Chapter 1--A Cry for Help

 

Fourteen Years Earlier

 

            In the dimension known as Trenniel the sun was at its peak, not that anyone could see it. 

An unnaturally thick fog cloaked the land, seeming to shroud everything, from the dark clouds in the sky above, to the moist earth below. 

It crawled over every surface as if infused with life, twining around tree trunks that actually shook at its touch. The leaves above even curled up, seeking refuge from its presence. 

The combination of the murky clouds above and the sinister fog below blocked out even the smallest rays of sun, so that the ground was covered in frozen dew—every blade of grass stiff or shriveled. The forests remained silent—aside from the occasional groan of a shaking tree—their inhabitants doing their best to hide from the malevolence that radiated from the haze. 

The blend of such strange occurrences gave each forest a distinct haunted look, so that all life around them kept away, moving instead to fields, where the fog thinned out.

            At the heart of Trenniel lay the Great Forest, and within it lay the same clearing, though now a large castle of bleach-white marble lay in place of the ruins of modern-day Trenniel—its tall, wooden front doors facing the southern path. 

Between the castle and the path, where the mossy hills would form years later, were about twelve ramshackle huts—four of which were clearly abandoned.

In the southernmost part of the field the earth was plowed and various crops could be seen growing there.

           

Between the huts, torches had been placed, and a large circle of torches had been positioned around the outer dwellings—each torch standing only three feet from two others on their right and left and one foot from the dwellings. 

Within this circle of dim light children ran around, screaming and playing games. Their mothers watched them warily and took care of household chores. 

Normally, the men would be out tending the crops and cattle, but today neither they nor the cattle were in their proper place.

            Where the forest met this large clearing on its western side, even more torches had been stuck in the ground, forming another ring and also making a path back to the huts. 

Within this ring a greater deal of activity was taking place, for this was where all of the men and cattle were. Some of the men stood back from the forests, placing large harnesses on the cattle, and then fastening the harnesses tight, careful not to touch their bearers. 

The cattle looked exactly the same as those in modern-day Trenniel, except that they lacked thick, mossy winter coats. 

Most of them stood seven feet tall. They bore tan hides marked with bright orange stripes, and their cloven hooves were covered in living moss—the same type that decorated of the winter coats of the modern-day cattle. 

Instead of two horns, both the males and females bore six—three lined up on top of either side—of varying sizes on their crowns, and large fangs curved down over their lower lips, each a foot long and 4 inches in diameter. The horns and fangs had been cut and dulled, but, as jumpy as they were today, the men took no chances. 

Some of the cattle grazed, tearing chunks of both earth and grass from the ground with their fangs and devouring it, but their eyes were wide, showing the whites as they constantly rolled to look around the clearing. 

They jumped when the harnesses were put on them, and got into violent fights with each other at the slightest provocation, yet never were they allowed to cease their task.

            The men who weren’t tending the cattle were occupied with the trees, looking as wary as the cattle behind them. 

One, a rather old, bulky man with graying hair and a thick beard and mustache, stood off to the side and barked orders. 

He had a large, hooked nose, with naturally flared nostrils—from which air always appeared to be puffing angrily. Only his lower lip could be seen beneath the mustache, and it always seemed to be sticking out as if he were pouting. 

His eyes were almost black, and they were small and hard; above them, his two graying, bushy eyebrows were always furrowed. 

He was dressed like the others, in overly patched, simple brown and orange clothing made from cattle hide. His feet, like the other men’s, were bare, since they could barely kill enough cattle for meat and hide clothing, let alone boots.

           

As he shouted his orders, the others obeyed quickly. 

 

They worked hard, sawing away at the trees, which groaned even louder than those the fog touched. 

A few men were stationary, stirring only to move the torches out of the way so that the cattle could drag whole trees back to the village, and then replacing them. 

Many of the people looked frightened, but they remained where they were, doing their jobs. This would probably be the only time they could cut down the trees; and their huts—made of stray branches and leaves the trees had shed, and molded together with dried mud—had little chance of lasting through the next big storm. 

They were only lucky that Trenniel hadn’t had a winter in decades.

 

A commotion suddenly broke out at the forest’s edge, where a tree had just fallen. 

One of the cattle barreled right past the old man, soon followed by two young men, and then a third, who stopped beside the man, breathless. 

His cheeks were slightly sunken with hunger, as were most of the villagers’, and both his blonde hair and clothes were messy. 

 

After a minute of gasping for air, he spoke.

 

“Joren, one of the harnesses is broken and two men are injured!”

 

The man called Joren turned to him and nodded slowly to show that he had heard. “What happened?”

 

The young man chewed on his lip for a moment, then, looking away, spoke hurriedly. 

 

“One of the trees fell just inside the forest. We had to bring one of the cattle in to drag it out, but as soon as it stepped into the forest it went berserk. It ran back this way, but some of the men couldn’t get out of the way soon enough.”

 

Joren frowned and interrupted, grumbling, “What’s the damage?”

