The globe of frozen saliva hit the edge of the dull-grey stone and shattered into a million sparkling particles that faintly glistened in the morning sun, before dissipating completely. It was actually a pretty sight, and, if John had any sort of inclination toward metaphors, probably signified some sort of poetic importance. John blinked twice, staring, and his lack of inclination for metaphors led him to the not-so-poetic conclusion that it was really fucking cold.
At any rate, he couldn't stand around spitting at rocks all day. The sun was out now and it was time to get a move on. John kicked off the back of the stone he was sat upon and rose to his feet, stretching in the sunbeams and walking toward his horse. With a double whistle, his horse, Liv, came galloping toward him, shaking frost off her mane. John climbed up, pulled his thick cowhide scarf over his mouth and went galloping off down the path, toward the denser woods. It was difficult to listen for howls through his thick earmuffs, but he would rather get blindsided by a pack of wolves than lose his ears to frostbite. Besides, his horse wasn't wearing earmuffs, and she knew the sounds of wolves, so he felt perfectly safe sat upon his literal high horse.
Speaking of his horse, he reached into one of the packs hanging from her flank and retrieved one of her favorite treats, a bright orange carrot, grown in the solariums of Summerfrost City. He fed it to his mount while they rode while stroking her mane. He felt bad for her, having to carry him through all this cold- and toward danger, too. She was a lovely skewbald, mare, but she had a bit of a temper, and was very stubborn when hungry. Nevertheless, she was John's favorite horse, and one of the few that the Way of Breath allowed him to borrow for his "outings".
While Liv munched on the carrot in his hand, he looked up and scanned the forest, looking for movement beyond the wisp-white sparrows in the trees. The ranchers outside his home village of Hummund were paying pretty good money for him to crack some wolf skulls, and he wasn't complaining. Well, he was complaining a little bit, but it wasn't his fault. Despite living in the Winterlands his entire life, he hated the cold, and couldn't wait for his next vacation to the Summerlands, where the weather was always pleasant.
Suddenly, there was a howling in the forest directly ahead of him, and a rustling to in the bramble to his left. Liv whinnied loudly, and John reached for the handle of his war-hammer, pulling it off his back and rolling off Liv's back. He tapped her on the head, and she turned around and trotted away; hopefully to a safe distance. There was another howl to his left, then two more, further away and to his right. Finally, the first beast revealed itself, a tall, slender black wolf with pale grey eyes came creeping out of the trees ahead of him, snarling. John had hunted enough of these wolves to know that this was the beta of the pack, and a female. The two to his left were still crouched somewhere in the bushes, yelping loudly to distract him. He tightened the armor around his shoulder, which was made of the fur from previously conquered wolves, and pulled on his helmet, a rusty iron thing that was nearly falling apart, but the leather strap protected his throat, his most vulnerable point when fighting a pack of these things.
He clanged the head of his war-hammer on the rocks as he approached the Beta, then slung the heavy thing to rest over his shoulder. The she-wolf barked at him, and snarled, trying to intimidate him.
But John wasn't a fan of theatrics. With the speed of a practiced hunter, John flung open his fur cloak, wrapped his free hand around the handle of the hatchet nestled in his belt, and whipped it out, winding his hand back and sending it flying toward the beta.
The shadow-pelted beast was swift and strong, but not nearly fast enough, and the hatchet dug deep into her shoulder as she hopped to the left, trying to avoid it. She flipped and rolled over, yelping, and the two wolves in the bushes- one black and one brown- came sprinting out, barking ferociously. John slammed his hammer down with both hands, glancing against a large stone, sending a loud ringing through the trees and startling the wolves long enough for John to swiftly kick one of them in the snout. The other twisted its body and leaped at him. John raised his war-hammer and the wolf's jaw snapped shut around the handle, its power-packed paws kicking at John's legs.
John twisted the handle sharply to the right, snapping several of the wolf's teeth and sending it rolling across the snowy ground. He then spun around on his heels, sensing the brown wolf preparing to pounce. While turning, he swung his war-hammer in a broad sideways arc, the hammerhead was a silver blur in the morning light. It caught the wolf mid-jump, smashing straight into its trachea and effectively closing its windpipe, silencing the beast mid-yelp.
With the brown wolf dispatched, the black wolf rose to its feet, intimidated. Behind him, the charcoal she-wolf tried to stand up the handle of the hatchet jutting out of her shoulder. John could hear the two wolves in the distance approaching rapidly from behind him, and he decided to swiftly deal with the scared one before him.
He leapt forward, and the wolf jumped back, terrified. His four-legged foe was keeping its distance, so he swung the hammer sideways again, letting go mid-swing and sending it spinning toward the wolf, sweeping out all four of its legs. It quickly began to rise, and John tackled it into the snow, pulling his broad-headed hunting knife out of its scabbard on the small of his back and plunging it into the scruff of the beast's neck. The wolf yelped and kicked at him, but when John twisted and pushed the blade upward, there was nothing but a sharp whine, and then, stillness.
John scrambled forward and grabbed his hammer, jumping to his feet as two more wolves burst out of the bushes about 15 feet away, and immediately came sprinting toward him. John raised his hammer and brought it down, attempting to crush the leading wolf, a bright white alpha that was nearly invisible against the snow. The wolf jumped to the left, sliding in the snow and avoiding the crushing blow, as the second, smaller wolf pounced at him, teeth bared. John narrowly ducked out of the way of the dark-grey wolfling, and it tumbled over once before leaping to his feet behind him. John (who was now apparently full of stupid ideas) swung the hammer up and over his head, letting it come swinging down behind him without missing a beat, bringing the hammer down and falling on his back in the process- a dangerous move, but one that paid off.
