The Look: Alpha Male, Feisty Female Romance (57 page)

“What are you?” Zamir asked. The wolf licked his lips before jumping full force onto Zamir, his powerful jaws aimed directly at Zamir's jugular. He fought the wolf off with all his might, screaming for the fight of his life, but the wolf was too strong. The harder Zamir fought, the stronger the black wolf seemed to get. He couldn't hold his violent snapping back for long, and before he realized what had happened, Zamir felt a powerful sting on his shoulder. He looked down at his shoulder to see a gaping wound, bleeding buckets as the seconds passed. He made on final push against the wolf, throwing him against the tree with all his strength, sending a searing hot jab through his exposed muscle tissue. He heard a small yelp from the wolf in the darkness, but once Zamir looked over at where the wolf had been, it was gone. Zamir blinked hard in his eyes for a second, trying to right his mind.

Screams reverberated through the forest, familiar voices of people he knew. His men. They were in trouble. Holding his shoulder, he ran back through the forest, blood trickling down his naked front, leaving small dabbles on the ground, bright red in contrast with the brown leaves. He ran as he heard the screams getting worse, now clearly intelligible.

“No! Fight the demon. Kill him. Joslyn help me!” Through the tree line he couldn't make out who exactly was shouting, as virtually every single one of his military warriors were attacking some bustling beast. The creature threw all them off like irritating ants, slamming them into the fire embers, against the wooden log tables, and into the dirty field. A shrill fighting voice rang out through the air, and Zamir doubled down his pace, trying to get there as quickly as possible, before all his men were killed. As soon as he got to the edge of the forest, he threw his massive arms down on the tree limbs in his way, breaking them in one fell swoop, ejecting his entire body into the air, out onto the airy black field. He looked to upper right, and saw the massacre taking place in his own camp. At least half of his warriors lay dead, splintered by the giant wolf which he himself had just fought off. The other half of his tribe continued to fight the creature, in the buff, their naked, hairy legs dangling from the massive beast's back, with nothing but the swords strewn piece meal through the whole camp. They had been woefully unprepared for what would find them tonight.

“Rollus!” he said, not having any idea where his friend was. The image of all the death and destruction before him devastated Zamir, but what's more, he was more devastated by the thought of his best friend in danger. He ran over to the carnage, glancing at the dead for no more than split second. The glint of silver caught his eye, and he turned to find one of his men holding up a sword in the air.

Zamir rushed over to him. “Joslyn,” he said, putting his hand on the man's chest wound, in an attempt to stop the blood flow. “What happened?”

“A--Ambush,” Joslyn said.

“Where is Rollus?”

“Can't breathe.” Joslyn put up his sword to Zamir, trying to tell him to fight the wolf. Screams came from behind Zamir, and he turned around to see the wolf tearing some meat from another warrior's back, gnawing and chewing him to pieces.

“You sonofabitch,” Zamir said, grabbing the sword from Joslyn's hand right as he expired from the bleeding. He pulled his own sword from its sheath, holding both in his hands. “You attacked my men, when they weren't ready. It's time I sent you back to the underworld, from where you came.” And with that, as the last few of his men continued their struggle to eliminate the beast from the camp, Zamir rushed behind them, holding his silver swords in a large X shape. “Die you supernatural creature!” he screamed right as he came down on the wolf, slicing through the back of its neck in one scissor-shaped swipe. Blood spewed everywhere, as the other men crept away from the scene as fast as they could. But the wolf's blood covered them as well. Zamir stood there, heaving great breaths from his body, his massive chest swelling and drooping in quick intervals. There was nothing but quiet in the camp, save the last dying weeps from the headless wolf lying at Zamir's feet. He looked around the camp, at the dead men missing limbs, at the crushed tents, at the dying coals from the fire, at the makeshift wooden barrel in which his warriors made mead for their last party, before battling the Obotrites. There would be no battle now. They had lost this one, and all other battles to come.

