This story is based in a world of mine that I tentatively call the Clan Holds. The Clan Holds are populated by various species of humanoid animals (wolves, bears, crows, lions, ect...) that maintain a diverse and politically complicated society fraught with turmoil and battle. Each race of the world has its own laws and ideals that often put them at one another's throats. This short story is a quick peak into the clan lands of the wolves. Art by Curio Draco. Without further preamble:
“Let my brother know I'll join him in a moment.” Teelin of clan Wraith growled the words between clenched teeth, his anger biting at the syllables and turning them into an agitated semblance of the Noble Tongue that was somehow both poetic and brutal. His attendant, a young wolf of clan Swift named Owan, bowed in acquiescence and departed with a whipping of his tail as he spun about, eager to be away from the young War Master who sat brooding in his chambers.
Teelin barely noticed as Owan departed. He didn't even hear the echo of expectant voices that drifted through his briefly opened door as the younger wolf, true to his clan name, vanished out into the meeting hall beyond. Barely into his adult years, Teelin looked at himself in the polished brass mirror that stood against the wall before him. The face peering back looked older than it should. There was gray at his muzzle, and scars crisscrossing his features, thin lines drawn there by sharp weapons, and blood caked claws. His left eye was cool gray, but his right was entirely white. He'd once been grazed by spell fire on his right side, and the eye had never recovered. His ears twitched in the silence of his room. One was pierced by three rings, the other held only one, and was missing nearly half of its length. He'd lost that one in a battle that had almost taken his life. He reached a clawed hand up to his chest and traced his fingers along the scar that ran from his left shoulder down to the center of his stomach. The fur had mostly grown back, but it had come in bright white, a stark and unavoidable reminder of just how close death had come on that day when compared to the rest of his dark gray coat.
Normally Teelin never went out in public unless fully clothed, so that he could cover up the majority of the maze of scars he carried, but he wore only a cloth of black linen about his waist as he watched his reflection in the mirror. He would not be dressing any further before he went out to face his brother. It wasn't permitted.
For four years he'd served his people, fighting for the clans, serving as their King in the place of his father, who had died in that same service, and now he stood at the edge of losing it all. His older brother had returned to take the crown, and with it, Teelin's place in society. The people rallied around Teelin's older sibling, Kreeg, because he was charismatic, and because he looked like his father.
Kreeg was a monster of a wolf. Some said that the family blood ties to the ancient Dire clan had shown through in Teelin's brother, because he stood a foot taller than even the largest warriors in the clan holds, and because he was stronger than any two of those same warriors combined. Even though he had chosen to leave the clan holds when his father died, Kreeg was still seen as a hero to the people, and Teelin, and all of his accomplishments, were forgotten in the shadow of his older sibling. For four years Kreeg had disappeared, and Teelin had finally had his chance to prove that he could be strong, that he could lead honorably. He had done well.
Then, out of nowhere, Kreeg had shown up at the clan council and demanded the Rite of Blood, so that he might take his place as king. The people had cheered, and though some few stood for Teelin, Kreeg had more than enough support to win his Rite of Blood. In the mind's of Kreeg's supporters, he was already king, and the same was true for those who supported Teelin. They considered the younger brother a lost cause in light of the splendor of the more impressive Kreeg. Though they might believe Teelin capable and honorable as a warrior and king, none of them believed him up to the challenge of defeating his older brother in fair combat. Rite of Blood would determine lineage and the right to rule, and only one brother would be allowed to stay when it was over, assuming the other was even left alive.
Teelin's eyes passed over his sword which lay, unsheathed, across the table before him. It was a standard issue saber, well maintained, the blade thin and razor sharp along the leading edge. Teelin's father had carried a legendary broadsword, Wraith, named for the clan, that was considered the rightful blade of the king, but Teelin had always preferred a more agile weapon. It wasn't that he lacked the muscle to wield the larger sword. Indeed, Teelin's body was almost entirely muscle, though he looked more lean and lithe than bulky. Wraith, for all that it was a beautiful weapon of Black Wyrm Steel, was not the tool of a graceful fighter. The legendary blade had been specifically crafted to allow a man with more strength than skill, to match paces with enemies that might otherwise have an advantage. It was almost impossible to parry Wraith because it weighed so much, and it was difficult to get in close to one wielding it because the blade alone was nearly five and half feet long. No, in the end, Teelin would always prefer his saber and claws.
