Isilian Bok 2 Lost Wolf

Prologue

Push my lady! said the midwife. Her face, hidden behind her facemask, was drenched in sweat. Just one more push.

Two hands gripped the sides of the bed as the woman, leaning her head back, screamed at the top of her lungs. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Her face was red, and her long, beautiful hair was drenched with sweat.

The room filled with silence as the sound of an infant’s first cry filled the room. Warm gentle hands coaxed it from its warmth. The doctor looked up at the midwife. It’s a beautiful baby girl, m’lady, he said, as the woman looked at them with a loving smile.

Suddenly the woman clenched tightly and pushed. A large pool of blood formed on the floor. The doctor quickly moved forward between the woman’s legs, then looked up at the midwife. The head of another infant crowned. The woman screamed in pain as she threw her head back. She pushed with all her strength. Blood flowed from her onto the floor. The pool grew larger.

The room came alive with midwives and nurses running around, several gripping the arms and shoulders of the woman. One placed a device over her heart.

The doctor looked down at the small lifeless bundle covered in blood and mother’s essence. A nurse stepped forward and wrapped the small limp body in a towel.

A nurse looked up as she held her hands above the woman’s chest gently. A warm glow emanated from her hands. The doctor looked on, realizing it was no use.

Several minutes later the doctor pushed open a large door, her eyes looking over at a man pacing back and forth. His arms were clasped behind his back. He paused as the doctor approached him.

There was . . . nothing . . . nothing we could do. We saved one of the babies.

The man cut her off. Babies? As in more than one? he exclaimed.

Yes. Twin girls. One lives. The other stillborn. And your wife, the Queen, died as well. The strain was too much on her heart.

The man felt his knees shaking. His hand caught on a windowsill as the color drained from his face, his hands clenching as tightly as possible. Is there anything at all that can be done? he asked, his voice weak.

No Sire. As of now your daughter is the only living heir to her bloodline. If you wish to view the body, we can arrange a private room.

The man, on his knees now, looked up at the doctor, who placed her hands on the man’s shoulder.

Yes, please, a private room. And I wish to see the first child.

And the stillborn infant? the doctor asked, helping the man to his feet.

The man’s legs were still soft. Tears were now running down his face and his eyes were red. Bury it. Bury it under the white tree in the courtyard. Don’t leave a marker. Bury it deep.

Sometime later, the man knelt next the covered body of his wife, clutching her hand in his, while his other hand touched the tiny sleeping newborn.

His eyes closed. The light in the room was dim. Several candles adorned the walls. A silk sheet covered the body. A curtain blew gently as a breeze filled the air. A deep ominous voice whispered, The deal is struck. What you lost shall be returned. A debt owed. A price to be paid.

Part I

Country of the Elves

CHAPTER 1

Perhaps you should fold. Tonight is not your night, said a rather large man, his hand holding several cards firmly. You’re down to your last move. All you have left to bet are those fancy swords and your necklace.

Isilian took a large drink from his tankard before slamming it down onto the table, his eyes blurred by the ale. His hair was rugged and unkempt. I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, old man, he retorted.

Suddenly the other player reached over the table and grabbed at Isilian’s wolf medallion. There were two golden rings with faceted gemstones in them, one on each side of the medallion. I’ll take this for your losses, he grinned.

Isilian’s hand flew up from his tankard, grabbing the man’s hand. Faster than lightening he bent it back on itself. The large man howled in pain as his hand was nearly broken.

Touch it again and you’ll be stumbling home without your hands, Isilian shot.

You’ll pay for that, you bastard!!"

Isilian closed one eye and leaned forward, tightening his grip on the other man’s hand. Bring it on. In fact, I’ll fight you with my arms tied behind my back. Hell. I’ll let you get the first hit.

The large man tore his hand out of Isilian’s grip and stood up. He lifted the table with his good hand and tossed it across the tavern. It landed on the floor with a loud thud as the man drew a knife from his belt. Once I kill you, I’ll take your fancy swords as a trophy.

Isilian took a long cord from his satchel, tying it around his wrists. His eyes were fuzzy as he stumbled around the floor trying to tie the knot. He felt the calm hand of Death caress his cheek. He welcomed the final moments. Others in the tavern all stood on their feet laughing and boasting. The truboitz stopped playing and stood up. Now all eyes were on the two men.

Suddenly the doors were pushed open as two hooded figures stepped inside. Don’t mind us, said one in a hushed voice.

