Alpha Wolf's Calling (22 page)
“All battles are won before they even begin,” he had told them, pacing before a line of the youngest faces he had the responsibility of leading into battle, and the job of bringing them home alive.
And yet, here they were, three weeks later, those same strong men, beaten and broken by their latest battle. Even at this late stage, Zamir was still sure his army would be victorious. They just needed rest and a pep talk. He looked out over the field again, a black and barren sea of dirt, bordered by leafless trees, a brown deciduous ribbon of dead flora blocked any sudden exit either his men or the warrior might make. Make no mistake: this battle would end in much death, as once the two armies met head-on, there was no turning back.
“What should we do?” Rollus asked, looking up at him from the ground. Rollus, a slender blonde man with a thick mustache and piercing blue eyes, looked up to Zamir in more ways than one. He admired Zamir from the moment they had met when he and Zamir were just boys. A neighboring tribe, long at war with their tiny village over the year, massacred Rollus' family when he was just a kid. One day, when both were mere boys, after spending a day wrestling in a field, he and Zamir returned to Rollus' family hut to find his father and mother gutted with a battle ax. His baby brother was nowhere to be found, and after Rollus ran over to the next hut screaming with his the pain of life-long grief, Zamir studied the bloody scene with cold intellect. From that moment, he vowed to protect his friend no matter what, as he had witnessed the impact losing a family had on Rollus right alongside him. Zamir's family took Rollus in as if he was another son, always making sure he felt welcome. On family traditions, Zamir's father never forgot to put Rollus first before his other children, explaining to all of them that the God of Odin would smite anyone who mistreated the unfortunate. Zamir's father explained to his children that anyone could have suffered the fate Rollus had suffered.
“That's why we must treat him with utter respect. He has suffered in ways no child ever should have to, and because of that, he will be much wiser than many adults.” Zamir himself needed no explanation from his father about the importance of looking out for the underdog. That aspect of his personality was so fully engrained in his nature, Zamir never needed to learn those moral lessons. He was always on the lookout for signs that his dear friend was being mistreated. Zamir gave Rollus the first bites of his chicken dinner. Zamir gifted his favorite sword to Rollus the day Zamir's father took them to begin their military training at 12 years old. Zamir, even though the girls in the village worshiped him as Odin's gift to women, made sure they paid attention to Rollus, no matter what.
And despite this, Rollus' childhood trauma followed him through his teenage years, casting a gloomy shadow over even the most joyful eras of his life. When Rollus first made love to his girlfriend, he pulled away from her in bed, staring out through the snowy window. On his 18th birthday, when Zamir threw him a giant party in the mead hall, Rollus stole away as many moments to himself on the balcony, the rowdy friends on the floor below causing not near enough ruckus to distract him from his reverie. When Zamir got married to his wife, the love of his life, and invited Rollus to be his best man on the wedding day, he could see a glimmer of sadness lurking in Rollus' eyes. Indeed, Zamir was fully aware of this tinge of sadness which permeated his best friend's life. For this reason, he made sure to keep Rollus by his side no matter what, as much as possible. Rollus was Zamir's responsibility, as Zamir saw it.
He looked down at the blonde man whom he trusted with his life before perhaps even his wife. They both looked out over the dirty field, pondering their next move. Zamir gave a sigh. “We must press on. I say give them three days' rest. No more. We need to hit the Obotrites while they're down. My men may be tired. But I can guarantee our enemies are even more exhausted.”
“And what should we do about food?” Rollus asked.
“We have plenty of game left over from earlier this week, do we not?”
“Their weary of fighting, my Grace. Makes them hungry,” Rollus said.
Zamir hung his chin on his chest. “This may be, but their enemy will fight even harder next week, when they have rested and fed themselves with the game we fought so hard to preserve.” Zamir rubbed the tip of his square chin, breathing a slow, drawn out pocket of icy air. A foggy mist jetted out from his nostrils, like an angry bull, as he contemplated his next move. “We must take our enemy in three days' time. No less.”