The young king reached for his sword, taking the familiar hilt in his left hand. The leather bindings fit the grooves of his fingers, worn from years of use, and the heft of the simple mechanism of death was perfectly balanced from pommel to point. He let his hand fall to his side and turned to the closed door to his room. The time had come for him to face his brother, and the assembled heads of clans.
The minute the door to his room opened, he could hear the mixed murmuring of voices from the council chamber beyond. Their words swam through the air, rolling melodically in the tones of the Noble Tongue, a language specific to the upper echelon of clan households, reserved for alleged nobility. Teelin had grown to hate the sound of that language over the four years he'd served as king. That poetic whimper of the upper class was nothing more than another layer upon which they attempted to make an art out of their back stabbing and constant political bickering. Within the palace it was not considered polite to speak any other language.
As head of the clans, Teelin was in charge of mediating major clan disputes, and of maintaining the title of War Master, which meant that he must constantly keep in top physical form. For the purpose of serving the law, he had to master the Noble Tongue, but when he served his post as War Master– when he fought side-by-side with the ranks of his men, and spoke freely with them in the People's Tongue– that was when he felt most at ease. He had never played the political game well, and he suspected that, to some degree, that was exactly why Kreeg had received so many votes when he'd come demanding Rite of Blood. Despite four years of absence, Kreeg knew what to say to the politicians. He knew what they wanted to hear.
Teelin walked down the short hallway to the council room, ignoring the glances of the guardsmen who, despite standing fast at attention, couldn't help but let their eyes linger on the passing king. Those looks held barely disguised curiosity. Would they ever see him walk those corridors again? Without his armor, and with his scars visible to the world, Teelin felt truly vulnerable. The bare patch on his back, larger than two palms, where acid had spattered across skin and left scar tissue upon which no fur would sprout, seemed to burn under the gaze of his men. Teelin had no doubt that Kreeg, even dressed in the same basic loincloth outfit, was not having any of the same insecurities about his appearance.
As Teelin's padded feet stepped into the circular council room, the voices subsided. The one-hundred-and-forty heads of clans all turned their attention to the young wolf, looking down from their seats that sat on risers all around the walls of the room, but he barely noticed their attention shift as his gaze was locked on the massive wolf who stood across the circle from him. Kreeg was more than a foot and a half taller than his younger brother, and his fur pattern was much lighter, white in most places, with a mottling of gray, where Teelin's was dark gray, with black fur peppering his back and face. Kreeg's height wasn't the only characteristic separating him from his younger brother. He was also nearly twice as wide across the shoulders, a tower of rippling muscle and ferocity. In one of his great clawed hands he held their father's sword.
Teelin drew to a stop, nearly tripping over his own feet in his shock at seeing his brother carrying the royal blade of office. It should have been in the Hall of Champions, mounted above their father's sarcophagus.
“Brother,” Kreeg acknowledged Teelin, lifting the massive black sword until the point was facing his younger sibling's neck, a clear sign of challenge. “I hope you are prepared to fight with honor.” His words were a jibe, an insinuation that Teelin might be so shameful as to actually cheat in a Ride of Blood. It was a low blow, but one that made the heads of clans murmur in interest. Teelin wondered what lies his brother might have spread about him while his back was turned. He didn't believe Kreeg above lying to gain favor.
“I see you've brought father's sword. Is it not presumptuous of you to take the sword of the king, to fight the rightful king?” Teelin snapped back, almost forgetting to use the Noble Tongue in his anger.
Kreeg smiled in a way that was less about joy than it was about grim amusement. He hefted the blade and twirled the dark sword through the air with seeming ease before leveling it at his brother once more and speaking again.
“I had to wipe dust from the scabbard. It seems no rightful king has held this blade in the four years I've been away.” He answered easily, and a chorus of laughter sounded from the assembly. “It is well past time we correct that, little one.” Kreeg used the name he'd called his brother when they were still pups, scampering about the castle grounds, and getting into trouble with their teachers and caretakers alike.
