“There, over there” shouted the first rider as he caught a flash of white to his left. The other riders followed his lead, wheeling to the left and leaning low over the horses' withers. Each of the riders was a member of the Canhednar, the strongest hunters in their village. Only the Canhednar were allowed to hunt with the aid of dogs of which there were four, one for each man in the hunt. Each dog was practically an extension of the hunters, and each hunter was as anxious about the safety of their dogs as they were about themselves.
They were hunting the last wolf. Over the years their village, Varkolak, and the surrounding villages had hunted the wolves who stole their sheep in the night. Slowly, they had won battle after battle, hunting the packs down, protecting their flocks. This hunt was to win the war. The hunters were certain none remained apart from this one. The country had been scoured, their lairs cleared, even the lair of the pack to which the last wolf belonged. But still he ran.
Still he ran. He could hear the dogs close behind and in the distance the horses with men upon them. His strength was failing - the rain and mud virtually sucking the vitality from him. His tongue lolled and his lungs burned as he gasped for breath, the muscles over his body aching with fatigue. Suddenly he heard a dog close behind and with an agility belying his exhaustion he turned and leapt at it, taking the dog by surprise as it's throat was ripped out. Blood dripping from his teeth, the last wolf took scant nourishment from the kill and was off running, knowing he would not be so lucky a second time. He had one last chance, which might be even worse than the fate that followed, but it was the only glimmer of hope he had. Turning to the hills, the last wolf ran on. The dogs followed.
The first rider cursed as he saw the corpse of the dog, rivulets of water running pink from it's muzzle. He heard the cry of anguish from the third rider as he recognised his dog. These men spent all their time with the dogs, training and hunting. They were their friends, their livelihood and crucial to the village. The first rider felt the horse of the third rider draw next to him, as if the death of his dog had given him greater urgency. Then he cursed again as he saw the remaining dogs' trail led up towards the hills. He put a steadying hand across, a hand of sympathy and understanding, but also of warning. The hunters were wary of the hills, often unexplained noises could be heard at night and many a traveller had disappeared despite warnings from the locals to avoid them. Even animals seemed to give the hills a wide berth at night. The riders urged on their horses after the dogs, encouraging them to chase the last wolf still faster.
Still faster and faster, the last wolf could hear the dogs, closer and closer. He could hear the hunters behind them and knew that time was short. He was in open ground now, knowing the dogs and riders could see him but sanctuary wasn't far. With a last burst of effort he ran over the brow of the hill and down. Before him lay a conical hill in a wide valley with a river flowing through it. The river was swollen with the rains, but didn't cross his trail. The rain had stopped now, the clouds were parting and under the moon he ran down the slopes of the valley and up the incline of the hill. On reaching the top, he lay down, closed his eyes and waited for them to come.
The dogs could sense the kill was close now, could smell the desperation and fatigue from the last wolf. They could see him running up the hill and go over the edge. They were only seconds behind. The first rider sighted the last wolf just as he reached the bottom of the slope, saw him at the top, with the dogs halfway up. His heart sank as he recognised the hill, understood where the last wolf was running. He saw the dogs go over the edge and swore under his breath, hearing the curses of the other riders over the thundering hooves. They reached the crest of the hill and looked down.
The last wolf opened his eyes and looked down at himself. He saw fine, grey leather boots, well woven trousers and a long grey coat, his heart still beating hard beneath it. His hands wore gloves and he could just see the edge of a beard underneath his nose. He looked around. He was in a large room with no windows. While there was no obvious light source he could see perfectly well, as if it was daylight. The walls were brown, hard. There was no furniture in the room, it almost had the air of a vestibule about it but opposite him was a door made of oak. Just as he took in the door, it opened and in stepped a person, slim and about a foot taller than himself. There was no sound as the faerie walked towards him and stopped about three feet away, studying him closely.
“What is it that you want wolf”, said the faerie. To the last wolf, the voice and face of the faerie were neither female or male. In fact, there was no hint as to what age the faerie was, its skin smooth, ageless, yet suggesting of many years.
“I come seeking sanctuary, I am the last of my kind.”
