Avarice Desperation Valley

The Wolf's Revenge

Captain Harris stood now before his dour Lord, the usually robust and much feared leader propped up in his sick bed. Lothar had made great effort and in spite of the painful difficulty he had attempted to partially dress for this audience, donning his finest velvet robe dyed the richest indigo hue. However. he still did not project a picture of commanding confidence and health to his contingent of stony faced Captains who surrounded him. His skin was ghostly pale, and sheened with sweat, and his usually powerful voice subdued. However he listened intently to Captain Harris, as he related the success of his dangerously risky mission to all assembled there. As did all the others ranged about him, Victor Krosse included, a vision of evil shrouded as always in his neat black suit.

"So you are convinced Harris that this savage will be fooled by this plan?" Lothar questioned, both edgy and skeptical, but with revenge paramount in his mind.
"I am Sir without a doubt. The man is no more than a desert scavenger, as are his men......"
Harris surprised, was cut off mid sentence by Lothar's powerful baritone at once reminding him of the folly of over confidence. "Still, did he not slaughter my knights? My best men!' Lothar shouted, the force of his voice surprising everyone. "We must not underestimate this man, he is a survivor, a man who has no rules!......" Lothar's passionate outburst sending his broken body into a fit of wracking coughing, and it was some minutes before he could resume.

"Very well then." Lothar said somewhat more quietly. The conversation still an obvious effort for him and what little strength he seemed to possess fast evaporating. Though his keen, unforgiving black eyes scanned all his men assembled, alighting on each in his turn to get his point across. "The plan shall proceed as we have already outlined, but understand this. I want this Bennett, and the other two, the ugly one with the tattoos, and the big blond one that is always with him, taken alive. They must be taken alive!"

Again Lothar collapsed in yet another bout of coughing and severe pain, quite unable to continue. Krosse taking over immediately to close the meeting.
"Yes Sir understood!” Captain Harris acknowledged before turning to his men. “Well, men you all know what to do, it’s best you get started. Evening will be upon us shortly, and remember Lord Lothar's wish that the rebels be taken alive is of paramount importance. Do not fail him."

The Captains' as they turned on their heels to depart, did not miss the chilling aspect of Krosse's look, and the hidden meaning of his Lord’s request. All here, the most powerful soldiery included greatly feared Lothar's second in command. Although the man was a surgeon of great skill, he had a penchant for other more sinister pass-times, specializing in the art of gathering information and torture. Lothar openly encouraged such activities, a man such as Victor Krosse had his uses, and provided him with a fearsome ally essential in this violent age to keep one's rule intact.

The men's echoing footfalls died away and the infirmary descended into near silence, only the faintest rumble of the massive diesel generator housed deep within the complex broke the quiet. Its steady droning rhythms pulsing through the metal walls like the heartbeat of some giant demon imprisoned within.

Lothar had by this time recomposed himself, willing his broken flesh to behave was no easy task he was finding, and he was becoming very frustrated with his slow recovery and a body that refused to obey. Lothar wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and ran his hand through his closely cropped still dark, but grey flecked hair, and looked up at Krosse who was standing by the bed, asking of him. "You will keep me informed of the proceedings, every step of the way, but what I wish, is to see the ambush first hand? I must, you understand?" It was more a plea than a request, and Lothar knew it. He also knew what Krosse's answer would be.

Krosse had seen this coming and quickly countered. "That is quite impossible my Lord you are too ill to be moved. Though I shall relay the events to you as they unfold above. Yes, my Lord I shall." Krosse assured him with one of his unnerving smiles. Lothar was not entirely pleased with his aide's refusal, but the usually dogged, incredibly stubborn man still felt too weak to argue the decision with a man as mentally agile as Krosse. So wisely Lothar moved on to other issues. "Good, once you have them in custody, you can let Renard go to look for my bride."

Krosse paused for a moment clearly weighing up the impact of his next statement, and deciding to proceed with it anyway. "Do you think releasing him is wise my Lord?"
"What can he seriously do Victor?" Lothar countered, annoyed at his wisdom being so openly questioned. He spat the words at Krosse annoyed now, who stood unflinching at the outburst. "He is as ineffective as his father, even if he attempts to trick us I have no doubt he will locate the girl first, she is his sister after all. It matters not if he does not wish to surrender her, he will have to, won't he? Once this is all over we will deal very differently with Stephan than we have in times past, I grow weary of his games."

