I

Allan's small, sturdy wood and thatch home stood on the southwest corner of the village of Falloux, set in the southwestern reaches of Tourant. With the Khairathi Mountains only a few dozen miles to the west, the village, and the thick forests of mixed oak and pine that surrounded it, had been subjected to dozens of blizzards that blew down out of the imposing mountain range that formed the western border of Tourant. Over almost forty winters, Allan had seen blizzards that made the howling winds and driving snow of this storm pale by comparison. Winters in the southern reaches had never been forgiving, especially near the Khairathi peaks. But it was not the intensity of the storm that made the logger notice the weather.

"I thought it was going to be an early spring," Allan said, leaning on his axe as he stood on the porch of his home. The thick stands of pine that marked the southern boundary of the village were nearly concealed by the driving snow and the darkness cast by the heavy gray clouds overhead. Standing next to him, Gaetan shrugged in disinterest, his hands tucked safely inside the folds of his heavy black cloak.

"All the signs were there for one," the older logger said, stiffly removing one hand to scratch at the heavy beard he wore on his weatherbeaten face. Allan was no youngster, but Gaetan had been logging the southern reaches of Tourant for as long as Allan could remember, and his gray beard and hair and stooped, once powerful frame displayed the rigors of a long life felling trees. The two men looked up to the sky for a moment, but the blizzard showed no signs of dying out. "I guess someone forgot to wake up the sun."

"The temple to Pelor is holding services right now," Allan commented, turning away from the dark woodline and examining something on the door of his home. The younger man said nothing for a moment, then turned back to his companion. "A late snow will set us back by almost a week, if it is too deep to drag the timber back."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Gaetan said with a little bit of a smile. "In fact, this storm may help us. A shortage of timber may mean that the shipwrights in Stith and Lancoux will pay more for what they can get."

"Or they may look to loggers in Mardan or Argent," Allan countered. Gaetan chuckled as he shook his head, immediately disregarding the idea of competition.

"Argent is elven," the older man said. "Do you think they would cut down a tree in the name of shipbuilding? And as for Mardan, well, they don't have the forests we have. No good, tall pine for masts. The shipwrights need our timber."

"Have you ever seen a blizzard break this late?" Allan inquired, looking out to the wild snows again. Gaetan shook his head as he drew an ornate wooden pipe from his heavy woolen tunic.

"First time for everything, lad," the older logger observed, examining the pipe for a long moment. "I just hope some tobacco will come down from Urhal, despite the weather. I'm almost done with my supplies."

"It's almost a week past first planting, isn't it?" Allan continued, ignoring the older man's complaint.

"Farmers'll have a bit of a hard time with a late freeze like this," Gaetan admitted. "Doubt this is going on up north, though. Gets warmer even a few dozen miles north. I was in Stith once, and it really warms up by the northern border. But enough worrying about the weather. We have one more day to make merry in the tavern, and I think an ale is just what you need to take your mind off of things."

"Maybe you're right," Allan said, finally pushing the oddity of the storm out of his mind. "But I can't stay late tonight. My wife is not happy with the amount of time I've been spending there lately."

"It's snowed heavy three straight days," Gaetan said, stepping into the knee deep powder covering the ground. "Can't blame you for wanting to get out of the house."

"She thinks I'm not paying enough attention to her or the children," Allan said. Gaetan let out a loud, throaty laugh that managed to overcome the silence that the falling snow had created over the town.

Somewhere beyond the edge of the village, a mournful howl answered his laugh.

"Even the wolves are laughing at that one," Gaetan said with a final chuckle. Allan tried to return the old man's good humor, but found a knot of fear beginning to tighten in his stomach. Wolves were a fact of life in southwestern Tourant, but something about the howl had unsettled him…

Something moved near the stand of pines. Allan's eyes shot to the dark outlines of the trees, but he could see nothing through the snow and the dim, false evening created by the heavy clouds. A wolf, perhaps? But why would a wolf stray so close to Falloux? For a long moment the logger stared into the forest, but nothing presented itself through the curtain of snow falling through the trees.

Gaetan's scream shattered the afternoon silence, but the older logger's shriek died into a strangled gasp almost as quickly as it had started. Allan whirled to his companion, but the older logger had simply vanished into the snow.

"Gaetan?" Allan called out, reaching back to his door without taking his eyes from his friend's last location. Quickly the younger man backed up a step, frantically reaching for his axe as he tried to find his companion in the blizzard. "Gaetan! Where are you?"

His hand closed around the long haft of his axe, but at the same instant powerful jaws clamped onto his wrist. Allan screamed in pain and terror as he desperately tried to pull his hand free of whatever had caught him, ripping loose with a last burst of frantic strength and tumbling back through the deep snow. Allan tried to plant his hands to stand, but to his horror found that his right hand had been torn free at the wrist.

A low, rumbling growl carried through the falling snow from his house. Allan leapt to his feet with a shriek of terror, not even looking back as he raced away from his house for the temple of Pelor. Behind him something plunged into the snow, giving chase with a blood chilling howl.

Allan only covered ten more steps before it dragged him down into the snow.