 

“Well, it gored Elk when it went past, and it was still dragging the tree, which knocked Maern down and pinned his leg before the harness broke. We pulled him out, but he’s got a bad wound on his head and we think his leg is broken, sir.”

 

Joren’s eyes widened and he grabbed the young man by his shirt collar, shaking him. “Have you gone mad, boy?” he whispered harshly. “Don’ you dare call me sir again! The king would have us both beaten!” Finished, he let go of him, rubbing his beard in agitation as his eyes glanced nervously in the direction of the castle.

 

“I-I won’t, s- … Joren,” the boy mumbled, shaking slightly.

 

“Now,” Joren said, louder now. “Have Maern and Elk taken to the village ta’ get patched up, an’ tell Maern’s wife ta make sure he doesn’ try to work with that leg o’ his. I’ll take care o’ his crops once this blasted fog lifts.” He coughed a few times, and then continued. “Make sure the cattle is calmed an’ then have three men carry the harness pieces back to Lorm to be fixed. When all o’ that is done, tell the men that if anymore trees fall into the forest, leave ‘em. I don’ like to waste, but I don’ like the look o’ this fog either.”

 

“Maybe we should just stop and wait for the fog to lift?”

 

Joren shook his head. “No. The word is that big ol’ Ferdy in there trapped the she-wolf that’s been keepin’ us from choppin’ down the trees. I have a hunch that the fog won’ lift up ‘til she escapes.”

 

“Well, I’m glad he trapped that beast. She’s the reason so many starve or die from the weather.” The young man sneered in disgust.

 

“Boy,” Joren barked, clapping a hand down on the boy’s shoulder—a bit harder than necessary. “Listen here. All that wolf is doin’ is guardin’ her territory. She’s a lot better than ol’ Ferdy in my opinion. If he didn’ isolate us out here an’ demand so much o’ our crops, we would be fine. He has enough room for us in that big house o’ his. He’s just too stuck up to let us in. Don’ curse the wolf; curse the man who rules us.” His hard eyes softened a bit and he removed his hand from the boy’s shoulder. “Now, go. Do what I told ya.”

 

The boy nodded vigorously and ran off to give the men their orders.

 

 

 

            Joren spoke the truth. The so-called “king” hadn’t cared one bit for them since he’d first allowed them to settle within, what he considered, his domain. 

In fact, the only reason he had was because a king, of course, needed subjects. 

Each of the “subjects” feared the journey back to what had once been their homes, for the path was narrow between the two forests that enclosed their new domain, and they had already lost many to the terrors that guarded that path. Otherwise, they would have gone back the way they’d come long ago.

            There were those that lived now within his castle and they obeyed him, but they were of his own blood, and as such, were “nobles” by his standards. It would not be proper for them to tend the earth and livestock in order to “pay taxes.” That was what the villagers were for. 

Of course, every once in a while a relative would upset him, and soon afterward evidence would conveniently pop up, proving that they had falsely claimed his blood. Then, they were sent into exile with the rest of the villagers, forced to leave behind the life they’d become accustomed to. 

Of these, most met their death within their first year outside of the castle, unaccustomed as they were to the elements. Some even refused to work and ended up begging the others for food, but this was met with disgust, and they were soon driven into the forest. 

To meet what fate? No one knew.

           

Things had gone on in this fashion for years. Indoors, King Ferdinand lived in the lap of luxury, strutting about, while outdoors his people suffered. 

They were the ones who paid the price when Ferdinand ordered them to cut the trees from the surrounding forests themselves in order to build homes. They alone grieved the young men that were lost when Ferdinand commanded them to hunt down the she-wolf who prevented his attempts to alter the forest. 

Throughout the year he laid back, sneering out the window at them as they stood with bent backs, toiling with the hard soil that was all they had to work with. Once they harvested their crops, he took overwhelming proportions, never caring for those who suffered from starvation. 

Never once had he offered them a place in his castle. 

Tension had long ago grown, and it had been ready to burst for the past few months, but none dared try anything with Ferdinand’s guards around. 

They couldn’t even flee from the place for fear of the she-wolf that Ferdinand had woven so many tales about. 

Yes, within this small place there was enough resentment to fill all of Trenniel, resentment for Ferdinand and his mad tales of magical beasts, and resentment for the she-wolf herself, imagined or not. Who could be sure if the ravings of a mad king might actually be true?

 

            Indeed, the she-wolf was real, and evidence of it echoed through most of Ferdinand’s vast castle at that very moment. The dull thud and clang of a heavy object clashing with metal reverberated in every hall throughout half of the structure from ceiling to floor, though not so much as a faint echo reached those outdoors. From time to time a monstrous, snarling bark would accompany these sounds, sending chills through all who heard it. 

 

This had been going on for about half an hour; it had gotten so bad that most of the people in that area of the castle had moved out of range of the noise to complain to the king. He, of course, turned them away, threatening to toss them out of the castle if they bothered him again. 

