Hungry Heart - Book #4 - Ch. 4

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three 

Chapter Four – The Lost Alpha

He was struggling, but his thoughts were made of molasses, his own mind dragging him down and making all his movements seem as if he was underwater. His eyelids closed against his volition, and soon he found himself in a deep slumber that made reality not much different from dreams. Voices spoke around him, and there was a smell of wet fur he recognized. Those taking him away to an undisclosed location had to be wolves. At least that was what his addled mind was telling him.

His body swung, letting him know that he was being carried away. Above him, the air changed, and even while fighting against the muddy dreams threatening to take over his consciousness, he could tell that they were entering a forest. How strange that he hadn’t smelled other wolves around before. Could it be that he was moving over another threshold between his world and a secret one, just as had happened when following Claw on his path to the oracle?

They hadn’t killed him, which meant that they had some sort of use for him. Opting to conserve his energy for when he would be able to break free from his captors, he remained still and relaxed his muscles.

“Not long now,” the same voice from before that had called him a mutt said.

His head weighed like it was made of lead. Varg had no chance but to allow sleep to take him, and then he heard nothing else.

***

At first, it struck him how warm he felt. It was quite the thing, seeing how he remembered that fall had started and such warmth should be a thing of the bright days of summer past. As he came to his senses, he began to realize that it wasn’t the warmth of the sun making him feel like that, but heavy furs piled on top of him. He pushed them all away and looked around. The place he had been brought to looked like a cave, but from where he sat, he couldn’t tell where the entrance was.

A large fire burned in the middle, and there was movement around it.

“Good, you’re awake,” he heard the voice from before talking.

He turned his head and saw a wolfshifter who, by demeanor and behavior, had to be much younger than him. The stranger had long shaggy hair the color of wet bark, and deep-set eyes that were observing him with anger and a tinge of fear if he still had his wits about him and could read what was crossing the young wolf’s mind.

“I’m Atlaz,” the stranger spoke, “the alpha of this pack.”

Varg examined his host. His face was still smooth, having yet to grow a beard, and there weren’t many signs of battles won and lost marking his cheeks. His lips were twisted in a sneer, but Varg didn’t find himself impressed. Whatever reason for the trouble this young wolf was seeking with him, it had to be only in his head.

He waited while taking in his surroundings, without considering Atlaz worthy of a word from him. Observing that he was naked and his clothes and armor must have been taken away, he picked up one of the fur blankets and gathered it around his waist.

“Are you deaf, old man?” Atlaz bellowed at him, but without moving from his safe place, on the other side of the fire.

“Not that I know of,” Varg replied. “I might become deaf, however, if you keep growling like a wild animal in this small cave.”

Some of his words, if not all, must have angered the young wolf enough to make him pull a long knife and point it at Varg. “I would watch my words if I were you,” he growled again.

For a moment, Varg was of a mind to jump and knock that toy out of Atlaz’s hand, but he was still evaluating the type of danger he was in. Since his captors had been capable of kidnapping him from under the noses of his brave companions, they had their advantages. And the slumber that had overcome him must have been the result of some sort of sleep-inducing concoction smeared over the spear that had cut through the skin on his temple. He raised his hand to verify his wound and realized that it had been dressed already, and quite skillfully if he thought about it.

A swish of furs, and someone else entered the small enclosure. According to what he saw, Varg assumed that it had to be a cave with many rooms, and he had been laid to rest in one of them. Everything around him looked rudimentary and simple, so this pack of wolves had to be the kind that didn’t share much with the humans around, preferring the forest and mountains to any comfort offered by a settlement with homes and hearths.

“Atlaz,” the newcomer spoke in a warm patient voice, “you will get your chance to confront our guest.”

Varg turned his eyes to the other wolfshifter. It was a woman, just as young as her self-styled alpha, but her eyes weren’t filled with comprehension and anger, like Atlaz’s. Her hair was just as shaggy, but she had visibly taken painstaking care to make it a bit less rebellious and had a few flowers caught in its strands, here and there. Her round face was pretty, and her big eyes looked warm and kind.