Teelin stepped further into the circle of the assembly hall. It was a wide open area usually reserved for speeches, or trials, but now it stood empty, cleared of podiums and chairs. The wood floor had dark stains that most people never noticed when in the room, places where blood had seeped into the wood so deeply that it would forever leave its mark. The assembly hall was a place of business for the clan holds, but it was also the place where differences were settled by sword and claw. The building was nearly a thousand years old. It had a long history. Teelin never let himself forget that, and though he'd never seen swords drawn in the hall before, he'd heard of many varieties of blood rites, and he knew what was expected.
“You left your people for four years, Kreeg. When the Pride Lands attacked, you were nowhere to be seen. When the Ilkoid Scourge swept down from the mountains, it was not Kreeg of Wraith who stood at the front of the armies. I have fought for my people these four years. I am their king.” Teelin said, and this time he dropped the Noble Tongue entirely. It was the greatest slight one noble could show another. Teelin, in using the People's Tongue, implied that Kreeg was not a member of the nobility, and didn't deserve to be spoken to as a head of clan. There was a collective sharp intake of breath from the assembled clan leaders. A heavy silence fell over the room.
Kreeg's eyes burned in their sockets, gray-green, bright and furious, but when he spoke, he did so with a dismissive laugh. He turned away from his brother to face the assembly, rotating slowly as he spoke.
“Back him into a corner, and his true colors show through, do they not?” The great white wolf chuckled. “It's not I who is shown the lesser by his coarse tongue, it is only the little pup, Teelin, who looks the fool.” The clan leaders seemed to relax at his words, some few smiled, others openly applauded, some of them standing in ovation and tapping the claws of their feet upon the ground in a show of support. What little respect Teelin had for the assemblage trickled away with the thunderous reverberation of their clicking claws and clapping hands.
Teelin clenched his jaw. In the war of words he had faltered beyond redemption. His brother was too quick of tongue to be hampered by any insult he might summon up to use as a weapon. The weight of his sword in the palm of his left hand reminded him of why they had really come together. Words might sting, but it wasn't a tongue lashing that would decide the successor to the throne. The only question that remained, was whether or not Teelin would fare better with the sword than he did with the politicians.
The younger wolf raised his sword to his brother, and the heads of clans grew suddenly silent. The show they'd been waiting for was about to start. Blood would be spilled, and that was the only thing that really mattered to those who'd gathered. They all believed that Kreeg would slay his younger brother, but Teelin had fought hard for four years, and he swore to himself that he would give the usurper a fight to remember. Kreeg lifted his weapon back to the ready, holding it firmly in his right hand.
An old wolf with light gray fur, dusted white with age, stepped to the edge of the center circle. He was the Speaker of the Times, and it was his job to announce the business of the day, and to record the incidents of note in the clan hold's histories. He held up his ancient arms to silence the crowd, though it was unnecessary. No one had so much as whispered since Teelin raised his weapon. Both brothers stood with their blades lifted, ready for the fight to begin. Teelin wondered how much fatigue was settling into Kreeg's arm as he stood with his father's giant blade raised in front of him, held in only one hand. If it was bothering him at all, Kreeg didn't let it show on his face. He seemed calm, his focus resting solely on Teelin. His gaze did not waver for a second.
“Today, by the Wraith clan's Rite of Blood, we shall determine the proper successor to the King and Warlord of our gathered clans.” The old wolf spoke solemnly, his tone gravely with age. “Since it has been over 100 years since we have last witnessed such a Rite, I shall state the rules for all to hear, so that no question of the outcome's legitimacy need ever be raised.”
The Speaker paused for a moment, accessing memories he hadn't needed in a long while. He cleared his throat and began to recite, as if from a book. “Two, and only two, shall enter the circle. Combatants may wear no armor or cloth that might otherwise give unfair advantage, and may not carry any weapon other than a single sword with them. Once the battle commences, the fight will continue until one combatant can no longer raise their weapon in their own defense, at which time the victor can determine whether to banish, or slay, the fallen. If banished, the loser shall be stripped of his sword and his adornments and cast from the clan holds. He is given two hours to leave the city limits, and two days to get beyond the borders of clan lands, at which time he is considered an outlaw wanted for treason, and will be executed upon sight. Also, upon losing the wolf in question is stripped of all possessions and rank, and is marked as pariah. Any who aid the fallen shall be dealt with as traitors.”
The old wolf stopped his recitation and looked at the two brothers. “Do you both understand and accept the rules of the Rite?”
Teelin nodded, as did Kreeg.
