the howling winds through steep, pathless rock-fields. To face the mountain meant to face such monsters. It also meant to face thirst and exhaustion, and another, even greater hardship: an absolute, oppressive solitude that would have overwhelmed most travelers with the vastness of its harsh desolation. It was a path no man would choose unless driven by some terrible purpose, and yet one hero now faced it, alone, in the night.

Before that foolhardy, reckless traveler, the mountain now placed its first challenge.

The desert wolves were among the most legendary residents of the Nospherus highlands. As their name suggested, they had once lived in the desert, where they ran in ravening packs, sweeping across the sands like a violent white mirage. In those times, the wolves had been a constant threat to the territory of the Sem tribes and had pushed even the bigmouths and sandworms out of the central desert. In the ancient ruins of the east, carven reliefs could be seen that depicted in painstaking detail images of wolf-packs hundreds strong, their swift progress across the sands on soft-furred feet frozen in time by artisans long since dead. If the coloration of those murals could be trusted, the desert wolves of that time had been pure white from the whorls of thick fur on their heads to the tips of their long tails; their pale fur was the perfect camouflage against the white sands of their hunting grounds.

But the time when the desert wolves ruled the sands was long ago indeed, for it was the same ancient era when the Empire of Kanan still held sway in the desert and the mountains, and the Middle Country was but a wild jungle, overrun with hairy barbarians.

In the years since, the imperial city of Kanan had faded to a ruin buried in the sands, a legend lost somewhere among the Kanan Mountains. In that long lost time a great change of unknown origin had come to Nospherus, transforming everything to the east and north of the Dog’s Head into a wasteland even bleaker than the desert, and nearly devoid of familiar forms of life. It was around this time that the wolves had abandoned their desert kingdom for the high crags, although none could say for certain when or why.

There was a legend about this time, which said that one night a corner of the sky had ripped open and death had fallen to the earth. According to this story the deathfall had spurred a great migration, driving all the creatures of the desert westward and further westward, transforming the region now known as the Marches into a teeming chaos of immigrant monstrosities. The fleeing beasts had run day in and day out, paying no heed to each other as they moved ever toward the west. Then, in the months that followed, the yidoh and other, stranger creatures had appeared to take their place in the empty wastes left behind.

While the truth of the legend might never be known, there could be no doubt that the yidoh and their kin had indeed taken over the low desert of Nospherus, while the wolves had moved into the rocky region around the Dog’s Head and made it their home.

Over time, the white fur, which had helped to hide the wolves among the sands of Nospherus, had faded to a dark gray, and after many generations in the cold highlands, their pelts had become thick and bushy.

Two qualities of the desert wolves that had not changed were their vicious temperament and their pack-hunting instinct. It was these characteristics that made these wolves the most feared of all the dangers of Nospherus. Among the Sem that lived in the valleys nearest to the rocky regions where the dread canines prowled, the quickest way to achieve recognition as a great warrior for the likes of Ilateli of the Guro was to fight with a desert wolf and bring home its pelt.

Such were the beasts that Guin now faced in the night, high on the slopes of the Dog’s Head with only a slender dagger between him and slavering death. He had lost his horse, most of his food, and his cherished war-sword, and now he seemed likely to lose his life, as a hundred pairs of gleaming eyes revealed where the mighty pack closed in on him, slinking between rock and crag, creeping over boulders and along the shadows of the ledges.

The first of the wolves to leap met a quick end as the point of Guin’s dagger pierced its belly. The creature gave a last sorrowful death-cry as the leopard warrior dashed its bleeding bulk against a rock. Its demise provoked a frenzy as the other wolves immediately began to fight with gnashing fangs over the body of their comrade. Game was scarce in the Nospherus hills, and the pack was always in danger of starvation.

Yet while the closest wolves went for the carrion, others moved in on Guin, dancing across the rocks as they approached. Their threatening barks and howls of rage and the sound of their grinding jaws filled the air. Their musky stench thickened the night around the leopard-man and left a choking bitterness upon his tongue. Guin spat, and then with a quick movement he switched the dagger to his left hand. When the next wolf leapt, he was ready with a hardened fist to meet it.

