Chapter 11
Hantle and Rounfil walked together and talked of the previous night. They speculated how much damage they inflicted on the wolf.
“The wolf darted off, injured and bleeding. We made him afraid,” Rounfil said. “Tonight will pass quietly, I’m sure. Because,” and here he nodded his head, blonde hair catching lantern light, “the wolf died deep in the forest after it ran off.”
The muscles in Hantle’s arm stung, from where the wolf had bitten him, and he changed grip on his musket. “I’m not as hopeful. If it died off in the woods, we wouldn’t know one way or another. The uncertainty would be terrible.”
Hantle continued, “I’ll only believe it dead when its head hangs from my hand, body on the ground. Otherwise, he’s just as likely to be off raiding someone like he did the shepherd.”
Rounfil shrugged. “One of us took off his ear, and there’s a good chance our other shot also landed except we couldn’t tell. You sliced his side open. Maybe you got an artery. Best case, he comes back hurt and our job is easier. Worst case, he hides out and recuperates.”
Hantle replied, “I want to finish this sooner rather than later.”
The two stopped and looked into the woods. The flapping of a flock of birds sounded, but were too far away to be seen. Shrill calls followed.
“He’ll be back tonight,” Hantle said. “Larger and hungrier than before. Let us be ready to stand against it.”
A howl carried through the air. The hairs on Hantle’s neck stood on end as the sound faded. The ground seemed to tremble. He looked to Rounfil and then into the forest.
“Do you feel that?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rounfil nodded. “A faint tremor in the ground.”
The space between trees was colorless and featureless. They stood there, feeling the shaking grow more pronounced. A faint popping noise registered with them, but it was not from the nearby fires. The ground and air filled the two men with tension and Hantle called out to all the guard.
“Wolf’s in the woods! Ready your arms.”
The night watch rushed to line up along the eastern border of town, in the opening between the homes and trees. The sounds from the forest grew louder and the ground shook with intensity.
The tree canopy ahead of the group quaked as branches broke and fell to the ground. Faint spots in the dark revealed the wolf’s location. Muskets threw their voices into the night.
Hantle shouted, “Move back. Reload and move back.”
The forest quieted and the ground stood still for a moment.
Then the tree line exploded outward. Leaves, branches, and fur rushed toward the group. The wolf’s padded feet quietly hit the ground, but his girth sent out a shock wave. He was nearly the size of a house. Now able to scoop up one of the guard in a single motion and swallow her with two bites.
Others in the beast’s path were thrown to the ground, Hantle and Rounfil included. Another few shots rang out, but the wolf was unphased. He trampled past the fallen and moved into the town.
From the ground, Hantle rolled over to follow the wolf’s movement. The gash in the wolf’s side looked healed, but had no fur covering the scarred mark. Around the fringes of the ear, it was raw and inflamed; puss dripped down the side of his head. Not even these wounds seemed to slow the wolf. So the wolf was mortal, but only just. Hantle’s stomach dropped.
The wolf noticed the nail boards reinforcing windows and doors on each home. Last night, the deterrents would have prevented the wolf’s entrance. Tonight, however, he had no trouble as he burst into a home through solid wall. He was now so large as to not fit completely inside the building. A portion of his front half disappeared within as he silenced a family’s shrieks.
The tenacity and size of their foe enhanced the terror in the night guard. Several took off running; through road, field, and forest they fled. Hantle stood, helped Rounfil to his feet, and collected his weapon from the ground.
As the wolf backed out of the hole in the wall, the house collapsed on itself and flame from a shattered lantern licked at broken furniture. The creature moved to another home, as the guard ran to meet the wolf there.
Hantle stopped a few yards away to see how many other guard were near him.
As the wolf shook his head inside the house, the structure disintegrated. His head caught the roof and flung it up and away from the building. Two other guards stepped back and were only hit with shingles. Rounfil and Hantle disappeared under the roof as it hit the ground.
First, the smell of smoke. Hantle’s face lay in the grass. As he opened his eyes, he saw smoke floating just above the ground in front of him. Nearby fire was the only light. So it’s still night, Hantle thought.
His left eye was swollen nearly shut; the forehead just above the eye throbbed. He coughed on smoke and noticed pressure on his back. Looking toward his legs, he saw debris covering him and shingles strewn about. With weak arms, he tried crawling forward, only to find movement impossible. A roof beam pinned him to the ground.
As he coughed again, he turned his head and saw Rounfil laying there, just beyond his reach. His companion’s eyes were open; face pale and hand outstretched toward Hantle. Hantle whispered to him, “Are you stuck too?”
Hantle coughed again and noticed the wooden beam protruding from Rounfil’s chest. It had splintered when the wolf destroyed the house and impaled Rounfil as the roof toppled on to the pair. Blood covered Rounfil’s clothing and pooled in the grass under him. Tears welled in Hantle’s eyes as his throat clenched tight.
Hands now a little stronger, Hantle crawled at the ground. Clothes ripped on the wood as his body moved forward an inch. From under the wreckage of the home, Hantle pulled himself with agonizing slowness. Once extracted, he tested unsteady feet while leaning against the roof. A quiet night surrounded him.
Taking stock of the surroundings, Hantle noticed every home in Founsel had been destroyed or collapsed. Most were in flames. His heart raced as he crept through the town, looking for signs of the wolf. Nothing moved outside the tongues of flame. The lone man tried shouting for anyone else nearby but devolved into a coughing fit. The town was covered by smoke, black and thick. Areas were pierced by moonlight as it shifted form and rose into the sky.