“Where's Rollus?” Zamir asked one man, who sat on his behind, looking up at Zamir from the dripping blood on his brow.

“H--he was last seen in that tent,” the man said, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of a blue tent, the main area where his men ate and congregated when they had free time outside their military duties. Zamir flew over to the blue tent, his heart pounding now, for no amount of danger could make his blood beat faster, but the fear that his best friend might not have survived the attack of the wolf made him feel the greatest fear he had ever known. He pushed back the cloth entrance to the main tent, revealing the most heartbreaking image he had witnessed since he walked into the massacre of Rollus' family many moons ago. Rollus himself, hung by his neck by a rope, swayed from the a tree limb. Rollus' lifeless body, creaking back and forth, haunted Zamir to the depths of his soul, and he cried out in pain. His friend was gone. Sobbing on the floor of the tent, his shoulders trembling, his pain bounced around the walls of the tent, out into the night, echoing through the forest for eternity.

Or so he thought.

Zamir continued crying for several minutes, and he could hear similar sounds from someone elsewhere in the camp. Initially thinking the noises were mere echoes, he soon realized they were actually coming from someone else. Zamir raised his head and walked out of the tent, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down his face from his fellow warriors. If the men did not believe their great leader cared for their well being by this point, they had bigger problems. The sounds of another man's sobs came from the area where Zamir himself slept in his humble hut. He turned his head just right to find the source, and sure enough, it was coming from his own sleeping area. He raced toward the tent, pulled back the curtain, and found a man in the darkness, asleep but crying out from his dreams. Rushing over to the bed, he looked down to find the man was Zamir himself. And before he had time to register the bizarre situation he found himself in, his entire tribe of soldiers massacred by a werewolf from the adjacent forest, his best friend hung by his neck, possibly self-inflicted, and Zamir staring down at his own self--all this sent shock waves through his brain, confusing him to his core.

But, then, he woke up. Jolting from his sleep, his powerful torso sprang from his sleeping mat with such force he nearly sprained his neck. But he was awake, and he realized it had all been a nightmare. He looked around the tent, wiping the real tears from his cheeks, composing himself lest his men see the fear in his eyes and mistake it for apprehensiveness before their main battle. The area around his tent was quiet and the same as he remembered it from before he fell asleep. Zamir rubbed his face, yawning and trying to forget the nightmare he had just endured. He got up from his sleeping mat and grabbed the pair of pants hung over the edge of his side table. Outside, the light from the moon sliced through the opening in the entrance to his tent. He looked down at his belly, as he pulled on his pants, he could see the blue light break on his stomach for a second, a shadowy figure obscuring it for a microsecond. He looked up through the slit in the tent's opening, the same vague fear rearing its head again at the opening of his dream. Zamir got the strongest, most sudden sense of déjà vu, as he pushed aside the curtain to his test and peeked around the camp, which was quiet and still as the night. Fearing that his nightmare was not just a dream, but perhaps a premonition, he rushed over to the main blue tent, fearing the worst for his friend's safety. He wanted to make sure Rollus was okay and not hanging like a blunt log from a rope by his neck. He stopped for a moment before the entrance to the main blue tent, listening for that same terrible rocking he had heard in his dreams. There was nothing, and he pushed aside the opening, he saw the entire tent empty and quiet, the same as it had been before they all fell asleep. He wondered, though, who was up at this time of night, wandering through the camp. Something wasn't right.

Zamir made his way to Rollus' sleeping area, his feet landing in soft crunches on the dark, damp dirt, careful not to make too much noise. When he slipped into Rollus' tent, he found the man missing from his sleeping mat. “Fuck,” Zamir said. He ran back out into the main area of the camp, looking around for his friend. “Rollus,” he said into the empty air, trying to whisper as loud as he could. There was no answer. He scanned the perimeter of the camp, and saw a man in orange standing on the edge of the forest, watching for someone to meet up with him, it seemed. Zamir ran over to the man, and as he got closer, he realized Rollus himself was standing with his back to Zamir. A great well of relief fell over Zamir, as he realized finally his friend was okay. He touched him on the back of the shoulder. “My dear friend,” Zamir said. Rollus turned around finally to face him.