The large man lunged forward, his knife missing Isilian by inches as he stumbled over the floor. Isilian’s steps staggered as he swung his fist up, missing the man completely. The man laughed and swung with his good hand, connecting with Isilian hard, sending him backward stumbling and falling over a chair. His back landed hard on the floor, knocking the breath out of him. But he had a smile on his face.

The large man approached him and reached out as if to grab him. Isilian’s eyes closed as he felt a rush of wind. Suddenly the large man looked blank for a moment before his head rolled off his body, which collapsed to the floor as the head rolled toward the onlookers. The others in the tavern all stood silent for a moment. Without warning the two hooded figures flew across the room with swords drawn, cutting down the onlookers faster than they could breathe. Blood sprayed across the floor and over the walls. Before the barmaid could even scream, eyes wide with fear, her body was cut in two. The tankard in her hand fell to the floor.

The two figures lifted their hoods. Their eyes blazed gold. They stood perfectly straight, their long silver hair falling down their backs, smiles on their dark lips. Their swords glinted in the dim light, dripping blood. Their eyes glanced around at their work. The first one spoke softly. Pathetic drunks. All of them. No wonder humans are so weak.

The second one turned; her eyes narrowed. Makes you wonder why our queen sent us here of all places, Dathlue. And as she commanded, there will be no witnesses, she murmured. Her eyes fell upon Isilian unconscious on the floor. His breath was shallow. There he is, the hunter we were told about. Shame he was not born Elven. His skills are legendary. Hard to believe that now.

The elf’s ears perked up as she heard him whisper, his lips barely moving. Coming home, my love.

Dathlue folded her arms across her chest, her gilded armor pristine in the light. She tapped her finger against her arm for a moment. Her nose twitched. Phew! And I thought they smelled bad, she said as she pointed to a body on the floor. He’s not even sober. Did you bring the coverings?

Of course, I did, said Nathalene. Take his blades. I’ll get him covered up.

Dathlue reached out and drew his sword from its sheath, her eyes gazing up and down the blade. I wonder how many creatures he’s killed. Her eyes froze as they gazed upon the hilt. She stood suddenly and her hand shook as she held the blade tightly. Nathalene. This blade. It can’t be.

Nathalene looked up at Dathlue. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a silver blade. Humans have had them for ages. But then her eyes went wide as she looked at the hilt, then down to Isilian. No! He can’t be, she said.

Suddenly Isilian belched. The smell of sour ale filled the air.

Nathalene, don’t forget the other blade. Our orders are clear. He is to be unarmed.

Nathalene reached down, unsheathing his other blade, her eyes looking upon the crest of a wolf upon it. Such beautiful work, she said, turning it in her hand.

Isilian moaned, and his body began to writhe. He murmured, And if you ask, I’ll show ya’ my third blade. They both looked at him startled for a moment. Their eyes glanced down his well-muscled body.

They looked at each other, then they realized that again he passed out drunk. Nathalene spoke. We need to get going. The sooner the better. The smell of this place is making me ill.

Reaching down, each took an arm, turning him around as his feet dragged across the floor. They pushed the doors open. The sound of heavy rain and thunder filled the sky.

They carried him up and out of the tavern into the heavy rain. His eyes barely opened as a large sack was placed over his head, blinding him. His senses dulled even further as he felt himself being forced into the back of a metallic coach. After a moment he felt movement. Strange, he thought. No sound of horses.

After stumbling to his knees, he felt around for the side of the coach to grip onto, yet strangely smooth metal met his touch. He lifted himself against it, sitting upright on the edge of a bench. His hand lifted up to the hood over his head.

If you value what’s left of your life, don’t remove that hood, came a voice from somewhere.

His stomach suddenly felt as if it was upside down. His hands searched for the edge. The coach came to a sudden halt. He was grabbed and the hood lifted just enough to uncover his mouth as he vomited hard, mixed with blood. His legs felt lighter, as if unable to stand on their own. His stomach churned. His ears barely heard words in a language almost lost to him.

As Isilian was thrown back into the strange wagon, he again felt the rush of movement, yet again without the sound of horses. A mechanical noise filled his ears. What sorcery is this? he asked after a moment. He got no response, just the sense of moving faster than when he had his horse. Where are you taking me, assholes? he snapped. Suddenly he felt a sharp prick in his arm. The last thing on his mind was nothingness as he felt himself drift off.