Lothar plainly exhausted sunk down amongst his pillows, an unhealthy pallor tingeing his skin, sweat beading his furrowed brow, and his breathing labored.
"You really must rest my Lord if you are to recover. I keep reminding you, you are indeed lucky to be alive. Plenty of rest and medicine are what you need right now." Krosse stated, as he opened his shiny, gold trimmed, black leather brief case. Its interior brimming with vials, syringes, and an assortment of multi colored medicines. Krosse proceeded to sedate his irate Lord. Lothar offered no resistance relaxing back into his nest of pillows, as the drug took swift, and full effect in just moments. Even as Krosse left the room Lothar was still muttering orders, going over all he had previously said, before the drug finally took him into the depths of sleep.

*****

Bennett's force spent the best part of the darkness waiting, crouched in silence; concealed in the sparse cover of the grasses and boulders that littered the landscape around the fortress's towering gate. The more robust men amongst them, Bennett, Sven, Aran, and Gareth included, as well as quite a few of the others, electing to don chain mail this skirmish, as this battle would surely be fought at close quarters. A bloody and risky affair every man there understood, but one whose outcome offered the potential of a new way of life. A life that all longed for, comforts, stability, and somewhere lasting to call home after so long just subsisting day by day and season to season.

Stephan's forty or so men led by Renard's friend Dale formed the rear guard, and waited just beyond Bennett's force, some distance up the rocky slope above. In a position that afforded the larger group more substantial cover. They were in theory supposed to come in from behind, thus strengthening Bennett's advance, and with the help of Captain Harris' men from within, the battle should be over fairly swiftly, and losses minimized. However Dale had other ideas, and his men were ready to follow him.

Bennett lay on his stomach, shoulder to shoulder with Sven and Gareth, Aran close by as they had done on hundreds of occasions before. The faint light of the moon as it peered between the broken clouds glittering on their chain hauberks, sharp edged weapons, and Aran's array of glinting gold.

Thus they passed the ensuing hours until they heard the sounds of the changing watch sometime near midnight as the pale moon reached its zenith, the silvery crowning glory high in the clouds above. Being an experienced leader Bennett could feel his men's unusual nervous tension that permeated the dark around him, all realizing that so much hinged on this battle's outcome, and Bennett knew he was taking a big risk this night. Perhaps the risk of his life. Still he had weighed up all the facts before him, and after much consideration and debate all had concurred that this was the opportunity to strike. So here they were waiting like predators on the verges in the darkness, for their mighty prey to fall beneath their hungry, metal talons.


It seemed an endless nerve wracking wait, doubts surging forward in each man's mind as the night slowly passed into the small silent hours of dawn. The grating of the monstrous iron gate severing such thoughts, as swiftly as it severed the silence. At the sound Bennett and his core of followers broke from their cover, converging swiftly on the narrow opening, beckoning before him. As the brooding, black walls loomed high above and they passed beneath the great gate's portal, Bennett looked above reassuring himself that the flame cannon had indeed been dealt with and was out of commission. It appeared to him with that glance that it had, but what his keen eyes failed to see was the tiniest violet flicker of a pilot light, burning deep within its dark muzzle, the sleeping dragon ready to spring to life.

They were some thirty feet inside the gate before the animal senses in Bennett detected the closing of a trap, and he roared for his men to retreat. With his shouted words of warning the inner compound erupted in a sea of heavily armored, sword wielding men, and the dreaded cannon leapt to life, charring and scalding everything in is path, covering the now closing gate, and cutting off any real chance of retreat. Bennett cursed himself for his stupidity, battle anger now flowing fully in his blood, though he had little time to dwell on his mistake and its associated costs, as Lothar's men converged from all directions to surround his warriors, and the hot breath of the cannon seared his back.

A number of Bennett's men had managed to escape through the curtain of flame blocking the gate before it slammed shut with an ominous thud, though many of them were badly burned in the attempt. The remainder of the warriors formed a protective circle, and back to back they faced the surge of attackers who surrounded them fighting a sea of savage steel.

The ensuing fight was fierce, and one by one Bennett watched his remaining men go down, men who had fought bravely by his side and cheated death many times before, in a sea of bloody gore. As the bodies of both friend and foe began to pile about them hindering their movements, all knew they had greatly underestimated their foe. Only the wise decision to wear chain mail gave them the advantage to continue, yet still more soldiers came on, their numbers seemed to have no end, and the ground beneath their feet was treacherously now slick with blood.