“My Grace,” Rollus said, forcing a smile, his eyes a strange mix of sadness and anger.

“Tell me, Rollus, what are you doing out here this time of night. Were you sleepwalking again?” Zamir asked, surprising himself at the degree to which he trusted Rollus, even though the situation was suspicious and, deep down in the heart of his nature, Zamir knew Rollus was hiding something from him.

Rollus did not acknowledge Zamir's question. “I have something to confess to you, my Grace,” he said. “Do you remember that day when our great village crowned you General of the Armies?”

“I remember it fondly.”

“The night before your coronation, I snuck into your bedroom and found your scrolls. Those lovely scrolls you had collected on your travels throughout the land, searching for answers. You wanted to know what it took to make a great leader. You said that, remember?”

“Yes, I do. What of it?”

“I thought maybe I could be part of that world, too, if what you knew lay in those readings.”

“Of course you are, my Rollus. If you wanted to read them, you should have just asked me,” Zamir said, his brow furrowed, as he tried to piece together his friend's point.

“I snuck into your room, not because I was afraid of asking you what you knew. Or that you might tell me those books were off limits.” A flash of pain surfaced from within Rollus' features, but subsided back into the interior of his heart. “I just didn't want you to know how much I wanted to be like you. How much I wanted to know what it felt like, to experience being the Zamir the Great.”

“Rollus, what is this nonsense? Tell me what you are doing out here in the middle of the night. We can talk about this tomorrow, as we have much planning to do.”

“The Book of Virtues was the first one I saw,” Rollus said. “There were 13 of them. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course,” Zamir said, still puzzled.

“I read through all of them. You have acquired all of them since your childhood. Clementia, or clemency. I remember when I accidentally killed your sister's kitten as a child. It was right after we found my mom and dad. You told me it was an accident.”

“You were suffering, Rollus--”

“But it wasn't accident, my Grace. I wanted the kitten dead. And you gave me mercy. You could've torn me to pieces. But you didn't. Dignitas, or dignity. You would never lower yourself to appease the other kids, even when they would have liked you more for it. When they mocked me behind my back, you protected me, even though it hurt your reputation.”

“Rollus, tell me what's bothering you--”

“Honestas, or Respectability. Our first hunting season, when all the other guys wanted to bed the girls instead of making the hunt, you spent that time alone, preparing your hunting gear. No one knew you never went to the brothel like the other guys did, except me. Pietas, or loyalty. No matter how little I could offer you, you protected me as your best friend.”

“Yes, of course, my friend. You're my true comrade. We have been together since we were just kids.”

“Yes, of course. And after reading all those virtues, I had not one of them. None. Truthfulness. Sternness. Health. Prudence. Industriousness. Frugality. All these and more, I lacked, while you were blessed with an overflowing supply of.”

“You have a virtue I will never have, Rollus.” Zamir wanted Rollus to value himself more.

“And what's that, my Grace?”

“Auctoritas, Spiritual Authority,” Zamir said, his words strong and forceful to Rollus' ears. This was the one virtue he indeed lacked but which Rollus had more than anyone. “You knew from such a young age, what it meant to suffer. The grief of losing your family to the enemy made you stronger.”

“It made me pitiful, my Grace.”

“No, stronger. You had an empathy and compassion for those who were mistreated long before I knew it. Do you not remember all the times you reminded me how important it was to pick the smallest kids for play first? Have you forgotten the times you showed me how much my sternness and strength could hurt others, even when I was not aware?”

“You would have learned that sooner or later. I was not of much use. But now it's time to quit this talk. I want to thank you for all you have given me. And I want to say--”

“What is this?” Zamir asked, utterly confused about his friend's direction of the conversation.