The Lone Wolf
The Lone Wolf Saga:
Book One
Published by Christopher L Carr
Copyright 2013 Christopher L Carr
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Table of Contents
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with the Author
Intro
Balance, humanity strives to achieve some form of this in life. When something shifts the balance, they always try to regain it. Whether innately good or evil, all of mankind needs this balance. Without it they wander aimlessly. All humanity feels that there is a purpose to their lives, and it is this purpose which, if achieved, will grant them the balance and stability they wish for. Humans have feelings of self worth that make them long to be needed. And if a man no longer feels needed and loses sight of his balance, he becomes something different, a lone wolf, a drifter, a vagrant, a drunkard, or some other outsider. It is these members of human kind that often offer the greatest contribution to society. For, more often than not, they are of more worth than they know…
Chapter 1
Artirius woke from his sleep, a cool glistening sweat on his body. It was the dream that woke him, as it had done for some time now. He pushed off the bed coverings and stood. He stirred the fire, added a few logs, and went to the window of the room he had rented from the tavern for the night. By his guess, it was the early hours of morning - still too early to be awake. He would amend that for the time being and ponder the dream later. He was closer now, he could tell. He went back to the bed and slumbered heavily.
When Artirius woke again, it was past mid morning. That fact bothered him little. He had only missed breakfast, a meal that, due to the nature of his life, he had missed many times before. The fire he kindled earlier was now a smoldering pile of ash. It was just transitioning from summer to fall, so many nights, like the night before, were cold. Artirius, like most northern barbarians, was not greatly affected by the temperature.
His build was large for a human, and even so for a barbarian. He stood as tall as the head of the tallest horse, and was built with the solidity of a bull. His prowess in battle amongst his people was unparalleled. As such, others constantly tested their strength against him in physical contest. To the men of the barbarian tribes it was an honor to compete, and glory was always given to the victor.
These facts only dismayed Artirius. He was as much a part of his people as he was not. The desire to compete was not in him, though he would never lose willingly, which meant he never lost. His father was said to be the descendent of titans, which would easily explain his size and build. His lack of interest in greatness may have been from his mother’s side. She always had a whimsical nature about herself, as he was told. She had left when he was very young.
Artirius was not of the line of the great chiefs of the barbarian tribes, though he could have taken the position if his heart desired. No man could defeat him in the north. Many had tried, but his innate abilities always surpassed those of his fellows. His most notable combat was at the reach of his twenty-fourth year of life.
The chief of his home tribe, the Warsaw tribe, was nearing his death. It was time to choose the next heir, for he had no direct male descendent to claim his throne. As such, the traditional means of finding an heir was a tournament of sorts. The chief selected eight of the tribe’s finest men to battle. The bouts were one on one, and the loser was eliminated while the victor advanced until only one was left and inherited chieftainship. It was not a contest to the death, but often that is just what would occur and was often requested by the defeated.
Naturally, Artirius was selected. He had no interest in the prize, but his barbarian pride did not allow him to lose willingly to any man.
The contestants were all allowed the choice of a weapon before each match. Artirius chose none. He could defeat any of them with his bare hands and he proved it. He fought his first two matches against Oswald and Gerald. The contests were both short lived; Oswald literally ran into Artirius's fist, and Gerald was knocked unconscious by his own hammer when the weapon was taken from him and used against him.
Then the final match came. He was to face the only man even remotely close to him in skill, his younger half-brother Jorund. Jorund was a fierce opponent. To fight him was to fight the savagery of a beast in the wild. He chose his great sword, Deathwell, as his weapon. Again Artirius choose only his hands.
“You are foolish brother, to think to face me this way. I will defeat you here and now and show them all you are not so great.”
Artirius simply looked at his brother with love in his eyes. He began, “Jorund, you know I care not for greatness. Even so, I cannot let you win my brother. It is not in me to lose, even for you. You know in your heart you cannot win. That makes you great, as it does all those who willingly challenge me.” He paused to look at his brother. Jorund's return stare flamed with anger. “Do not let fury guide you; it will only lead to your defeat.”
“My fury will put you at my feet! Prepare yourself.”
“As must you, Jorund, as must you.”
Jorund, full of anger and hate for his superior older brother, dipped into the barbarian rage. It was a trance of sorts, which focused and chiseled the barbarian’s raw emotions. They were faster, stronger, and more resilient in this form, but they were generally more prone to attack. Artirius seldom used the ability himself for it was not really needed. Nothing was ever a challenge for him and he preferred to have focus when he fought.
Jorund seemed to grow and swell. It was as if heat radiated from him. He looked at his brother and began in with a charge. He took his sword down to his side and came in with a horizontal slash that would have easily hewn even Artirius in half.
But Artirius was too fast. He ducked the swing easily and threw out an arm striking hard into Jorund’s ankle. Jorund stumbled and barely held on to his balance. He turned in time to catch Artirius's lunged elbow straight in the face. It was like a blunted spear. The blow flung Jorund back, easily breaking his nose and bloodying his face.
Surprisingly the young barbarian kept on his feet and moved in again, swinging wildly across his body. Artirius intercepted Jorund’s arm with the outside of his left arm and quickly twisted it around Jorund’s sword arm. The snap was great enough to dislocate his brother’s shoulder and force him to drop Deathwell.