CHAPTER 2

Sometime later Isilian’s eyes opened. His head was groggy, his mouth dry, his vision blurry. He slowly grew accustomed to the dim light. His hand reached up for his necklace. To his relief he clenched it tightly. His eyes closed as he felt himself cry. He had not shed a tear since that night almost ten years ago. He seemed to be lying upon a bed. He opened his eyes again and looked around. His gaze fell upon several figures standing in a dimly lit room. The sound of water dripping filled his ears. If you’re going to kill me, get it over with, he said.

After a moment a soft voice spoke. Kill you? Why would we do that after all the trouble we took to find you?

His eyes opened. He knew that voice. I know you, he said, wiping the tears from his blurry eyes and swinging his feet over the side of the bed. Suddenly he realized that he was naked save for a sheet over his lap.

Trust me, she said. If we wanted you dead you wouldn’t have left that tavern alive. The only reason you’re here is because our queen has wished it so.

Isilian spat on the ground. Elves! he thought. Nobody else could be so bold.

Well, you have me. What do you want? he shot, his mind still groggy.

Time for you to get cleaned properly. First a bath. And that includes cleaning yourself inside and out. Then, we have a job for you.

He looked up at her sharply. That side of me died years ago. I buried it when I buried . . . His voice trailed off as his mind wandered back, seeing a face in his mind looking back at him. He couldn’t remember a name.

When you buried her. We know, hunter. We know your pain and sorrow. But first get cleaned up and we will explain.

She snapped her fingers and a door opened. In came two elven girls carrying a large metal tub and some towels.

Really? I don’t care if I smell like a ditch-dweller’s dung, he said. Suddenly he felt a hard smack across his face.

Look. We were told to bring you here by someone you should give thanks to for saving your life. And THAT is the only reason you’re alive. Now bathe and get dressed, the elf snapped.

His face stung from her hand for a moment. He looked up at her and grinned. Ow, he chuckled.

Finding the strength to lift himself up from the bed, he made his way slowly over to the tub. Everyone but the servants left, shutting the door behind them.

The cool air of the dimly lit room felt good on his rough skin. However, his foot felt as if it had stepped onto a bed of needles the moment it touched the hot water. Gritting his teeth, he lifted himself into it. As he looked around the room, his eyes came into focus. He watched as one of the young elven girls walked over to a strange-looking ball floating against the wall, several feet off the ground. She shook it slightly and it illuminated the room.

Wait. Where is the candle? he asked.

The elven girl looked puzzled for a moment as she turned to face him. Can … dal? she asked.

Yes. The source of light from your lamp. And for that matter, where is the oil?

Oil? she asked again with an even more puzzled look on her face. Ohh, you mean crude old-world science. We no longer use those. The two girls looked at each other for a moment, then giggled softly. We use what you would call electricity and natural gas.

If you need something, it will be brought in, the first elf said as they made their way to the large door. Someone will be along to get you when you are ready.

As Isilian sat down in the hot water, he felt his skin warming up. He leaned back against the edge of the metal tub, his mind drifting off as he felt himself relaxing in the water. The deep scars on his back ached momentarily.

His eyes began growing accustomed to the light, and he let his gaze wander around the room. The walls seemed to be made of some strange metal, yet there were no hammer marks, no nails or evidence of any tools. The floor looked to be covered in stone, yet there was no mortar. His eyes gazed at the bed. No fabric he’d ever seen before. It shimmered in the light, warm and soft. Upon the bed lay fresh simple clothes.

After a time, he stood up from the water. Strangely, it was still steaming hot, as if he had just sat down in it.

Making his way over to the bed, he sat down and placed his hands over his head, his mind still fuzzy. He looked around at his surroundings. He reached out and picked up the clean trousers left out for him. He stood as he slid them on, finding them slightly tight around his waist. The legs barely fit. As he stood, he felt the fabric loosen, but not by much. He took a few steps in them, finding that the more he walked, the more comfortable they became.

He lifted the shirt and slid it on also. The fabric felt as light as air. His chest was exposed as he affixed the waist. His eyes looked down for a moment. They call these clothes? he thought to himself. He caught sight of his medallion with a ring on each side. He clenched his hand around them and closed his eyes. There was a deep emptiness in his heart, a figure in his mind just out of sight.

After a while he opened his eyes as he heard footsteps approaching the door. Quietly he slipped against the wall, just behind the door, his ears picking up the sound of the doorknob turning. The door opened as an armored guard stepped in. Faster than a cat Isilian grabbed the guard in a headlock. His arms tightened as he felt the guard struggle for breath, then slowly stop.