Her attire was made from patches of fur that covered her to her ankles. Compared to her, Atlaz was a lot less dressed, wearing just a skirt of fur around his hips. His chest was naked and he proudly puffed it out to show numerous necklaces on which fangs, claws, and other trophies hung.

“My name is Hesaia, sire,” the young woman said and made a curtsy, something that came out clumsy due to the stiff furs covering her body.

“Why do you speak to him like that?” Atlaz growled at her.

Hesaia turned toward her companion. “He is our guest. Put the knife away, Atlaz.”

“I am your alpha, woman,” Atlaz continued. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” Despite his words, he made the knife disappear into the folds of his fur skirt.

“Who are you, puppies?” Varg asked. “And why did you bring me here?”

“We are looking for an alpha,” Hesaia explained.

“We have one,” Atlaz growled once more.

“It seems to me like you do have your alpha,” Varg said. “This young wolf claims to be your leader.”

Hesaia angled her head as she stole a glance at Atlaz, and Varg’s experience with feelings of all sorts, and people from all walks of life, told him that the woman wanted to avoid insulting the young wolf. “We have our traditions,” Hesaia said. “Atlaz is our alpha by blood. But he cannot be that, not fully, until he challenges a senior.”

Varg nodded. “And where are your seniors?”

Hesaia looked again at her packmate. She seemed to be asking for permission to speak. The young woman knew well not to rile up Atlaz, who seemed quick to anger. She was a wise one, even though her years couldn’t be that many.

“In many leagues north, south, west, and east,” Atlaz said without giving up his usual growl, “you are the only senior wolf we could find.”

There were things being left unsaid, Varg could tell. “Why kidnap me in this cowardly manner? Why not come and ask me first?”

Atlaz huffed and looked away.

Hesaia looked at him, her hands opened in a pleading gesture. “We must tell him, Atlaz.”

“Tell me,” Varg encouraged them. “I am all ears. And, I should mention to you that my companions will not rest until they find me. They are not exactly the forgiving kind.”

“Do you dare to threaten us?”

Hesaia hurried to catch Atlaz’s arm. “He is right to be mad at us. We should have asked,” she said.

“And he would have said ‘no’,” Atlaz said stubbornly. “And look at him. He’s nothing but a mutt, like the rest of us. Why should we treat him with respect and hold him in high esteem?”

Varg didn’t know whether to laugh or teach young Atlaz a bit of respect by pulling his ears until they doubled in length. “What of my appearance makes you talk of me in such words?” he asked. He doubted these young wolves represented any true danger and now he just needed to discover what was happening to them and their pack.

Atlaz huffed. “Your armor is worn. Your blade is dull. And you have winter in your hair.”

“My armor is worn because it has seen many battles. My blade is dull for the number of times it cut through the flesh and bones of my enemies. As for the winter in my hair, as you call it, that’s the reason why you brought me here in the first place, isn’t it?”

From the way Atlaz’s face changed, Varg’s words had reached his ears just fine. It was a different matter for him to accept their truth.

“We’re not ones to talk,” Hesaia intervened, trying to bring their exchange to a smoother path. “We barely have this--”

“Quiet, woman,” Atlaz silenced her.

Hesaia bowed her head and stopped talking. It made Varg wonder a lot; usually, young she-wolves were not the obedient kind. But the little he knew of them made him understand that Hesaia was wise to tiptoe around her leader for reasons that had to be many and not so easy to understand by an outsider. Still, Varg expected the violence that boiled in any wolfshifter’s blood, male or female, to bubble over. Was Hesaia not a pure wolfshifter?

“I will bring our guest a change of clothes,” Hesaia said and took her leave with another bow.

“Why do you talk to her like that?” Varg asked as soon as Hesaia’s quiet steps could be heard no more.

“We tolerate her kind enough around here,” Atlaz replied with a scoff. “A human girl, taken in by my parents, after being left by her own to die of hunger in the woods.”

