Book One: The Wolf and the Maiden
Chapter 1

It was late into spring, but still there were great tracts of snow in the thickly wooded foothills of the Howling Mountains. Through the canopy of birch, ash, and pine, the stars began to fade as the eastern sky took on a soft glow. Dawn would soon break. The early morning sounds of the awakening world spread quickly over hill and dale. Birds belting out the day's first serenade, insects buzzing and chirruping, the rustlings of small creatures in the trees and undergrowth; all heralded the rising of the sun into the clear, brightening sky.
A cold wind briefly chilled the crisp morning air, blowing westward off of the icy seas, over the eastern cliffs, the sparse strip of flatland dotted with heather and gorse, making its way into the woods where it dwindled to nought but a breath. Before the breeze expired, it dropped into a deep valley at the edge of the forbidding mountains, making the fir trees shiver. At this end of the forest, it was the only thing to disturb the unnatural quiet. A deathly stillness had settled over the valley, and nestled against its southerly slopes, the lonely village of Drakyndell fearfully awaited the storm that would shatter it.

Aric could sense the apprehension of his troops hanging in the air like an oppressive stench. He also knew, however, that every last one of them was willing to sell their lives dearly to protect their families and the stronghold of hope they had struggled so hard to build. Their freedom, the freedom of all the land from the mountains to the sea, was at stake today. Drakyndell had to be defended, the Mountain Wolf's forces pushed out of the valleys, back to the cold, cruel mountain crags that had spawned them. Aric would die before he would see his wife, and the child she was soon to deliver, withered and broken under the tyranny of Garhad Stormslayer and his vicious brood.
"Steady on there, Aric. Ef ye 'old that sword any tighter yore bound t'crush et, hawhaw!" The marten was nearly knocked to the ground by a hearty backslap from his good and loyal friend, a monstrously huge mountain hare called Gran. His kind was a rarity among creatures; before both their lifetimes, the Mountain Wolf had ordered a genocide of the perilous hares that frequented his home peaks. They had been a major threat to his control, and he dealt with them as he would any other problem - by eliminating the source. It sickened and angered Aric to no end, his swordpaw convulsively tightening. He saw Gran regarding him with concern and flashed a grim smile.
"I'd take you up on that bet, old friend, but I'm going to need this beauty today."
"Hrumph!" The hare snorted scornfully and hefted his gargantuan pike, nearly as thick as Aric's body. It was a splendidly crafted weapon, made of stout oak and equipped with hooked crosstrees just beneath the long, flat blade. "M'ould grammy used lettle splenters like yore'n t'pick the tucker frummer teeth, m'bucko. Good, trusty woodstave an' iron, now that's th'weapon f'r me!"
"Indeed it is, you great hulking rockhopper. We'll just see whose blade takes the most foebeasts, then. That ought to settle it, eh?"
"Righto, y'scrawny treediver. Now less jawwen an' more marchen! For'ard the ranks, m'lucky buckos! 'Tis a marv'lus mornen t'die!"
The company, emboldened by the hare's bravado, proceeded through the unblocked gates of the wood and rock walls surrounding the village, waving a final farewell to the friends and loved ones gathered to see them on their way to battle. Once they started down the slope of the valley, Aric took off into the trees to scout ahead, agile as any of the squirrels accompanying him. The last report had placed a faction of the Painted Horde heading southwest along the base of the mountains, but they could very well have been traversing the basin by the time Drakyndell's warriors moved out. No scout had been heard from in a fortnight, and the village was beginning to fear the worst for their brave volunteers out in the foothills.
If those horrid beasts are in the basin, that puts them less than five leagues from the village. As he moved across the interlacing paths of branches, Aric mentally calculated the possible points at which the fighting could take place. In all cases, it was much too close for comfort. All it would take was a wounded hordebeast or deserter to run off in the right direction. If they got so much as a sniff of the settlement....Well then, they'll just have to be driven off and kept on the run, he thought, strengthening his resolve. Strike like wildfire, vanish like smoke. That was how it had always been since the founding of Drakyndell and the resistance movement. Good creatures from all parts of the forest had slowly begun to gather around the settlement's dragon banner, but the whole of the countryside was still too much in fear of the Mountain Wolf's wrath to dare rise against him. About the only thing keeping hope alive was the ancient tale of the dragons that once lived in the mountains, before the wolves, before the endless winter that settled over them. The great fire lizards kept the young world safe and warm from their high peaks, and all creatures lived in peace for countless ages. But then the wolves came from the frozen lands beyond, bringing with them their snow and their ice, forcing the dragons to flee across the ocean. Those who stayed were hunted down by huge, voracious packs, or froze to death refusing to leave their caves. Legend told of some who survived the terrible cold, feeding on the wolves and keeping their numbers in check, but nobeast had ever claimed to see one.