In the rage, the pain from the injury was numbed. Others would have knelt in pain, but Jorund continued fighting, throwing a powerful blow with his left arm.
Artirius, yet again, was faster, reacting quickly to every move his younger brother made. He caught the fist in his right hand and stared hard at his brother. He snapped his head forward. The crushing sound that the blow made on Jorund’s skull was outstanding. For a second his eyes seemed to go blank, as if he had lost consciousness.
Then, as if by magic, sense returned to them and more rage seemed to seep out as he madly tried to escape his brother’s grip.
Artirius untangled their
arms, and as he came over top of the release he struck his brother squarely in the face. Then he rolled around behind his brother, still holding the left arm that had been thrown at him. He pulled it up high on his brother's back and reached for the right arm and did the same.
Jorund kicked back hard with one foot, only to have his blow blocked by his brother’s foot. Then he tried to rotate around and twist his arms out. It was an attempt made in vain. The condition of his shoulder did not help him, even if it were in good shape he would not have been able to escape his superior half-brother.
Artirius kicked the back of Jorund’s knees, which took Jorund to a kneeling position. Then Artirius kneed him hard in the back of the head and threw him to the ground. Jorund attempted to get to his feet, but his wounded arm could not push up and his vision seemed to blur. He managed to roll to his back and stare viciously at his brother who had picked up Deathwell.
“Finish it then.”
Artirius looked down, sadness in his heart and eyes. “No I cannot. For love holds my hand. Live and grow old.” He knelt at his brother’s side. “You will be a chief when you awaken. Rule them with the fury with which you faced me and they will love you.”
“By the gods, what do you mean?”
“Goodbye brother,” Artirius gripped the handle tightly and swung down hard with the pommel. It struck Jorund squarely in the head and he was unconscious instantly. He laid the great sword at his brother’s side.
He had won the tournament but when he saw his people cheering, he raised his arm to silence them. “I will not take the role of your chief. Jorund will make an excellent ruler. Look to him.”
“You dare break tradition?” an elder yelled from the crowd.
Another rose up, “If you leave you shall be banished from your tribe.”
“Then so be it.”
Artirius immediately began gathering his things, preparing to leave his homeland. In his heart it was time to go anyway. This had always been his design. He had few belongings in his possession; the hammer his father had left him, Thunder Fury, and his hides. They were all he had and all he needed. He had been restless at home, he needed to go. He donned his gear, gathered up the basic supplies he would need, and was off on foot as night cradled the world in its blanket. That began his wanderings around the world.
Over the course of nearly a decade he travelled. As his people were far to the north, he headed south. The first people he encountered were the dwarves of Deep Hollow. While there, he befriended their king and began growing his reputation outside the lands of the north. He aided them in quelling a young dragon, deep underground, which threatened to tear the entire foundation of the great city asunder. Artirius sent it to its eternal rest.
Continuing south he ventured into the forest of Atel and met the elves of Alastrial. They too came to embrace the barbarian. A wise elf named Tressnou found him particularly fascinating, and aided him in his search for knowledge. He taught Artirius the languages of the common folks and how to read and write.
From Alastrial Artirius traveled to the east, across the great plains and over the mountains. Here he met the humans from the east, whose code of honor was as unique as their war garb. The greatest warrior Artirius ever met he encountered here. Six Swords was unparalleled with a blade and more graceful than a dancer. Artirius aided him in finding a long lost family daisho, though Six Swords vanished in an explosion. Artirius had not seen him since.
From there he ventured south by sea to the island jungles known as the Untamed Isles. Here he saw many fantastic creatures that marveled him. He tamed beasts, which would have destroyed lesser men, and killed some things that are seen in nightmares. The tale of his taming of a rialin spread quickly across the Untamed Isles and back to the main lands. His nomadic nature did not allow for such a large beast though, and he was forced to let it return to the wild jungles.
Slowly he wondered the seas of the Untamed Isles and eventually decided to return to the main lands. He had spent many years searching, but had found nothing. Nothing that seemed to comfort his need for wholeness, that was. Upon arriving in the east however something new happened to this barbarian. Something that seldom ever happens to any barbarian, he had a dream.
In the dream, Artirius was in a place he had never seen, but it felt like home. It was ancient and beautiful. He stood in the center of a grove of trees in the dead of winter, in someplace higher in the mountains. The trees were massive, some even reaching into the clouds. Above and around him he seemed to hear voices calling his name, and images of dwellings in the high trees seemed to come and go before his eyes. Then his attention was drawn upward. The clouds above the trees slowly began to thin away and the vivid night sky began to show above him. It was a surreal image, the black and purple sky against the whiteness of the snow covered trees. He felt mesmerized, but slowly something became clear to him in the sky. It was a constellation. One he had never seen before and knew nothing about. It seemed to be the shape of a man and woman bound together in an intimate lock. It was beautiful. Then the image faded away from view and Artirius looked on in shock.
“Do not leave!” he shouted.
But still, the image faded and then slowly the world around him seemed to melt away and he was alone. Then he awoke with a cold sweat. At first he thought that it was merely a bad batch of sake, the drink the people in the east enjoyed, but the dream continued. He tried to find other clues in the dream, but it was always the same. He stayed in the east for some time and pondered. He finally decided to head for snow and mountains, or what he once called home.
Chapter 2