“To death or dishonor, this Rite has commenced.” The Speaker's voice cracked like thunder as he spoke the final words and stepped from the circle, back into the seats where the audience waited with rapt attention. Kreeg charged forward.
Wraith, the great black sword, split the air before the older sibling's rush and it was all Teelin could do to dive out of the way before he was impaled in the very first pass. Kreeg was faster than the young king could have imagined. A tingle traced his spine, and Teelin dropped to the ground without turning. A wave of darkness passed through the space that had contained his torso not a moment before. It shouldn't have been possible for his brother to change momentum so quickly with a sword as big as the one he was wielding, yet he had done it, and instinct alone had kept Teelin alive. He pushed outward from his crouched position, forcing himself into a slide along the wood floor while twisting around to face his opponent once more. He'd barely centered himself again before the next attack came.
The older sibling pushed the attack ferociously, swinging the Black Wyrm Steel blade too fast for Teelin to even consider an attempt at a counter. The younger wolf's thin saber would not take the abuse of meeting the great sword in a clash of steel. Even if the sword held, and there was a good chance it would not, the reverberation of the strike would knock his arm numb and possibly break his left wrist. Instead of countering, Teelin rolled between his brother's strikes, avoiding the dangerous blade sometimes with so little leeway that he could feel his fur being shifted by the weapon's passing. How long could Kreeg keep his pace? Certainly his arms must tire eventually?
Five minutes passed, and Teelin had not so much as a single attack to his credit, but he was becoming better at avoiding Kreeg's blows. He wasn't sure whether his brother was growing weary, or he was learning to predict the muscular wolf's swings, but either way, he was beginning to see a way to turn the battle.
He waited until Kreeg swung a powerful strike from right to left, and just as the tip of the blade cleared his body, Teelin dove forward, pushing himself with all the strength in his legs, and thrusting his saber as far as his arm would extend. It was a long reach to clear the space between Kreeg and himself. Half way through the maneuver, Teelin realized his blow would not hit home. Kreeg's swing had taken his body out of the optimal striking position, presenting his much narrower profile, but Teelin's entire body was committed. Instead of trying to retreat, he pushed once more with his legs and dove further inside of Kreeg's field of range.
A moment of near triumph burned through Teelin as he felt his saber bite flesh, but the elation fell away almost as soon as it was born. A line of bright red appeared on his brother's left arm, but it was a shallow cut. That same arm was suddenly at his throat. Teelin had let himself get in too close to Kreeg. A monstrous hand clamped down on his neck, catching him up before he could even turn the momentum of his lunge. Kreeg's eyes burned with anger as he lifted his much slighter attacker from the floor. His left hand squeezed, and Teelin could feel his windpipe closing up, a wave of blackness passed before his eyes. His saber dropped from his sword hand.
In desperation the younger wolf lashed out with his claws, ripping away at his brother's arm and hand, but he would have had as much luck trying to tear his own sword in half. Kreeg raised their father's black weapon, awkwardly trying to find a good way to use the giant sword to end Teelin.
I'm going to die. Teelin thought, his vision all but gone as his lungs burned with a need for oxygen. A rush of desperation ran through his body, and a last fount of strength burst open. With everything he had left, Teelin kicked up and out, spreading the claws of his foot wide. He felt the blow connect, and suddenly the pressure at his neck was gone, and he was falling to the wooden floor. Someone was screaming, but it wasn't him, which meant it must be Kreeg. The king hit the ground running, not sure where he was going, but knowing that he needed distance to regain his composure. His throat burned as he dragged air in painfully through the bruised muscles of his neck. The darkness was beginning to clear from his vision.
The roar behind the fleeing fighter turned from a cry of pain to a bellow of rage, and Teelin knew that his short time of recovery was dwindling alarmingly fast. He scoured the ground with his still hazy vision, searching for his saber. A glint of silver caught his eye, and he ran in that direction, not even turning to see what his brother was doing. There wasn't time. Heavy footfalls sounded from behind him and to the left. The young wolf dove for his sword as he came within range. He grabbed the hilt and somersaulted quickly to his right. A thunderous crash sounded at his side as Wraith gouged into the wood floor of the audience hall, sending up a shower of wood chips.
