The winter of the wolves 1 – The wandering hunt.

.oOo.

At the sign of the Drunken Goose, the noggin is played, history is rewritten, memory is wandered in, paradox is cultivated, in short, stories are told.

It has become a tradition, everyone brings in his talent, the joker, the inventive, the meticulous, the bombastic, the liar...

Master Gigolet narrates the history of the kingdoms of yore and heroic times. Villagers assault with saucy anecdotes. Rhast, the gravedigger and road worker, has made a specialty of shivering winter evenings. Bonim the dwarf peddler, turns pitches and relates exotic tales in the fashion of Eriador.

As for Finran the tavern master, he has collected many travel stories - particularly his own - but his special ability is to have his customers talk, instill confidence, flatter creative verve or revive lazy memories.

Of course passing travelers are invited to share news from distant lands and exchange tales or songs.

But some stories are not talk about.

Because relating misfortune does not exempt from it. It draws it nearer.

Thus some stories are untold, like this one.

.oOo.

When Finran arrived at Thalion, it took a long time for him to be accepted. It took time to loosen tongues... Finally some brandy of pear helped the miller to consent and tell him...

- "Once upon a time, north of here, reigned the Hir1 of Tyrn Gorthad. A nobleman, a descendant of the first Numeroreans who had come to explore and enlighten our shores. It is even said he was a nephew of Odrazar the Great. He had managed to keep his County safe from the hordes of Angmar, and ensured the safety of the barrows.

He was animated by a passion for hunting. Some prediction was even said, at its birth, he would become the author of deeds, that a dozen generations were to remember.

Luck seemed to smile to him this year. He had won a landslide victory over the hillmen of Rhudaur, had rallied the Feotar townships and their militia, had assured an honorable harvest, and his wife was to give birth before spring.

After heavy snowfalls, fat and meat ran out at the castle and in town. The Hir therefore sent for his chief ranger, who summoned the villagers for a great hunt. So the lord would feed his household, as well as widows and orphans of the village.

Once again his luck and skill prevailed: a herd of deer was decimated.

The hunters were happily returning to the village, when the castle bell rang an alarm, signaling an extraordinary event. The Hir therefore left his beaters, leaving the game to them, and hastened towards his moat with his pack and pikemen.

Coming out of the thicket, they came across unusual traces, as if the mother of all wolves and her pack, had came from the North to the downs of Tyrn Gorthad.

The tocsin called him again to the castle. No doubt his wife was taken by the first pains of childbirth... Or maybe the bell announced another exceptional event... such as a monstrous pack, a distinguished hunter like him should eradicate, to ensure the safety of his land and people?

Faith in his lucky star and his heroic passion for hunting prevailed. Mustering his exhausted people, he embarked along the enigmatic trail.

As the day declined, the small band dislodged a pack of large gray wolves, that defended their offspring to the last. Yet the men's courage and tenacity eradicated the monsters. Contemplating the carnage of his arms, his ripped dogs and his exhausted pikemen, the lord heard again the bell call sound.

Then erupted from the thickets, the hugest wolf that ever trod his lands. The monstrous beast, streaked with black and white, disemboweled dogs with a few rants, slew the master ranger and fled under the foliage.

Carried by such ire and intoxicated by the hunt fever, the Hir mounted his horse and began pursuit, alone.

Through potholes and thickets, he long tracked down the monstrous animal, that deployed a thousand tricks to escape. Finally, at nightfall, the Hir managed to corner the beast at the bottom of a former quarry. He dismounted from his panting steed and grabbed his spears, approaching his huge panting prey.

But who was the hunter, who was the prey? The beast was facing him, ruffling his powerful loin and buttressed on his strong legs. Showing neither fatigue nor fear, it rolled red eyes burning with challenge.

Then again a call arose from the castle, distant, its tone veiled by these uncertain leagues that separate the world of women and home, from wilderness and wonders. The lord, feeling his destiny was about to be fulfilled, dismissed the call again.

Suddenly a doe appeared, tall and beautiful, suffused with a silver glow like a full moon. She came forward while still echoed the call of the wife, begging the Hir to assist in the event of birth. Or was it the white doe belling?

When the Hir came to his mind, the beast had disappeared. Frustrated for missing his great victory, his huntsman's anger turned towards the wonderful animal. He furiously charged the white doe!

Alas! The Fairy of the forest, for she was the doe, forgave neither his hunting fury nor his shortcomings towards his wife. She disappeared in a flash, and overwhelmed the Hir with a curse.

It is said that since that disastrous winter, a wandering pack roams from cottage to cottage, followed by a mounted ghost. When a newborn cries there, the sole rider lingers a while, in hope of being relieved from his curse, if only the young father would dare, some birth evening, open his home's door, to the wild rumors that beset men in the depths of winter."

