Chapter 7: Pack Leader

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As they made camp at dusk, huddled in the lee of a monolith carved with faded swirling patterns, Finn returned from his reconnaissance with a grim look. “We have company, Sir Ronigren.”

Ronigren, sharing dried meat with Masillius, looked up. “Goblins? Orcs?”

Finn shook his head. “Wolves. Direwolves.”

“How many?” Gregan asked.

“A pack of six,” Finn replied, scanning the surrounding darkness. “I’ve seen their tracks for the past day, shadowing us, always keeping their distance, downwind. But tonight… they’re closer. Bolder. I caught a glimpse of one on the ridge to the east, just as the sun went down. A massive grey female. The alpha, I’d wager. They’re closing the circle.”

“Why now?” Artholan asked, looking alarmed. “Why have they chosen to reveal themselves?”

“We’re leaving the more settled valleys,” Finn explained, his gaze sweeping the terrain. “Entering their hunting grounds. And… our scent has been on the wind for days. They are patient hunters. They’ve been sizing us up, waiting for a sign of weakness.” He looked pointedly at Masillius near the fire. “They have found one.”

Ronigren rose, his palm resting on the pommel of his sword. A recovering invalid, a terrified goblin, a swamp-dweller out of her element, a strong but untutored girl, an overly academic mage, and a handful of weary warriors. Against six direwolves, creatures of legend and nightmare… the odds were not good. “Double the watch,” he ordered, his voice grim. “Gregan, you and I will take the first. Finn, get what rest you can. Myanaa, Ruthiel… any insight you can offer on these beasts would be welcome.”

Myanaa closed her eyes, her willow circlet glowing faintly. “The wind carries a hunger,” she whispered, her face pale. “There is an intelligent will behind their hunt.”

Ruthiel nodded, scanning the dark ridges that surrounded their campfire. “They hunt with a purpose beyond that of a simple meal. There is a shadow on their hearts, a whisper in their howls.”

The night deepened. The fire, their small beacon of warmth and light, seemed to shrink, pressed in on all sides by a boundless, cold darkness. And from the distant hills mournful howls echoed through the gloomy landscape.

The howls closed in, an harmony of hunger and cruelty bouncing off ancient stones. Large and swift figures moved in the darkness at the edge of the firelight, their eyes reflecting the flames like ephemeral embers.

The party formed a tight circle around the fire and Masillius’s stretcher. Ronigren and Gregan stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their shields up, their blades glinting. Finn tracked the shifting shadows with his bow drawn. Sabine, hand-axe held tight, stood like a defiant giantess before her father, shielding him with her body.

Artholan was frantically gathering his power, weaving intricate patterns with his hands, and a ball of crackling, unstable lightning formed between his palms.

A massive grey female with cunning yellow eyes padded silently into the edge of the firelight, lips peeled back in a low snarl. Ruthiel, still as a statue, eyes closed, took a soft breath. They sang. A weaving of soft, sibilant Elven words rippled through the very earth beneath their feet. The wind in the high pines abated, listened. Gnarled roots pulsed with a shimmering green luminescence, as if dancing to the Elf’s ethereal song.

The wolves hesitated. The alpha lowered her head, a low, confused growl rumbling in her chest. The other slinking shadows at the edge of the firelight paused, stunned by a language older than their hunger.

Myanaa stepped forward. Her willow circlet awakened, appeared to breathe. Her ravens descended in a slow, silent circle, their black wings gleaming in firelight, and landed gently on her head and shoulders.
She met the gaze of the direwolf. While the warriors held their steel and the mage held his lightning, the Whisper-Kin reached out an unarmed hand steadily towards the snarling predator. “You are hungry,” she whispered. “But there is a deeper hunger gnawing at your spirit. A shadow.”

Artholan watched, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple as lightning crackled between his trembling hands. Ruthiel’s magic was ancient, elegant, a force of command over the very bones of the earth. But Myanaa’s… Myanaa’s was different. A shared song with the living world. The raw, untamed power of it, the way it bypassed structured spellcraft and spoke directly to the heart of the wild… it reminded him, with a humbling jolt, of his master. Of the time Falazar, in Artholan’s youth, coaxed a wounded snow-bear back from the brink of death with a similar quiet hum of shared vitality, a feat that had defied all of Artholan’s carefully studied theoretical principles.

Myanaa took another deliberate step towards the direwolf. The great beast watched her, its posture shifting from aggressive to wary, a game beyond mere predator and prey. Her open hand extended further into the space between them. A fragile bridge.

The tense stillness was shattered by a sharp crackle. A few errant sparks, bright blue and smelling of burnt hair, leaped from the unstable ball of lightning held in Artholan’s trembling hands.

With a series of yelps and whines, five of the six massive wolves turned and scattered, melting into the surrounding woods, the glow of their eyes vanishing one by one.

The great grey matriarch did not flee. Her powerful frame flinched back a step, a low, warning growl rumbling in her deep chest. Her yellow eyes remained fixed on the Whisper-Kin.

Shaking her massive head the wolf took another deliberate step forward. Then another. She padded towards Myanaa, sniffing the air, her lips still peeled back to reveal a formidable array of teeth.

***

Sabine felt a frantic tugging at the bottom of her breeches. Snik looked up at her with golden eyes wide with a puzzling expression she couldn’t quite decipher. “Tall-One! Sabine, quick!” he hissed, He fumbled in the small, greasy pouch at his belt and produced a small woodmouse. It was, to her horror, a rather sad, mangled specimen, its fur matted, one of its legs bent at an unnatural angle. Dead and quite smelly.