“My Grace.”
“Don't question me, Rollus. They are exhausted, but I can bring them back from the brink. Just let me speak to them.”
Rollus dropped his head, frustrated, but ultimately willing to obey his commander and best friend, knowing full well Zamir had all of their best interests at heart. He was a good man. Rollus stepped forward to the crowd of several hundred wounded and near-dead young warriors. “My Legion! Our Supreme Commander has now very good news for you. In three days' time, our war will be over. You all will be able to return to your warm homes, faithful and doting children, and soft and moist women!” Several of the more energetic men managed to push out strained laughter. “They will all congratulate you on a job well done, in pursuit of protecting their way of life. This I promise you. Three days' time, and you will all be free from the restless pain and hunger of this battle, long predicated to have ended before now.”
“The enemy comes near!” a red-headed man shouted from the crowd, nursing a bloody head wound with white garments soaked in ice.
“Yes,” Rollus answered. “For the next three days you will enjoy unrestrained rest and recuperation!”
“And then?” another voice said, from somewhere within the crowd moans and groans.
“And then.we will fight the last battle of this war and be done for good!” Rollus put up his hands to the air, as if the news were giant basket of bread and wine for the men, which he intended to gift them for a job well done. The crowd didn't respond, though, and after a brief moment of awkward silence, Zamir walked his horse forward a little, in the direction of the crown of the mound. His men stared at him, their faces blank, their eyes staring past him, far into their tumultuous future in the next few days.
“My men!” he said, and the warriors locked eyes with him, loyal to him even in their extreme exhaustion. “I come to you today, to request the last ounce of trust you can muster on the behalf of me, your Commander. I see the fear in your eyes. I sense the deep exhaustion emanating from your souls. And I notice the pain in your cries at night, from the wounds I have inflicted on you.
“But today I tell you this. Your fighting will not have been in vain. Ask yourselves, how would your wives want to find you when this terrible war ends. What will your children, aunts, and uncles wish to see—your victorious visage walking back to their open arms, ready once more to resume your place as their great protector? Or would they rather see your ashen face, pale and lifeless, crushed under the murderous foot of an Obotrite? And what's more, what will our people's fate be, should we give up in this last hour?” He paused to let his words sink in. In the crowd, Zamir could see some of the men look down, believing their great leader could see the shame in their hearts for being too tired to go on, willing to give in. Others continued their locked gaze in his direction, hanging on his every word. “Tell me, my great warriors. What plans do these Obotrites have for your families? They will surely not bestow as much grace on your families as you show right now.” He could hear some of them get up, crushing their heels into the brittle snow and ice, ready for one last fight. “You have been so good to me, and should some of you fail in our duties to protect those we love and care for, our duties which we cannot escape as good men, I will one day meet you in the afterlife, where Odin himself welcomes you into his arms, holding you on his shoulders as a true hero, in the only place it matters.” They hooped and hollered. “Go with me now, do your duties as men with families and children, show these monsters what you're made of. Help me protect my village, my country, my tribe. Our tribe that we love so dearly!” He unsheathed his silver sword from his belt and held it up to the air. Nearly the entire tribe of men followed suit, holding up the ground down battle axes, chipped ball and chain flail, and the strongest daggers. Two younger men held up an older warrior with a giant gash in his side, which he had stuffed with dirt and ice to stop the bleeding. All of them chanted Zamir's name in rhythm, once again confident of his leadership and poise. Zamir's pulse sped up as he ran his eyes over the crowd of proud, hard-working warriors, backing him to the bitter end. He looked down at Rollus, who smiled despite himself, his heart swelling with courage and admiration for his best friend, the man who would in time become the Alpha Wolf, the strongest and bravest Dane to grace the presence of the Maglamoisan people.