For, you see, he had been in that part of the house for quite a while before he’d moved and was now sporting a terrible headache. On top of that, this whole magical creature business had already frustrated him to no end.

            He had never believed in magical beings, because, if he had, he would have to recognize beings more powerful than him, and he had never done that. 

So, when he had first witnessed the large she-wolf murdering some of the villagers outside of his mansion, it had rendered him partially mad, nearly ripping his mind in two. 

On the one hand, he still clung fiercely to the belief that no living being could possibly be more powerful than himself, while on the other, there was no way he could deny what he had seen with his own eyes: the quick, precise twist of two men’s heads between monstrous jaws, and the instant snap of their spines. She had even left them where they were instead of dragging them off to feast on; no one would have been able to stop her. 

No, there was no denying it, actions like that could only be executed by a creature with nearly as much intellect as a human; and, as such, that creature was no doubt one to be reckoned with. 

He had taken to his bed after that, breaking out in a fever, rambling on and on about the impossibilities of such creatures. Then, as he molded it to fit his little world, he mumbled about vast conspiracies formed by others wishing to overthrow him, where they called up a wolf demon from the depths of the earth and set it against him. 

However, even with these delusions, he became sure that he could defeat the so-called demon. Soon, his body was well again, but the same could not be said for his mind. 

A good deal of the villagers and even his relatives began to “go missing.” When asked, he merely sneered and whispered, “I allowed them to sit at my feet, and still, they plotted. Their fate brings a smile to my face.” And then a chuckle would come sliding out of his throat and his eyes would fall upon whoever had questioned him, forcing them to quail under his mad gaze and flee.

            Now that his one and only advisor, Toroku, had caught the beast, he was bent on destroying the she-wolf, and proving to his people that he wasn’t mad and the attempts of the weak and cowardly would never dethrone him. 

However, things weren’t going quite as he had planned. 

So far, he’d had them try poisons, arrows, swords, suffocation, disembowelment, even decapitation, and all in the first 24 hours after her capture, yet none of them worked. 

Each time, she would seem dead, with no heartbeat, no breathing, even her eyes rolled into the back of her head, she even bled. A resounding shriek emitted by the surrounding forest would follow, and then, in a literal blink of an eye she was whole again and staring at them with that knowing gaze. She’d even managed to kill the first of his guards to mistake her for dead.

            Afterwards, he’d gone to see this for himself. One by one they’d demonstrated each of their methods once more so that he could see with his own eyes what they had claimed. Finally, he had even tried himself, bashing her skull in with a large bone mace. 

Just as before, she seemed dead, and then followed that terrible shrieking that he had no doubt came from the forest. He blinked, and then she was standing whole before him, shackled but her tongue lolling still, as if she were laughing at him. 

He’d stormed off in a fury, nearly breaking his youngest guard’s arm when he threw the mace at him; he may have rounded out a good deal, but not all the strength of his youth had deserted him. 

How was he to know that mere force could never kill this creature, whose very body had been created to live indefinitely in order to protect the forest she lived in?

 

            The she-wolf knew of this, and the fact that she would go on living through the years until her forest no longer needed her did not bother her one bit. 

 

She had lost too much over the years to care. 

 

The forest was all she had and cared for now; she lived and breathed only for its survival, and she could not maintain its life from within this prison. That’s why she now fought so desperately against this one enemy that she could not defeat: a rather large iron cage. 

Oh, she was immortal, yes, but that did not mean that her strength was infinite. She had tried gnawing through the bars, but her fangs were by no means hard enough, so she had gnawed only until she could feel her nerves burning in pain. She had tried clawing her way out, but despite their sharpness, her claws could not penetrate the thick metal. She had even tried commanding the bars to bend and let her out, but, of course, such a man-made object would not obey her orders. 

So, now she was repeatedly slamming her considerable weight into those same bars, which were showing no sign of giving way in the near future. She had been going at this for hours now, and all she had managed to do was create an extensive ache in her forelegs and ribs and a rocking of the cage. Only her stubbornness and determination had kept her going at it for this long.

            However, the combined weight of all her repeated efforts weighed down on her, and exhaustion finally kicked in. Her shoulder connected with the bars once more before she slid slowly to the cage floor, her legs folding beneath her before she rolled over onto her left side. 

She closed her eyes and allowed her head to rest upon the cool metal that floored the cage. Her tongue slid out of her mouth as she panted heavily, but she quickly pulled it back and snapped her jaws shut once her tongue caught the metal’s unnatural taste. 

A low growl rose in her throat, but it was quickly silenced as she settled for breathing heavily through her nose, trying to ignore the strange, musty scent of the many abandoned books that also lay as prisoners in this deserted room.   

Her right ear twitched in agitation as the soundless cries of her forest reached her, and she began to speak within her mind, admitting what she would never say aloud.

 

I cannot protect the forest in here…and I cannot get out, she confessed silently to herself, I…I need help. Dear gods…if you still exist…please, help me save my forest.

Author's Note

Intro Ferdinand and Yuka. Keep an eye on Yuka, she's important.