Bennett was desperate for a way out, and there was only one he could see, he had to reach the flame cannon, and that meant gaining the wall. Both Sven and Gareth after many long years of fighting at their leader's side did not question Bennett's motive as he abruptly broke ranks they followed guarding his back. Bennett felling two surprised men before him with his machetes as he worked his way through the press of enemy to gain the flight of access stairs.

Krosse watched the ensuing bloodbath in the compound from the safety of a distant, high tower. Lit by the dim, overlapping pools of halogen electric light, and with him leaning on the metal railings sighting in his rifle, equipped with a laser sight, the best marksman Lothar employed. The battle had been far more costly than Krosse had anticipated, even a callous, calculating soul such as he was quite taken aback by the prowess and ferocity of the giant rebel leader and his core of savage followers. No, he had not expected this at all, and he cursed Lothar's order to take them alive, yet reveled in the idea that they would be his to torture within a short space of time, and he was keen to see how quickly he could break them, as he hadn't had such a challenge in a very long time.

The losses and injuries on their side were already unacceptably high, and Krosse was eager to finish this and quickly. He ordered the man to fire as soon as he had a clear aim, a difficult assignment to find a target amongst the press of desperately striving bodies, as the last of Bennett's men attempted to gain the stairway to the battlements above.

Bennett's remaining men now numbered only three, Sven, Gareth, and Aran. Aran was badly wounded, his strength foundering, and could barely wield his sword as the group finally made the stairs. Lothar's soldiers in hot pursuit pressing them all the way. Sven glanced at his brother, risking injury with his break in concentration, all the while beating off the wall of blades, he could see Aran was faring badly. The wound in his brother's sword arm was sizable and very deep, cleaving his upper arm to the bone, and with it he had lost a great deal of blood. Aran's usually sparkling green eyes held the glaze of a dead man walking. Seeing this Sven pushed Aran protectively behind Gareth and himself, the two formidable men working in concert to block the rush of oncoming men.

The harried group gained the top of the battlement, Bennett with his massive weight and strength pushing ahead, bodily throwing any who came at him from the walkway, in his relentless pursuit to gain control of the cannon. Gareth with his formidable crimson, dripping axe, was managing to make some serious inroads against the press of men who still came at them from the rear, when he felt the sting of the tranquilizer dart in his leg. He tore it from his thigh and hurled it away, but the anesthetic was already coursing through his veins. He made a futile effort to warn the others over the din of steel on steel, but the drug worked swiftly and he was unconscious in the space of a heartbeat, long before he could feel the hands dragging him down.

More soldiers flooded on to the walkways, coming now from all directions, faster than Bennett could deal with any individual attacker, and Bennett realizing that in all probability the cannon was too well defended for them to take, ordered his men to jump from the wall, and get to safety. He had seen Gareth go down in the surging press of men, and was torn between the desire to rescue such a good man against overwhelming odds, or to flee and fight another day. Seeing the indestructible, and unstoppable Gareth fall unnerved Bennett who wrongly assumed his companion dead, and decided that escape would be his only viable option.

Bennett had also begun to register something else which bothered him, it was obvious that these men had been ordered to take him very much alive. He had tested the validity of his notion, deliberately lowering his guard, he should have been dead, yet the soldier held back. Bennett knew then with a warrior's instinct he was right, and was in no mood to be captured alive, he would escape or die. Sven had started to work this out as well, as he shot Bennett a knowing look above the carnage. Aran sheltered behind them, staggering, weak with loss of blood, supported between both huge men, the fight for him well and truly over.

The two men sent Aran over first, he barely made the top of the wall such was his weakness by this stage. The fall was a good twenty feet down the other side, and Aran hit the ground hard, reflexively rolling to minimize the damage and somehow still finding the energy to get himself quickly away, only seconds before the cannon's scalding breath blackened the ground where he fell. Aran did not pause and made great haste, stumbling for the cover of the rocky outcrop some distance from the wall.

With Aran safely away, Sven was the next to feel the sting of the marksman's perfect aim, as he and Bennett turned to follow, hacking and slashing at the closing wall of armor and men one more time, to clear their path to escape. In the desperation of battle Sven had not even realized his fate, suddenly feeling weak and falling forward into the enemy line.

Bennett was now on his own, back pressed to the cold steel battlement, his best men gone, his dream decimated, and nothing left to lose. He was prepared to die this night, here in this place, he would not let them take him alive. He would not play their games, Lothar would not triumph. His raw fury lent his machete blades extra edge, and he fought like one possessed, his countenance soaked in other's blood, blue eyes wild, teeth bared in an animal snarl. His savage primal fury claimed two more men before the tranquilizer hit, and he stared at it dumbly realizing now they had him after all, then he crumpled on to the hard iron walkway.

