The Whist Wolf

[Chiangtao]

The tundra of Vaasa is a cold place for cold people. In some parts, one can see for miles without laying eyes on another living thing. Snow dunes form tall as trees, but that is often hard to gauge, for the northern areas have no trees. The south is slightly warmer. Here, the trees grow tall and thick, but underbrush is scarce. Temperatures rarely reach above freezing, yet somehow, life finds a way to sprout in even the harshest of climates.

Adventurers and prospectors of all manners venture into the snow wastes of Vaasa. Treasures and opportunity are aplenty in a land with no rule or law. Some tell tales of salmon snow, great drifts covering bloodstone-laden hillsides. Ironwood grows in the southern regions for those brave enough to challenge the ice dryads. Magical beasts roam the tundra: great wyrms who?s scales sell for the highest of prices. For those willing to put their lives at risk, there is ample reward and great opportunity in Vaasa.

To the south, a sprawling city of tents has sprouted like mushrooms on the dankest forest floor. Dubbed the Fugue Plane, prospectors, mercenaries and adventurers use this as a base of operations to Vaasa in the north. The only law in the tent city is blade, blood and bone. Bands of ruffians seize power through sheer number and ruthlessness, both rising and falling upon their own selfish ambitions. Those of honor and pride are quickly snuffed out: there is no room for good men among rabble. Truthfully, the men who prosper most in the Fugue are those who keep to their own. They make few friends and rarely tip their hand. The fewer backs they need to watch, the better. Here, ambition and honor are not virtues: they are death knells. Those without the basest of survival instincts do not last long in the Fugue.

It is from this sprawling border town that Angus McDurk made his fortune. He was a smart, tough man, quiet spoken yet forceful. Every year, he would leave his family behind, traveling only with his eldest son to the Fugue. They brought few possessions and set camp with only the basic necessities. Angus planned only to stay in the Fugue as long as was needed to meet a few well-intentioned hunters and gather the latest news from Vaasa. Some years, they were able to make it north without having to even pitch a tent in the Fugue. Other years, weeks would pass before they were truly prepared. He never spoke more than he had to. The only thing he brought of any value on his hunt, in his mind, was his son, Vurk.

Angus may have been quiet, but he was a jolly man. His brand of humor was easy to like, never harming others and often self-deprecating. He was quick to make friends, yet smartly, never stepped up as a leader. Angus was any man?s everyman.

The one exception to this was his son, the unfortunately-named Vurk McDurk. Angus was stoic to Vurk, short and harsh with words. His son meant everything to him, but Angus would not coddle his boy. He would teach Vurk the way of Vaasa: to hunt the dire bears and white great elk, to fade into the background of a tussle, and to run when necessary. ?You and yours,? were all that mattered.

These lessons were told every year through stories of a wolf pack. Angus would make up tales on the spot, relating hunting, trickery, family, survival, and even sex to the wolves of the north. The wolf stories were Vurk?s favorites: they were the rare moments his father would show any warmth to his son. When Angus told the wolf stories, Vurk knew he cared. So Vurk took those lessons to heart, listening to every detail and looking for the greater wisdom behind the analogy. With these stories, Vurk grew into a capable hunter in his own right.

Once Vurk turned twelve, the two avoided the Fugue entirely. They no longer needed to recruit help. With just the two of them, they could keep all they took for their family and watch out for only each other. They no longer needed pay respect or politics at the campfires, weeding through toughs and gangs to find the few good souls they could trust. ?You and yours,? his father would say. ?You and I.?

Vurk had seen many wolves in his trips to the north, from great packs of greys to pairs of whites. They were a rare treat and a fleeting sight, for once they caught scent of the humans, they disappeared into the night. Sometimes Vurk saw the wolves by themselves, but he always knew there were more just beyond the hills. The wolves were always looking over their shoulders, making contact with something unseen. Invisible howls echoed through the trees, warnings to the pair of hunters that the pack was larger than what they saw. You could see anxiousness and concern in their eyes, a care for something beyond themselves, extending to their pack.?You and yours,? a sentiment shared by the graceful beasts.

And so Vurk, on his second trip alone with his father, was shocked to see a lone wolf. He knew this wolf was alone: it gave no nod to the woods, no sign of anxiousness, and no howl of warning. This beast sat silently, twenty yards deep in the thick of the forest, staring the pair of hunters down with a calm, intelligent gaze. It made no move to attack or retreat, but its eyes followed every move the hunters made. There was something daring in its demeanor, and something chilling.