The blow crushed the wolf’s snout, sending it tumbling back, snarling as it flew through the air. Guin did not spare the time to watch it go. Making sure that the boulder was still at his back, he slashed with the dagger in his left hand and kicked hard at a wolf to his right. Then like a dancer he jumped from foot to foot, striking and kicking at the howling beasts, his every limb a deadly weapon. The wolves came streaming in, like ants attacking a cornered mantis, pressing in against their lone foe. Guin fearlessly met their charge, aiming a kick at the gaping hot maw of one wolf, then plunging his dagger straight into the eye of the next even as he swung his right arm to punch it backwards.

There seemed to be no end to the dusky demons, but Guin paid no mind to their numbers, or their snapping jaws, or the smell of blood-matted fur that rose from the slick, hellish pool of gore that had formed at his feet. He paid these things no mind because he had no mind to pay. All human reason, knowledge, and emotion had evaporated from him. He was a beast, great and ferocious, a fearsome leopard, sleek pelt stained with blood, fangs dripping with the remnants of his fallen foes. His limbs knew no exhaustion or weakness. The limitless vitality and destructive will of nature itself now filled him, and he became king-like in his mighty rage, stomping and tossing and cutting down these footsoldiers of the enemy.

This was not the Guin that Rinda and Remus had witnessed single-handedly dispatching a squad of black knights near the Roodspring. This was something far greater and wilder, an avatar of destruction and death, hardly recognizable as the twins’ stalwart guardian. His body from the neck down may have looked like a man’s, but this blood-soaked creature that howled and ripped at the throats of its enemies was far from human. And no human, not even one trained for years and hardened in battle, a warrior among warriors, could have held out half as long against half as many wolves as did Guin.

He was a leopard, a massive, bloodthirsty cat that toyed with its foes. His joy in the fight shone in his fiery red eyes, his blood-drenched fangs, and the agile and powerful grace of his movements. He was one and the same with the wolves that clustered around him, eager to rend his flesh and drink his blood. The wolves knew it. This was no tragic battle between man and animal. This was a war between beasts, following the sacred rules of such conflicts; blind to all niceties of fairness or honor, lacking any room for mercy or compassion, it was a struggle of tooth and claw.

The largest wolf of the pack vaulted into the air, and when Guin beat it back there was a sharp snap. His dagger had broken in half. Howling, Guin tossed the blade from his hand, sticky with blood.

Then the leopard-man whirled, still keeping the rock to his back, and dodged away from another wolf, grabbing the fiend by its tail as it soared by. Then, holding the thick tail like the haft of a club, he swung the hapless creature in a great arc to the left and right, knocking several of its packmates back into the darkness.

A new cry of rage burst from Guin’s lips, for while he was swinging the wolf, another had crept up onto the rock behind him and then jumped down to land on his back, where it sank its long fangs into his shoulder. Guin howled once more, then threw the wolf he was carrying into the path of the others in front of him and grabbed onto the beast at his back with both hands, trying to pry open the thing’s jaws. His every muscle tensed as he moved his left hand to the wolf’s throat and lifted sharply upward.

There was an unsettling popping sound, and the strength went out of the creature’s jaws. Its head hanging limply from its twisted neck, the wolf dropped off Guin’s back and landed with a thud on the ground.

Yet by this time, another wolf had seen its opening and leapt down from atop the rock. Guin ducked and grabbed its gray body as it sailed over him, slamming it into a jagged projection of stone. His eyes gleamed red and he surveyed the clearing with the cold stare of a hunter.

The smell of blood on the wind and the howls and death rattles of the wolves had announced the terrible fray far across the rocks and crags. Though Guin had killed or otherwise disabled no small number of wolves, there seemed to be no fewer of the beasts around him than before, their eyes gleaming and their heads low, ready to lunge in for the kill. They were like the ghouls of the Marches, constantly multiplying, a new foe springing up to replace each one he cut down. Their hundred pairs of eyes were like stars in hell, glowing with a dark fire.

The hair stood on the back of Guin’s neck, and a low rattling growl of warning sounded in his throat. He looked around, hesitating in a momentary lull in the struggle. It was not reason, but his animal instincts that gave him pause.

Continue to fight and you will lose.

Civilized man had morals, logic, chivalry, the impulses of temperament, and the urgings of honor. But a true beast was encumbered by none of these things; it knew only the merciless contest and a blind, basic instinct for self-preservation. Now Guin’s instinct had spoken to him, and he would heed it.