“We regret that you cannot stay here wolf, the humans have followed you. And..” the faerie spread his arms looking around the room, “you can see, we have limited room”
The last wolf's heart sank, but he knew there would be no changing the mind of the faerie. “What can I do?”, he asked, “I would give you everything I have, but I have nothing.”
The faerie's eyes twinkled and a small smile appeared on its lips. “You have yourself”
Confused the last wolf said, “Yes, I have myself”
“Would you be willing to give your life to save yourself, your race?”
Sensing a trap, but seeing no other choice, the last wolf replied, “Yes, I would give all I can.”
The faerie nodded slightly as if approving of his answer. “When you leave here, run round our mound three times. As you complete the third, you and your kind will receive everlasting life.”
The last wolf apprehensively nodded his thanks and closed his eyes. He opened them again to find himself running for his life.
The first rider watched by moonlight as his dogs closed in on the last wolf whilst he and the other three riders galloped down the side of the hill. The last wolf was running around the base of the faerie mound with all three dogs chasing. They were gaining, closer and closer, then all four disappeared out of view. The thundering of the horses hooves was the only sound, faster and faster down the hill, closing in for the kill, trying to intercept before the last wolf could run past again. The quarry went past just before the first rider and his fellow hunters reached the bottom of the mound. Letting the dogs go past too, they turned in the opposite direction, heading the last wolf off. The first rider took his yew bow from his back and notched an arrow, knowing the other riders would be doing the same. Guiding the horse with just his legs he pulled the arrow close to his cheek, sighting along its line. With the reins dancing wildly on the neck of his horse he saw the shape of the last wolf come round the bottom of the hill. With a soft zing, he released the arrow and watched it speeding towards its target.
The last wolf was into his third circuit of the faerie mound as he passed the riders coming down the hill. His body was moving by instinct alone, every muscle agony. The only thing that was saving him now was that the pursuing dogs were tired too, otherwise they would be tearing him apart. He knew the dogs were behind but suddenly realised he couldn't hear the riders. Simultaneously, with only 50 yards to go before he completed the third circuit, he saw the riders ahead and felt the first arrow thud into his left hindquarters. Despair welled up as he slipped onto his right side, waiting for the dogs attack. The force of the first arrow saved him, as two more arrows missed and a fourth grazed his underbelly. In a heartbeat he scrambled up, throwing grass and mud behind him and ran for the invisible line, the arrow doing a hideous circle in the air as he moved. He absently wondered where the dogs were. Another arrow hit him in the right shoulder, causing him to stumble, digging his muzzle into the dirt. He managed to angle his head and rip the arrow out, dragging himself forward. Ten yards, so close. He stumbled on, waiting for the killing blow.
The first rider drew his knife. It flashed as it caught the moonlight. He had watched the last wolf fall from his first arrow and then scramble back up, running towards them. Knowing it couldn't escape them now, he had whistled to the dogs, who stopped only yards from the last wolf, whining and milling in frustration but absolute in their obedience. The other riders had stopped too as the first rider went wide for a better angle. He couldn't understand the wolf running/hobbling towards his fellow hunters but still it moved, seemingly oblivious to them. He had sent another arrow into the last wolf's shoulder, watched as it collapsed into the mud, bedraggled, beaten, then as it pulled the arrow out and, blood streaming from the wound, had carried on towards the riders.
Dismounting, he signalled to the other riders to stay back and walked slowly to the last wolf, every sense alert to some kind of last, desperate action. But the wolf just put one paw in front of the next, dragging himself forward. The first rider grabbed the scruff of the wolf, exposing its neck, put the blade to its jaw and drew the knife across. As he finished the cut the last wolf made one final explosive leap forward and lay shuddering, twitching, blood spurting in ever diminishing arcs across the ground. The last wolf was dead.
Within an hour the riders had made a camp in the lea of the mound. The dogs were tied up, fed and watered, as were the horses. The four riders sat beside the fire, shattered and euphoric. The wolf pelt, still filthy, lay to the side with the remains of the wolf roasting on a spit over the fire, fat oozing and hissing. As was the custom of the Canhednar, to eat the flesh of any wolves they killed, the first rider took his still bloody knife and sliced strips of meat onto a plate. He placed the plate between the four and as one they took a piece and placed it into their mouths. As they did so, the full moon looked down and the wind howled.
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1 comment:
"Jinkies!"
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