Teelin twisted to the side and drew his weapon up before him as he spun to face his brother again. Kreeg was a ball of fury and rage. He held Wraith in both of his white-furred hands. There were four distinct claw marks across the right side of his face, deep wounds that had gouged out his right eye, and would no doubt leave scars Kreeg would have for the rest of his life. Teelin's good eye locked onto Kreeg's good eye.
At least now we have one thing in common. We're beginning to look more like brother's all the time. Teelin chuckled inwardly. He wasn't proud of the thought, though on some level it was satisfying.
Kreeg attacked again, his swing was wild, powerful, the heavy black sword was driven by both of his muscular arms, and it almost seemed that Wraith gnawed at the world around it as it cut a path through the air. Teelin dove beneath the blade, a reckless move perhaps, but some dynamic had changed in the battle between the brothers. Kreeg was no longer calm, and his fighting was suffering.
With a twist of his wrist, the young wolf struck at his brother's knee with his viciously sharp saber. He struck and blood spattered the wood floor, another black stain to add to the ancient decor. Kreeg roared once more and drove his blade down to cut Teelin in half, but the spry young king was ready. The nimble War Master dove between his brother's legs, letting the black blade cleave into the floor at his back. Teelin's blade cut into his brother's thigh as he went, and he was on his feet and turning before Kreeg could even react. His next cut took his older brother in the back of his right shoulder. Wraith clattered to the ground. For the first time since the battle had commenced, Teelin believed he would win.
Teelin's saber flashed forward, his opponent was empty handed, and halfway through the turn that would bring them face to face. The fight was over. His thrust was aimed for Kreeg's chest, but the larger wolf's hand struck out impossibly fast and deflected the blade down. The strike was still solid however, and the younger sibling's saber caught the white wolf in his hip and stabbed in deeply. Teelin was in the process of drawing the blade out when everything went wrong. Kreeg spun, and for some reason an impossibly bright red light seemed to come arcing around with him.
The king didn't realize what it was until it was far too late. Molten fire sprung from Kreeg's right hand, red, and so hot that it hissed as it flew through the three short feet between the two brothers. Kreeg had summoned spell fire. The bolt struck Teelin in the chest. If he hadn't had experience with the magical flame before, he might have simply let it hit him, but he'd dealt with magical fires, so he let his body spin with the impact, the molten ball of pain flowing across and off his chest, instead of straight in and through him. It took fur and flesh with it anyway, pulling the oxygen from the air as it moved by. Teelin fell to the ground, dropping his sword so that it clattered away across the floor. It just wasn't possible. No member of clan Wraith had ever possessed magical abilities.
Pain wracked the young wolf's body. He tried to reach for his sword, but the muscles in his chest were in ruins, and he could barely make his arms move at all. A clawed foot kicked him, knocking him to his back, before it stepped directly on to the burn in the center of his chest. The fallen king threw up. The pain was so violent, and so fast, that his stomach turned inside out. Tears of pain streamed down his face as he looked up at Kreeg.
The older wolf held another ball of fire in his right hand. It hung above Teelin's head, sizzling and crackling in the cool air. Magic was not against the rules of the Rite, but never had Teelin imagined his brother possessed such power.
“This rite is over.” Kreeg's voice was cold. The fire in his hand winked out. Teelin could hear the murmuring of the assembled heads of clan. He had to concentrate to stay conscious through the pain. As much as he wanted to continue fighting, he knew the truth. He was done. “Remove your vestments and leave. I will not give you the nobility of a quick death.” His older brother finished, removing his foot and stepping away.
Teelin's spirit was crushed, his body was twisted with pain. He dragged himself to his feet, the smell of charred flesh and fur filling his nose. He pulled the knot on his loincloth, and let the fabric fall away so that he stood naked to the world. He would have felt shame, if not for the hollowness that swept through him. His name, his rank, and everything about his life was gone. The country that he had fought for so many times, was not his country any longer.
“I recommend you run.” Kreeg said, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the man who was no longer his brother. “I will have the guards hunting you as soon as your two hours have passed.”
Teelin did not hesitate. He turned and ran for the doors, not knowing what he would do with his life, but also knowing that he had no other options before him. Each step caused his chest to ache and bleed, sending ripples of pain through his body. He wasn't even sure if he could keep going for a full hour. His arms hung uselessly to his sides, unable to move with the extensive damage to his chest. Cheers filled the hall behind him.
Teelin of clan Wraith was no more.
