A Worrisome Beginning

Jakube sat in his living room, in his father’s large chair facing the fire, thinking. The chair always helped his to sort out his mind, and now there was a lot to sort out. It was noon and he still hadn’t answered Greyorn. The werewolf was out hunting now, and Zander was preparing the noon meal. Jakube appeared to Zander to be calm without a thought being pursued in his head, which drove the boy half mad, but inside, Jakube’s mind was reeling. The wolf wanted him to leave Moreodun. How could he leave his home? How could he even trust the wolf? He hardly knew him! One night and he wanted Jakube to go running around the kingdom with him! How ridiculous!

        Then came the matter of the Forbidden One. Once a traveler had come into the village and spoken of an evil demon from across the sea that had taken over Duarga, the capital city, surrounded by the four Surrounding Cities: Belliana, Carontin, Ariel, and Elsiclon, all named after the first four children of Haren, the first and mightiest king Malestria had ever known except perhaps Ryker. The people had all believed the traveler was mad, and had thought nothing of it, until later when a beggar from Reda came bearing the same news. That was when the rumors had started and also the fear. It came like a plague, causing things in Haariba that had not happened before. The children had nightmares almost every night, despite anything their parents told them or did to comfort them. People began to lock their doors at night and to teach their dogs to guard their livestock that had never before needed guarding.  As if sensing something was wrong in the very air, the animals and crops had begun to do badly, dying early or their meat growing thin and tough.

The people of Haariba were frightened like nothing Jakube had ever seen. They would avoid one another, crossing the street to stay away from some people that had been their neighbors, people they loved. No one knew who the Forbidden One’s spies were or if there even were any in Haariba. They all just picked someone they deemed odd and stayed away from them. Jakube had been frightened often, living in his house all alone, and had had nightmares almost every night. He tried not to shun people though, even when he found them avoiding him.

He was an odd person in Haariba, an orphan, living alone when he certainly could have moved in with almost anyone, and Zander’s family had offered many times. He just couldn’t leave the house. It seemed as if when he did, he would be leaving his parents and their memories, forgetting them forever. He couldn’t do that.

So, the people of Haariba often thought of Jakube as the odd one to avoid. Others embraced him even more, protecting him from the hurried glances, the mothers hurrying their children away from him, and sometimes the open glares. He could only think of three families that did this to him about thirteen people total. Some in the families, like the little children who liked Zander, liked Jakube and didn’t believe their parents, so it was probably less than that. But Jakube didn’t really care. He had plenty of people in Haariba who liked him and were his friends. The others did not matter to him.

Yes, Jakube had many friends, and so much to lose if he left. So much to leave behind. But would it be there much longer if he didn’t go? Something in the back of his mind told him no, Moreodun would be destroyed by the Forbidden One like everywhere else.

But what about Zander? Why was he going with him? He had much more to lose than Jakube. His family, his sisters, his brothers, all gone. Yet, he seemed so sure he wanted to go, as if there was no doubt in his mind.  Jakube wished he were like that.

He knew he should go. That much was obvious. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted to yet. It was selfish and he knew it, but it was his life after all. Greyorn had made it sound like they could easily die on the journey to Veradagon’s alone! And who knew what lay in store for him after that?

But how could he refuse? To let Greyorn, Zander, the very people of the Hills down? Perhaps let them die? How could he do it? He knew the answer. He couldn’t.

“I’m going to do it.” He said his next thought aloud, surprised by the sound of his own voice.

“What?” Zander had just walked in. Jakube didn’t turn or even move.

“I’m going to do it.” He said again, pleased at how firm his voice sounded.

“Are you sure?” Zander said quietly, sounding shocked, which annoyed Jakube, but he didn’t show it.

“I have to.” Now he turned, meeting his friend’s eyes. There was something in them, something Jakube couldn’t quite tell what. Was but, perhaps, a quiet pride? He wasn’t sure, for Zander turned away, towards the door that Greyorn was entering licking his lips and paws.

“There were plenty of hares, lads,” He laughed, attempting a dwarfish accent and failing miserably. “But I do wish you had deer here. I’ll have to wait until Garaduin, I expect.”

“You’re going to the forest?” Zander gasped. Jakube didn’t look at him, but was quietly surprised. Garaduin forest was the largest forest in Malestria, almost cutting the country in half. It separated Moreodun and Reda from the Surrounding Cities. You had to travel through the forest for a full five days to reach the other side if you were traveling all day without breaks to rest. Almost no travelers or traders came from the other side of the forest, for it was a very dangerous, wild place. A dangerous, wild place that the wolf would be leading them to.

