The winter of the wolves 2 – The beat of Thalion.

At dawn this morning, which promise to be fine, the Inn-keeper musters Thalion's hunters, and organises a great beat. For several days, alarming news had been affecting his friends and neighbors' morale – a sheepfold broken into, decimated farmyards, strange hunting rumors in the deep woods, flocks dispersed to flight…

A former mercenary and captain of Thalion's militia, Finran has decided to attack evil at the root and lead his comrades to force the adversity. Nothing like a victorious tracking to banish the ghost of the "winter of the wolf"!

The beaters are posted at the edge of the furthest farm. As for the shooters, they are lain in ambush under the branches of a deep hedge over a long bank, far away north on the greenway. Between the two teams lies a wood, the beaters should empty of its predators and if possible of its game. Furthermore, a group equipped for big game tracking rests listening, waiting for the hunt master's signals.

.oOo.

A pale winter sun floods the immaculate valleys with brilliant light. In the dry pungent morning air, the dogs yelp joyously, hauling their master's sled on the glittering snow. The pack is panting at the swift rythm of the dominant bitch, hitched ahead.

Finran, the blond giant, has taken from his birth land, the northern marches of river Anduin, a trio of wolf-dogs, which ancestors, it was said in his family, had fought Urd's sled-hords. The miller's black mastiff, solid and stocky, had finally accepted the harness despite his bad temper. Last but not least, a small bastard bitch, swift and clever, a fine scent tracker with its snout in the wind, is running with the other dogs.

Master Finran has prepared everything. He sends the signal for the hunt's opening, launching an uproar on the line of the beaters, who step forward. The men's conquering and fierce cries invade the secret spaces of the woods. Their unexpected yapping, muffled by the snow-laden bushes' heavy silence, embolden the minds without calming their fears.

Riding his quick sled, Finran inspects the bank, from where the dislodged game is to be shot at. Exciting his dogs' fervor, he runs and pushes the harnessed team, enjoying the sunny breeze in this morning of men.

.oOo.

Placed atop a hill at the south-east of the wood, Finran observes the branches, heavily loaded with frost and hanging ice. As a rule of his thumb, the barely audible noise from the nearest beaters, place them half a league away from him. Further away, the vast arc of their ranks should close by the north-west, beating the game towards the greenway that runs northward.

In the course of hours, tawny and great-horn owls are fleeing the din with indignant cries. As the sun projects the first shadows of the indented crests on the South Downs, crows are gathering on the solitary trees' branches, waiting to scramble for the pickings.

Some hares in winter-livery rush from the woods. Finran must order the dogs to stay quiet – this small fry is not for today. Soon his young bitch, his prefered tracker, means to pursue them. The hunt master rebukes her severely – young dogs with fine snout must not get the habit to work on sight.

Then a change comes in the limpid air – furious barks sound far away, the muffled rumour of a mad rush inflates in the woody hills. The former mercenary makes peace inside, feeling the engagement coming. His breath appease and amplify, rejecting silver blasts in the icy air, while his blood beats irrigate his tempers and limbs with the vitality of his youth.

Suddenly the first big game appears out of the wood, leading his horde to cross the large space to the greenway. The frightened troop rushes to the east, straight to the trap.

Yet, two furlongs away from the bank, the large male suddenly stops, proudly raising his antlers, as a challenge to the poorly ambushed archers. The troop of the female and young anxiously regroup behind him, meanwhile several overweening brockets rush headlessly before the hunters. Arrows fly, breaking down their recklessness.

Taking advantage of this timely diversion, the stag rushes into a breach of the hedge, and tumbles two lancers to open a way out for his herd. The huntmaster observes his overwhelmed henchmen reforming their ranks and tending for their wounded, while the herd is escaping to the snowy downs.

Several panicked stinking beasts1, the hounds had driven out of their winter holes, are fleeing the invasion as well. The hunters have recommended not to attack these forest cleaners, but the peasants pitilessly shoot at these pests that visit and empty their farmyards.

Yet the huntmaster keeps a cool head and does not interfere. – the beat has still gathered enough meat for a month scarcity. Thus he lets the men release steam as exutory blows against their winter fears. He reserves himself since the icy wind murmurs the true test is still to come.

.oOo.

The horns have called for retreat. The men, satisfied with their victorious beat, gather their trophies and report to the huntmaster – a litter of wolf cubs was driven out in shame to the north. Several wounded men had been rescued and tended – most clumsily injured themselves during the hunt. And the last group of beaters, the northernmost, has surrounded some beast in a swale, at the bottom of a ravine, and had been holding it at bay for an hour. Spears and bows are being prepared, the dogs are held back, since the men think it is a big bear.

The huntmaster raises a worried brow and hurrily drives his hound pack toward the north. He knows the sad reputation of this ravine. Rhast his henchman calls it the "Dale of ever jail". This is where, several years ago, the gutted remains of some hunters, lost in the midst of a "winter of wolves" were found at spring...

.oOo.

In this late afternoon, a flight of ravens circles hovering in a dark sky above the Dale of ever jail. As Finran approaches the stone stele erected in memory of the victims of old, the dogs suddenly stop, disoriented and hair bristling. Floating out of the ravine in thin ashy curls, a foul smell rises the bile in his throat, recalling the filthy blandness of battlefields and the putrefaction of graves.

The huntmaster arrives too late. Wilderness has reclaimed its rights. Finran crosses the survivors of a massacre, shaggy, pale and dazed, barely able to support the wounded, rolling terrified eyes without answering his questions. Decimated dogs have fled through the copses - half of them will not be found alive. The few experienced hunters who have fought in the fray, tell strange and discordant reports, speaking of a wild charge, vicious black beasts2, others evoking a giant deer. Rhâst himself, nicked at his groin and his head spinning, can barely describe what he saw - a beast, he says, brutally launched its pack on the novices, gutting and trampling the poor devils in the muddy wallows.

The confusing traces reveal to perplexed Finran, the presence of several animals that do not normally coexist. But the huntsman has never encountered such a mischief, a trick so deadly to men. He is shaken, especially since the thickets reveal carnivore droppings and traces that only Cubs could let around their lair...

.oOo.

Finran reads terror and doubt in the attitudes and actions of his men. Even his lieutenants avoid his looks, overcome by the horror of the dale. The winter of the wolf seems to have imposed its immemorial law...

He has made his decision. Soberly, with the assurance of a mercenary that no retreat could defeat, he gathers dried meat reserves, piles furs and oilcloth on his sled, and attaches some hunting spears and javelins.

Finran orders to take the wounded and the dead before the night closes on the tomb of the cursed valley. His lieutenants agree while looking down - this is a task at hand for them.

Then the blond giant goes a-hunting, alone with his dogs.

The master of winter sent him a challenge, he will face at whatever cost.

.oOo.

To be followed…

.oOo.

NOTES

1 In hunting, the name "stinking beast" means almost all mustelids: weasels, martens, badgers, stoats, otters, ferrets, polecats.

2 In hunting, the « black beast » means the boar. Naturally it is rather an adult boar, and not the young, which livery is striped.