Young Writers Society

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DUX

"One must have survived..."

Ducita's bark was a level whisper, but the ice in her eyes was colder than the snow that fell serenely over them.

Three immense grey wolves stood before her. The last great warriors of their pack, perhaps even their kind.

They were exhausted. The battle had lasted well into the night, and the pack had lost many brothers and sisters. They were heading home to their tribe after what they thought would be the final assault on this district, but if their ears had not deceived them, their night was not over.

A "Belua" had survived, and by the sounds of him a big one. An angry one.

Dux, the alpha male, assessed his troops sympathetically. Feror, their most vicious soldier, bore the brunt of the damage. His coat was matted with blood, a dull maroon glowing in the snow. A large crooked gash streaked from the back of his right ear (which now hung by a few nimble threads) to the side of his neck.

To a civilian he would look close to death, but Dux was a seasoned veteran. There was more blood behind Feror's eyes than what was spilled tonight. His cuts were not deep, and the loss of his ear was superficial. He was ready to fight again, perhaps even excited to.

Dux gave Feror a curt nod, which was returned with gusto. He shifted his gaze to his second in command, Agisteri. The wise wolf showed no signs of damage, on first glance it would seem there was no difference between the wolf that entered their battle fresh, to the wolf that stood before them now. But the eyes do not lie. The cost of avoiding damage is exhaustion, and Agisteri was spotless. Once a bold young Feror had claimed that soldiers without battle scars were cowards. Many years fighting alongside Agisteri had changed his opinion. No easy feat. However, the fact still remained, Agisteri was the most tired of the four. When it came to killing a Belua, Dux assessed exhaustion as a severe battle wound.

Dux looked on towards his final soldier, his son, Pectus. The young wolf was a spitting image of his father, if not for his smaller size and lighter coat. He had fought alongside Dux as new warriors do, though three of the four young wolves had perished where Pectus had survived. Whether or not Dux had taken an active interest in keeping his son alive over his other soldiers, was a mental battle he would have if they survived the physical one looming before them. Dux's young heart was beating eagerly, and thought he was inexperienced, his health and alertness were great assets this late in battle. The only wolf in better shape than Dux's three soldiers was Ducita, their guide.

Ducita was not of their tribe. She was an Iberian wolf from the bordering Adcolian district. Sagax, Ducita's alpha, had ordered her to guide Dux's soldiers through the Adcolian wilderness in order to eliminate the Belua horde that had ravaged her tribe. She had led them to the Belua, but had kept a reasonable distance from the battle. Dux didn't blame her.

There was one last wolf for Dux to assess, and that was Dux himself. The gray wolf's hulking figure towered over the other four. From a distance you would swear a young Belua was walking towards you(and many young wolves had run home thinking so).

Up close his appearance was not much softer. Three jagged scars ran from the top of his great head to the tip of his snout, a part of his nose missing, as if his creator had forgotten to colour in his nose completely. His coat was the darkest shade of grey, that at night time he was merely a shadow. If you did not look twice at Dux, you would think him a beast, a true freak of nature. But the eyes of a wolf do not lie. You would find no savageness there. Behind those windows was an endlessly vast ocean. Beautifully tranquil and calm, but an immensely awesome power lay in its waters. Heaven help the fool who provokes a storm.

Dux took a deep breath, and prepared to speak. But before he could deliver his orders, a murderous, blood curdling roar broke the silence again. It was a true monster...and it wasn't far.

"Pectus, on me. We will approach it from the front. Feror, you will run as far East as you can without losing our scent. Agisteri you will do the same to the West. When you hear my signal, Feror will run like the hounds of hell are at his heels, and flank our unwanted guest with all his might."

Dux paused for the spirited (or bloodthirsty) response from Feror that usually followed his orders, but it did not come. He simply began moving East. A shadow of doubt crossed Dux's mind. Perhaps he had wrongly assessed his wounds. It was too late to re-plan, he would have to maintain faith.

He continued.

"Agisteri, I want you to conserve your energy, approach at a slower pace to assess the situation. If it's wounds are heavy, and you can finish him, you must.

...

If we have failed completely, you must outrun the beast back to Domusta, prepare who is able for battle. "

"Understood.", Agisteri gave a curt nod before heading West.

Dux turned to Ducita.

"This is where you leave us. You must go to Domusta and let my people know of what has transpired."

"I am honoured to have served alongside your warriors.", Ducita replied, bowing low.

"Honour me by reaching Domusta in one piece.", Dux said shortly.

Ducita bounded off to the north.

Dux moved closer to Pectus. Father and son were shoulder to shoulder. They stood in silence, but with calm understanding. Two wolves silhouetted against the beautifully layered snow, enjoying the small flakes that landed and melted on their tired tongues.

*CRACK*

A large tree branch had snapped not too far in front of them, and the Belua's stench filled their noses.

"On guard son."

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FEROR

Feror walked steadily East. He had hidden the extent of his wounds successfully from Dux. And his wounds extended from Adcolion to Domasta ten times over. A particularly vicious Belua had thrust a claw inbetween his ribs to what felt like his lower lung.

Dux would have ordered him to go home if he had known, but Feror knew the odds. Agisteri was exhausted, and Pectus too young. That left only one able warrior, Dux, to fend off the attack.

Feror would not let his brothers and sisters die alone, just so he may live. Besides, there was no guarantee the healers in Domasta could fix him anyway.

But with each step, his breath began to get harsher, and a chilling thought began to invade Feror's mind.

What if I can't make it back to them?

The bloodied grey wolf came to a stop. He had a decision to make, and as a familiar smell tickled his nostrils, he would have to make it fast.

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