Connor: the Last Assassin 1

Chapter 1

The wolf ran easily over the springy turf, ears sharply pointed forward. Alert and ready for an attack or the sight of prey. The large animal exuded strength and grace, and the lithe body bunched as he ran faster to the river with the casual ease of a wild canine.
The grey animal slowed when the trees thinned, trotting, his ears flickering as once again he gave ear to the sounds of birds and rodents. He saw a beaver chomping at a tree not far away and passed him by, his hunting instinct tightly controlled. A snake slithered away across the dry ground aware of his approach. It too he majestically ignored.

The river bank opened up at the edge of the tall conifers and green-leaved trees. The large scarcely breathing wolf stopped and sat on his haunches surveying the rushing water with his yellow eyes. He was calm, unruffled. Only a slight breeze stirred his fur sluggishly. He seemed to be looking for something, his large eyes intent. Some time passed before he finally saw what it was he was looking for.

With a slight snort to drive the dust motes away, he ran along the rocky bank, gravel crackling underneath him with barely a sound. His toe nails clicked dully on the hard little rocks as he approached his destination.

He stopped a few yards off and sat once more, his tongue lolling out. His black nose wrinkled: he caught man scent. The creature half submerged in the water was a man. A rather large one. He lay immobile while the river went on past him, his lower body soaked in its cold water. There was dirt and blood caked on him in many places, his robes were rent and torn. His bow still lay across his back but the quiver was empty.

Carefully the wolf took a few cautious steps and with great care sniffed the man thing over. He heard the man’s rattling breath and nosed at his cold face lying against the gravel bank. The man did not stir even when the large wolf bared his long white fangs and growled a challenge.

Frustrated at last the large animal snorted, grabbed the back of the man’s clothes and dragged him out onto the bank, walking backwards in his effort. He sniffed once more at the still figure and then walked some distance away to resume his vigil. His brothers were coming. He had heard them in the forest behind him. He would wait here. Patiently. A wolf had infinite patience – or he did not eat.

Some time passed, the sun made its slow way across the blue sky, and then out of the dim forest several more wolves appeared, loping as easily as their brother had done. They stopped when they saw him, their eyes glowing in recognition and their ears forward to listen to his commands. He returned their stares and thumped his tail once on the rocky ground. As one, the wolves dropped to the ground, front paws stretched out before them, tongues hanging out.

And waited.

They waited for their master.

He would come soon.

Indeed the large canines could already feel his presence in the vicinity. They did not smell him. They could feel his thought – a man thought certainly but so wolf-tinged that they disregarded his strange appearance and two-legged locomotion. To them, he was a wolf, albeit of a different kind. He was the WolfMan and he had lived here for years.

He came shuffling out of the pines, his walking stick clacking on the gravel bank of the river with the sound of loose rocks. His breathing came in puffs but he was by no means ill. He was simply old. As old as the oaks of this huge primeval forest where few men had dared to venture. He had not cared much for the company of men in his youth and so had come here seeking solace and peace. He had found wolves, whose song called in his soul with an enchantment too hard to resist. Like them he was a wild untamed soul – uncivilized to most people’s taste. The wolves, though, did not seem to mind. They ran in a pack with him. He saw the world with their eyes, through their minds. To most men the forest was a dark dangerous place full of beasts to be hunted for fur or pleasure – something to be controlled and exploited. To him, the shelter of the trees was home, its denizens, neighbours. It was this ability to relate, to be one with nature – his wolf dreams, he called them – that had brought him awake in a sweat last night and to this bank.

Nodding gravely at the bigger of the wolves he stopped and leaned on his staff gazing at the apparition made real. The motionless man had appeared in his dreams last night. A cross. An eagle. And a wolf. Three signs. Three unconnected images. He could make neither head nor tails of them. The last image and the thought that had accompanied it had been all too clear. He had seen the face of the stranger now before him. He had seen this same river and its bank. He raised his head to squint at the sky: the sun too had been there, just in this same position. The de ja vu was so intense that he had to rub his eyes more than once. Sighing at last, he put his staff down and knelt by the unconscious man. He bent his ear and clearly heard the rattle of his breath and reached for the man’s wrist. The young man was dying. Indeed he should have been dead already. This was a summer day, yes, but the river always ran cold and fast. That he had not drowned yet was due more to luck than his own constitution. Without hesitation the WolfMan put the heels of his palms between the drenched man’s shoulders and pushed hard. Nothing happened. He pushed again, harder this time. Exhaling sharply, the old man pushed again with his callused hands, the skin of which was rough and browned from the years in the outdoors. Once more he pushed and pushed. Finally he was rewarded by a convulsion so violent that it almost flung him away. The wolves, who had watched indifferently until now, their yellow eyes impassive, now stood up and came closer. One of them growled and the large wolf who had come first with a dark stain across his muzzle barked a sharp retort. The old man chuckled as he saw out of the corner of his eye the smaller wolf subside with a sulky growl.

An enormous amount of water gushed out of the very much alive man’s mouth with every hard push on his back. He coughed, his entire body shuddering with the effort of coming back to life. The WolfMan sat back, hands on his knees, a strange feeling of relief washing through him. He had not liked his fellow man very much but he had no wish to see one die in front of him. He had never been cruel.

The coughing subsided at last. The weary man raised his head, shaking it to clear the cobwebs and glanced around, his dark uncomprehending eyes widening on the wolves and the old man. He frowned, his clearly Native features working to form some words, some thought. The WolfMan watched him calmly as he blinked and rose onto his elbows shakily. That was too much effort, though, for the battered wounded body and the Native collapsed to the gravel bank, darkness once more claiming its own.