CHAPTER 35
That night, as Zamir perused the perimeter of the camp, trotting next to the edge of the forest that bordered the barren field, he found himself overcome with the vague feeling someone or something deep within the forest was watching him. The night was quiet and the horse's hooves cracked the dried leaves as he continued watching over the camp. In the distance, he could hear faint laughter and general craziness his boys were making before going to bed. Then, the sound of a breaking twig caught his attention. He turned around to face the darkness of the woods.
“Who's there?” Silence.
Zamir, being a master hunter, could almost smell the scent of anyone who came near his camp. But this was different. He knew the Obotrites were far too tired to make it over to their camp, if they could even find his men. He waited for a moment, staring into the black void, as he sat atop his horse. But there was nothing. But something red and glimmering in the woods caught his eye, and he walked his horse forward just a little to get a better look, thinking perhaps his tired eyes were playing tricks on him, as they sometimes did. A single point of red light, first soft and fuzzy in his vision, then sparkling and bright, grew more intense as he continued walking forward into the black void. The light cast the trees in a silhouette radiating red around the contours of bark. Zamir found himself intoxicated by the light, drifting toward the light, anxious to find its source. But then something snapped him out of his hypnosis, as he heard commotion coming from his main camp. He looked back out of the forest, seeing he had ventured farther into the woods than he thought. A small point of yellow fire in the distance caught his attention, and he realized his men had started a bonfire. He kicked his horse into high gear, galloping at full speed out of the forest, but the edge of the forest continued to recede before him. His horse ran faster until he caught up.
When he got to the camp, his men were drinking mead and chanting into the night air. “Oh, there was a steamy lass, we really loved her ass, but when got sleepy, we couldn't fuck her weakly.” Zamir cut them off.
“What are you fools doing?” he said, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Do you know you're being watched? You have given our location away!”
“We were cold, Your Grace,” said a stubby bald man, a grin on his face that spoke defiance.
“You were cold, were you?” Zamir asked, stepping slowly in the man's direction. “Tell me your name, warrior.”
Now the bald man retreated, his drunken feet failing beneath him. “I'm sorry, My Lord. Please forgive me,” he said, dropping his goblet onto the floor, spilling all his mead in the dirt. He could not meet Zamir's gaze, as his general and mighty commander came closer to him, his massive frame dwarfing even the formidable height of the bald man.
“Maybe you'll continue to ask forgiveness when we offer you up to the barbarian horde only two miles away, when they arrive with their swords and knives and hungry guts. How far will forgiveness take you then, sir?”
“I—I don't know.”
Zamir whirled around to face the rest of his men. “Tell me. Who's responsible for this?” But he got no immediate answer. “I said, who's idea was this, to throw a party here in such a dangerous place? Speak now, or be the first on the battlefield to die!”
“Sir, it was your Rollus who accepted our proposal.”
“Rollus?” Zamir asked, as Rollus emerged from behind the crowd, having finished shaving his face. He wiped his hands on a dirty cloth, looking around the room. “We must needs speak of this in private, my Grace.” Zamir agreed and they retreated to Zamir's private tent. Inside was a humble bed, though full of cover and heat, compared to the outside air. One might expect a mighty General's tent to filled with a rich sack of treasure, say, or maybe ornate quilts and tapestries, or perhaps even a garish and plush resting area, big enough to bed multiple women while away on business from his spouse. But Zamir's tent was small, almost as small as the greenest soldier he had. On the left was his sleeping area, a small wooden mat rolled out onto the cloth canvas. On the right was a wooden table, atop which sat a box full of writings and scrolls, old military scripts from yesteryear, which his father had given him in preparation for his first battle. Since that time, Zamir's curiosity for war strategy had been sated by more scrolls, and he had pursued the answers to his questions through numerous interviews with various venerable warriors of his past, even going so far as to travel through neighboring villages, scores of miles away, in the hopes he could learn even more.
He removed his armor vest and sat it in the corner of the tent. “What were you thinking?” he said to Rollus, his tone more subdued now that he was speaking with someone whom he viewed as an equal.