The setting sun cast the normally purple heather into vivid violets and lilacs, with the occasional peach from the lighter, younger flowers. The picturesque glen cut in two halves, one lit in shining splendour by the setting sun, glowing with colour and life, and the other a deep violet, nearly black, a colour not entirely dissimilar to that of a night sky, cast in the shadows the hillside itself caused.
In the base of the glen two small figures could be seen, one human, stumbling along slowly, trying to get out of the open before dark, the other a wolf, its lithe body trailing beside the man protectively, curled into his master’s side for comfort and protection.
The two figures made their way to the copse of trees at the base of the glen painstakingly slowly, their walking uneven, tripping over roots and logs until finally they reached the trees, turning back to watch as the majestic glen was covered by the blue-black blanket of night. For a moment their faces were lit up in the golden light of the setting sun.
The man was young, barely even a man, but he was taller than many men in the region. His jaw was strong, and his deep blue eyes wide, his cheek bones high and well defined. His hair was unkempt, as though he had been running his hands through it all day. His tall body was muscles, toned from years of running across all terrains, through snow and rain, even through fire, the lithe muscles tensed constantly, ready to pounce. His body was a weapon, honed for one purpose and one purpose only.
The wolf by his side was tall, its shoulder reaching the boy’s waist, its noble head reaching mid way up his ribs. Its face was long, its amber eyes cunning and cold. Its lean body was rock solid with muscles, bunched and tensed in preparation for a fight, constantly alert.
They turned and walked further into the small wood, gathering dry sticks and logs as they walked, before crouching to light a fire made from the dry sticks rather than green leaves so that the smoke wouldn’t be as visible. As they had no food they simply lay beside the fire, wrapped around each other for comfort and drifted into the endless dark on sleep, just below the surface, ready to fight if they heard so much as a whisper. Their bodies remained still, regaining the energy that they would need for the days ahead. They lay like this for hours, unmoving, until the sun began to rise, once again casting the glen into an array of spectacular colours. As the sun rose they began to stir, the light breaking through their eyelids and dragging them from their exhausted slumber. They stood, stamping out the remains of the fire and walking towards the edge of the woods.
As they re-entered the glen they walked towards the steep hillside, and began scrambling up the slopes, laboriously pulling each other up, aiding the other when needed, but sticking together, the boy still limping painfully. The boy would occasionally look over his shoulder and whine, a high pitched noise, not unlike those used within a pack of wolves, communicating with their pack brother. His whines were quiet enough that only someone with hearing like that of a wolf itself would be able to hear them. Yet still they climbed.
Their slow progression up the sides of the glen was not unnoticed, for they were watched by twenty or so people, all clad in a deep violet and green tartan, hidden amongst the heather. Their body paint allowed them to blend in completely with their surroundings.
A slight rustle alerted the boy to the presence of the people in the heather, though the quiet rumbling growl from the wolf by his side had cautioned him much earlier. Though the people amid the heather did not know it, the weak looking boy limping his way up the slope was not only one of Scotland’s most skilled assassins, but practiced in the arts of magic, his skill far surpassing those of his teachers.
Despite the outwardly injured appearance the boy was in fact in perfect health, his wiry strength could easily overpower the brute force on the men in the undergrowth, and teamed with the magic that he possessed the boy was near unstoppable, the best at his trade he and his wolf would trek throughout the highlands taking jobs from wealthy clan leaders, and those who were desperate for revenge.
He stayed to himself, keeping out of the clan wars, knowing that there was no point in risking himself in the bloodshed caused by petty arguments. He was biding his time, waiting. The assassinations were simply a distraction, allowing him to train himself while keeping his mind from the events to come. His time was near and he had to prepare.
One small signal from the largest man hidden within the purple flowers and all of the men sprang from their hiding places, swords drawn, and charged at the boy. Instead of turning to run the boy surprised them by turning to fight, an ethereal sword appearing in his hands, alight with flickering blue flames, as deadly as the look upon his face. The flickering light from his sword cast a blue glow over his face, making him seem otherworldly, a demon roaming the surface.
He spoke in the tongue of the devil himself, raising his head and howling. The wolf by his side joined in with the war cry of demons. There was a rustling from the heather around them and the men were surprised to find themselves surrounded by twenty or so of the largest, strongest wolves they had ever laid eyes on.
Their snarling faces and glowing eyes gave these wolves an ethereal look, like the hounds of hell told in ghost stories. Their canines long and sharp, their fur an array of blacks and dark greys, their bodies as tall and muscled as the one by the boys side. It wasn’t the wolves that scared the men so much, rather the fact that they listened to the boy, his every word was obeyed.
As he spoke to the wolves his eyes darkened to a fathomless black, darker than the black of unconsciousness, his face became more pointed and wolfish, and his canines grew and sharpened, lips stretching into a feral snarl. His body seemed to grow, his muscles growing and bulking out his shoulders and chest, his lean body like that of a wolf.
He ran his sword through the air, the metal slicing through the heather with ease, sending the burning flowers around him like a million sparks. He raised his sword to point at the men before cocking his head to the side, toying with them, playing with their heads. He was inviting them to fight, knowing that they wouldn’t last long and that they would surely die if they crossed swords with him.
The men shared frightened looks, knowing that they would surely die if they angered the menacing youth before them, and dropped to one knee, their heads bowed and their hands resting above their hearts. Silently they pledged their lives to the boy, claiming loyalty to him in the presence of the gods of the mountains and glens, even the gods of the lochs. From now on they were his men, his clan. They would become the most skilled in hunting and killing after the boy himself, each with one of the great wolves by their side. They would be formidable, unbeatable.
Their legend would reach across the whole of Scotland, for centuries people would fear the men who were led by a boy, barely a man, and were accompanied by wolves. They would walk the paths of the glens, learn to blend in, silent as the owl in the woods, deadly as the wolves by their sides, they would become weapons themselves, their bodies made for hard work and resistant to the weather. They were the cù allaidh de aubhas.
"cù allaidh de aubhas" - the wolves of fear -> translated from the Gaelic (Scottish not Irish)
