~ Chapter I ~
Good Hunting


A fearsome sun poured the last of its fiery rays through a gap in the clouds, close to the horizon. The light it gave to the world was baleful, gloomy and tinged an unnatural red. It was too weak to illuminate the wild black depths of the forest, but its uppermost branches caught the sun and held it, like enormous long-nailed claws. A powerful wind, the forerunner of an impending storm, lashed them into a frenzy, making a noise like old bones. Animal voices chattered in the dark, anticipating the night and the thrill of the hunt that was to come.

Old Morogh knew he would not survive the night. He cursed the need that had driven him from the safety of his fireside to the damp and danger of the forest, lamenting the fact that he would die without even succeeding in his venture. Pulling his cloak more tightly around his bony shoulders, the old man fingered his hunting knife and felt tears rise in his throat. His poor daughters—they would never know what had happened to their father. It was some small and ineffectual comfort to think that they would not live long after he had passed to miss him much; without the game he had set off to catch that night, they would soon starve.

Morogh raised his aged eyes to survey the sky. Night was indeed falling fast, faster than he had expected. The approaching storm urged it on, knowing its havoc would only be helped by the cover of darkness. Sensing the crackle of lightning in the air, a wolf howled nearby. Morogh drew his feet up under him and gripped the branches of the tree that supported him a little harder, cursing again the irony of his inevitable end: hunted by those he was hunting, eaten by those he had hoped to eat himself. Though he sat well off the ground, he had no doubt the creatures would smell him out and force him to remain in the tree until weakness delivered their prey into their waiting jaws. Morogh shuddered, considering the other possibilities. As terrifying as they were, he knew that the wolves were not the only hunters out that night.

The sun slipped behind the clouds once more, the ragged break in the leaden sheet colored like blood, as if the sky had been wounded. And it was—a fatal wound. The day was dying. Morogh watched as the west grew dark.

"Farewell, bright star!" he whispered. "'Nary shall I see you again."

The night came on in minutes, and with it, the full fury of the storm.

Morogh thought he would surely drown, or perhaps be washed from the tree, so powerful was the deluge. Unstringing his bow in a fruitless attempt to keep it from the water, he drew his hood low over his head. All was wet and darkness. Then, struck like a spark from the heavens against the flint of the earth, a great column of lightning clove the sky above him. Its thunder made the old hunter's teeth chatter. A second bolt rent the clouds in brilliant flashes of blue, and a third struck at the very base of Morogh's tree.

He cried aloud in terror. Wisdom was driven from his mind by the blinding heat, and he fell from the tree without thinking of the likely creatures that waited for him below. But, as fortune would have it, no wolves had yet scented his hiding place. The ground he fell to was bare of enemies. Morogh cowered on the burned and blackened earth, covering his head against the rain and the lightning.

For many minutes he lay there, insensible. Yet while he remained motionless, the storm did not. When the flashes of lightning and the heart-stopping reverberations of thunder had ceased to coincide above him, Morogh raised his head and looked around. The rain had not stopped and it was as dark as ever, but the intensity of the storm had passed over the mountain. Drawing himself to his knees, the old man felt the intoxicating joy of survival. One fear abated, he cried aloud to the skies, half taunting, half grateful.

However, he soon sobered. His fear of the storm had passed, but his fear of the forest remained. Joy quickly dissolved into panic as Morogh stood, searching for some sign that would lead him to his village. Knowing the deceptive nature of the forest, he had been careful to keep within eyeshot of at least one house while hunting; but in the darkness and the rain, he had lost all sense of direction. He couldn't even feel the tree he had fallen from. Panic strengthened. Though he had earlier accepted the inevitability of his death, his escape from the lightning had whet his will with the sweet taste of life. Now, cast alone in the hostile darkness and mud of the forest floor, Morogh knew he did not want to die.

He opened his mouth to call for help. Reason conquered his panic at the last moment. Making such a sound would bring the wolves to him even more quickly. He drew his knife and shut his mouth, his brain churning to life. He could not climb a tree again; in the dark he was more likely to break his leg than find shelter. Returning the way he came was no option either, as he had no idea what way it was. Morogh gripped his knife a little harder, feeling the tough leather hilt. It was a trusty knife, and deadly if used in an experienced hands. His hands had wielded it many times, and he was confident in his skill. But he knew he could not fight an enemy he couldn't see. The wolves would attack in a pack. He wouldn't have a chance.

