The Princes

The morning sun had yet to rise against the hills of the tribe’s land, though all of the wolves were awake and ready much too soon for even the most ambitious wolves of the True North. Many groups were clumped together in an odd attempt to surround the camp of elven raiders, a rather young one sniffed the air and prodded one of the leaders in the shoulder, “Are you all sure these are elves? They seem more like us over their kin.”

The youngest brother turned slowly with his two blades still sheathed upon his hip, “My brothers have said it so I believe them.”

The young wolf who asked became quiet at that as the others took steading breaths to keep them calm enough for the signal to be sounded. As many of the wolves in this group followed Jórulfr as he was the youngest like them and bore a great eagerness for victory and glory like them as well. None of these wolves could contain their excitement and some were even on the verge of howling but a slightly older wolf continued to silence them further with an angered glare. The only wolf among them not bristling at this opportuntity was Jórulfr who watched intently at the elven camp from the south side with a worried stare at the many warriors rising from their tents with weapons and armor already adorned.

On the other side of Jórulfr’s group sat Goðþormr and his men who were calmly sitting amongst one another as the eldest stared intently into the elven camp with a steely determination and rage hiding beneath it. He stared not at the warriors of the camp but a post of many guards who bore only strange swords and no bows, though many were sparring on the west side which almost seemed as though they moved in a flash against each other. Not a word was spoken between them as another wolf came up on the biggest brother’s right, an older wolf with much experience in battle and raids who acted as the eldest brother’s second in command, “How long must we wait?”

“Until the signal is given.” Goðþormr shrugged, slightly moving his mighty twin bladed axe.

“Who will send that signal?”

“Father.”

The old wolf nodded and stared at the camp with his leader as the third group watched the elven camp in confusion, they were the closest to the camp but they were the stealthiest of all the wolves. They were the oldest, some with long gray beards and haggard dispositions normally but now they all sat with patience as the King sat at the head of them giving them orders, “We shall aim first for the elven guards, any line of sight on the leader then shoot but I wish to save the leader for my sons if possible.”

The closely knit group nodded in unison as they all prepared their bows and arrows that glinted sharply in the darkness. The King stared blankly at the east side of the elven camp which seemed to house the more innocent of the upcoming conflict, the women and children but also a singular tent which bore the banner of this tribe. Though the King stared on one wolf tapped the King on his shoulder, “Where is the Ravenous One?”

The King pointed his hand towards the camp, “He is there somewhere. Once you see the black wolf with blood red eyes. Begin shooting into the camp.”

As the old wolf nodded, the King looked to the far north of the camp which sat the final group of wolves. This horde was of mixed men, some of the tribe whispered to themselves believing Beinviðr and his men to be the best among the tribe but in truth? They were only the swiftest and strongest among the tribe, they bore a singular purpose in battle which was to cause as much damage as possible in key points. Once Beinviðr and one of his men tore down a large barn on top of an enemy and his band during the night because they had fortified themselves with no intent to leave, when warned they would die in there if they stayed one more night all they could do was laugh at this band of wolves. Beinviðr sat at the head of the group as he stared begrudgingly at the camp, as if knowing there was no running from his doom but he knew that the time to flee was now.

As the horde of wolves gathered for one more moment of affirmations and preparation, one of the wolves who was Beinviðr’s second in command came to him and whispered, “Why do you look so scared, my friend"?”

Beinviðr chuckled softly, “I fear nothing, Einulfr.”

The wolf warrior chuckled as well and nudged his friend, “We shall win. You will see.”

“That isn’t what I worry over.”

“Then what is it?”

“My destiny comes for me.”

“What? I don’t-”

The wolf was silenced as Beinviðr raised his fist to signal something was moving or amiss, the horde gathered quickly to unsheathe their weapons. They all bore two short swords but Beinviðr bore a long sword that belonged to his father, the King, though under the moon it looked to be a weapon of the gods rather than a sword of steel. As the wolves stared into the camp, none could see but what the King and his sons could which was a mighty black wolf with red blood eyes stare at the banner of the camp then with a deep breath, howled a long and sorrowful sound. The King and his sons joined the bellow of their ancestor then so too did their bands, for a moment the great howling completely deafened the night and its song. When the howling ended, the elves could do nothing but stare blankly into the air as if in a strange trance when suddenly arrows flew into the chests and heads of many guards on the east side. The battle had begun with strange blood spilling the soil of this tribe’s land, in a flash the warriors of the camp all but appeared in blazing light around the edges of the camp.