The picture was clearer now. Varg had been too caught up in understanding his current predicament to pay attention to Hesaia’s smell. Indeed, as much as her clothes were fashioned according to what the pack wore, her round face and big eyes showed no resemblance of any kind to Atlaz. So, she was a foundling, and a sort of a stepsister to the big oaf in front of him. In her position as a tolerated member of the pack, that is if they allowed her to be that, she had probably learned from a young age not to go against those of pure wolfshifter blood. It was her gain that she hadn’t turned bitter, but instead had learned how to survive and make herself useful. Since she had been the only one allowed to see their prisoner, that said that her position in the pack was not at the lowest rung.

“What happened to your parents?” Varg demanded to know. “And what was Hesaia trying to say before you chased her away?”

“She must know her place,” Atlaz said with an unpleasant hiss.

“She’s your sister.”

“No,” he growled. “She’s just a human.”

Was this animosity toward Hesaia a recent occurrence or had it always been there, inside Atlaz’s heart? Varg wondered. “I need my armor and my blade, as worn and dull as they might be.”

“What do you intend to do? You’re not allowed to leave.”

Varg pushed himself up to his feet, ignoring his own state of undress. “Allowed, you say, puppy? See if you can stop me.”

Atlaz looked for a moment as if he was ready to fight, but then he appeared to reconsider. That was considerable progress from his earlier belligerent attitude . Could it be that Hesaia’s gentle words could still reach him? It couldn’t be the first time for that to happen.

“We need you here,” Atlaz muttered, eventually.

“You do? What for?”

“I must challenge you for the title of alpha.”

“What if I say no?”

“You cannot. You either fight, or you don’t. If you forfeit the fight, I still win.”

“Consider it forfeited,” Varg said and made a move as if to walk out of the room.

Atlaz jumped up and put himself in front of him, barring the way. “Do you wish for your death so much, old man?”

He pointed the long knife at Varg’s chest, leaving him no choice but to knock it out of his hand. Then, he caught Atlaz’s wrist swiftly and pulled him close while making him wince in pain. “My name is Varg, puppy. Varg of Whitekeep. I have a pack. I have no wish to challenge you, or answer to yours.”

“Where is your pack?” Atlaz growled and struggled to free his arm. “You’re lying! You travel like a lone wolf, and you want us to believe such a weird thing.”

“I don’t travel alone. How could you fail to notice my companions? You had to use that trick with the fog and put me to sleep so that you could drag me here against my wishes.”

“Companions? They’re not our kind,” Atlaz hissed.

Varg pushed him away and watched him rub his wrist, his eyebrows knit together in a deep frown. “Our kind? We are both wolves, yes, but I don’t see anything else we share.”

That seemed to serve as more of a blow to Atlaz than being disarmed so quickly only earlier. “We are the same blood, wolfshifers,” he growled.

“Yes, that’s maybe the only thing we have in common. What kind of a tradition is it to drag a stranger away from his friends and force him to fight for a position of alpha which he doesn’t even want?”

“I cannot be their alpha, otherwise,” Atlaz shouted and pointed to the entrance as if that signified his entire pack. “They would only find reasons to rebel and go out there and get themselves killed, just like--”

The young wolf stopped abruptly. He pursed his lips and got busy searching for his knife. Varg sighed. There was some painful recent history there, but he couldn’t force it out of Atlaz’s tongue if the young wolf didn’t want to share it. Hesaia was a better option if he wanted to understand what was going on.

“Oh.”

That was the young woman who had returned with the change of clothes, as promised. She blushed and averted her eyes, moving from one foot to another and not knowing what to do. It took Varg a few moments to understand why she was flustered. “I will take those,” he said and grabbed the fur clothes from her arms.

He put them on quickly. Whoever had worn those clothes before must have been as big as him, which meant that wolfshifter had to be among those seniors that weren’t there anymore. Varg sniffed his new clothes and detected the faint smell of ash and wet bark.