“Of course!” The wolf exclaimed, answering Zander, sounding surprised himself. “Veradagon lives in the heart of Garaduin! He-”

Zander interrupted. “Jakube has something to tell you.”

Greyorn looked slightly offended for a moment, then, realizing what the words meant, turned eagerly to Jakube, who finally turned to look at the wolf. Greyorn’s eyes were searching and trying to mask hidden hope.

“I’ll do it.” Jakube said. Greyorn smiled as if he was happy, but not surprised.

“Well then.” He said after a moment. “You’d better go pack.”

Jakube left the room immediately, heading for his bedroom. He couldn’t let them see him as his face changed from a set determination to a terrified expression. He felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding wrench his stomach. He couldn’t help but feel he had agreed to his own doom.

***

Jakube stared behind him at his house, his quaint little house fading into the distance that, he couldn’t help but think he might never see again. The house was impressive, although small, as Jakube had taken meticulous care of it. It was his only link to his parents left, and he would honor them by keeping that link exactly as his mother would have wanted it. Homey, warm, but above all, clean. Now with difficulty he watched the house he had spent so much time on, that had become his pride and joy, disappear from his life and he had to fight the urge to turn his horse around.

It had been easier for him to leave than for Zander though. His friend had spent over an hour writing a goodbye note to his parents, two younger sisters, and his five-year-old younger brother. He was very vague in the letter, saying only that he had received a job out past Garaduin Forest and, luck had it, he would return someday. As he wrote the next sentence, Jakube saw a tear fall from his eyes to the paper. But luck will mostly likely not have it, and I will likely never see you again.

Jakube put a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he wrote his goodbyes, finishing with a simple “Farewell, Zander.” A few stray tears fell from his face as Zander went to hide it under his mother’s pillow where she would find it in the morning when she was making her bed. As he walked away though, Zander held his head high, unashamed, a set determination on his face, and Jakube felt something deep within him, like love, for his friend. Jakube hoped his face showed it as they departed, but he couldn’t help but think it probably looked frightened and unsure, for that was how he felt.

Now as he looked back for one last glimpse of his house, he thought that perhaps he felt a little of what Zander had. In that house were all the possessions of his parents. He felt tied to the house, as if it were the final strand connecting him and his parents, and that strand had been ruthlessly torn apart.

***

The road was dark before them, but they knew it too well to stumble. When they got to unfamiliar places, all of their hope would ride on Greyorn to guide them. They had left in the dead of the night to go undetected and so far they had. There were no guards at the gates of Haariba. There were no foes to keep out…yet.

Jakube stared at Greyorn’s lumbering shape ahead of him. The wolf had insisted on not riding a horse, and Jakube couldn’t help but agree with him. There was no one in town with a horse big enough to serve the werewolf.

Jakube, however, had taken his trusty horse, who was strong, quick, and reliable. His name was Jerethal, and it had been Jakube’s horse since he was a young boy. The horse was old, but not in the least bit slower than he had been in his youth. Jakube was glad of the horse’s senses, as he could hardly see Greyorn’s broad back just ahead of him. The horse used its smell and hearing to follow the wolf, even though he made hardly any noise as he padded across the soft ground.

The ground was irregularly soft, soft and muddy. The horses’ hooves stuck in it with every step, and came up with a disturbing sucking sound. They had to be nearing a bog or stream, but Jakube didn’t remember one here and thought it odd.

“Zander,” He called softly. “Do you remember a stream or a bog here?”

He turned in the saddle to hear his answer. Zander looked at him strangely.

“Jakube.” He said slowly. “We’ve never been here before.”

“What?” Jakube exclaimed. “But we haven’t even passed the farmlands yet!”

Zander shook his head. “Jakube, we passed those over an hour ago.”

Jakube felt a sudden wave of sadness and loneliness flush over him, cold as the river water at night. Deep in thought, he had been oblivious to his surroundings, and now he had missed his opportunity. He had left. He was probably never going back, and he hadn’t even seen the farmlands he had so often visited, so often worked, talking with the farmers about anything and everything, and often getting a free meal from their wives. He liked the farmlands because no one there knew about his parents. They didn’t see the little orphan boy, they just saw the curious, mysterious boy that came to their farms randomly to talk, learn, and worked as hard as their adult farm hands. They didn’t know that he liked the work. It took his mind off of things that all too often sat heavier upon his shoulders than the hay bales and scythe.

The farm wives adored him and he considered many of them to be his second mothers. Secretly he had hoped to be able to see one of them, for some reason doing something outside in the night, perhaps delivering a new calf, and he could perhaps say a quick goodbye. But that chance was gone.

He sighed, trying not to betray his disappointment. He couldn’t change it now, so there was no point in moping. It was lesson Jakube had learned many times over the years.