Jórulfr’s men leaped from the woods in a massive horde straight to the warriors and guards that brandished their blades as all they saw were a horde of half naked men in wolf pelts leap from the trees, this was what the warriors at the southern edge saw. Goðþormr’s men rushed forward at the elves on the western edge of camp who were more guards over warriors, just as they planned, the elves witnessed giants of men in wolf pelts swinging massive axes rush towards them with death and rage in their eyes. The men of the King stayed in the bushes as one line fired forward at the sudden appearance of many of the camps warriors as the second line shot towards the sky in the hopes of hitting the tents filled with innocent women and children, the warriors on the eastern edge could only see the arrows that sang of their deaths. Finally, the northern edge of this camp which seemed to house the supplies and a handful of guards saw the most frightening sight of all, a small group of men with wolf pelts who all seemed to move as one straight towards them with torches of fire alight.

As the battle begun, the elves all rushed from their tents or at least those who were not participating and ran towards the ships which they had not realized yet were blocked by Beinviðr’s men and their flames. Two elven men rushed from their shared tent, one wore a white tunic with blonde hair and dark eyes but the other bore a black tunic with black hair and bright blue-gray eyes. The two elves looked to each other and the one in the black tunic looked in dismay at the ensuing battle as the one in white grinned maliciously and spoke words in a language the wolves couldn’t understand but said the name they waited for, Torta.

Just as soon as the two elves walked from their tent, the one in white disappeared in what looked like a shadow while the other stared angrily into the darkness but drew a longsword which bore strange symbols and the sword seemed to almost glow in the firelight. As the battle raged, Jórulfr and his men seemed to be struggling to cleave through the southern border of warriors with one wolf going down with his head flying across the battle field. As the elves seemed to have a small bit of joy, it was enough of an opening for Jórulfr to cleave through an elf and behind the line, “You dare come to the land of wolves and seek our treasure!” He was like a gale of steel as he seemed to rip and tear through almost every elven man on the southern line with a maniacal laugh ensuing in the carnage.

The King and his men noticed the eastern line shift as a few began moving towards the south to overtake Jórulfr’s band but this was the opening the King needed, another howl was heard as the east suddenly multiplied wolves as if the very trees were creating them. Though the wolves were old and slow at first, they grew increasingly fast as one moment the elves witnessed old men with wolf pelts at the woods edge and another moment passed with all of the old wolves setting upon them as if they were meat to be eaten in one gulp. The King’s men were old but they were the hungriest for not just battle but meat of the enemy, they rip and tore through all the warriors as if they were children as the King drew his bow and shot through the banner at the center of camp, right where the eye of the wolf on the banner was. As the horde fought, they all heard at the northern line a mighty roar and saw a great fire roaring in the distance which put a smile on the King.

As the main building which held most of the supplies went up in flames, the guards could only do what they were ordered and began trying to set the fire out with buckets of water. As one elf ran to grab water, another elf was gone, though one saw another alive but moments ago, that elf was soon cut to ribbons, finally after a few moments all the elves on the northern line were dead. Soon the elf in the black tunic saw the main building was on fire and many of his men were dead, the wolves came ever closer to his people. With a quick glance around, he ran to the center of camp and blew a horn which seemed to deafen the wolves for a moment as a stray arrow barely caught the elf’s black tunic as he yelled more in that strange language to his kinsmen.

At the mention of this Tylineus, the elves spun their heads towards the elf in the black tunic as Beinviðr looked on and heard the voice of his ancestor, “He is the one we need to kill tonight.” In a flash of steel and wolf pelt, the sons of the King rushed towards the elf with a single name running through their minds, Torta. Jórulfr got to him first as many of the women and children could only dodge around them as Beinviðr’s men grabbed them as they rushed for the ship and tied them up. The youngest brother cried out as he swung his blades towards Torta, barely missing as a shred of the tunic came off Torta’s body as well as blood, all Torta saw was the pelt of a white wolf come upon him as he struck with his blade which struck air.

Goðþormr rammed through the guards that were left and came running for the elf’s head with his axe but when he swung the axe, only air was cut in that moment as Torta reappeared in front of the last of the brothers. The two stared each other down as Beinviðr bore not just his longsword but a short sword as well which the other two moved to help but were stopped at Beinviðr’s eyes. They bore the hate they had only seen once before and they knew not to step into that world but Torta simply stared in horror as the wolf lifted his blade to strike, in the last second Torta threw his sword up and was knocked down with the force of the blow and lost his sword. The wolf stood over the elf with a wrathful glare as the elf only saw the three brothers, all wearing white wolf pelts which were stained with blood but all the little elf could do was spit on the one seeking his death. “I am the true prince of princes! You will never kill me you stupid wolf. I will live eternal in death, I am not like you! I am a go-”

Beinviðr sliced the head of the elf off cleanly and proceeded to toss the head into the flames of the main building then took the strange sword, handing the family blade to his eldest brother. “This is my blade now. So is the daughter of this braggard.”