.oOo.

Finran found the tale edifying and well-turned, but when he objected with a smile, that there was little reason to fear the cold season, the keen eye of the livid miller alerted his interlocutor:

- "We should not laugh at tales. There is some truth in each of them. Since this time, every seven years, we have a very... stressful winter... when terrible things happen..."

Finran did not contradict the miller, but his incredulous look brought his guest to explain:

-"The elders will tell you that the worst season ever experienced was the Long Winter in fifty-eight2 ... - four abominable months...

That winter, something came lurking forward with the cold. A demon from the North extended its arms to strangle us with its icy fist... Wolves came in large numbers. Real monsters, vicious and cunning. At first they were heard, roaming around remote farms. The first time the wandering pack was seen, that was full moon, with on their heels a misty shade of a mounted huntsman...

You know, the herds are brought back from the plateau in winter. Stocks are herded into pens, beyond the Tharbad door, with their reinforced shelters. Well every night, they tried to force a fold to make a carnage. Often the nasty animals managed to enter... This ruined and famished many families...

Farmers and shepherds who came out to defend their flock were attacked - some were devoured. A large and well equipped party was needed to force them to flee.

By day, men tried to flush out the wolves that hid in the countryside. They tried to find their den to trap or kill them, but they could find nothing...

Every night, however, they returned and prevailed. Soon the surrounding farms were emptied - farmers who could no longer defend themselves, brought their families to the city, along with their food reserves, cows and barnyard.

But full moon nights were the most terrible. The mad beasts attacked the windows, digging galleries. Some fragile huts of the poorest, in the outer town, were attacked. Several families were decimated before help could reach them. All the old, women and children of the suburbs were finally repatriated within the walls of the city. Even the militia was struggling to defend - the carnivorous horde attacked anything living. In the end, the city was under siege.

And then the Long Winter retired and the wolves disappeared. When the earth thawed, Thalion counted its dead and finally was able to bury them. But the suffering was not over.

The wandering hunt was heard again, several times, leaving behind a morbid streak, a terrible disease, which transmitted from herds to people. The sick became livid and weakened, for the neck and joints folds were covered with dark pustules. Languor took the sick and those who cared for them. To stem the tide, it was necessary to burn houses and shelters, and clean the place... and sacrifice three quarters of flocks. During the year that followed, death mowed the lives of the weakest –the hurt, young or old - before Thalion could get back up..."

.oOo.

Since this awful winter, our town shuts away from the first snow. I know this till I was a kid. My mother tried to hide her fears, but I captured the frightened eyes of my elders when the wood echoed with ghostly cries of wolves and wandering hunters.

Then for several years, it calms down… Then suddenly evil resurfaces, a woman hears a race at dusk, and disturbing things happen, and people lose their minds...

Then Thalion organized itself: these winters, the fence is repaired and raised, sheep pens are barricaded, fires are kept lit at every door of the wall, guarded by two armed men, when stout at heart one can be found. Watchmen await at the windows of the most exposed farmhouses.

Still, fear and evil persist. In winter, when a misfortune happens at the wolf howl, we well know the cause...

These nasty wolves are heard, then seen, prowl around the city, they become cunning, snarling and... malicious. They force the barn of a farm, in a remote hamlet. They venture into the streets of the suburb, before the fence. The people become very cautious, but it is not enough... Last time two children disappeared. The driven big game that followed yielded nothing, but we lost a hunter, we found on the moor completely devoured after thaw!

The last time, two children disappeared. The great beating that followed yielded nothing, but we lost a hunter, we found on the moor, next spring, completely devoured! The elders are right: the wandering pack comes back as surely as the raven on the remains of the goat!

.oOo.

Finran remembers that evening very well, slowly spent to circumvent the sweating miller.

He had to take him back to his home, because since big guy did not walk very straight. On the threshold of his mill, they heard a scream in the distance, short as a warning. The miller had rushed inside, inviting Finran to stay for the night. The innkeeper had declined because he still had to inspect the wort in the brewery.

However, walking back to the Drunken Goose in humid gusts, Finran was happy he had taken his lantern and his rapier.

Since joining the village several years ago, the landlord has lived some difficult winters, but he had never before to face the wandering hunt... Yet occasionally some nights, the fleeing look of a storyteller at the inn, betrays his reluctance to tell about "the winter of the wolf", for fear to call the pack and its attendant horrors.

.oOo.

To be followed…

.oOo.

NOTES

1 Hir, hiri : prince, baron

2 That is the Long Winter of TA 2758-2759 (Shire Reckoning 1158-59), sadly famous, that famished Eriador (Year of Dearth).