Seasons ago a large male wolf rose to power in the Howling Mountains, as they came to be called. Garhad Stormslayer, stronger, faster, and more cunning than any other of his kind, thirsted to be lord over all which he could see from the snowbound crags. He was ruthless, cruel and unpredictable, a wild beast that ruled over his assembled army of painted vermin through pain and terror. All in his vast horde had crimson clawmarks tattooed upon each cheek, his personal sign of dominance. The Mountain Wolf kept his domain under iron claws, and had recently made each of his five sons a general at the behest of his mate, an albino shewolf with a demon streak. The beauty of Ingrata Frostfur was matched only by her cruelty. The suffering of those that fell into her grasp was loud and long.
Many were the simple, stout-hearted creatures that waited for the day foretold when the dragons, strong and fearless, would return from across the seas and rid the country of its wolven scourge with but the breath from their mouths. Aric himself wasn't sure of the legends, but if it kept hope alive, the dragon seemed a fair symbol for the resistance. Glancing down from his perch amongst the foliage, the marten could just make out the forerunners of the troops. He was lagging behind with all this daydreaming. Hurrying to catch up with the foremost scouts, he nearly collided with a squirrel streaking back through the trees like an arrow.
"Sir!" the young creature, whom Aric recognized as the new scout Evra, saluted and rapped out a breathless report. "Enemy sighted...not 'alf a league...nor'east of us." He paused and caught his breath, pointing in the general direction. "Movin' fast, sir."
"Good work, young Evra. Now you've got your wind back, suppose you could run along back and inform Gran? He'll know what to do."
The squirrel winked. "Two steps ahead of you, sir; I sent Hazel to inform the ground forces soon as I got back. Fastest in all m'family, she is, sir."
Aric couldn't help but smile at Evra's pride in his older sister. "Aye, truly you are both called Swiftbrush. And you keep a good head, young scout. Now nip along and you can help me get the archers and slingers into position - I can't be everywhere at once, you know, and we've much ground to cover, or trees, as it were."
Evra puffed out his narrow chest and saluted smartly with a very enthusiastic "Yes sir!" and bolted off.
A breeze picked up from the north, carrying the unmistakable scents of weasel and rat. Pungent odors, more interspersed, wafted through the trees before the growing wind changed direction, thankfully not away from them so that the enemy might detect the small army lying in wait. At least Drakyndell's creatures would have the advantage of surprise. Besides stealth, speed was everything. Aric only hoped the better part of those under his command were ready to move as fast as young Evra. If he knew the Painted Horde, they would have precious little time to regroup.

Kosk the ferret muttered a curse for the umpteenth time as a careless hordebeast in front of him let a straggly pine branch whip back into his face. He had no time to remove himself from the general vicinity of the tree before the vermin behind him shoved him through the lot of it, leaving him riddled with prickly needles and in a fouler temper than ever. He hated being in front, but it was impossible to simply melt back into the ranks at the pace they had been made to keep all through the night. The horde hadn't even rested before dawn like they usually did; they had been marching for almost a full day. Kosk's footpaws felt like two huge blisters, and he was hungry enough to eat treebark.
"Yeeowch!!" he yelped as something struck him a hard blow the the head. He rounded angrily on the nearest hordebeast, a big, slow-looking weasel. "Whut's th'big idea, y'boulder-'eaded idjit?"
"Whuddya mean? I didn't do nuffin," the weasel shot back defensively.
Kosk opened his mouth to deliver another accusatory insult, but, to his momentary surprise and horror, what came out was the head of an arrow. Before the slain ferret hit the ground, the weasel was staring in amazement at the shaft that appeared to sprout from his chest.
