Chronicle I: Marked

The first chronicle in a flash fiction series, Chronicles of the Worg King. The series focuses on a hunter and his struggle against humanity as he becomes the very predator that he hunts.

  A grueling yelp sounded which echoed and shrilled through the dense thickets of the forest. Followed by a loud pop and a bang, just like the aftershock of a jet soaring thousands of feet in the air. Lying there on the ground, a hunter, his leg bitten by the worg that leapt upon him. His gun shaking slightly in his hands as he pulled back the bolt to exchange ammo. Fumbling around in his pocket for a bullet, the worgs surrounded him like a pack of wildlings. Their eyes glowed red and their teeth dripped with taste of man flesh. Every growl setting the hunter deeper into a state of paranoia and fear.

Cocking the lever of his rifle and snapping the barrel into place, the hunter aimed for the nearest beast and let loose. Smoke filled the air around him instantly as sparks ignited the shot. When it cleared the worg stood before him in a dead glare, as if the bullet didn't even touch it. A horrifying look of despair grasped hold of the hunter round his neck, and the bitter cold snapped at his face. It felt like he were choking on death itself.

“Back you foul beasts!” The hunter yelled and echoed, waving his rifle back and forth through the air. As if the meager gesture threatened the beasts. Instead it just seemed to provoke them even further. Soon they began to howl a deafening cry at the moon through the clouds. Setting their attention on the hunter. Ready to pounce upon him at any moment. The hunter scrambled and dragged himself towards his satchel just few feet away from him. If he could reach the satchel he could get his flares. Perhaps the beasts were like ordinary timber wolves and hated fire.

Just as the hunter began to slide closer to the flares, a worg leapt in the air and pounced on top of the satchel with its jaw. It flung the gear away like taking candy from a baby. These aren't ordinary wolves the hunter thought to himself. He aimed his rifle towards the thieving beast and let loose another loud bang echoing through the coniferous trees. Again as the smoke disappeared from his vision, the worg stood there without the slightest scratch upon its hide.

“Damn you infernal hounds! Damn you to hell!” The hunter's frustration more than apparent, he began to let loose a spray of bullets, but alas to no effect. It was as if these beasts were ghosts and nothing could wound them. The hunter dropped his rifle to the side. The circle of worgs settling in upon him. They were close enough to pounce all at once, but they hadn't. They just stared at him with a mocking stare. Like it was just a game to them.

“What are you waiting for! Kill me!” The hunter realized his time was at an end. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless to defend himself from such infernal beasts. His fate was sealed he claimed to himself. Perhaps it was destiny that beckoned his name in death, or perhaps it was just his sheer lack of luck that had befallen him. Either way the hunter closed his eyes and waited for the worgs' warm maws to tear through him like a felled elk.

It seemed like minutes passed before a howl awakened and startled the hunter. When he slowly opened his eyes to look around there was nothing but snow upon the ground, and no tracks of the worgs to bee seen. The hunter began to rise from the ground. The grievous bite upon his calf slowing him down as he cringed with pain. He used his rifle beside him as a crutch to lift himself up the rest of the way. Hopping on one leg he turned around to stare through the trees. There were no glowing red eyes lurking among the darkness of night. No beasts to be found as far as his eyes could see.

Where they had gone? Surely his death was imminent. Surely the beasts should have teared his flesh from bone, and leaved nothing left for his family to bury. “Where are you foul beasts?” He howled with a harsh anger. Nothing but his own voice echoed back to his ears. He waited a minute and yelled again, but to no avail. Perhaps the gods did appreciate his life upon this world. Still, the hunter remained puzzled by this event. Were the worgs just testing his will to live? Were they toying with him for fun and games? He stammered towards his satchel, picking up the contents as he did, and filled his bag back up.

Limping off towards the trail he had left earlier that day, he headed for home at last. Wondering the entire way what the worgs intended this foul play for. It wasn't in the nature of a beast to leave prey alive. The unnatural incident grossed the hunter's mind as he shuddered at the very thought. He knew it were not his imagination, and that he had gone crazy, because the bite wound was still emblazoned and burning upon his calf. It would be a long walk back to the Hunter's Lodge from here, and he would have a tale to tell upon his return. Not to mention some deliciously warm soup and some dreadful mending. The hunter felt lucky this very night, but hadn't yet realized that destiny left its mark upon his flesh.     

Author's Note

Please notify me of any clear grammatical errors. (The ones that stick out like a sore thumb and are obvious to the eye.) What do you think about the introduction into this character? Is the story intriguing?