“Are we in a swamp?” he asked. That was unusual. Not only to find wolves in a place like that, but to have a cave where it was so dry and warm.

“Marshlands,” Hesaia explained. “Are the clothes wet?”

“No, but my nose is still pretty good despite all of the winter in my hair,” Varg said.

At that, Atlaz huffed like he didn’t appreciate the joke. Time permitting, he might learn to do that. Varg wondered if he had to make sure that Toru and the rest of his friends didn’t storm the place too early. Even so, this young pack was in need of guidance, and Varg intended to give it, preferably without being forced to fight. Atlaz’s pride was a dangerous thing, mostly to himself.

“We’re on high ground,” Hesaia continued. She stole a few glances at him, without raising her eyes, and blushed again.

“Hesaia, since your oaf of a brother doesn’t care to tell me what happened, how about you tell me what’s going on here?”

Hesaia lifted her eyes, staring at Varg first, and then at Atlaz. “Brother?” she stuttered.

“He just assumes that you’re my sister, only because my parents raised you,” Atlaz explained with a huff.

“I see,” she said and cast her eyes down on the floor again. “I am not Atlaz’s sister, sire. Only a human raised here.”

“It must have been hard for you,” Varg said sympathetically.

“Better than dying out in the woods,” Hesaia said with the shadow of a smile.

That was the attitude of a survivor. Hesaia didn’t mind Atlaz and his brusque ways with her, because she knew of worse things out there.

Shifters lived among humans, and they had their human side, too. Varg wondered why Atlaz despised Hesaia for being human, when that was part of every shifter, too. If she had been a male, it would have been easy to understand his attitude as jealousy and competition. Could it be that his parents had showed Hesaia a gentler love than their love toward him? The proud young wolf wouldn’t admit it for the world even if that was how things had happened in his family.

“Come on, children,” Varg encouraged them. “You wanted an old alpha in your midst, and you believe you have a good reason. I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what this is all about. Before you ask again, no, I don’t intend to fight young Atlaz here. But I can offer you my wisdom and knowledge to guide you on your way.”

“Do you hear him, Hesaia?” Atlaz asked suddenly. “He wants to humiliate us and our customs. He doesn’t want to fight me. But it doesn’t mean that my knife won’t know the taste and color of his blood.”

It looked to Varg like Atlaz was looking for approval, even if he considered Hesaia an outsider.

“We must ask the others what they think,” Hesaia suggested.

Atlaz turned on his heel away from her. “As if they know,” he muttered to himself.

“How many of you are here?” Varg asked.

Hesaia remained silent, bound by her loyalty to Atlaz. The young wolf didn’t say a word, either.

“Then that means that I will have to see for myself,” Varg concluded.

He walked out of the room into the bigger cave. And then, he saw them, huddled around a fire, a group of shaggy looking things, some of which he recognized by smell as having been among his captors. They were barely a dozen or so, and they all looked young, some even younger than Atlaz and Hesaia.

What could have happened to all the grownups? What about the elderly? Did this pack have none?

***

“Toru,” Duril called for him, “come here.”

They had searched the surrounding area for hours now. Claw was amazed at how his sense of smell couldn’t detect Varg as easily as it always did. Toru could tell that the bearshifter was quite upset but struggling not to show it.

“We need to think things through. Whatever or whoever took Varg has superior knowledge of how to conceal a shifter’s smell so well that not even Claw can sense it.”

Toru nodded grimly. He hadn’t dared to say anything, but things were starting to become clear. It seemed as if the ground had opened and swallowed Varg as if he had never existed. He sat by Duril’s side and caught his head in his hands. “Is it some sort of magic?” The healer knew more about such things as him.

“We can only assume so. Claw’s nose is not easy to trick.”

“What should we do now? Should we just wait for these magic wielders to appear and give Varg back to us?”

Duril shook his head slowly. “Let’s ask Claw what he thinks. For now, we should stop our search if only to have a bite and replenish our strength.”