The brothers looked to each other as the oldest looked over to the most beautiful of the elven women who sat clustered together with the same fearful look all but the beautiful one. She couldn’t have been older than 18 winters but she sat there with the most defiant look on her face and one filled hatred and venom one moment but the next she seemed to calm but still angry at Beinviðr. He walked to the women and shouted, “Which of you is the daughter of that braggard?”

As the wolf pointed at the dead elf’s body, the defiant but beautiful elf stood up and looked the wolf in the eye. She took a few steps forward to him then tried spitting in his eye but he was much taller than the elf so it simply landed on his foot which was bare. Beinviðr shrugged and picked up the elven woman as she yelled and screamed, getting a few good hits in but it didn’t affect Beinviðr though his brothers winced as she kicked him in the balls somehow.

The King was the last to join the group as Beinviðr walked away towards the long hall, “Has it been done?”

The brothers stared at each other then nodded as Jórulfr uttered, “Beinviðr killed Torta and took his daughter.”

The King smiled, “Good! We will enslave the rest for work and prettiest we will use as we wish amongst the men tonight.”

Goðþormr looked to his father and asked, “What of the children?”

The King shrugged, “Keep a few but the rest I will allow you all to decide what to do with them.”

As the battle came to its close, the tribe came together finally at the long hall of the tribe with raucous cheers and ugly singing. The King and his sons sat at the head of a mighty table which sat before the King’s throne, there the King called his men to quiet themselves, “We have proven not just to men but to all worlds, the wolves are not one to be trifled with! My son, Beinviðr, slew the leader of the elves and took his daughter as his slave as is the laws of these lands but I also call forth my youngest son, Jórulfr who rushed into the fray first and was the first to land a blow upon the fool hearty elf! Finally, my eldest, Goðþormr, he was the one who thought of this plan and is the true reason for our victory over the elven invaders so I do hereby decree, from this night forward I do so give the title of King to my eldest son!”

The hall roars as the King places the simple crown from his own head to that of his eldest son who is shocked by this news. He nodded his head and accepted the crown and hugs his father as he now steps forward to the mighty hall of wolves, “I am Goðþormr Ásulfrsson. We have shown why we wolves are the greatest. Even in the face of such foes, we have overcame them as we shall overcome any who seek to kill us or tarnish our lands. Now I tell you all, eat! Drink! Be merry!”

The hall erupts in chanting, “Long live King Goðþormr! Long live King Goðþormr!”

As the chanting continues, it is drowned out as the elven slave throws a chair at the King’s younger brother. Beinviðr dodges and rushes the elf as she screams, “I am no slave! I am no slave!”

Beinviðr groans as he utters, “Then be my wife!”

This stops the elf in her tracks as she has been lifted off the ground by the wolf, “What do you mean? You are a wolf and I am an elf.”

“So? What does that have to do with us?”

The elf looked confused, “Are you tricking me?”

Beinviðr rolls his eyes and sets her down, “Be my wife, in secret till we can find a home away from these folk so we can truly love one another.”

The elf gives Beinviðr a scornful look, “And what makes you think for one moment I’d ever love a wolf?”

Beinviðr shrugs, “Because I can protect you, I can give you love like you’ve never known, all I ask is you tell me your name first.”

The elven woman is hesitant but even in this dark cabin, she glows with such light and beauty that it bewilders the wolf, “I am Talyna.”

“So Talyna Tortasdaguhter.”

The elf snorts though at first it sounded incredulous but in truth was an honest laugh at a strange wolf, “No, Talyna Qwailashon. We don’t do the son and daughter thing they do here.”

Beinviðr looked to the elf and asked once more, “So Talyna Qwailashon, will you be my wife?”

The elven woman stood there a moment and truly thought it over for a moment or three but then she looked to the handsome wolf, one who had slaughtered and enslaved her people but yet something came over her. A strange emotion she’d never felt for anyone, one she must pursue and the only way she could was to take this murderous wolf as her husband so she takes a breath and though every instinct within her says no, she says just below a whisper, “Yes.”