Book 8: Chapter 22: Hunters
From his previous trips down the mountain, Martel had seen the smoke rising in the distance, telling him where the local family lived. He followed the direction roughly; the darkness made it hard to find the path, but he was no longer in a hurry. He had completed his task in northern lands in time, and while he longed to see Eleanor again, half a day would not make a difference considering he had months of travelling ahead of him. Likewise, he did not need to worry about making the most of daylight, as there was none. He would have to make his journey in the dark for now.
Once more, he heard the wolf howl; or perhaps it was another, given that they travelled in packs. Martel had faint magelight surrounding his staff, helping him find his footing, but as a precaution, he increased the intensity of the flames. That should give pause to any beasts thinking him a vulnerable traveller.
Locating the hut in the long night proved a challenge; it had no windows that might let light escape, and any smoke rising from a fireplace was hidden against the dark sky. Instead, Martel released his sense of magic at intervals, as far as it could travel, until it paid off. In the open landscape where little else could be found, it reached a considerable distance, and rather than seeing it, he felt the smoke as hot air.
Reaching the small dwelling, Martel knocked on the door with his staff. “It’s me, the southern wizard,” he announced. “From the mountain. We met in summer.” He assumed they remembered him. Not a lot of other travellers passing this way.
It took a while, longer than Martel would have expected, before the door finally opened. It revealed the husband, who urged Martel to come in with hurried movements and words the latter did not understand. Happy to get out of the wind, Martel complied.
Inside, he saw a house much like the one where he grew up, except smaller. One room, a bed to one side, a fireplace in the middle, and a table with a few stools to the other side. A hatch in the roof was the only invention, allowing smoke to escape when opened.
Besides the man, there was a small child, seated on the bed and regarding the stranger with wide eyes. Lastly, Martel saw the wife, sitting on a stool. He noticed the bow in her hands, an arrow loosely on the string, and that she was several months pregnant.
“I come in peace,” he muttered.
She lay her bow on the table. “We’re not afraid of you. The wolf has circled our home for one turn of the moon. He hunts in the dark. This is his time.”
Martel thought back on his first conversation with her, remembering it as slightly strange or a tad superstitious. “The wolf that killed your sheep? It’s the same?” She nodded, and he must have looked sceptical, as she continued to say, “I’ve seen the tracks. Bigger than any wolf should be. And he does not look for prey to eat, but to play with. He circles our house, waiting for us to leave to attack us. We are only safe during day, and so we must wait him out.”
It would take fivedays before the sun rose above the horizon for longer than an hour, probably, and Martel was not convinced. “Surely the creature must get hungry. If there’s nothing to eat, it’ll leave.”
“It will not. He has the cunning of a man. He is not part of a pack, he is not a true wolf. He is a terrible beast disguised as one, and he comes to kill.”
She spoke with such conviction, Martel found it hard to doubt her. Something dawned in his memory, from years ago. Fenrick speaking about the witches of the North, punishing people, but Martel could not recall the specifics.
"How do you know this?"
"I am a hunter. I have tracked many walls and kill them. With bow or traps. This beast is not a wolf in spirit. He hides his tracks, and he kills for pleasure. He flees during day. But at night, he hunts."
Although he had seen no signs himself of any of this to be true, Martel no longer felt he could dismiss her. He knew better than anyone how powerful magic could be; given the revelation he had just received, he believed that more than ever before. And on his travels, he had encountered not only strange magic, but also terrible monsters. If this woman, experienced in woodcraft, told him that this was no ordinary wolf, he should perhaps listen.
As if in response to his considerations, a loud thrashing sound could be heard against the door. It was closed with a crossbeam, and it stayed closed, but Martel thought he heard a snarling sound soon followed by a howl. The child jumped into her father's arms, and he held her with one while grabbing his hunting spear with the other. The mother leapt to her feet, grabbing her bow and pulling the string back, arrow at the ready. As for Martel, he turned with his staff prepared to fling spells, though it was not needed. The door was solid, and the beast outside did not make further attempts.
"He is baiting us," the woman claimed. "Trying to get us to follow him. Or maybe he enjoys our fear."
Martel had never heard of a wolf who acted in this manner, and he was starting to feel convinced. "Very well. Let me rest awhile, and if you have a little food to spare, I would appreciate it. Once I am ready, I will find this beast and deal with it."
Martel did not require long to recover. He was tired from his march down the mountain, but if this creature truly hunted humans purely for the pleasure, Martel would not have to go far; it would come to him. As for spellpower, he had it in full, and his supernatural senses felt sharper than ever since his night on the mountain illuminated by celestial light.
All throughout his stay in the cabin, its inhabitants did not speak, not even to each other. The child, perhaps cowed by Martel's presence, simply stared at him, still in her father's arms. He had sat down on the bed, though he kept his free hand on the spear.
When Martel had no reason to delay further, he got up and grabbed his staff. Seeing this, the woman got up as well. "Oh no," Martel exclaimed. "I'm going alone."
"I can't stay behind," she protested; understanding the argument despite his lack of a language, her husband released a string of angry words in Tyrian.
"I am a mage. This is not dangerous for me, but it is for you. Besides, you have your children to think about." With a pointed look at her pregnant belly, Martel moved over to open the door. As soon as he was through it, he heard it close and lock behind him. Ahead of him stretched the dark plains of Tyria.