“Jakube?” Zander spurred Fergath forward. He peered into his friend’s eyes, which were downcast at the ground. He reached across and laid a hand on his shoulder. Jalube looked up at him and Zander offered a small smile. “It’ll be okay.”

Jakube nodded, smiling back slightly before turning away. He couldn’t tell Zander what he felt. That he missed his parents. That leaving Haariba felt like he was losing them again. Like he was abandoning them. He looked back at Zander wordlessly, but his friend nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. Jakube had forgotten in a moment of blind selfishness that Zander had left his family too, and would could never see them again. Jakube opened his mouth to speak, but Zander smiled at him and he didn’t quite know what to say to him.

Zander said no more, but did not move Fergath from Jerethal’s side. The pony was strangely calm, as if it had grown used to Greyorn. That was comforting. We couldn’t have him frightened and skirmish this whole trip, Jakube thought.

The night passed quickly as the horse’s trodded on. Jakube found himself nodding as his eyelids grew heavier. To keep himself awake he tried to talk to Zander, but for once his friend didn’t speak much. He was watching Zander, trying to read his oddly brooding face unbeknownst to his friend when Jerethal stopped abruptly, nearly throwing his startled rider to the ground. Jakube jerked his head up to see Greyorn standing ahead of them, one hand raised, silently signaling for them to halt.

The werewolf was standing on an outcropping of rock, which dropped swiftly into a steep and treacherous cliff. Jakube rose in his stirrups to peer over the werewolf’s head and gaze into the valley below. The meadow grass was covered in tendrils of fog, twisting and parting enough to reveal a massive plain that stretched farther than vision, rolling in low slopes into the distance.

Greyorn spoke softly, almost reverently. “Here it is, boys. The Valley of Pelgun.”

***

Getting into the valley was not a simple task. Greyorn made the boys a small camp and tied the horses to a nearby tree.

“I’m going to scout ahead. There are several ways into the valley, but your horses will only be able to travel a few.”

“Why not go down the way you came up, Greyorn?” Zander asked.

“Zander, when I came up, I had a strong rope and no horses. I climbed out, and I am sure Jerethal and Fergath would not appreciate our leaving them here.” He smiled at the boy, who was watching him with a sort of reverent awe.

“Oh.” Was his only response. Jakube smiled.

Jakube and Zander settled on the ground after gathering kindling to feed the fire, feeling somewhat guilty. There were few trees in sight near the valley’s mouth, the only others near them being a scraggly oak and an old pine that rose crooked and old into the sky like a tired old farmer that has worked too long.

“What should we eat while we wait for the food?” Zander asked happily, opening his knapsack to reveal an assortment of treats stuffed in with the supplies.

Jakube laughed, “I’m not hungry yet. Just an apple.”

Zander nodded and tossed one to him. Jakube laid back on the grass munching it as Zander pulled off a stick from the pine. He began roasting a hare’s heart over the fire, talking all the while, telling Jakube tales he had heard a thousand times, but Jakube loved them anyway. He loved them because, more than anything else, they were Zander. Even though he knew half of them were not true or, if they were, were very much stretched, they were familiar and welcome. The way Zander’s voice grew when it came to a part he deemed exciting, how it became loud and eager, and dropped to a whisper at a suspenseful moment. All of it simply reminded him of Zander, and a cold night with a warm fire and a cup of cocoa and the neighbor’s children, wide eyed and listening, leaning closer and nodding to everything Zander said.

It was often said that Zander was the best story-teller in all the Hills. He could make something as simple as going down to the stream to fetch some water for stew seem fraught with peril and excitement. Most parents of the Hills were angry with him for filling the children’s heads with nonsense and distracting them from their chores, but some of the elder fold and the children especially loved him for it.

Jakube stared at the stars and listened, his eyes drooping. He felt like a child again, bleary-eyed, listening to stories told by his friend even then.

“What are you doing?” a voice demanded behind them.

Jakube sat up quickly and turned in time to see Greyorn leap right over the top of him and land on all fours, running wolf-like towards Zander. Zander stared at the wolf for a moment, fear and uncertainty in his eyes, his mouth gaping open. He sat up quickly, scrambling to get out of the wolf’s path, but in the process he seemed to get right in Greyorn’s way. Greyorn growled at him warningly and Zander froze. Greyorn reached him, and ignored him as though he wasn’t in his way at all. His thick shoulder struck glanced Zander, throwing the boy to the ground as it brushed him.

Jakube leapt up but froze for a moment, not daring to move forward. The wolf completely ignored Zander, though, rushing forward towards the fire. He growled lowly, using his paws and snout to stamp out the fire in a matter of seconds. In an instant, Jakube was at Zander’s side.