Nathan had spent the night huddled in the blanket Bennett had left him, violently shivering, ever pulling his shabby, over sized clothing tighter around his emaciated frame, wishing he could be warm. He was so thin he was perpetually cold, and longed for nothing more than to be nestled warm and protected next to his Master, as he had every night for as long as he cared to remember.

The memories and sensations of his old life were fading now. His grandmother's face difficult to recall, and the things she had taught him that were supposed to be right and good, had become equally confused with things that somehow seemed wrong, but he did them anyway as it was his Master's wish. Even the sound of his own voice he could not remember, yet Nathan could not find it in himself to hate the man who had taken it from him, instead he cried in anguish like the child he still was, craving Bennett to return.

From his lofty vantage point Nathan had a clear view of the events unfolding below, and what he saw frightened him. Sounds of the battle carried up to him on the faint breeze, he heard the screams of the dying and the maimed, he saw Bennett's warriors flee. He watched Stephan's army make their hasty retreat without ever drawing their weapons, taking all the horses with them, and heading back toward their homes.

He witnessed the orange swathe of death of the cannon's fiery power as it cut the fleeing men down. Nathan's most dread fear had already come to fruition, he was the casualty of a crushing defeat, forfeit to the Wolf Lord's mercy, if the man was capable of showing any to him at all. Tears blurred his vision and streamed down his pale cheeks, and he clawed at himself raising bleeding furrows on his skin in his panic and his grief, mouthing his silent screams to the moon and the clouds above. Realizing through the mists of his terror that he had been abandoned to his fate by the one who would protect him, Wezley Bennett.


Vague sounds drifted to Renard's ears from somewhere above, the faint clash of steel, shouts and cries of the injured and dying, and he wished he had a better idea of what was happening outside. He prayed that both sides had decimated the other and that Bennett was at last dead, and that as Lothar had promised he would be free to go shortly. His beloved sister was running out of time. The sounds finally died away from above, and a short time later Krosse and another man Renard did not know appeared in the doorway. Krosse without formalities announcing. "You are free to go Lord Renard, this man will escort you to the stables where you will find your horse, weapons, and supplies. Lord Lothar wishes that you find his bride as soon as possible. Go now and quickly."

Renard's mind was brimming with questions, but he had no desire to match wits with Krosse again, he would learn all he needed to in time. Swiftly he left the room glad to be at last away, brushing Krosse inadvertently in the doorway, and as he did so meeting his eyes, and Renard recoiled at the monster he saw there and hurried on his way.


A pale, cold dawn showed on the horizon, serene and calm giving no indication of the viciousness of the previous night's carnage. Will this morning was counting himself the luckiest man alive, escaping from the battle completely unscathed. He had been detailed to take the rear position, and as a consequence was amongst the first to gain the gate before it closed, trapping half the war party in the compound.

Wisely he had sheltered in the lee of the wall and had been completely missed by the cannon, as many of his comrades in arms had not been. He had noticed the swift departure of Stephan's men, realizing then that they had been betrayed. Will had witnessed and participated in many conflicts over the years with this band, but nothing had prepared him for last night's battle, and the ensuing crushing defeat. He shook his head to clear the chaotic images from his mind, his straight, dusty brown hair hanging in his eyes, and he pushed it back from his face for the one-hundredth time. His first priority, he must focus on, was he had to get home, and even that seemed unduly complicated.

He gazed at the fitfully sleeping Aran beside him, his long golden hair matted with dried crimson, his remaining clothes stiff with clotted blood, rent in many places, and his skin an unhealthy shade of ashen gray. Will had rescued Aran, he had seen him make his escape over the wall, narrowly missed by the cannon and make the cover of stony hills beyond. There Aran had collapsed and could go no further, and when Will found him he had kept telling him over and over that they had to wait for the others as they were with him and coming over the wall.

However they never appeared. Will had waited as long as he dared amongst the cover of the jagged stones, long after the sounds of the skirmish faded. Both men were still very visible and too close to the fort for comfort. He knew the enemy would most likely send out a party to finish off any stragglers come dawn, and they must be well away by then. In his estimation that time was still a good two hours distant so he let Aran rest as long as he dared, removing the weight of his heavy chain mail, and utilizing strips of Aran's torn shirt to tightly bandage the gaping wound. Will knew though that the wound was serious and needed expert care, care he could not give under these circumstances.