Instead of calling out again, Hantle crawled back under the roof and tried to pull his friend out. Hundreds of pounds of woodwork transferred their weight through the beam which drove through Rounfil’s chest. Hantle wouldn’t be able to move a thing without many others to help. Instead, he looked over to where he had been trapped. A small depression in the ground was all that spared his own life. Another inch and the beam would have snapped his back and trapped him. He took Rounfil’s hand for a moment and cursed the wolf before working his way out from under the roof again.
The village’s ruins were aglow and letting off an acrid stench. He ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt to wear over his mouth and ease his breathing. His next action was to search his home for any sign of Lorenca. The building lay smoldering; charcoals cooling now. He waded through the ashes and charred remains, turning over pieces in his search. Throwing the last bit of rubble aside, he looked about in desperation. There was no sign of her at all. His tears mixed with the ash on his hands as he stifled another bout of coughing.
A glinting at his foot drew his eye. Reaching down, he picked up a ring. One he’d given to her on her last birthday. The heat and collapsing of the house had warped it, but the stone shown green after he wiped it on his shirt. Earlier in the night, he had a town full of people to defend his home and wife. Both of those were gone now. He whispered, “Lorenca, I failed you tonight, but I will bring the wolf down. I will make it up to you.” Hantle placed the ring into his breast pocket, where he could feel its shape press into him.
Hantle walked away from the wreckage of his home and explored further. He searched the streets for any survivor. Periodic shouts to the night received no answer. Food spilled from a few of the unburnt dwellings and he put some bread, jerky, and fruits into his pockets. The forest was still illuminated by many lanterns and Hantle embarked on a search along its border. The night wore on and, several hours later, Hantle slumped down, exhausted, against one of the streetlamps. He rested and ate that food he’d collected.
The wolf had been thorough in his work. Hantle had come across neither survivor nor dead in any part of town. The beast had even demolished those homes left abandoned by the caravanners. It was sheer luck that kept Hantle out of view and alive at all.
Hantle finished a strip of jerky and wondered, Had the wolf finished his feeding and gone back into the forest? That was the pattern on previous nights. He bent over and picked up a musket, powder horn, and bullet bag. Pain in his arm was outweighed by that in his back. Feeling better with food in his stomach, he set off down the road. His aim was the largest nearby town, Harsenth.
The wolf yawned and stood up from where he’d fallen asleep near the dirt road. His stomach gurgled as it digested the meal that was Founsel and he felt content.
With all the buildings in ashy ruin, he had run out of town; staying a few yards into the forest, but following the road. Further on, the excitement and action left him drained. He had reached his current spot before laying down for a nap. On the night of the sheep flock attack, he’d been by here. Beyond this area, though, nothing was familiar.
A patch of fur was missing along the throat of the wolf. Hantle’s musket shot had ripped it out when passing mere hairs away from the skin. The canine’s own blood had mingled with that of his victims and both now fell away in dry flakes.
The wolf walked on, into new territory. A need for more quarry made him eager to set out. Smells along the trail hinted at a group of people ahead. The road bent eastward and continued straight. Founsel would not be his only meal tonight.
The seven wagons were still many miles away from Harsenth. The caravan’s leader was acutely aware of how much distance they lost when replacing the broken wheel. The sun had sunk below the horizon and blinking stars now peppered the sky. Torches set in sconces on the covered wagons cast enough light for them to slowly work their way along the road, over broken terrain. Earlier, they discussed resting until dawn but were too afraid to stop while so far from their destination. The caravan rattled onward.
A howl rose into the air from behind the group. Goosebumps raised on each person’s arms. A mother drove a wagon taking up the rear of the line. She looked around the wagon’s frame, back toward the sound. A towering shape some yards back caught moonlight and shone a spotted silver.
The woman spun around and yelled forward, “The wolf is on us!” Screams of children joined the shouts of adults.
Ground trembled as the wolf sprinted at the caravan line. The mother pulled the last of her four children from the wagon just as it splintered from the beast’s impact. The wolf sank his teeth into the drawing horses. Their terrified screams spooked horses of nearby wagons.
The torches, from their sconces, cast a chaotic light on a chaotic scene. Wagons rumbled off the road as their occupants jumped out and sprinted into the trees. A few people at the front of the caravan steadied their muskets on wagon wheels. Their jaws dropped and stomachs followed as they glimpsed the full size of the wolf bounding toward them. A handful of errant shots added to the cacophony. Their dying yells stoked hysteria.
As wagons reached the forest, they stuck on tree trunks. Their horses bucked and neighed, trapped and frightened. The wolf left the wagons to focus on the people scampering into the woods. Their blundering through the trees was a beacon for the canine and doom found them readily.
The wolf enjoyed sniffing out the last of the humans, trembling and hiding in bushes. By swallowing them entirely whole, he spilled little blood. Wagons and contents splintered under his paws. The beast then savored the steeds still spooked and stuck to the wagons.
With the last horse devoured, the wolf thought ahead to the sunlight which would soon flood the world. He strode off following the road eastward, using the travel time to plot how to set the world in a perpetual twilight. The harsh daylight would not haunt him for ever.
Birds chirped in the pre-dawn light as Hantle came across the first pieces of wreckage. The road and nearby grass were filled with debris. Two piles, the remnants of wagons, smoked. Hantle searched through the scattered piles of home wares and wooden fragments but, again, found no one. The most terrifying aspect of the wolf was his ability to devour completely.
The rising sun illuminated a wall of clouds coming over the Knuckles as Hantle made his way eastward. The swelling in his eye had decreased enough for him to enjoy the sunrise. Hantle took the ring from his shirt pocket. It was all he had left of family, home, or town.