Slowly, Vurk raised his crossbow. The wolf was small: a single bolt, placed well, would bring it down. But his father forcefully pushed the bow upwards before the shot could come. Vurk shouldered his bow and stared at his father quizzically.

?It is a whist wolf,? spoke Angus, answering the question before Vurk had a chance to speak it. ?It is bad luck to kill one.? Angus spoke as if remembering something, reciting a story much older than he was.

?But Da,? said Vurk, ?it is just a wolf. Has it no pack??

?No,? replied Angus. ?The whist wolf is alone. He hunts for himself and no other. He does not howl because he has no kin to howl to. Curse be to the man who fells the prince of nothing.?

?But Da,? said Vurk, ?why is it alone??

Angus turned to his son appraisingly. Slowly, he raised his finger, touching Vurk on the chest. ?The whist wolf is born without something? here. It is not a whole spirit. It lacks.? Angus? finger touched Vurk where his heart would be.

?But Da,? said Vurk, ?what does it lack??

Angus?s rare moment of affection quickly turned to anger. His finger turned to fist, balling Vurk?s shirt up and lifting the boy onto his toes. ?You don?t kill the prince of nothing, do you hear?? Angus thrust the boy back, sending him into the snow.

Vurk was more confused than hurt. He looked from his father to the wolf, but it was too late: the prince was gone.

[Chiangtao]

Every summer, the air would warm just enough to make their hunt in Vaasa bearable. Vurk and Angus would once again head north into the icy wasteland, returning each time stronger, richer, and colder. The winds drove hard and strong, piercing the skin and penetrating their hearts.

Each fall, they would return south to thaw their chilly bones and warm their spirits with friends and family. But after that second trip alone with his father, Vurk could not shake the winter from his heart. He had prodded his father with questions about that whist wolf, pushing the issue every night at the campfire. His questioning would not relent until Angus took off his belt and beat him. Then, and only then, would Vurk quiet for the night.

The next day, it was back to business in the woods, hunting as though nothing the night before. The silent, muffling snow was the only witness to the accosting; the bruises and lashes on his back the only evidence. This snow whited-out everything, even memory and resentment. But it chilled it, freezing it deep down in the heart of a man where it built up like ice. The beatings weren?t bad, nor unwarranted: Vurk knew quite well what he was doing and what he would receive each and every night as he pestered his father with questions he would not, or could not, answer. But in the cold, desolate tundra, when your life seems fleeting and in peril every day from the faceless foe of winter, you have no one to resent but the man before you.

Eventually, Vurk outgrew his father, and the violence turned to icy silence. They were skilled in hunting and surviving the rough lands of Vaasa but incapable of melting the between them. The cold does strange things to men, and they became mute partners, sharing a bond of both love and hate.

And so it went for many years.

The year Vurk turned nineteen, he saw his second whist wolf. It was not the same wolf as before. This wolf was larger, older, and somehow colder. It sat on its haunches, partially covered by granite boulders. But its gaze was harsh and piercing.

This stare was even more uncomfortable to Vurk now. He had learned the laws of the wild, which generally dictated that, once a man was spotted, the spotter would hide or run. Not so with the whist wolf. It challenged Vurk with its eyes, offering no fear or respect.

A silent change unfolded in Vurk?s mind. This silence, this resentment, this disrespect? all these years, all from the whist wolf. And now it stared back at him in the form of the wolf itself. Why would his father not just tell him more of the whist wolf? Did he not know? Did the wolf know?

Vurk would know?he would take that knowledge from the hide of the whist wolf.

The anger and years of hate swelled up in Vurk, a storm of both fire and ice. His heart pounded like a drum. He raised his crossbow to his eyes, but there was no care in his shot. Hate had erased the careful aim?this shot was fired with fire and haste. The bolt struck the granite beside the wolf, ricocheting up and over the beast.

The whist wolf did not so much as blink.

Vurk?s anger grew. The beat in his ears thumped harder. He reloaded his bow. This shot would be more careful?I will have my vengeance for those years, thought Vurk.

He took aim. Thump, thump, went his heart, pumping frosty blood from his core. He would not pull this shot. Carefully, he began to squeeze the trigger.

A hand clasped the bow, pinning the bolt to the barrel. Angus held the crossbow in his grasp, preventing the shot. The father sent a backhand across Vurk?s face.