John couldn't see what happened, but a sick crunching noise told him that his tactic succeeded, as did the warmth that rapidly flowed from the wolf's crushed skull, melting the snow around it before freezing into a slick red sheet. Before John could properly right himself, the alpha jumped onto his chest, snapping it's jaws around his throat and shaking it's head from side to side. John's helmet did it's job, protecting his throat, but the whiplash pulled several muscles in his neck, making him groan in pain. John fumbled around in the snow with his right hand, finding a sizeable rock and wrapping his gloved hand around it. With a grunt, he brought the rock crashing into the alpha's jaw.
Once.
Twice.
The third time set him free of the alpha's grip. John kicked it in the chest and it hopped backward, giving John time to stand up and raise his hammer- just as the alpha leapt at him again.
John ducked to the right and slung his hammer around, barely catching the wolf in the nose, causing it to yelp and fall backward, snarling. John, now in a crouching position, grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the wolf's growling face, trying to blind it, but failing miserably. Rather than being blinded, the wolf saw an opportunity, and snapped it's mouth around John's outstretched arm, trying to pull him down, and biting through John's thin hide bracer into his flesh below.
John grimaced, ripping his arm upward to pull the wolf closer, tearing his own pale flesh on the its fangs. John kneed the wolf in the chest, and stomped on the wolf's backward knee, causing a sickening snap. The wolf yelped and fell off of him, whining and growling, limping backward away from John. John let loose a battle cry and brought his war-hammer crashing down upon upon his head, obliterating its skull in one fell swoop.
John panted and wheezed in the now-quiet clearing, and pulled his knife from the smaller black one's neck. He looked around, searching for the beta, and noticed that somehow it had loosened the hatched from its leg, leaving it on the ground, coated in her blood. Now, it was nowhere to be found. A trail of blood and pawprints led out into the forest.
John sighed. The assignment was to kill a pack of five wolves, not four. He knew he had to find the missing beta; therefore, he wiped clean his hatchet, slung his hammer over his shoulder, and set off into the dense foliage in search of his quarry.
The wolf couldn't go far on its injured leg, but as it turned out, it didn't intend to. John could see it up ahead, clamoring up a series of raised flat stones, made smooth by a river, which was now frozen solid. The wolf saw him approaching and barked ferociously, trying to sprint away down the frozen riverbed. John gave chase, following it down the frozen river until it disappeared into a small cave by the edge of the stream. John ducked into the cave after it, hatchet at the ready.
The cave was dimly lit by sunlight, and about the size of a larger room at the local inn. The beta wolf was lying in the corner in a pool of its own blood, panting heavily, still snarling at him, but too weak to stand and face him. John grimaced, slowly making his way over to the crumpled she-wolf with his hatchet raised.
John wasn't an animal or a heartless mercenary. He didn't kill the wolves for fun or for sport. He used them for meat and hides, and didn't let their deaths go to waste as a sign of respect. More importantly, he needed to kill them to protect his town. A collection of bones along the opposite wall showed how many innocent townsfolk and farmers this pack alone had killed in their search for food. Still, as John raised his hatchet into the air, he had to close his eyes. As he brought it whistling downward, he tried his best to ignore the sharp whelp that signified this once-proud beast's unceremonious demise.
After a few seconds of solemn contemplation, John went out to the riverbed and whistled for his horse that the job was done. He waited silently until he could here the clopping of her hooves, then set to work starting a fire by the side of the river. After it was built and smoldering, he broke off a large chunk of frozen river and placed it in a pot over the fire.
He felt his neck for cuts. The rough leather had cut into his neck on both sides. They cuts weren't deep, but to avoid infection, he knew he needed to care for them properly. He searched through a leather pouch on his waist and found a vial of crushed Witch's Weed, and poured roughly a tablespoon of the fuchsia dust into the now-boiling pot of water. After mixing the concoction thoroughly, the liquid turned a bright pink, and John dipped a clean rag into the boiling liquid, and pressed it to his cuts. It stung, but Witch's Weed was famous for its curative properties, and John knew this precaution would prevent infection. He let the liquid go down in temperature slightly before pouring it over the deep wounds on his forearm where the wolf had bit him, then he bandaged the wound with some sterile bandages.
This whole affair took several minutes, and monopolized John's attention- so much so that he didn't notice the quiet whimpering in the cave behind him. Until now. John spun around, expecting another angry wolf, but saw nothing. He cocked his head to the side, listening. Deep in the cave, John could hear something whining. He gathered his supplies and ducked back into the cave, what he saw made him cringe and groan.
Gathered around the beta's corpse were four tiny, crying wolf pups, each a different color - auburn, white, grey and black. The four pups were trying to suckle on the mother, but couldn't find the teats without any assistance. It was a pathetic sight.
John put his palm to his face, groaning once more.
"God dammit." He sighed. "What are you going to do now, Frost?"
I know what you're thinking. "Frost? But John's last name is Egbert!" Well yeah, but you see, Johnathan here is a bastard of the acclaimed House Egbert. This will SURELY play a role later. Much later. But for now, you're gonna have to deal with the fact that he goes by Johnathan Frost, Frost being the Bastard name for the Winterlands. All the other main characters are bastards too, so be ready for that. It's sort of a key part of the story. Anyway please give feedback, this is my first really published work. Thanks!