The Black Wolf

 Bjorn hunched under his sodden brown wool cloak, wishing the rain was anywhere but there. It pelted down unceasingly and unmercifully, finding its way under Bjorn's heavy cowl to drip slowly down his back. The lightning scuttled brilliantly through the foreboding gray skies, followed almost immediately by crashing, rolling booms of thunder. Bjorn, for the millionth time, blessed the fact that his mare didn't react to storms, even bad ones such as this.

He twitched the reins as his mare, Dvarna, slowed momentarily as she sludged through the thick, clinging mud.

The wagon rattled along slowly and sluggishly as it made its way down the muddy, treacherous old road in the woods. Countless wagon wheels, boots, and animal hooves had churned up the dirt and rain into a seething mass of endlessly sucking mud.

Bjorn looked up from Dvarna's back at the road, attempting to clear his eyes of rainwater as he dragged the back of his hand across his face. Disappointingly, his hand was even wetter and it did not help.

The road split into a V up ahead, one veering sharply to the left and going along the edge of the woods, the other continuing straight ahead, deviating slightly to the right and into the forest.

He hauled in on the reins, stopping Dvarna short. He rubbed his eyes and peered harder at the intersection.

“'ave we been 'ere afore, Dvarna?” he mumbled, looking from one fork to the next. “Seems I can't remember. Shoulda been at the split oak by now, I'd reckon.” The split oak was a large, dead tree that had been struck by lighting some years ago in a storm much like the one they were in then. It stood between two forks of the road like a large sentinel, but this was a different intersection and there was no sign of the monolithic tree.

“Coulda sworn…” Bjorn harrumphed under his breath. “Well, no use sittin' out here in the rain. Might as well get on somewhere.”

He clicked his tongue and slapped the reins lightly on Dvarna's back. “C'mon, Dvarna.”

The big dun mare set off once more, heaving the wagon along through the muck. Figuring the right fork led northwest, Bjorn directed Dvarna onto the track.

This road wasn't as broad as the one they had just been on and the trees grew closer together above, knitting their branches together to cast deep shadows along the ground below. The thunder boomed ominously above them and Bjorn jumped, startled. The wind howled breathlessly through the trees, the leaves murmuring together and creating an ubiquitous, mournful whisper.

“Just the storm,” he muttered to himself. He looked at Dvarna. Her head was low and her legs were covered with a thick coating of mud; there were even muck splatters on her withers and neck. She paid no heed to the storm or their surroundings.

The sharp crack of a stick breaking in the forest to his left made Bjorn's head snap in the direction of the sudden noise. A shadow slid through the trees, low to the ground. Bjorn gasped and looked harder, but there was nothing there.

“Storm's playin' with yer nerves, Bjorn,” he told himself unconvincingly. “Nothin' out there. Nothin' out there.” He shivered, both from the cold and the knot of trepidation forming in his stomach.

He turned his attention back to the road ahead, but he couldn't stop himself from continuously glancing from side to side. His senses were tuned keenly now, his eyes darting about constantly and his ears straining for any abnormal sound. His hands flexed on the reins and Dvarna must have felt his tension for she whinnied sharply and tossed her head, picking up her pace slightly.

“Easy now, Dvarna, easy,” Bjorn said gently, although there was no denying the slight tremble in his own voice.

A low, vicious growl from the left side of the road made Dvarna nicker loudly and shy off to the right side of the road, straining against her harness. Bjorn, his heart beginning to thud rapidly in his chest, peered into the thick, sodden undergrowth. Yellow, slitted eyes peered back at him. It was a wolf—a timber wolf.

The wolf had a scarred black pelt and gleaming yellow eyes and stood at least four feet tall at its shoulder. For his height, however, the black wolf was skinny and emaciated. Bjorn realized he needed food badly—and his mare was just the kind of easy prey the wolf would want.

“Hyah, Dvarna!” he shouted, slapping the reins. “Hyah!” He glanced fearfully at the wolf again as Dvarna tried to speed up. There were two more wolves behind him. Neither were as large as the black, but both were still sizable and could do much damage.

The mud was too thick. Burdened by wagon and muck and rain as she was, Dvarna could only manage a slow, laborious canter. The wolves, lighter and not restrained by a cart, would easily overtake her.

“Move, Dvarna, move!” Bjorn bellowed, his voice cracking with the tension. Dvarna did not need to be told. She knew the wolves were there and that her master was the only one of the two who might be able to stop them.

He dropped the reins to where he would be able to pick them up again and scrambled back into the wagon. It was covered by an oiled canvas cloth which protected the contents inside—flour, and supplies from the town market—from the rain. He tossed the cover aside viciously and scrambled about inside, searching for something to stop the wolves. A sudden idea hitting him, he jerked his long-bladed dirk from the sheath by his side and sliced open one of the bags of ground flour he was carrying. Re-sheathing his knife, Bjorn picked up the sack and tossed it behind the wagon and into the forest, spreading a rainbow of flour through the air as he did so.

“My wife'll kill me fer losin' 'at flour,” he muttered. “But if I don't, the wolves woulda. I'm not sure which be worse—a mad Ingrid or them wolves.”

The flour sack landed in front of the wolf trio and burst in their faces, halting them in their tracks. But the rain quickly damped down the flour and they continued, flour streaking their dark, lean bodies.

Bjorn, barely waiting to see if his wild throw had been successful, was already back in his seat, urging Dvarna on while he frantically hacked at the harness. Now, with only the reins connecting the wagon and horse, Bjorn gave a mighty leap from his seat and landed on Dvarna's back.

