(So, I can’t write all that eloquently, but Zahava’s history has been on my mind. I figured I might as well get it down while I have the muse to do so. There will be more chapters for as long as that muse remains; chapter 2 is already started. Thank you for taking the time to read; you are greatly appreciated!)
Chapter 1
A lone, black wolf slunk through an army camp in the dead of night. Her steps were carefully measured and silent. On the wolf’s face, a permanent smirk seemed plastered.
A man rolled over in his sleep; she froze. When all was quiet again, she stalked up to the tent and nosed the flap back to peer inside. Her golden eyes brightened with delight upon seeing her quarry: their war flags. To the people of the lands, there were precious few things more symbolic than their treasured flags. To steal or deface one was considered a serious offence.
This was the king’s flag; even though she hadn’t much to do with the war, the wolf knew that much. The backdrop was a light blue and, in the center, a large white stag stood proudly. The stag was adorned in dark gray armor and its hooves and antlers were red with the blood of his enemies; it was the king’s mount. With extreme care, the wolf gingerly picked up the largest, most important flag of all: the one they carried into the fray of battle. Quietly as she had entered, the wolf backed out, cautiously maneuvering the flag out of the tent. The man never stirred. With a spring in her step, the wolf carried the flag off, careful to stick to the grass and rocks to avoid leaving obvious tracks.
Another camp lay only a mile or two away. Employing the same slyness, the wolf also stole their battle flag. Theirs was gold and decorated with men and creatures charging as one. They were the Resistance, or so she had heard. She worked with haste, since the morning was quickly approaching, and took both flags deep into the woods and buried them.
Morning came. The sun rose with stark hues of deep orange and red the wolf noted; blood would be spilt today. She was high on a mountain by then, laying on a large outcropping of rock that overlooked a vast field, a field that lay directly in between the two camps.
As expected, both armies showed up, each on their respective sides. Rows of men, deer, and other creatures faced each other, all brandishing swords, lowering antlers, and gnashing teeth. There must have been several hundred beings there in total. To the left stood the King’s army, adorned in dark grey armor and royal colors of blue and white. They appeared more scrupulous than the other army, controlled, yet still seething. To the right, the Resistance stood: a passionate assemblage of many men and creatures of all shapes, colors, and sizes. The tension between the two lay like a suffocating weight in the air.
Her tail thumping in anticipation, the wolf waited.
From the King’s side, a young man astride a lanky looking stag slowly made his way towards the other army. He was a messenger, meant to discuss terms of peace or war with the other.
When they were halfway across the field, they stopped, expecting the other army to send their own messenger.
No one came from the Resistance. Apparently they weren’t in the mood for talking today.
Carefully, the messenger walked the rest of the way, standing before the irate army. It was either an act of bravery or stupidity; the wolf herself could never tell the difference between the two traits anyway. Her keen ears pricked to catch his words.
“Stealing a flag of the King’s is an offence justifiable by death.” The messenger began, his voice and body shaking as he spoke. The little stag looked petrified. “Give the man who did so up, and we will let your army survive to see another day.”
“Stole your flag?!” one shouted, an antlered doe at that, standing on the frontline. She spit the words at them like he was filthier than the dirt beneath her hooves. “You stole ours, you little-“
Her words were cut off by something quite peculiar: a knife thrown through the air. It lodged itself right into the messenger’s chest. With one last gurgle of a breath, the man slid from the saddle, dead. In a panic, the stag bolted back towards his army. The dead man drug behind him, his ankle caught in the stirrup. Even the Resistance appeared surprise as they looked amongst themselves for the thrower.
The wolf jumped up, watching the scene with a smirk on her face. One didn’t just kill a messenger. Things were about to get interesting. Carrion birds were already circling. The wolf licked her own lips as well.
Before the stag even made it all the way back, an order was shouted to charge. Men drew swords, and took off for the opposition, shouting a war cry.
The Resistance charged to meet them. At the front of the charge raced men astride large deer and some deer independent of any rider. Also, big cats and fighting dogs raced alongside them. At the forefront in particular, ran a riderless, russet elk with antlers so towering they probably outweighed the wolf herself. His armor was silver and shined blindingly.
The giant elk was the first to meet the King’s army. He slammed into the first deer and rider he met with enough force snap the smaller deer’s neck, sending it tumbling into the ground, rider and all.
With a clash of armor, swords, and bodies, the two armies met each other.
The wolf paced with excitement, trying to take the whole scene. Men slashed with their swords, deer stabbed with their antlers, big cats and dogs met each other in yowling scraps.
The scent of blood drifted up the mountain, and the wolf growled something feral, drooling slightly.
As she soaked in the sights, sounds, and smells of war, the wolf’s hackles began to rise. An odd feeling came over her; she was being watched.
She snarled, spinning around .
There stood a tall man, a black cloak covered him and concealed his face. “This ends today, Zahava.”
The wolf froze… This one knew her name, her name that she had never spoken aloud to anyone… This was a spell caster… She shook her head, and took a step back, blinking as if he’d be gone when her eyes opened.
Instead of the man disappearing though, two more spell casters appeared on either side of him.
She backed up another step, her hind foot feeling the edge of the rock.
The battle behind her raged on.
“You will fight for the Resistance, now.” The middle one said simply, as if there was no room for an argument.
But there was. “No wolf fights in your wars!” Zahava snarled.
The chuckled darkly, “That creates a problem then I suppose.”
They started speaking in tongues Zahava had never heard before, their spell language. She tried to run, but she couldn’t. Her paws seemed glued to the rock.
The more they spoke, the worse the wolf felt. Pain shot through her whole body as she yelped; she thought they must be killing her slowly. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to be blurry and much too far away and she found herself falling all the way down to it.
Zahava closed her eyes, wanting it to end.
When she opened her eyes again, she really wished it would end... This wasn’t her body. Not like it was supposed to be anyway.
For a full minute, all she could do was lay there crumpled on the ground, staring at her legs. Staring at her hooves. When she finally looked to the rest of her body, her fears where confirmed. They had turned her into a deer.
Her pelt was the same rich black it had been before, but that was the only similarity to her former body. She was a full-blown hind.
Her head felt oddly heavy. Two spikes now protruded from her skull, a little over two feet long each and curved slightly to reach out over neck. On the front of each spike, another spike came out, curving upward. They looked a bit like hooks there, only being about five or six inches long. The antlers were the same, night black.
Zahava jumped to her feet, this not being the best idea. Her legs splayed like a fawn standing up for the first time. The ground was miles away it seemed; she was just over six feet at the shoulder now, large for a deer of these lands.
Her new, brown eyes glared at the spell casters with abhorrence. Lifting her lips she tried to bare her teeth at them and growl. She no longer had any canines to bear though, and the growl came out sounding very unnatural.
“You fight for the Resistance now or you die.” the middle spell caster repeated, his voice sounding weak from having used so much magic.
Zahava’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t prepared to fight and die in this war; she didn’t even favor a side. She thought about fleeing, but then her drooped in defeat; there was no use running from a spell caster, they’d find her, they’d kill her. Her life as a wolf was over as she knew it. She didn’t even try to fight it as they locked heavy chains around her feet to prevent her from running.
She stumbled and fell quite a few times as she followed the spell casters, barely able to drag the heavy chains.
In the field below, the battle dissipated; the Resistance was well out-matched. They fell back, racing into the cover of the pine forest, leaving their fallen to the carrion birds that circled above.
Zahava would have sworn the birds were circling her as well.
(I wish I could adequately express my gratitude to you for taking the time to read this.. Please, helpful critique is very welcome here.)