No words for this. Vurk had been told before about the whist wolf?nothing need be said again from Angus. But Vurk would not let the violence die this time. The frosty hate had him today, and if the wolf would not die, then his father would feel his wrath.

Still clasping the crossbow, Vurk swung his freehand at Angus. The blow took the father by surprise?Vurk had never raised fists to his father before. Enamel and bone cracked, the father?s jaw breaking. Vurk cocked back for a second blow, but Angus had recovered to deal a head butt. Vurk?s nose splattered like a bloody egg. And the silent partners went at it, tooth and nail, battling each other while the whist wolf watched.

*Twang!*

The men stopped. Angus had lost his grip on the crossbow. It had fired, sending a bolt deep into the father?s thigh.

Vurk separated himself from his father. He looked down at the man he hated so, the man who had taught him everything and given him nothing. But the shock of seeing him broken and bleeding seemed to calm Vurk. His reason had flushed the away the hate for now.

But still, the thumping in his ears persisted.

And grew?

And it was not his heart at all, but the sound of drums, echoing in the forest. The thumping was loud now, close. War drums from some tribe, likely half-orc raiders from Palishchuk. Voices made their way through the trees, low, gruff, and ill-boding.

Angus tried to stand. There was forgiveness in the eyes of the broken mentor. But there was also weakness and fear. He tried to limp over to Vurk, taking three slow steps before collapsing into the snow.

Angus looked up. Silently, he motioned for Vurk to come lend a hand.

The drums were loud now. Voices were distinguishable. There were shouts of alarm.

Vurk was lost. Panic overtook both his reason and hatred. Scouts must have spotted them.

He looked to the whist wolf, his tormentor and guide, but it was gone.

Vurk took the wolf?s advice and fled, leaving his father bleeding, silently, in the snow.

[Chiangtao]

Vurk fled west.

Vurk was frightened of being pursued by the raiders. But he was also frightened for his future. His mother and sisters still waited at home. Their supplies would hold through the fall if need-be, but what after that? Who would raise his siblings and protect them as only a father can? His family needed his support and his strength. He was also frightened of his inaction with his father coming to light. The man was bleeding profusely, his right thigh limp and broken. Vurk could never have made it out alive had he paused to help his father. The man was surely dead.

And yet… what if the raiders never found him? What if, somehow, his father hid and survived? The man was a cunning woodsman. What if Vurk’s father returned and recanted his cowardice? Vurk would never let that happen. He pushed the thought into the back of his mind, choosing instead to concentrate on the constructive ideas of how to help his family.

And so it went for two weeks. Vurk traveled at a hasted pace, treading through harsh, rime-crusted terrain until the daylight waned. His guilt and fear would not let him sleep, woodpeckers constantly hammering at his conscious; he doused them both in rum until their pecking subsided, giving him an hour or two of rest. But the fright and insomnia overwhelmed him, and he stopped to rest when his legs and spirit would no longer carry him.

He slept a lucid, haunting sleep. He swore he was visited by a man, but he made no move to help Vurk. There were animals and spirits, bears, sprites and whist wolves, all keeping watch over him. Several times he tried to wake but could not. Nearly two days passed before his body allowed him to wake.

Renewed and starving, he sought his meal. He found a deer trail and carefully tracked it through the woods for a mile or so. It wove through thick trees and scarce underbrush. Finally, a clearing opened before him, promising thick grass and plentiful deer.

To Vurk’s surprise, the deer had already been slain. Three men stood about the carcass, skinning and cutting it expertly.

Vurk’s hunger gave way to his caution. He shouldered his bow and approached the men, putting on the best smile he could muster.

[Chiangtao]

On a windless fall afternoon, Vurk returned to his family in the south. He rode an ox-driven cart overflowing with furs and salted meat. At his left side was a new battleaxe, the hilt studded with bloodstone. On his right sat a tall, pale woman with auburn hair.

As the cart rolled into the yard, his sisters came running out of the house. Overjoyed, the dashed around the cart, hoping and hooting, excited to see their brother again.

The mother came out seconds later, walking calmly. She paused to survey the cart. She knew something was wrong: her husband was missing. She stared at Vurk and his companion, unable to move.