For a moment the leopard-man’s fanged mouth hung open as he uttered a last threatening growl at those fiery eyes. But he was no longer interested in winning this battle. Dodging the wolves that leapt for him, he turned suddenly and shot like a bolt of lightning up the rock face he had stood against, then began to bound away, leaping from boulder to boulder like the winged taulos, making his escape.

A great cry rose up from the darkness—the wolves had tasted blood, and they did not want to give up their prey. Swiftly the pack gave chase. Wolves vaulted to the tops of boulders and wound their way between the rocks. Their quarry did not stop to look back.

The lead wolf sprang from a boulder-top towards Guin’s retreating back, aiming its fangs for the base of his leopard skull, but it was as if the giant warrior had eyes in the back of his head. With uncanny accuracy, Guin sensed the beast’s trajectory, and just before it reached him ducked and leapt aside and was off to the next boulder, leaving the wolf to snap its jaws upon the empty dark.

Guin’s chest rose and fell like a massive pair of bellows, sending air into his lungs, and he moved with an unconsciously surefooted grace across the jagged, pointed rocks. From his feline muzzle to his leather waistband, Guin was slick with wolf blood and grimed with clots of hair and bits of flesh. He could hear the baying of hundreds more of the beasts in pursuit, running across the rocks behind him and along the ground beneath his feet. They were relentless hunters, seemingly determined to avenge the deaths the leopard-man had brought them.

In many ways, Guin’s situation now was even worse than when he had faced the pack in the clearing, moments before. His path was dark and unfamiliar, and despite their rough appearance, the boulders were deceptively smooth and slippery, and his boots were soaked in wolf blood. One false step on the uneven stone— one slip of his gore-slick feet—and he would fall upon the jagged rocks that stuck up like knives between the larger boulders that formed his elevated path. Even if the fall did not kill him, it would only be a matter of moments before the pack caught up to him and tore his wounded body into bloody chunks.

Yet he never hesitated. Without stopping once to check his footing he ran on with incredible speed, like a laurelled runner on a track he had known since birth. Not once did his pace falter, and whenever a gap or chasm yawned before him he jumped fearlessly through the night air. He was beautiful, like a titanic cheetah, an athlete of mythical splendor.

He ran, and the wolves ran. It was a contest between the killers and the one who would be killed, the hunters and the hunted, and yet they looked like a great king leading his army on a charge, or a heroic saint and his frenzied flock, preserving a heterodox harmony as they chased the wind.

So similar did they appear, the massive leopard-headed beast-god and the starving wolves of the crags, that it seemed as if there were some mystic connection between them. The sound of Guin’s breathing mingled with the panting of the wolves, and the sound of their footfalls echoed his as they fell behind, then drew closer, only to fall behind once again.

Eventually the boulders began to grow scarcer on the slope ahead. Guin’s path had led him straight up the mountainside; now his breath formed a white mist against the night sky. The moon goddess Aeris seemed to pace restlessly across the heavens above him, as though she, too, was a participant in the life-and-death chase below.

Mingled with his own heavy breathing, Guin could hear the howling of the wolves as they closed the distance behind him. He searched for some feature of the terrain that might aid him in losing the wolves for good—a narrow ravine, a valley blocked by boulders, a fallen log—anything but this endless scree field. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, but he needed to find an advantage in the landscape, and it seemed that there was nothing ahead but rocks and the mountain sloping ever upwards. The boulder-field came to a gradual end, and ahead of him the mountain’s face was black and unbroken. He was nearing the summit.

This was not the salvation Guin had hoped for. Here the big rocks were fewer, and there were neither shrubs nor any other cover to conceal him. Atop the boulders, Guin’s agility had given him the advantage, and he had gained a good lead on the wolves; out here in the open their foot speed, which had once made them so feared among the dunes of the desert, would surely give them the edge.

To circle back would have been impossible, and it seemed that there was little chance of escape higher up on the peak. His dagger had snapped sometime during the fighting. At this point, with an apparent dead end ahead and all weapons broken or lost, most warriors, even great heroes, would have looked to the heavens and cast their arms up in despair, calling out to their guardian spirits in some hope that divine intervention would save them where all their luck and skill had failed. But Guin’s shining red eyes were expressionless pools, void of emotion; he seemed to have descended into a trance beneath his rigid mask.