“I don’t feel like eating.” Toru frowned and looked down, hoping that the dirt under his feet could show him the way to Varg’s captors.

“Varg would be upset if he learned that you refused food for his sake. And we need all our strength. Who knows what kind of enemy we will face? How about you search for Claw and bring him here?”

Toru stood to his feet. “I’m going to get him.”

***

Duril looked after Toru as he shifted into his tiger and followed Claw’s scent into the thick forest behind them. He hated to admit it, but he found himself unsettled by Varg’s disappearance and in more ways than one. Some of the magic he had inside him was reacting, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Therefore, he had an ulterior motive in remaining alone. He stared at his hand, at the symbols imprinted on his skin by Lady Amethyst and then walked over to the closest tree. If the things he learned were too troubling, he would find a way to share them with the others in such a manner that wouldn’t cause them unnecessary suffering.

The wind swished through the branches above his head as he placed his palm on the dark bark. He focused so that he could hear the magic coursing through the forest.

A warm sensation of peace flooded him as he closed his eyes.

What do you wish to know, friend?

The voice Duril heard was heavy with many years and weary, but calm and reassuring.

Our friend was taken. We cannot find him and we worry.

The tree remained silent for a while. I’ve asked my brethren. Your friend was taken, indeed. But you don’t have to worry.

That was good news, but Duril wanted to learn more. Can you tell me anything else? Who took him?

They are young and seek guidance. Your friend is, they believe, a lost alpha. And they are a lost pack.

Other wolfshifters took him? Duril was astonished. And do they have magic? How can they conceal Varg’s scent so well?

The magic is not theirs. But it’s protecting them.

How do we get to him?

That is not in your power. You must be allowed.

Duril pondered. So, there was magic involved, and it was a great thing that Varg was safe. What can we do to be allowed to travel to him?

That I cannot help you with, friend. These powers are above us.

The tree turned silent, and Duril withdrew his hand. He did so just in time, as Toru and Claw emerged from the thicket with dour looks on their faces. “I used my gift,” he explained. “I asked the forest about Varg.”

Claw’s face lit up. “How come we didn’t think of that? We were in such a hurry to search around. What did the forest tell you?”

Toru was already all over him. “Is Varg all right? When is he coming back? Can we go to him?”

“He is fine, according to what the forest told me. But there is powerful magic that stands between us and the pack who took him.”

“Pack?” Claw asked, his keen eyes settling on Duril. “Do you mean that other wolfshifters took him?”

Duril nodded. “All that I know is that they are a young pack and that they believe Varg to be a lost alpha.”

“Is that all?” Toru asked. “What is this magic?”

“The forest couldn’t tell me anything else. Except for the fact that we must be allowed to reach the pack’s location.”

“These shifters practice magic?” Claw asked.

“No, but they are protected by a powerful force. I’m terribly sorry, that is all that the forest told me and all that it knew.”

Claw patted Duril’s shoulder. “That is fine, my friend.”

“How are we going to fight this magic?” Toru asked impatiently. “For all we know, that pack could decide to keep Varg as their own.”

Duril hunched his shoulders. He didn’t know the answer to that.

Claw gestured for them to come closer and took them by the shoulders. “Let’s not let ourselves get down for no reason. What Duril found out from the forest helps us greatly.”

“But how? Our enemy is still invisible,” Toru pointed out. “We don’t know where it is.”

“True, but don’t forget that you have me and I also have a little bit of understanding of magic.”

“That oracle should have told you Varg was about to get snatched,” Toru said and pouted.

Claw chuckled. “It would have come in handy, yes.”

“Do you think you could return to the oracle and ask her about Varg?” Duril asked the first sensible question that came to his mind.

“That’s precisely what crossed my mind,” Claw confirmed. “Now, I cannot know for sure if it is possible, but it’s worth a try.”

“I believe so, too,” Duril hurried to agree. As much as they might feel like drowning men clutching at straws, a ray of hope was still better than nothing.

