City of Fire #3

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Suddenly, a tall woodsman with a large axe leapt between the baby and the wolves. He swung the ax at them wildly, anger flying out of his eyes at the beasts. “Go on, get out of here before I turn you into my winter coat!” he yelled, flailing the blade ever closer to them. Marcus had no fear in him; from the time he had been a small lad, he had always been a champion of anything that was weaker than him. And the sound of the poor baby’s crying had immediately dispatched him there, leaving the tree he had just felled behind him.
Two of the wolves tucked their tails between their legs and ran off like frightened dogs, but the third one stood his ground for a minute, staring at the big man before backing up, then running to join his brothers. “And don’t come back!” Marcus called after them. He dropped the axe and immediately picked up the child, dusting the baby off, and holding him close. He turned away so that the baby could not see the grizzly remains of the wolves’ handiwork.
“You’re all right now,” he promised, bouncing the baby lightly as he held him close. “Big bad wolves are gone. Let’s get you back home, and find something that’s fit for a wee one such as yourself to eat and drink.” He swooped up the basket with his free hand and began carrying it and the baby back to his cabin which was more than a mile away, the now bright moonlight shining upon his path. He had taken no more than a few long steps when the exhausted baby closed his eyes, and pushing himself tightly against Marcus’ strong chest, fell fast asleep.

“Alais, where are you?” Marcus’ voice boomed out from the cabin porch. Receiving no response, he muttered to himself, “Where the devil have you gotten to now?” Shaking his head, he sat down on the crude wooden chair and resumed working on the spoon he had been carving earlier that afternoon. Darkness was beginning to fall, and he was worried about his son’s whereabouts. The boy was now fourteen years of age; it seemed only yesterday that Marcus had saved him from the wolf pack, and made the decision to raise the boy as his own. He had never told Alais the full story of how his mother had been killed and what the wolves had done to her. It would not have helped the boy to have his sorrow deepened that much more. Marcus had simply told him that his mother had been very brave, and that even as a baby, so had he.
“Here I am, Father,” Alais cheerful voice called out. He made his way to the cabin, carrying his bow and two freshly killed rabbits tied to his belt. “I got our supper!” he declared proudly, pointing to the rewards of his hunt.
“Ah, that’s good, son,” Marcus approved, moving into the cabin to fetch two knives, so they could each skin one of the rabbits. He nodded toward the smoking fire pit to the side of their home. “I started a fire, hoping that you would be successful. Good work,” he nodded toward the boy.
Alais eyes lit up with pride. Marcus had proven to be a wonderful father for him. He could not possibly have taken better care of the boy, had he been his true father by blood. Alais had become an expert marksman with the bow, and was passing fair with an old sword that Marcus’ father had left to him. He had also taught Alais to shoe horses, and to have great respect for those noble beasts. The young boy sat a good horse, and although their two horses were getting on in years now, Charger, the pure white gelding, still could put on some speed when Alais urged him to move quickly.

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