Chapter Two
"Here we scatter the ashes of Grimundur, a fierce a warrior as any should strive to be. It is he who had his eye taken from him as he fought alongside Sigmund, and it is he who took from his foes all that they had."
"Here we scatter the ashes of Ramindur and his brother Turidur. It seems that as we could not part them in life, Death saw fit to judge them together. I defy Death himself to find these paragons of prowess unworthy of resting in the halls of our ancestors."
lavur had known those wolves personally. Many a time had they given silent respect to one another, honor granted for a good kill. It pained him to see those muzzles finally lose their fierce grins, even as it comforted him to set them on a pyre atop their last mortal foes. lavur would see the enemy pay dearly for their kills. Grimundur had lost his eye and taken a dozen of the vile serpents with him. lavur could do no less than take a blood oath to do the same for every fallen comrade.
The time for funerals would come later. For now, they were wrapped in the ceremonial shrouds of the Fangs: those cloths of starkest white were woven by every initiate and embroidered with his name. The initiate would be barred from full status as a Fang unless he could submit a shroud that was nothing less than perfect. To the fangs, this symbolized the young recruit's resignation that Death had inscribed his name on an enemy's blade, and their will to spend their lives in search of the enemy worthy of providing them with a glorious death.
The dead would have their time, but lavur turned his attention to the living. He gave the order to allow the Fangs the remainder of the enemy's repast, and turned to leave. Even as he walked towards the prisoners, he heard a great cry born upon a revulsion and rage that unsettled his heart.
It had been long known that dragons would skin their prey, using the pelts to decorate and monumentalize their victory. The canines had been equal to the fact; it had merely added to their unbreakable will. But what they saw in that dining hall brought a chill far deeper than that of the north to the hearts of even the eldest the troops. The dragons had not only skinned their enemies; they had feasted greedily on Wolfen flesh. Fanged necklaces danced mockingly on serpentine necks, and sent claws sat in pools of blood and refuse in the crude butchery. The soldiers grimly marched out of the camp to await further orders, too shaken by their revulsion to remain.
lavur and his two companions alone understood the implications immediately. Hurrying towards the prison, the encountered only one figure inside; a bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed, onyx figure. To the lean, but muscular, warrior, this small figure looked feminine and malnourished. With a start he noticed the telltale bushy tail of a fox.
Kneeling to unbind the figure, he noticed the fox's legs were set at odd angles. lavur grimaced as he was reminded of painful lash of a dragon's tail that had broken his legs many a time. The fox slept peacefully, almost as if he had see the rescue coming and finally allowed himself a long awaited slumber. The old husky offered a pair of splints, which lavur quickly lashed on the fox's legs. As he tightened the bindings, the fox yelped, but did not awake. lavur admired the fox's ability to withstand the pain, but wondered if it was will or exhaustion that steeled him so.
The pyres were built and the dead were given their due honor quickly, but unhurriedly. The ceremony ended as it always had; the Fangs howled long and fearlessly, each giving a wordless paean for the glories of the dead, an unspoken oath to avenge the fallen.
lavur noted that throughout the ceremony, the fox remained in repose. He worried for the fox's health; he had known many a man to fall into the sleep of death, to breathe calmly one moment, and to embrace cold Death the next. He gave the order to make a makeshift sled; they would bring the remaining prisoner back to Sigmund. Many resented that the fox had lived and their companions had been butchered and eaten. Many expressed their disgust at his small frame, grimly joking that it saved him. But this occurred in hushed tones. They knew well not to gainsay lavur, even moreso not to offend a fox when word might meet the ear of Sigmund. Sigmund was not harsh or violent in his punishment, but he was canny and subtle. Many a wolf had fared roughly in sparring after he had waxed anarchic.
The Fangs deserved their reputation; as quickly and quietly as they had left, so too did they return to the White Fang Fortress. As was common for them, they had simply been found absent one morning, and then present the other. The Fangs once again returned to greet families and begin training anew, each with the fury of three more souls to urge him on.
lavur, flanked by Mikla and the grizzled old husky, reported back to King Sigmund. As was custom, each of the prince's compatriots would deliver their report, if any, then exit. The kings of old had known that family will lie, for good or ill, and thus, they would allow all perspectives to hold the floor.
First to report was the husky. He simply approached the king and smiled slightly. The king grinned fiercely, and shook his paw heartily.
"Thank you for watching over my son, Sinfjötli," the king intoned.
The husky merely nodded and calmly left the hall.
Next to approach the throne was Mikla. The impassive Samoyed merely knelt and touched his muzzle lightly to the floor. After a brief pause, he stood, saluted, and turned to leave. Sigmund watched curiously. Samoyeds were well known for their blunt speech when it came to others. Most will not be anxious to speak, but if it is given to them to do so, they will tell anyone, especially a king, precisely what they think. It had been that forthright, constructive honesty that had made Sigmund and his advisor, Seiggir, such fast friends. Whereas many were offended by the criticism, Sigmund listened closely and would either argue his counterpoint clearly, or acquiesce and change wherever he saw himself at fault.
"Difficult indeed it is to earn the trust of a Samoyed. I am indeed impressed, my son."
lavur felt himself flush with pride, but he had too learned to care more for his faults than his virtues. He kneeled and responded.
"The Fangs fought well. Mikla would be hard pressed to find fault with them," he said with due modesty.
Sigmund's grin flashed again, and he heartily embraced his son.
"Ah, humble as ever. Hold on to that, and we might just let you be king one day," Sigmund let out a barking laugh, "On to business. What of the prisoners?"
lavur began to speak, but felt his voice break. He steeled himself, and began again.
"Fath-... Father, they were all killed save one. The dragons have taken to eating prisoners it seems. The lone survivor is a fox- he's in the infirmary. Looks like his legs were both broken."
"All dead?" Sigmund's brow darkened, "This is most troubling. I'll have to arrange a campaign. This has gone on long enough. Please, go tend to our new guest. Make him feel at home."
With that, lavur was dismissed. He sighed lightly, knowing full well that he had to play the role of host. He much preferred life as a warrior, but knew better than to disobey. Besides, the fox was scrawny, but there was this inner strength to him, a warrior's will that lavur could respect.