Abruptly the outermost ranks of the horde found itself under a deadly rain of arrows and stones that seemed to come from all directions at once. The front lines immediately broke and scattered, only to be cut down individually by well-aimed projectiles. Rank captains screamed for the ambushed army to form up in some semblance of order, but before the first archer could draw an arrow, the barrage had stopped. No movement betrayed any hint of the horde's attackers.
Sudden cries broke out farther down the line of vermin as scores dropped to the ground, wounded or dead, and were trampled by their harried comrades. It seemed they was being peppered from all sides, but somebeast finally noticed that the bulk of fire was concentrated at the head of the horde.
"Get th'archers up front an' start firin' int' the trees, ye worthless hunksa dogmeat! They're in the trees!"
Soon every hordebeast who could handle a bow or sling was pushed into the front ranks. Volley after volley was sent into the foliage overhead, and the army began to make slow but steady progress onward. A fair number of vermin were still picked off from the edges, but the swift razing of the forest canopy was taking its toll on their unseen assailants. As the horde moved forward, bodies, mostly squirrels, littered the ground, and others fell screaming from the high boughs.
A rat loosed a shaft at a group of red-furred creatures streaking through surrounding branches and whooped in satisfaction when a squirrel plummeted down.
"Ha! I got 'im! 'S only a rotten buncha treejumpers, mates, let's spit every one o-" The rest came out in a strangled gurgle, choked off by the arrow transfixing the rat's neck.
"That's the way to shut 'em up, Aric," said a graying squirrel grimly from his perch on an elm branch. "Though I wish it was me got the scoundrel." Glancing briefly at his companion, Aric saw his eyes gleaming with tears of rage as he snuffed the life from another rat down below.
"Peryn was a stout-hearted young lad," the marten offered comfortingly, slinging a large, flat stone. "We'll pay the murdering curs back a hundredfold for your son."
"If they keep on like this, they're goin' to rack up a mighty large debt," growled the squirrel. "I thought if we hit hard and fast enough we might just be able to turn them back or alter their course, but there's no way through those arrows they keep tossin' up in front of 'em."
As if to enforce the point, the two of them barely scampered to another tree in time before the elm they and a few others had occupied was turned into a pincushion. A few of their numbers hadn't been quick enough.
"I hate to have to resort to it, but that's what our ground troops are behind us for." Aric sighed. Now that the horde's blood was up it would be a hard battle indeed. And far too close to home. "Spread the word to move at their flanks; they won't be expecting that, and it'll sandwich them between us and Gran's boys. He'll get a report from his scouts and start advancing as soon as we pull out of here."
Cyrrul Swiftbrush nodded wordlessly and sprang off with a speed and deftness that belied his many seasons. Aric took a moment to sniff the air, which had been growing warm and heavy as the morning got on. A storm was coming.

Close to noon, the skies began to darken over the valley. Thick clouds blew in on a suddenly icy wind laced with the sharp, salty scent of the ocean. Above the forest, above the heads of the two struggling armies, tremendous thunderheads were building up. The battle had been long and fierce, but the creatures of Drakyndell were gaining the upper hand. Surrounded and beset with a ferocity not seen in woodlanders since the Mountain Wolf had first invaded, the Painted Horde was quailing. Pawsore from their long march, they had been in no condition for a fight of this scale and were thuroughly exhausted. The vermin were now fighting for their lives.
"Set th'cowards runnen t'the Gates o' Hell, m'beauties!" cried the mountain hare Gran, grabbing Drakyndell's dragon banner from a weary dormouse. "Rally to me, buckos! Vict'ry to th'dragons!" The hare's fervor was contagious; caught up into it, the remnants of the ground troops mustered up a tremendous charge, their cries mingling with the first mighty crashes of thunder. If the ensuing din was like to the heavens ripping open, then the unearthly cry following the downpour of rain was that of a demon loosed from hell.
"Arwroooooooooooo!"
Woodlander and vermin alike froze in terror at the bloodcurdling howl, seemingly echoed by the dirge of the wind through the trees and backed by rumbling thunder. A flash of lightning revealed the beast from whose throat the bonechilling noise had torn. Barreling down a path hastily parted through the ranks of the Painted Horde, a mottled monster of a wolf launched itself at the army of Drakyndell, baying wildly.
"Arwroooooooooooo!"
