The Cursed Elf Chieftain

Chapter 1

"The Olanders press every advantage they have," High Ruler Illyeis snapped, "and their greatest advantage so far has been numbers. The savages breed more quickly than your tribe can; even as we speak, they swell their ranks with pups and advance towards our borders. You must not let this plague overrun us but instead should wipe them out from our beautiful forest. Is that clear, Chieftain?" Chief Silvermane nodded, but, as he sat with the Council of the High Elves, he couldn't help but feel frustration and annoyance at his pure brethren. They did not fight, nor would they ever dream of needing to do so; that was the role of the Blood Wolves tribe. But this  meant they understood nothing of war, and, more importantly, the state of his tribe. Their numbers were too few. Only about two dozen fighting Wolves remained—a mere third of what his father had once commanded! They simply did not have the strength to repel the invaders. Silvermane felt his jaw clench. The High Elves may not give the Olanders credit, but Silvermane did. They were organized, and they were ferocious. Silvermane had seen his father underestimate them time and time again only to be defeated, costing them precious tribe lives. This fight would only mean more elven deaths.

"I hear, and I understand," Silvermane growled, bowing his head once more before rising from his seat and sharply marching away.  Once outside the glittering hall, he was joined by his two guards and their Bonds.  Normally, he would make the trip to the High Elves' Palace alone, but these were not normal times. He grabbed a fistful of mane and swept gracefully onto the back of his Bond.

"The High Ones wish for us to drive the dogs back," Silvermane informed his two companions. Lonehowl swore darkly, earning him a glare from his mate Moonfur, but even she wore a worried expression. Silvermane did not say more, for he would explain all to the whole tribe when they returned home. That did not stop Lonehowl from venting about the arrogance of his taller brethren the whole half-day journey back. He swore and growled and called the High Elves every foul insult he could think, each one earning him another hissing rebuke from Moonfur. Silvermane said nothing, for he knew that, for all of Lonehowl's bluster, the Elf was simply frustrated and scared for his tribe.

At long last, they sighted home and allowed their Bonds to break into a full sprint. As they approached the Dens, Silvermane threw back his head and howled, mimicking his Bond's call perfectly. Immediately, elves began to pop up from small, almost indiscernible holes in the ground that surrounded a huge mother tree. They made their way to a nearby clearing where a clear pond called the Meeting Pool lay, a shimmering waterfall splashing into it happily. Shady maples and strong oaks gave them cool from the sun, and several children dashed forward to dip their toes and friends into the water. Silvermane felt his heart twinge at the sight of the children. Three were orphans that the tribe had sworn to raise together, and five had only one parent left to them. Their parents had fallen to the blades of the Olanders, slain in this terrible war.

As Silvermane, Lonehowl, and Moonfur entered the Meeting Pool, many began to speak at once. Some called for their children to return to their side, others murmured greetings out of respect to Silvermane, and a few talked amongst themselves of what news he brought from the High Elves. All of this died away when Silvermane took his customary seat in the trunk of a lone willow next to the pond. He closed eyes and breathed deep.

"I have spoken with the High Ones," he declared. He hesitated, causing the tension to rise, before finishing. "They wish for us to continue this war." There was an immediate outcry against this, some angry, some distraught. Silvermane silenced them by howling once more, this one more savage than the last.

"Speak once and be heard by all!" he snarled. "That is the rule!"

"We're no good to the High Ones dead!" Petalpaw cried. "We must convince them that there is no way to stop the Olander army. More fighting will only lead to more death till all our tribe is lost!"

"The High Ones will not be swayed!" Lonehowl retorted after a moment of silence. "They care only for themselves and their own city! I say, we forget them and go it alone! And, if the Olanders still pick a fight, I say we just kill them all till the last Wolf!!"

"Including our pups?!" Moonfur spat, her silver eyes burning furiously. Lonehowl looked away from his mate, abashed, but his point remained. Silvermane sighed, running a hand through his namesake.

"We cannot fight them in the open," the chieftain admitted. "Their numbers would simply swallow any assault. But we cannot abandon our orders from the High Ones, for we are bound to them and would disgrace the Blood Wolves's honor if we did nothing. So we must do something else." The elves exchanged confused glances with each other before turning back to their leader.

"We must Hunt them," Silvermane growled. Petalpaw gasped in shock, and she was not alone.

"Chief," Darkfang said hoarsely, "Hunts are meant to find prey. To find food to feed the tribe. It would be a dishonorable way to fight."

"It is the only chance we have!" Silvermane barked. He stopped himself and sighed. "I wish to do this no more than you, but we have no choice. The Olanders are not skilled in such tactics as we are, and we must gain a victory. There is simply no other way."

"There is no way at all!" The shrill reply caught everyone's attention, and Silvermane groaned quietly. Not her. Not now.

"Great seer," Lonehowl murmured, as did most of the pack. The aged Whisperwind glared poisonously at the chieftain before continuing.

"There is only doom! Your father may have been able to match them, but you cannot! You have neither the experience nor the skill to best the dogs in battle! I was right in my predictions: you will destroy us all!!" Silvermane sighed. It was her usual rant, but now it seemed like there was true merit to her claims. Was he really only destined to lead his tribe straight to ruin? Suddenly, one elf stood, interrupting his dark thoughts.

"I say we try it," Moonfur declared. "Silvermane has led us faithfully and saved our skins with his strategies more than a few times. I say we give it one more shot." There were howls of agreement, and Whisperwind stormed off, fuming quietly. Silvermane felt his courage return.

"Then all Blood Wolves of age should prepare for battle," he commanded. "Tomorrow, at first light, we Hunt the Olanders!" He gave a savage howl, and his tribe followed suit, elf and wolf alike baying their thirst for blood and battle to the sky.

Dawn came quietly for the Blood Wolves. None would say a word, for they each prepared themselves mentally to stomach the disgraceful thing they were about to do. Quivers were filled, and daggers, short swords, spears, and axes were strapped to belt and Bond. Silvermane tied his hair back into a huge, overflowing ponytail, allowing the fluffy material to flow like silver fire down his back. His hand gripped the hilt of his war-sword, a huge, two-handed curved sword that had been passed down the line of chiefs. He breathed deep to clear his mind. Father, Mother, he whispered to himself, give me courage and strength to do what must be done. He grit his teeth, opened his eyes, and stepped out of his den.

Today would change everything.