“Give… give to Whisper-Lady,” Snik urged, shoving the limp, furry body into Sabine’s hand. It was… disturbingly warm. “Offer meat-gift! A sign! No-fight! A… a peace-snack!”

Staring at the mangled mouse in her hand, a wave of nausea climbed up her throat. “Snik, that’s… that’s disgusting,” she whispered back, trying to shove it back at him.

“No, no! Is good mouse! Very flavorful!” Snik insisted, his eyes pleading. “Wolf is hunter. Respects gift of the hunt! Please, Tall-One! Before lightning-mage sneezes again!”

The logic was sound, in its irritating goblin way. Gritting her teeth, her stomach churning, Sabine took the mangled corpse. “Myanaa,” she called out softly, her voice trembling slightly. “Snik… thinks you should offer her this.”

Myanaa, her gaze never leaving the approaching alpha’s, replied in a low, steady murmur. “Give it to me, child. Slowly.”

Sabine, as if walking in a dream, crept forward until she was just behind Myanaa. She extended her hand, offering the sad corpse with a soft “Yuck”.

Myanaa took the mouse without breaking eye-contact with the magnificent creature of muscle, tooth, and fur five paces away. The direwolf stopped, her head cocked, her nostrils twitched.
Myanaa knelt, placing the small carcass on the ground, between herself and the great wolf. She then carefully drew back her open hand in a posture of submission.
The offering was made. Sabine held her breath, waiting to see if the alpha’s hunger for blood could be swayed by a peace-snack.

CRUNCH. The direwolf’s jaws snapped shut on the small woodmouse. Bones, fur, and Snik’s snack were obliterated in an instant. The great beast swallowed once, a ripple passing down its thick, muscular throat, then licked its chops with a delicate, pink tongue.

For a moment the wolf stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on Myanaa. She lifted her great head and let out a series of short, sharp barks, followed by a low, questioning howl that echoed into the hills.
The mournful sigh of the wind through the pines carried no reply.
Her ears flattened slightly, and a low snarl rumbled in her chest. The pack had fled, spooked by the loud-magic of the stick-and-robe man. She was alone.

The direwolf padded forward, her massive body a rippling tide of muscle and contained power as she moved past Myanaa, heading towards Sabine.

Sabine froze, her heart hammering so hard she thought the entire camp could hear it. Her hand tightened on her axe, but the weapon gave her no reassurance against the sheer presence of the approaching beast. Snik had gone utterly rigid beside her. Marta helped Masillius shuffle backwards and away, leaning heavily on her small, sturdy frame.

“Get away from the lass, you flea-bitten monster!” Gregan rumbled, raised his axe, and took a step forward, ready to intercept.
“Hold, Corporal!” a sharp whisper from Myanaa cut through the air. Ronigren’s hand shot out, clamping down on Gregan’s arm with an iron grip. “Wait.”

Gregan froze, watching the direwolf closing the distance.

The great beast reached her with its overwhelming size. Its head was level with Sabine’s waist, its shoulder taller than Snik. The scent of it filled Sabine’s senses – a musky odor of cold earth and fresh blood. It ignored her for a moment, dipping down. Its wet, black nose nudged Snik’s trembling side, sniffing him from head to toe. Snik let out a muffled whimper, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced for the inevitable. The wolf gave him a gentle shoulder-bump that sent the small goblin stumbling sideways.

Then, the wolf turned its full attention to Sabine. It looked up at her, its yellow eyes seeming to peer directly into her soul. It sniffed at the hem of her pine-cloth tunic, then let out a low, soft “whuff” of air.

The great direwolf circled once, then sat down with casual grace. She positioned herself between Sabine and Snik, facing outwards towards the darkness.

The tension in the camp gradually loosened away despite the absurdity of their situation. After a long silence and a fortifying swig from a hip flask, Gregan looked at Snik, who was still trying to press himself into nonexistence behind Sabine, and a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Well now, Snik-lad,” the corporal grinned. “Looks like you’ve made a friend. Another large one.” He nudged Ronigren with his elbow. “Always wanted to see one of those Bone-Singers on their fancy mounts up close. Seems you’ve got the mount part sorted. All you need now is a bone staff and a bad attitude.”

Snik’s golden eyes went wide. “Ride? Snik… ride her?” He squeaked, looking at the she-wolf’s broad back. “No, no, no! She is… The Great Tooth! The Wind-Runner! Only the Deep-Whisper makes such ones carry us. Snik would be… a between-the-teeth snack!”

Finn let out a short, dry chuckle. “He has a point, Corporal,” Finn said, a flicker of humor in his usually stoic eyes. “Your legs might not reach the stirrups, Snik.”

Sabine, seeing the absolute terror on Snik’s face, couldn’t resist. She leaned down to the trembling goblin. “Don’t listen to them, Snik,” she said, her voice laced with laughter. “I think you’d look very distinguished. A proper Goblin Knight. We could make you a tiny saddle from one of Master Artholan’s book covers.”

“My… my Codex of Elemental Bindings is not saddle-leather!” Artholan sputtered, but even he couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, a sound so unexpected and rusty it made him cough.

Ronigren watched Sabine’s face alight with laughter as she playfully dodged Snik’s half-hearted attempts to swat her for her teasing. A warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself since before the siege of Woodhall. Slowly, he reached up and unclasped the bronze bracelet from his wrist. He held its cool weight in his palm, letting exhaustion and relief wash over him. Weariness, doubt, the bone-deep ache of his scars came flooding back. But also the warmth of the fire and the sound of his friends’ laughter. He didn’t need the enchanted metal right now. The people around him were anchor enough. Tonight, under the cold northern stars, huddled around a small fire in the ruins of a forgotten age, for the first time in a very long time, Sir Ronigren of Varden thought that he might just be enough.