The Hunt

*Dale is an old English name for a narrow valley

The distant sound of galloping hooves disturbed the deep silence of the night on the prairie, where the tall grass rippled in the cold northern wind toward the trees. The forest poured down from the hills enclosing the only access to the narrow valley, ending at the high plain like a wall of darkness under the clouded moon.

Two dozen shadows climbed past the last slope to the prairie, staggering as they tried to run toward the woods, their trembling voices trying to encourage each other.

“The Red Woods!”

“The Dale is right there!”

“One last run!”

“Don’t stop now!”

The fugitives stumbled toward the other end of the prairie, where the shadows of the forest promised shelter. Men and women, even children, they were all dirty and barefoot, injured, eyes wide in terror. The fittest runners sprinted ahead while families tried to stay together, pulling by the hand the weaker and younger ones.

Among them, the smith pressed his wife’s hand, as she panted with an arm around her bulging belly.

Stopping wasn’t an option, with the hooves climbing closer behind them.

The riders soon reached the prairie. They were about twenty, all wrapped in heavy fur cloaks, the light blond hair in braids down their backs, revealing the beautiful pale faces.

They reined their tall battle horses back, making them walk until the fugitives were halfway to the trees. Then they wielded long spears with silver points and spurred on their horses.

The fugitives tried to run faster. Some tripped and fell, disappearing in the rippling sea of grass. Nobody stopped to help them. There was no time. The others kept running toward the forest without looking back, their hearts hammering their chests, where the freezing air seemed to burn their lungs.

The riders charged like a silent nightmare. Some paused to catch those who had fallen, and still tried to hide or get up to keep running. Most of them stayed on the chase. Their spears thrust through the fugitives, taking them down still alive. Then the riders jumped from their saddles and onto the wounded. Screams of sheer pain and agony filled the night, as sharp fangs sank into the beating flesh.

All of a sudden, a dozen of huge shadows came out from under the trees. The moon showed among the clouds, shedding light on the giant wolves, the size of bulls, leaping toward the slaughter in the middle of the prairie.

Some fugitives slowed down in fear, and that hesitation made them easy prey for the riders. The wolves ignored them to jump on the horses, tackling them down to then attack the riders.

Amidst that horror, the smith pulled from his wife, begging her to make one last exertion. The legend was true: the cursed forest guarded the entrance to the Dale of Wolves, sworn enemies of the immortals who had just slain their village. And the legend said that whoever crossed into the Dale would find shelter, and the rare chance of a peaceful life safe from them.

Just a step behind him, his wife let out a muffled scream and tripped. She knew she wouldn’t get much further. Her injured bare feet slipped in her own blood, her legs felt about to buckle, air didn’t seem to reach her chest anymore. The only thing pushing her on was the baby in her belly, just about to be born.

Then she felt the burning pain in her right shoulder, and saw in disbelief the silver point coming out of her own flesh. It pierced through her body to sink into the soil one step ahead of her, stopping her with a violent yank.

The smith felt her hand slip through his fingers and heard her scream. He halted and turned around, freezing in horror when he found her caught in the spear as the rider jumped on her.

His wife fell to her knees, still grabbing her belly, glazed eyes up on him, her face a mask of pain and desperation. The rider stood behind her with a crooked smirk. He grabbed the long messy hair and yanked her head back, exposing her neck to his sharp fangs.

“No!” the smith screamed as the rider bit her viciously. “Help!”

The fright froze him as the rider drank his wife’s blood. Until her moan shook him into action. He charged against the rider, pushing him back with all his strength. The rider’s fangs tore open his wife’s flesh and her blood gushed from her wound, coating her chest and the rags she was wearing.

The rider straightened up with an evil laugh and grabbed the smith by his neck, lifting him up until his feet didn’t touch the ground anymore.

The smith didn’t fight back. He knew it was in vain. He closed his eyes awaiting death.

Instead, the rider dropped him on the ground by his dying wife.

The biggest wolf in the pack was fighting the rider, who now wielded a short sword.

The smith crawled back, trying to protect his wife.

The black wolf dodged the sword and jumped on the rider, closing the mighty jaws on his neck. It shook him until the rider’s head fell off. Then it dropped the dead body, which fell partly on top of the woman, his blood pouring on her.

Fear froze the smith again when the huge creature stepped closer, the rider’s blood still dripping from its muzzle. He didn’t dare to intervene when the wolf pushed away the dead rider and lowered its head to smell the woman, who out of a true miracle was still alive.

It sniffed her and growled, stepping back. Then it raised its big head and let out a long, mighty howl, that seemed to punch the smith in his chest. He kneeled before the creature, bending over with his face just an inch away from the soil soaked in his wife’s blood.

“Save them, my lord wolf!” he cried out loud. “I beg you!”

Something cold and wet touched his temple, and when he looked up, he found the wolf studying him with a supernatural intelligence in its golden eyes.

“Please, take my life!” he begged. “But save my wife and my child!”

A party of men ran out of the forest. There were no trace of the riders left, but some decapitated bodies and horse galloping away by themselves.

The wolves had spread all over the prairie, marking the location of the surviving fugitives for the men to help. Three of them came up to the smith. One of them helped him to stand up when another one stepped away from his wife.

“She’s bitten, my lord!” he cried, spooked. “We cannot save her!”

The wolf turned to the man with a deep growl. The men bowed their heads and lifted the dying woman. They didn’t remove the spear piercing through her shoulder, to prevent a massive bleeding that would kill her in a blink. The smith stumbled behind them, stunned, unable of speaking or even thinking, trembling from head to toes.

It took them what felt like eternity to carry her across the forest. At the other side, past the last trees, he saw a whole village, the narrow streets filled with people hurrying to and fro to help the fugitives.

They brought the smith’s wife to a small house near the square, where a disheveled woman, her head wrapped in colorful strips, told them to lie her down on a heavy wooden table. The place reeked of smoke and herbs.

“Out!” the woman barked the moment they settled the smith’s wife down.

The men grabbed the smith and dragged him out with them. The huge black wolf with golden eyes walked in and the men lowered their heads before it. The smith tried to follow it in.

“Right there!” one of the men said, stopping him. “Your wife is as good as dead, but maybe the witch and the Alpha can save your child.”