Some essential quality, something vital that makes a man a part of humanity, had disappeared from Guin’s eyes. He was a warrior still, but at some point he had become all animal. Perhaps it was the fear of death, that all-too-human fear of the unknown that lurked beyond the last breath, that was missing. In its place was an all-powerful instinct for self-preservation that enabled him to act without hindrance from the clouding veil of emotion. Guin knew no despair—in his current state, the concept would not have made sense to him. Trapped on the mountainside, the leopard-headed warrior showed no cowardice; he simply charged confidently toward the peak as though he expected a life-rope to be dangling down from the stars, waiting to carry him away.

His feet thudded on the soft ground. The last of the sharp rocks that might have slowed the passage of the wolves were behind him. As soon as he had left the last rock he sprinted up the slope, never slowing down, his endurance unflagging. His leather cape flowed out behind him, its hem tattered and torn by the sharp rocks and sharper fangs of the wolves. His chest heaving, Guin ran.

The wolves had the clear advantage. Their four muscular legs were well adapted to running on smooth terrain. Rapidly they ate up the distance Guin had gained in the boulder-field, and soon they were running around him in a pack, like hounds running alongside a huntsman. One of them picked up speed and sprang into the air, followed quickly by ten others in a fierce wave, launching themselves at Guin’s shoulders, his legs, his chest, and his arms like carnivorous fish swarming on a hapless steer.

Guin howled. If they dragged him down here, he was finished. With flailing fists he beat them off; still the creatures multiplied, coming in wave after wave. Should he slip, he knew that in an instant he would be buried underneath a mountain of the fur-covered demons. His legs tensed. There was no time left to find a good position from which to ward off the wolves coming at him from all sides, and yet he could run no further. Muscles tightened like sinewy ropes stretching across his body, he braced himself to throw off the next attack.

Two more wolves lunged for his throat, and with lightning reflexes he grabbed them both. Then dexterously he tucked one under each arm and, squeezing them to his sides with tremendous strength, broke both their necks. The air was filled with their whines of pain and then the popping of their bones, punctuated by the howls of the surrounding wolves. This was a battle unlike any that ordinary men could ever know. The leopard king faced the thronging, bloodthirsty canine horde, neither side seeking the other’s pity, neither side relying on words to parley or threaten. It was a brutal fight without emotion, mercy, restraint, or any hope of reconciliation.

Guin was in dire straits, yet he made neither prayer nor sign, no last appeal to the heavens for aid. The only thing that could put out the fire that burned in his eyes was a lethal, physical blow to the throat or heart, and he knew that he need fear nothing more or less than this. He knew no despair, and yet he clung to no mad hope that he might survive. Like a machine, an apparatus of death, blind to all else, he saw only the battle.

Yet it seemed that even Guin had reached his limits at last. Though he fought tirelessly, his breathing had grown more strenuous as he fended off the endless stream of wolves, always on the attack, each rushing to fill the space where a pack-mate had fallen, dodging the carcasses with broken necks that he threw at them.

Now his own blood streamed from his shoulders, legs, and thighs, mixing with the blood from the wolves that soaked him.

He was surrounded, and try though he might he could not dodge them all. Every other bite got past his defenses and struck at his exposed flesh. He howled in pain, a roar of rage that burst from deep within, and tossed another wolf corpse, its neck dangling, at the pack; still the beasts came on. One slavering shadow ducked low and sped closer, dodging under Guin’s guard, and leapt up to lock its teeth around his throat.

Guin grabbed the beast’s bloody maw with both hands, trying to pry it off, leaving his back undefended for an instant. Almost immediately, his body shook with a blow from behind, and a stab of pain burned like a firebrand into his spine. The largest wolf yet had pounced onto his back, sinking its teeth into his shoulder blade. Guin struggled to remain standing, but the dragging weight from both directions was too much for him, and he fell to one knee.

The wolves had been waiting for just this opportunity. In a flurry of motion they came at him from all sides, mouths frothing with anticipation. His eyes were like plates of glass, showing no pain, no despair, merely reflecting the thronging pack that now descended upon him like angels of death.

His body fought on, writhing and striking at the wolves, knocking aside their fangs.

And then Guin sensed a presence beyond the snarling wolves. He had arrived.