“This magic is mean,” Toru said and crossed his arms. “It wants Varg all to itself.”

“That is actually the pack. They want Varg as their alpha if what I understood from the forest is correct,” Duril reminded him.

“Varg doesn’t belong to them. He is probably battling that entire pack right now,” Toru said, looking no less upset than before.

“I think that he knows more and better than just to use his strength and warrior prowess,” Claw offered. “He is also an excellent diplomat, from what I have learned since I joined you.”

“That is true,” Duril agreed. “In Whitekeep, he was always invited to the mayor’s table because of his wise counsel. And it was why he was the alpha of his pack and not someone else.”

“So, is he trying to knock some sense into those kidnappers by telling them many words?” Toru asked.

Claw kissed Toru’s temple and laughed. “We should give our friend all our trust in his abilities to handle himself until we find the right path to get to him. Now, I should go be alone for a while and hope for the oracle to answer my plea.”

***

Varg observed the group of youngsters. Some of them were clutching at their weapons, nothing but rudimentary spears, but with sharp tips. Others were maybe too young to know how to hide their fear and they huddled against each other while eyeing Varg with unease.

Wolves were taught not to know fear from a young age. What could have turned this entire pack into that quivering mess? He could only suspect something that must have shaken them to their very hearts.

“I demand to know what happened to the rest of your pack,” he said in a sonorous voice.

The shaggy heads all raised to attention.

“You don’t have to tell him anything,” Atlaz intervened. “He’s a stranger. I’ll fight him for the position of our pack’s alpha and then we’ll see about our lives.”

“You shouldn’t fight him,” a young scared voice rose from the small crowd. “He looks so strong.”

“Shut up,” Atlaz shouted. “What do you want to do? Let him claim the alpha role? A stranger?”

The crowd murmured some, but no one dared raise his or her voice again.

“I can help you,” Varg said, “but only if you explain to me why you were left all alone like this.”

“We’re not alone,” Atlaz spat with unhidden disdain. “We have each other and we are strong.”

He smacked his fist to his chest, and the rest eventually followed suit, but without any enthusiasm. Varg was starting to understand what Atlaz was dealing with. Hesaia said that he was alpha by blood, but it was equally true that blood didn’t matter when choosing the leader of a pack; what mattered was bravery and wisdom, and Atlaz had plenty of the former, but none of the latter. He was simply too young for that role.

Nonetheless, Varg had no intention of humiliating Atlaz in combat and assuming the role of leader. He had his own pack, as strange a pack as it might seem to these young wolves.

“We must tell him.” That was Hesaia, who was standing by Atlaz’s side and had her small hand on his arm. “He’s old and wise. He can help us.”

Varg shook his head. They were indeed, very young. They spoke of him as old, as if he had hundreds of years on them. However, he decided against rebuking them. After all, he wanted them to trust him and if being their senior and having the advantage of lived years over them was what mattered, then so be it.

“He’s just a lost alpha,” Atlaz commented and gestured at Varg. “Don’t believe for a moment that he is strong enough to take me on. I am your real alpha. Don’t you forget that.”

Varg was well aware of how much Atlaz longed to prove himself in front of the others. But he couldn’t allow that to happen. The young wolf didn’t see further than his own steps; it was just a disadvantage of being so wet behind the ears.

“Hesaia,” he said in a commanding voice, “step forward and let me hear you. It looks like you’re the only one with a head on her shoulders around here.”

“Hesaia, don’t listen to him,” Atlaz hissed.

“Let her tell him,” timid voices rose from the crowd. “Let her speak.”

Atlaz pursed his lips and then bellowed, “Do you want that much for the curse to fall on her head, too?”

“She’s not a wolf,” thin voices dared to answer back. “Maybe she won’t be cursed.”

So, Varg decided, Atlaz didn’t want to let Hesaia talk not because of his pride, but because he worried that she might fall prey to a terrible danger. The more he observed the young pack, the more he understood.

TBC

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