In the final hour before sun up, Will had coaxed Aran to his unsteady feet; the short rest seeming to lend the injured man new strength to continue, as did the desperation of their plight. In spite of this Aran was heavy, and the deserting army had been sure to take all the horses with them Will cursed. Aran was a solid man and the armorer wondered dismally just how he was going to get them both to safety. With these thoughts he immediately decided to head north toward home. He knew the route well, and the places where they might rest, hunt and find good water, he also was well aware that the journey would take far longer than the usual four days for a fit man.

So now they were here, hidden in the rocks some two miles distant, and still too close to the fort for comfort, already Aran could go no further and they were forced to go to ground. With troubled thoughts Will watched the sun slowly climb above the horizon, as he fingered the sharp blade of his elegant double edged sword, and wondered just what he should do.


Captain Harris's detachment of men were assigned with the task of clean up, and with the first light they left the fort to thoroughly scour the area, eliminate any survivors, to bury the dead, and scout the enemy campsite, collecting anything of value left behind. They proceeded to the hilltop first, and the only enemy sighted were long dead, charred beyond all recognition just feet from the gate. They found three others hidden amongst the rocks, these unfortunate souls perishing from the toll of their massive injuries and burns some time before dawn. They proceeded to the campsite, finding nothing of value, piling up the remaining items with the intention of setting them alight.

Nathan had cried himself to sleep, huddling beneath the blanket, and Captain Harris checked himself as he bent to pick up the item, hurriedly drawing his steel as the boy, terrified, shot up from beneath it narrowly missing being impaled on the sharp blade. The chain around his neck cruelly bringing Nathan's panicked flight to a sudden standstill, as his unreasoning fear bid him to escape.

Harris was not a man totally without compassion, he had two young sons and a baby daughter of his own, and he was sensitive to the boy's plight. One glance plainly told him of this poor lad's suffering, he could see that he was starving and had been badly maltreated. So he spoke to him in soothing, calming, words ordering his soldiers to stand back and appear less threatening as he tried to approach. "It's all right I won't hurt you. Settle down lad, were here to set you free." He coaxed in the gentlest tone he could muster. Harris was close now, Nathan his breathing rapid at the end of his length of chain glaring at the soldier not seeming at all to comprehend the words of comfort, or answer with any kind of response to suggest he had understood.

The soldier laid his hand on Nathan's shoulder to reassure him further, the lad stared at him in horror and in one swift, unexpected movement bit deeply into Harris's arm, drawing blood and bringing pain. The soldier snatched his hand away, as he struck Nathan with the flat of his drawn sword on the side of his face, stunning him and cowering him to the earth. Reverting to the language the boy, who was obviously a slave could understand. Harris was plainly shocked at the lad's irrational behavior, and he had lost his patience, quickly and easily overpowering the boy, tying his hands and feet before releasing him from the chain.

The men then set the collected pile of unwanted campsite items alight, the flames burning hungrily, the smoke thick and black, rising high into the vast blue sky above. The soldiers taking the few items of value they had plundered and Nathan was unceremoniously hefted on to Harris's shoulder and taken back to the fort, and whatever fate awaited him there.

*****

Carlos stared vacantly through the bars of his prison, it was morning now and the day was bright, still, and clear. It had been a mostly sleepless night in this uncomfortable place, and cold besides. Fortunately within his reach was an old grey woolen blanket, and although it smelt bad, was somewhat torn, and stiff with filth Carlos was grateful for its warmth.

This beautiful autumnal day he felt nothing but despair and emptiness. His mind wandering to nowhere in particular, as he studied in minute detail the view of the rocks and scrub just beyond the cage, a habit acquired as a by product of his frequent bouts of imprisonment, and the boredom it generated. Reluctantly he roused himself from his introverted stupor, his back ached, and he peered closely at his wounded foot. It was not a cheerful sight to behold. The wound was throbbing, and somewhat swollen, now hot and painful to touch, and Carlos could feel its aching poison beginning to travel up into his leg. Although the day was warming rapidly he was starting to feel the first signs of a feverish shiver and a dire thirst.

The flies were bothersome too, constantly alighting on the wound and he threw the dirty blanket over it, just hoping it would go away. Experience telling him it would get worse yet before it got any better. He spent the majority of the morning in this fashion, watching the goings on within the camp. He caught a glimpse of Raissa now heavily pregnant, but she did not acknowledge him, nor did anyone else for that matter. He sat there morbid thoughts crowding in on all sides, his head in his hands, numb with