Vurk dismounted and patted his sisters on their heads with a sad smile. He helped the woman down from the cart and, taking her hand, approached his mother slowly with a look of guilt and grim. Head hanging low, eyes unable to leave the stone walkway, he spoke.

?I?m sorry Ma,? said Vurk. ?He didna make it.?

The mother stood silently, making no move, giving no sign of hearing him. The sisters had stopped racing about the cart and approached the adults.

?Vurk? where?s Da?,? spoke the youngest sister.

Vurk cocked his head to the side and winced as though absorbing a blow to the temple. He had been through every circumstance in his head, yet he was not prepared for the reality of breaking the news to his family.

It was his mother who broke the awkward silence. ?Elle, Jess: start unloadin? th?cart. Meat in th?cellar; hides in the storage room. Your father won?t be returning.?

The sisters looked at each other, confused. Slowly, the elder sister began sniffling. She fought back sobs, realizing fully what her mother meant. But bravely, she kept her silence. Taking her younger sister?s hand, she walked back to the cart and went to work.

Vurk?s mother had become stone. The emotion was gone. All that remained was an icy cold visage. Did she guess the truth from the look on his face? Or was she still in shock? Her conversation shed no light on either possibility.

?And who is this?, ?spoke the mother, referring to the girl at Vurk?s side.

Vurk clasped the woman?s hand tightly. ?This is Norrie. Norrie? McDurk.? Vurk disliked beating around the bush, and this seemed the best way to tell his mother they were married.

?You?ll be wanting to get cleaned up then?? said his mother cooly to Norrie. Shyly, Norrie nodded. ?Inside with ya then,? said the mother. ?Reckon Vurk an? I should talk.?

Norrie nodded shyly. She was young, perhaps fifteen at best. Quietly she walked into the house, leaving Vurk alone with his mother.

The two waited until the others were out of earshot before they spoke. ?What happened?,? began his mother. She wouldn?t even speak Angus? name. There was a cold dishonesty in her voice. She didn?t speak her mind fully, holding back the questions she really wanted to ask. For that, Vurk was thankful.

?Orcs,? explained Vurk. It was a half-truth, but one he could afford. He was never a good liar, so telling half the story gave him a bit more confidence in his credibility. ?They fell on us while we were huntin? elk. They musta been after his axe. Ya know, th?one with th?gold hilt? Knocked him out and took him off, axe an? all. Ah? ah tried t?track them, but a heavy snow fell o?er night. Covered up their way, ah reckon.? He looked down, ashamed and avoiding eye contact with his mother.

She listened quietly as he told the story. She was a tough lady, used to going months without a sign from Angus. Her lips were two steely ropes pulled tight on her mouth, giving no hint of reaction.

?When ah lost him, ah didna know what t?do. So ah headed south agin,? said Vurk. ?That?s when ah ran into Norrie?s da?. Reckon they got a small village up north. They took me in, cleaned my wounds, and got me on my feet. Ah told them what happened, an? they helped me hunt all them vermin ya see thar.? He motioned behind him to the cart, offering a grim smile.

His mother moved only her eyes, looking to the cart. But she gave no hint of recognition, not even a nod in appreciation.

Vurk?s smile vanished quickly. ?They?re good folk, Ma,? he said.

Her stare returned to him, silent and icy. Did she believe him, or was this Vurk?s own guilt playing tricks with his mind?

His resolve strengthened; there was more he had to say. He narrowed his eyes and summoned his courage. ?Reckon we ought get packin?. We?re going north an? we gotta make it b?fore winter sets in.?

If his mother was shocked, she gave no hint. She didn?t even bat an eyelid.

Vurk was almost offended. This was a big statement. He had been born at this house. His mother had lived there for over twenty years. It was the only place his sisters had ever been. How could this not matter?

?They?re good people,? Vurk said, almost angrily. He knew she understood: he had brokered the marriage to buy his family safety in their clan. They were moving north to join Norrie?s family. He had done this to protect them, to provide for them. Yet his mother stood silent as ever. She folded her arms, but her expression didn?t budge. It was impossible to read her reaction.

Furious, Vurk broke the harshest news with as much bite as he could muster. ?Elle?s promised off. She?s old enough and it?s part of th?deal. Our family is thrown in with their lot now. Ya got no choice on it. Ah?m the man of th?house now, an? this is what?s best fer us!?

Vurk?s mother did not flinch. She didn?t shed a tear. She simply turned her back on him and walked into the house.

And she never spoke to him again.