The wolf had no weapons; it needed none. Anybeast fool enough to try and fight it was ripped apart by the huge claws and long, gleaming fangs. The beast left a swathe of destruction in its wake which was duely trampled over by the revitalized Painted Horde, infused with the bloodlust of their leader. Stark fear took hold of Drakyndell's creatures.
"Stay away! The beast'll kill us all!"
"It's the Mountain Wolf!"
"Nought for it, mates - retreat!"
The unexpected counterattack of the Painted Horde had quickly turned into an all-out frenzy. Suddenly the weight of numbers began to show all too clearly; the ground troops broke under the vicious assault and fled the mass of crazed vermin. Once they stopped fighting, they were merely running targets for the battle-hardened killers.
Aric and his tree-going forces watched the unfolding chaos with mounting horror and disbelief. It was all they could do to keep a full-scale slaughter from ensuing. The vermin no longer even considered the possibility of death from above, the whole of the horde pressing heedlessly forward through showers of slingstones and arrows. Their numbers had to have been cut by half since the battle began, but for every one slain ten more seemed to appear.
A swirl of commotion direction below him drew Aric's attention. It was Gran and a pitifully small, straggling remnant of the his ground forces, hemmed in on three sides by vermin and backed up against a thick clump of trees. Others from Drakyndell sped by heedlessly, pursued by invariably larger groups of vermin, as the mountain hare yelled fiercely.
"Cummon ye spineless worms! Stand y'r ground an' fight! I 'adda auntie ate scrawny lil' mites th'likes o' these f'r brikfest! R'member yer fam'lies an' fight f'r Drakyndell! Freedooooooooom!" Gran charged the gang of vermin, shattering the ribs of the nearest two with a colossal double-pawed kick. His comrades drew up the will to fight, and they fought hard and well, but their numbers were simply too few. Before long they were overwhelmed by the vermin, but Gran kept fighting. Eyes shining blood-red as lightning flashed, he was suffused with the ferocious battle rage that had made his kind so deadly a foe of the Mountain Wolf. The mountain hare slashed and stabbed with the blade of his pike, swept and jabbed with the haft, and lashed about with his long, powerful legs. Aric watched in amazement, unable to look away, as the last of the vermin was pinned to a nearby tree by the huge pike. The blade was buried to its crosstrees in the trunk, and as Gran tugged and heaved to free it, something large and gray emerged from the shadows of the forest.
"Gran, look out!"
Without thinking, Aric dropped from his perch and unsheated his sword. The monstrous wolf charged at Gran's back, sending him flying into the air with a powerful pawswipe as Aric sprinted towards it. He leapt high and swung hard, dropped and rolled. The wolf sprung up and howled with pain as Aric's sword slashed across its face. A moment later the marten felt the breath knocked from him and was sent crashing into a tree trunk. Pain and blackness threatened to crush Aric's head as he lay unable to move. He heard the wolf's pawsteps moving away from him and tried desperately to get up. All he managed was opening his eyes in time to see Gran pinned underneath a massive paw. Aric staggered to his feet on buckling knees, but before he could move from the support of the tree, the wolf snarled ferally and ripped out the struggling mountain hare's throat with its teeth.
Screaming unintelligibly, Aric grabbed up his sword from where it had fallen and was about to throw himself upon the beast that had murdered his best friend when he was swung up into the boughs. The squirrels that had pulled him up had to hold him down against a branch to keep him from leaping off again. He struggled feebly for a long time, but finally weariness and grief overcame him.
"That...that murdering scum!" he sobbed as the squirrels released him, pounding his fist against the wood until it felt broken in at least three places.
"Aric...." Evra lifted him up. He was trying to be comforting, but there was an element of haste and apprehension in his voice. "Everyone on the ground has been killed. And there's only a few of us left up in the trees. I understand your anger, but we have to retreat before any more are slain! Who'll be left to protect Drakyndell otherwise? What will so many have died for? Gran, and, and Peryn...and our father...." The young squirrel fought briefly against his own tears. "We can't let their sacrifice be in vain, Aric."
Sobered by his young friend's words, Aric nodded. "We have to at least lead them away," he said stonily. The coldness in his eyes made Evra shiver. "Order the retreat. We head north."
Overhead, the storm raged mercilessly on.

