by Sylvan Scott
The snow was deep and crunched heavily as he slogged through it up to his knees. Anthony wore his hardiest winter clothes and carried a kerosene lantern from his last camping trip. Wiste led the way, a cluster of firefly lights dancing around the tip of his old, gnarled walking stick. They’d packed three days of food, mostly raided from Anthony’s mini-fridge, and planned their path on a hastily-drawn map. Wiste, as always, was his guide.
“Not what I’d expected for a Midwinter’s Night celebration,” Wiste said. “Usually I spend it with a few neighbors, sharing what ales we’ve put down for the coming year; sharing a few feasts.”
“A few feasts?”
“Well, the tradition that Midwinter’s Night last only a single day is really more a guideline than a rule. I’ve been to celebrations that last all week!”
Anthony smiled. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
The night air was peppered with periodic swirls of snow. As the full moon shone through the clouds, a long, mournful howl rose in the distance. It was a rapidly mimicked and echoed, emanating from all around them in the shadows beyond the trees.
The World Labyrinth was less of a physical maze and more of a series of magical paths crisscrossing the world of Kellen. They snaked in and out and all around like secret passages. Whole villages were nestled within and entire countries able to be reached as one walked the paths. When traveling them, you always looked for signs of where to step next; of which path to follow. It was easy to get lost while navigating the World Labyrinth. Anthony had gone astray more times than he cared to remember. He didn’t know exactly where they were at the moment but by his reckoning their path should be taking them through the outskirts of Mournholme in the duchy of Malgrave.
The last of the howls died away.
“Wiste; what was that?”
Both had stopped in their tracks.
“If I said ‘wolves’ would you believe me?” Wiste asked.
Anthony raised his lantern and shone its light between the trees. “Wolves?”
The howls arose again. They were closer.
“Well, that’s half-right.” The howls faded again. What Wiste was saying without saying it settled in.
“Werewolves?”
The satyr swallowed and nodded. “I’ve heard stories; that the children of Duchess Malgrave had been so afflicted but—”
An eruption of claws, fangs, fury, and fur exploded from the shadows around them. Anthony nearly fell over in shock and fear while Wiste brandished his staff.
“Halt and be … identified.”
The booming voice was feral and dropped into a snarl at the end. Five large beasts, half wolf and half man, surrounded them. They were taller than Anthony and covered in grey, shaggy fur. Their eyes glinted in the feeble moonlight. The one who’d spoken, apparently their leader, stepped forward. His yellow eyes flitted from Wiste to Anthony and back to Wiste again.
“I … I’m—”
“No; it cannot be,” the wolf snarled. He’d interrupted Wiste’s attempt at diplomacy and focused on Anthony. The beast bent forward and craned his head back, sniffing the cold air. Anthony swallowed hard. “But it is,” the wolf growled. “It—he—is a … mortal.”
The others murmured looking from each other to their leader.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Well, yes; I am,” he said. “I was—am—the NeverEarth Champion Knight, sworn to the service of good King Alimonde.” His voice grew more confident as he remembered similar encounters from his youth. “I am on a mission for his Majesty,” he lied, “so you’d best clear the path unless you want the king to hear about this!”
The werewolves exchanged glances before their leader answered.
“Good King Alimonde, eh?” the wolf asked. “Tell me, then, which King Alimonde would that be? King Alimonde the wolf-slayer? King Alimonde the long-winded talker? King Alimonde the deceased?” The wolf’s snarl fell into an unpleasant chuckle. “Or would that be all three?” he asked.
Anthony gulped and looked to Wiste who nodded, slowly.
“I’d not yet told you,” he whispered. “Alimonde passed five winters ago; his daughter now sits on the Alabaster Throne.”
“Indeed,” the wolf said. He took a step closer, sniffing the air once more. “It seems your king is dead, ‘champion’.” He looked at his fellows and boomed, “Long live the Warriors of the Forest!” With that, he threw back his head and howled, quickly followed by the rest.
Anthony knew he had to do something. Lowering his head, he dove forward, ramming the lead werewolf in the chest with his head and tackled him to the ground.
The others dove at the two travelers: all teeth and snarls.
Anthony sprang back and swung his heavy backpack to keep them at bay. He hit one in the nose but got a shallow rake of claws in return. Wiste did better, swinging his staff to keep them at bay. But they were quickly overwhelmed. The blows and raking claws stabbed with more agony than Anthony had ever suffered. He fought back with everything he had; it was useless. He was driven to the ground, staining the white snow with red.
Wolven snarls laughed at him as he floundered and Wiste tried to fight his way to his side and help.
A winnowing call split the air. Far off, it sounded entreating yet full of authority.
The wolves stopped their assault immediately.
“Mother,” their leader snarled.
“The duchess,” echoed another.
In moments their assault was forgotten and, as a pack, they loped off through the trees to the north.
Only one hung back, long enough to glare at their intended prey, and snarl, “Come back this way again, outsider, and you’ll fare far, far worse.” With that, he kicked at Anthony’s prone form, turned, and followed the others.
Anthony groaned. His wounds burned while the cold bit into his exposed flesh. He could barely see and his consciousness flickered in and out. He struggled to stand but fell into the snow. Strong hands supported him and rolled him gently onto his back. Wiste knelt in the snow next to Anthony.
“You’ll be fine, Tony; I swear. Just … rest. I’ll go find help.”
Anthony wasn’t strong enough to argue but tried anyway. He didn’t want to be left alone on the cold ground in a dark forest. It was like something out of a faerie tale: one of the nastier variety. “Please, Wiste—”
“I … I’ll be right back; I promise!”
Then, in a flash, the satyr was gone.
Anthony groaned and slumped heavily into the snow.
He didn’t know how long he passed in and out of consciousness but, eventually, his mind slipped from its painful state into a shallow, fitful sleep.