“Hyah, Dvarna!” Bjorn shouted once more, gathering in the slack of the reins. Realizing that she had no wagon to bog her down her now, Dvarna increased her pace, moving away from the wagon swiftly. Bjorn looked back. The wolves had stopped at the wagon and were sniffing it, but, finding no suitable food, gave chase once more, yipping and snarling.

The black wolf drew ahead of his companions and onto the right side of the road, gradually eating up the distance between Bjorn and the wolf. Freed from the wagon's burdensome load, Dvarna could move much faster—but not fast enough.

Bjorn began pulling Dvarna's head towards the left, away from the encroaching black wolf. Only to move back as he saw another wolf to his left. The three beasts were cutting him off.

He looked desperately ahead, knowing he was running out of time.

“Dvarna, move!” his voice broke. But Dvarna was stretched to her limits and was growing tired. She could not outrun the wolves.

The road made a dogleg up ahead and Dvarna turned with it, losing more space to the black wolf. Bjorn looked back again and could see the foam at the wolf's mouth and the savage, hungry fury in his eyes. Turning his attention to the road ahead once more, Bjorn's heart leaped with hope.

Through the slashing rain, he could see the blurred lights and the dim outline of a house or cabin ahead, slightly off to the left of the road. But could he make it? The cabin was still a hundred feet away and the wolves were drawing closer. The black wolf and the one to his left were alongside him now, starting to surge ahead and cut him off.

As if feeling her master's excitement, or that she too had seen the cabin lights, Dvarna increased her speed marginally. Bjorn leaned low over her neck, her heart thumping wildly. They would make it. They would make it.

Then Dvarna stumbled.

Her foot hit a stone, or a hole or branch or root. She recovered admirably and amazingly quickly, but it was too late. The wolves had gained the upper hand once more and were drawing ahead. Bjorn could feel Dvarna's speed faltering and he knew it would be too late.

He gave a shout of despair.

The wolf behind was almost at Dvarna's heels and the ones ahead were closing in.

Suddenly, out of the sheeting rain, an arrow slammed into one of the wolf's flank. The wolf stumbled and another arrow pierced its side. The gray wolf collapsed and did not rise again. An arrow struck the black wolf and he yelped loudly.

Bjorn looked up. The cabin was so close. He could see warm, welcoming firelight shining through an open doorway and a tall figure silhouetted in it.

Another arrow came streaking away as the figure released his bow. It struck the wolf behind Dvarna in the head and he collapsed instantly. The black wolf slunk away into the shadows and vanished.

Bjorn slowed Dvarna to a trot for the rest of the way to the cabin. The stranger, longbow in hand, was waiting for him as he dismounted. He and his mare were shaking all over, Dvarna from the physical exertion and Bjorn from the fear.

“Thank you, friend,” Bjorn gasped.

“There is a stable for your mare out back,” the man said in a gruff voice.

“Thank you,” Bjorn repeated. He led Dvarna to the small barn behind the cabin. It was warm and dry in the stables. There were two bay horses and a cow in milk there, and Bjorn led Dvarna to an unoccupied stall. He took off the mangled harness and the bridle and tossed them to the side. He rubbed Dvarna down briskly with a handful of straw.

Only after making sure his mare was safe did Bjorn leave. The stranger was still standing by the doorway when Bjorn made his way around to him, although there was no sign of the massive longbow.

“Who are you?” asked the stranger. “I am Hagen Stonearrow.” He was tall and broad-shouldered, heavily muscled from day after day of hard, grueling labor. His brown hair was long and tied back in a loose ponytail and flecked with gray. His beard was long and brown, too, and bore the signs that he was just passed his prime of life. But there was still strength in him and a light in his brown eyes.

“I am Bjorn, son of Einar. I thank ye for the help.”

Hagen grunted. “'Tis no more than any man would do.”

Bjorn nodded. Hagen led him to a small room. There was a merry fire dancing in the fireplace and Bjorn sat by it, taking off his sodden cloak and hanging it on the mantle to dry. Hagen left and came back with a bowl of steaming soup and a small loaf of warm, fresh bread. He gave the food to Bjorn, who devoured it like a hungry wolf.

“A black wolf chased you, no?” Hagen asked. Seeing the affirmative answer in Bjorn's eyes, he went on. “I call him Onulv. The evil wolf. He steals my flocks as easy prey. He preys on other farms, too. He has been terrorizing us for a long time.”

Bjorn nodded. He had finished the food and now he sat back in his chair and listened to Hagen. Hagen was staring off into the fire thoughtfully.

“He is an old wolf now, but he has not stopped, nor slackened, his attacks. I have lost many a good animal to him.” Hagen shook his head. “Ah, but enough about me. What were you doing in such a storm? Where do you come from, to be so far out here?”

“I twas comin' home from Halvurshon when the storm struck. I got lost somewhar 'long the roads. Just kept goin'. Not much use twould've been to just sit in the rain.”

“Aye,” Hagen agreed. “But how far from Halvurshon do you live?”

“Seven miles north of it, in a small village called Gilseitt.”

“Ah, friend, you are far from Gilseitt. Some miles west of here lies Bergsholn.”

Bjorn let out a groan. Bergsholn was far away from his humble hamlet.

“But do not be alarmed, friend,” said Hagen kindly. “You are welcome here until the storm abates. Then I will give you directions and you may get home.”

“Thank you, friend,” Bjorn said, bowing his head in gratitude.

The storm did not abate till late that night and Hagen invited Bjorn to stay. Bjorn agreed and spent a comfortable night in the small living room by the fire.

Early the next morning, Bjorn bridled Dvarna and took up the mangled harness, slinging it over his shoulder. He mounted the stout mare, said farewell to Hagen, and left for home.

This time Onulv the black wolf left him alone.