It was well on into evening before the scant remainder of Drakyndell's army trudged wearily up to the settlement's heavily fortified gates. The stormclouds had finally settled in the late afternoon, content to pummel the valley and the fleeing survivors with a steady deluge of cold, fat raindrops.
Once inside the walls, Aric and his comrades were surrounded by anxious friends and family, eager for tidings of the battle and their loved ones. Most met with sorrowful news. The crowds were gently moved aside so that the staff of the village hospice could get to the wounded and, more importantly, bring the entire company indoors to warm fires and hot meals.
Aric moved automatically, walking to where he was guided with deadened paws, mechanically eating a steaming bowl of soup, staring listlessly into a roaring fire. A tubby female stoat as round as she was tall came bustling in, obviously in a hurry to find someone. She spotted Aric, took two waddling steps towards him, then stopped dead, shocked at his haggard appearance.
"Why, what's plaguin' our champion warrior, Jerran?" she asked of the nearest creature, a squirrel.
"Ah, poor Aric," he said, shaking his head sympathetically. "Apparently his dear friend Gran was slain before his eyes by the Mountain Wolf. There was nothing he could do, but I suspect he blames himself some. There's been so much bloodshed today, a wonder there aren't more in his condition."
The marten appeared to mutter something darkly.
"Eh? What was that, dearie?" inquired the stoat.
"It wasn't Stormslayer," growled Aric. A tense hush came over the hospice room at the mention of the Mountain Wolf's fearsome name. "It was one of his sons. I know hellspawn when I see it. Dargon. Dargon Rawfang." He reached up slowly behind his head and drew his sword from the sheath still strapped to his back. Lowering it so that the blade glimmered brightly in the firelight, the marten stared at it as if to melt it with his eyes. "I swear by my sword and my honor I will avenge the death of Gran my brother in arms....Dargon Rawfang will taste this steel again one day. That day will be his last."
There was an uncomfortable silence following the marten's vow, which was broken by Mildred, the female stoat.
"Well then, all well and good and plenty time for mournin' tomorrer, but for tonight I've a spot of good news for you, Mister Aric, so chin up or the missus won't be lettin' you scare the baby with that 'orrible face you're makin'."
Aric turned and blinked owlishly as if seeing Mildred for the first time. He didn't seem to comprehend at first. "My...my wife? Mireielle?"
"Is the proud new mother of a beautiful baby girl, you great puddenhead!" Mildred beamed as if it were her own daughter. "Ah me, born right in th'middle of that 'orrible storm, and an 'ard birth it was, too - well I never!" she exclaimed indignantly as Aric suddenly sprang to life and shoved her aside. He was out the door and running down the hard dirt road before she could admonish him, shouting excitedly.
"Mireielle! Mireielle!!"

Sitting in an old, cozy rocking chair close to the fire, a young, strikingly beautiful female marten was slowly rocking both her newborn child and herself to sleep. She had tried her best to keep awake until her husband came back, and was nearly sick with worry - he had to come back. He was going to come back. But she was so exhausted from their daughter's birth, and the fire was so warm, the gentle motions of the rocking chair so soothing....
The sharp, unexpected noise of the door banging open startled her from the edge of sleep. Turning her head, she scrubbed at her eyes with her free paw to make sure what she beheld in her doorway wasn't merely an apparition. There stood her husband, windblown, soaked straight through and exhibiting a few minor wounds. But he was there. He was home.
"Aric...." She made as if to rise, but he hastily stepped inside and closed the door, motioning for her stay were she was. Which was just as well, given that she didn't know how much longer she would be able to stay awake, sitting or on her feet.
A soft, loving smile made Mireielle's face glow as her husband bent to tenderly kiss her brow. He gazed at the small bundle in her arms, moved the edge of the cloth back so that he could see his daughter's sleeping face, and smiled rapturously as a tiny paw reflexively curled around his.
"My daughter...."
His wife made a small sound of contentment, drifting away again to the silent realms of sleep. Aric stroked her head affectionately and asked, keeping his voice low, "Mireielle?...Did you name her?"
"Gerwyn," she mumbled quietly before finally slipping into a deep slumber.
The baby gurgled happily in her sleep and released Aric's paw. He kissed his daughter's chubby cheek, whispering goodnight. "Sweet dreams, my little Gerwyn."