“You fools!” Greyorn snarled, whirling on them. “Why-” He stopped short as he saw Zander on the ground, gasping and stammering, and Jakube kneeling beside him, trying to calm him down. The gleam of rage faded from his eyes in an instant and he became morose. He took a step forward, but Zander shuddered and he stopped.

“He clawed me, Jakube. Greyorn clawed me!” Zander gasped, still catching his breath. It seemed for a moment as if he wasn’t even aware of the wolf’s presence there. He was clutching his shoulder, where small droplets of blood were running one by one down his fingertips. Greyorn’s back claws had caught him as he fell, tearing open the skin on his shoulder.

Greyorn looked on with an odd sadness permeating the air around him. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to harm you. But you cannot build a fire here. There are many unfriendly eyes, Jakube, especially in the Valley of Pelgun.”

Jakube looked up at him and them blinked, eyes widening. Had he seen something move behind him, by the oak? Were his eyes toying with his mind?

Suddenly the horses reared up, kicking wildly and fighting their ropes. Greyorn whirled around, his nose testing the air.

“Draw your swords.” he said quietly, his tone urgent and frightening, “Stay close together.”

Jakube obeyed instantly, turning to Zander, who was still gripping his shoulder. Jakube turned slowly to stare at Greyorn, not certain for a moment who his enemy was. The werewolf was already halfway to the horses, creeping forward on all fours. The horses were screaming, bucking and kicking, trying desperately to escape from some unnameable foe.

Suddenly Jerethal screamed in pain and reared up, revealing behind him some creature, hunched over, claws dripping in horse’s blood.

“Jerethal!” Jakube shouted. He felt sickness in the pit of his stomach. His horse. In an instant he was running forward. “Oh no you don’t.” He muttered.

The wolf reached the creature long before Jakube did. The wolf bunched his legs beneath him, then sprang forward, hurdling Jerethal’s head in a freakish bound, landing on the creature. They went tumbling, the both snarling, the creature’s blood-stained teeth shining red in the moonlight. It was unlike anything Jakube had ever seen before, unlike anything he’d ever heard of. No…

“Warryats.” He said aloud, stopping short as the realization hit him. He remembered Greyorn’s description and shuddered. It fit it all right. It was about Jakube’s height hunched over, but as tall as Greyorn when it stood straight. Jakube watched in horror as the two monstrous creatures slashed at each other, fangs snapping, snarling and spitting loud enough to attract every being for miles.

Jerethal’s pained whinny brought him back to the present. He ran to his horse’s side as it collapsed to its knees, toppling over to its uninjured side. Jakube examined his shoulder quickly, talking to him in low tones to keep him calm. The warryat had struck his shoulder, leaving small but deep wounds in the beast. Jakube quickly searched inside his pack for something to five to the horse, trying to control the panic that was rising in his throat at all the blood that was running down Jerethal’s side, like Zander.

Zander…

Meanwhile, Greyorn and the warryat were still fighting, rolling about on the grass, slowly trampling a bloody trail through the meadow. The warryat lost balance for a moment and fell to his back. Greyorn was on him like lightning, one paw digging deep into his shoulder, keeping him down, the other striking him again and again, claws slashing at his face. It roared a loud, unearthly sound, between an eagle’s shriek and Greyorn’s deep snarl. Greyorn paused a moment and it spit into his eyes. The saliva bubbled around his pupils, burning like acid. The wolf swerved, giving a deep yelp. Jerking its head, the warryat dug its fangs into Greyorn’s hand. The werewolf released his hold, pulling his paw up to rub the saliva from his eyes. The warryat kicked him hard in the stomach and Greyorn fell, one hand slashing the warryat’s face as he did, leaving five long strips of red. The warryat roared in pain, reaching his hands to his mangled snout. Greyorn leapt up and knocked the warryat over again. The wolf ripped the monster’s dagger from its belt, raising it to his chest. He hesitated a moment, then thrust it down into the warryat’s bosom.

“Greyorn!” Jakube’s voice was a scream, terrified and urgent. “Greyorn! Zander’s gone!”  

Reviews

[Isemay]

I really love the names you're using in this world you're building!

I'm looking forward to finding out if Veradagon is alive or some sort of presence, why he didn't make preparations to ward off the Forbidden One, why he ran instead of striking back at Zeteratroth ... lots of questions I'm definitely going to keep reading to find out the answers to!

[Aarea]

Thank you! Unfortunately, I cannot review your writing in return because it is labeled as Mature. If you would like me to review one of your pieces, please message it to me and I will leave a review for you :)