Grim, Morogh brushed the rain from his brow. He considered the deluge. It had surprised him with its intensity, and, while it had grown lighter in the past few minutes, it looked as if it would continue through the night. The mud made squelching noises beneath his boots, and Morogh could feel the rain running in rivulets across the surface of the ground.

So much water…

Water disguises the scent of prey, he realized with a start.

Morogh debated for a scant moment before he began moving. It was hardly a defense, but the rain was sure to lessen his trail. If—and Morogh had little doubt that they would—the wolves were to pursue him, he would rather make his end on the run than like some cornered hen. The possibility of getting lost was also forefront in the old man's mind, but he hoped to take advantage of the downpour while he could to find a place to wait out the night. Then, in the morning, he would try to make his way back to his village.

It seemed a reasonable plan. Until he heard them.

The snapping of twigs behind him was accompanied by the snapping of jaws. Morogh felt his reason slide again into panic. Pure, animal terror—he knew now what the deer felt at the baying of the deerhounds.

Blindly, he ran.

The pack began the chase, their chorused howling full of the relish of a predator assured of its prey.

But their meal of man was not to be.

Only dimly aware of what he was doing, Morogh bolted uphill through the darkened arms of the forest. Some ancient instinct whispered to him to continue his plunge towards higher ground, though he could think of no good reason for it. The mountain lay ahead, and Morogh knew he would be long exhausted before he had managed half its mighty slope. But he ran anyway, heeding only the voice of survival.

Quite suddenly he realized he was free of the clinging branches that had tried to slow his progress earlier. The realization didn't stop him, and he ran through the clearing without considering what it was. But then, even more suddenly, he felt that the rain had stopped.

As had the sounds of pursuit.

Morogh at last came to a halt, panting hard and holding the stitch that seized the muscles of his side. His lungs worked like blacksmith's bellows in an attempt to ease the strain he had forced on his aged body. Taking several cautious breaths, Morogh noted two things. One, the air had changed. While before it had been wet and cold, it was now dry and warm. Indeed, if he had not been soaked to the skin, it might have even been uncomfortably warm. Second, he noticed a smell. It was not easy to identify, and something told him not to try. It made him shiver, despite the warm air.

But all this he took in in an instant. Whirling to face his pursuers, he brandished his knife in a condemned man's final attempt to stave off death.

"Come on, then!" he cried to the pack, his voice breaking. "I am here! Take your prey…if you dare!"

A distant flash of lightning was his only answer. But by its momentary light, the scene before him emblazoned itself on his mind's eye.

He had found refuge in a cave. An arched lip of stone bordered his vision, and through it, he could see the forest. A broad clearing stretched out in front of the cave, as if the trees had feared to approach is yawning mouth. No grass or brush grew on it flat surface, and though the rain and rendered it muddy, Morogh figured it would have been covered in dust in fair weather. Plain, dry dust. It was exceedingly odd.

A second flash of lightning showed him more, and Morogh's fist clenched even more tightly around his knife. The wolf pack had followed him, but not beyond the edge of the clearing. They stood in a semicircle, their eyes fixed on their prey. One wolf, a great silver brute with dark markings on his muzzle, stood a little ahead of the rest, whining. Morogh watched it warily, sure that it was the pack's leader.

If I could somehow kill it…the rest might scatter. This plan forming in his mind, he edged one step closer to the wolf.

It did not move forward, but neither did it retreat. Instead, it leapt sideways as if it had been bitten by an insect. Whining, it pawed the ground and eyed Morogh's knife hand. Leaping to the other side, it began pacing slowly around the boundary of the clearing. The other wolves howled mournfully, but none dared to cross the line their leader walked.

The old man was astonished and puzzled. Unassisted by the lightning, his eyes had begun to adjust to the dark of the forest. He could see the outlines of his enemies, unmoved by his approach. Wary of the tricks of their kind, he took one more step forward.

The silver wolf stopped and howled.

It was joined by the rest of the pack, their hungry voices rising and falling in the primal song of blood and survival. Morogh shivered at the sound, but his resolution returned and he took one step more, emerging from the dry warmth of the cave mouth into the driving rain.

As his foot crossed the invisible threshold, a great rumbling shook the mountainside, throwing the old man backwards into the dust of the cave floor. Coughing and rubbing his eyes, he leapt to his feet, expecting the wolves to charge.

But their song had ceased, and they remained motionless at the edge of the clearing.

The strange thunder shook the mountain again.

With guttural yelps and wolfish screams, the pack flew from the cave, disappearing into the forest in less time than it took the old man to blink. He watched, mouth agape, as his enemies vanished.