Pulling the unconscious guard into the room, he laid the body next to the bed. Reaching down, he took the guard’s sword and quietly slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

The hall was quiet, lit only by softly glowing lanterns. The air felt cool on his chest. Silently he made his way down the long crystalline hallway, stopping just before the corner. He heard the footsteps of others as they walked past. Soft voices.

Did you hear? There was another body left in the wine aging room, said one.

The other voice spoke up. Yeah, I heard, and that his throat was cut almost ear to ear. Makes me glad that it isn’t my job to go down there.

The voices trailed off as they walked down the hallway. Isilian quietly followed them for a way, his eyes growing accustomed to the light.

The guards pushed open two large wooden doors. A rush of cool air caressed his skin. He paused for a moment to take it in, then he quietly slipped up to the door. Soft music could be heard coming from beyond, accompanied by laughter.

Suddenly he felt a finger tap him on the shoulder. You know, it’s not nice to eavesdrop, came a voice from behind him, especially when you have a sword in your hand.

He paused for a split second. Suddenly he swung around, swinging the blade fast, only to be met by the sound of it being blocked by another. His eyes were looking directly into two silver eyes, their irises deep as sapphires.

The two swung at each other again. This time Isilian reached out and grabbed the wrist of the sword arm as he parried the blow, twisting it hard. He spun around behind the armored guard. The blade was firm in his hand as he slid it against the guard’s throat. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you, Isilian said sharply as he pressed the blade harder. A small trickle of blood ran down the guard’s throat.

The guard blinked for a moment. A filthy human got the better of me? the guard hissed as he writhed in Isilian’s grip.

A melodic voice came from behind the doors. Why don’t you come in, hunter. We’ve been expecting you.

Isilian gripped the guard tighter, pushing him through the doors, the blade still at the guard’s throat.

Come now. You can let go of my guard.

Isilian looked ahead. His eyes seemed to glow yellow for a moment as they fell upon a tall elven woman sitting on a white marble throne. She wore a silver crown upon her long golden hair. Her soft skin looked almost like porcelain; her features were flawless. Her lips formed a soft smile. Her dress flowed gently in a soft breeze and glistened in the moonlight. Her hands rested against the arms of the throne.

She smiled warmly. I am Queen Tira’allara. In your tongue it means ‘born under an ocean moon,’ or, ‘born under a blue moon.’ Welcome to my castle, and to the country of the Elves.

After a moment Isilian loosened his grip, shoving the guard and dropping the blade to the floor. The guard stumbled forward, placing his hand on his throat. He looked at the blood upon his fingers. His face was red as he reached down and picked up the blade.

If you brought me here to kill me, go ahead. Isilian said, his arms at his sides, his eyes looking at the guard.

The guard lifted the blade, clenching it tightly. Bringing it up as if to strike, he lunged forward.

Ni Halieen! the elven woman said.

The guard stopped with the blade against Isilian’s neck, a small trickle of blood running down.

Isilian’s eyes never wavered. Why stop. Finish what you started, he said.

The guard turned and looked over at the woman on the throne. Her eyes focused on him, her hand clenching the armrest tightly.

Nih Hanna Aleen, she shot.

The guard looked at her wide for a moment, then dropped to his knee. Mi Alanna unoh, he said, his head lowered.

Turning her eyes to Isilian, she spoke. If I wanted you dead you would be, she said. You and I have much to talk about, hunter.

Isilian looked at her for a moment. I stopped being a hunter years ago. I no longer follow that path. I buried it.

The woman waved her hand. A soft rustle filled the room for a moment as the onlookers left, the guard among them.

She stood up from her white marble throne. Stepping as silently as a ghost, she moved over to a large white statue standing with its hands out holding something. Her soft hand reached out and clasped the hilt of a sword, lifting it away from the statue.

Recognize your family blade? she asked, her eyes gazing upon the blade.

He took a step toward her, then stopped. How’d you . . .? his voice trailed off.

One of the two who found you brought it to me. You’ve never known the full history of this blade, have you?

He shook his head slightly. No. I just know that it’s been in my family since before I could remember, he said.

She smirked slightly. What if I told you it is of Elven make? That this blade was forged here by request of another. Normally we refuse this kind of request, but they had their reasons, and were very convincing. Yes, it is a silver blade. But what you and your family were never told is that the silver is not of this world. And making it took us over one hundred years.

He looked blankly at her for a moment. "A hundred years and not