Category Archives: The Redemption of Erâth

Posts about Satis’ ongoing epic fantasy saga.

Chapter 6: Sonora

Brandyé of course did not die of his illness that winter, and in fact recovered not long after having been thrown into the snow by his grandfather. Reuel seemed somewhat stuffed up and ill-disposed for some time after, however; it was uncertain if he had merely caught the cold that had afflicted Brandyé, or if he was disaffected by coming so near to losing his grandson, and the wild things Brandyé had uttered while under the mad influence of his fever.

For many weeks, Reuel did not leave the house, other than to go out, well-wrapped, for small provisions. The worst of the winter weather had passed, and they found themselves less needing of firewood, which was fortunate, as the pile outside the house was growing rather small. Reuel did not even visit the Burrow Wayde on Fridays, to the point where the regular patrons began to wonder where he had got to, and what exactly was happening with the odd little family of two that lived at the top of the hill. Nobody knew of the wolf Brandyé had seen, for neither Brandyé nor Reuel spoke of it, and Farmer Tar was oddly silent about his encounter with Brandyé on the moors on a cold evening.

Brandyé, for his part, was content to remain at home, and busied himself with writing and drawing. He began to follow Reuel around the house, and became quite adept at cooking – and burning – simple meals. He felt badly that Reuel had had to take such intensive care of him while he had been ill, and became aware that his grandfather often did more than his share of household work day to day. He began to more regularly tidy the parlor and kitchen; it was great fun emptying the parlor’s large hearth of ash, and Brandyé found it impossible to sweep the dark-staining char out of the house without raising great clouds of dust and soot, which would then need dusting off the furniture before it could again be used. Reuel taught him to wield an axe, and he began to spend hours outdoors finding and splitting logs and branches. Reuel began to rest more and more, and Brandyé didn’t mind for he knew his grandfather was old, and had worked hard all his life. This new work kept Brandyé’s mind busy, and he quickly grew strong and tall.

His sleep was again fitful and blank, and he did not travel during his sleep any more, either to distant ocean cities or dark woods. Yet, he could not clear his mind of what he had seen, both with his waking and his sleeping eyes. The memory of the Fierund among the distant moorland trees was ever clear and precise, and how the beast had emerged from the woods and gazed upon him directly, as though it knew where, and who, he was. The memory of the seven wolves in the far distant forest was yet sharper, for they had been nigh upon him before the dark figure had emerged from the trees. The claws, the fur, the long and dangerous teeth were nothing to the dismal, haunting red eyes whose gaze bore through his soul and emptied his mind of all that was good and right.

Yet above all, the one memory that remained untainted by fear, thought or the passage of time, was that of the woman in black. Of her he was not afraid, yet knew she was of great importance. Her skin, pale and cold, held not a trace of age, and she might have been twenty or two hundred. He remembered the darkness of her robes, they way the reflected no light, and remembered her eyes, which were of equal depth and blackness beyond measure. He remembered the jewel, dark and crimson, the color of blood, which hung at her breast and was the only mark of color upon her at all. He felt he could stare endlessly into the depths of that jewel; he saw every detail, the silver adornment at its top, the tiny loop that bound it to the cord which looped around her neck, and the way in which the color deep within it seemed to dance and change, and draw life into itself.

And also, he remembered her voice, clear and pure. She had spoken in a tongue he did not recognize, yet it felt familiar, and he did understand this. She had called him by his name, and had smiled at him, and he was sure she had also known him, as had the Fierundé. And while the intent of the Fierundé seemed clear (to eat him), what this woman in black had to do with him was beyond his reasoning. She had seemed kind, yet cold, and there was such a sense of darkness about her that he was intimidated. One word kept coming back to his mind as he thought of her, and that word was Death.

It was well into Spring before either Brandyé or Reuel felt well enough to spent a great deal of time out of doors, and since there had been so sign of Fierundé, wolves, or any other beast, and since Brandyé had not since spoken of any other such waking vision, Reuel relented and allowed Brandyé to once more venture away from home, and take the path down to the village, or roam the moors, whose sparse flowers were now beginning to awaken. There was a condition, though, that Brandyé would not pass onto the moors beyond sight of the house, and was above all forbidden from descending into the further valleys where the rows of trees and woods began. He also was not to venture onto the moors alone.

This did not bother Brandyé much, for in fact he was growing older, and spending endless hours acting out his grandfather’s tales and imagining himself as a brave knight conquering all manner of demons began to hold less interest for him. This is not to say his imagination was failing, for he continued to picture far away lands and places, but rather that containing his thoughts to his own mind was no longer enough, and his curiosity began to turn to an outward desire to explore, discover, and extend the boundaries of his own experience.

To this end, Brandyé was scarcely alone, for the Dottery’s son, Elven, shared with Brandyé his delight in exploration and discovery. Elven’s parents, Timothai and Arian, were two of the few adults in Burrowdown who did not mind Reuel and his odd grandson, and were on good terms with both of them. For them, the strangeness of Reuel’s past, and the circumstances of Brandyé’s birth, were not of their concern, and they saw but an old man who cared deeply for his grandson. Though they had not known them, they felt sorry that Reuel had lost not only a wife but a daughter, and saw how important Brandyé was to him.

Elven had inherited his parents’ lack of concern for the odd and inexplicable, and greatly enjoyed spending time with Brandyé. Of the two, Elven was the more heedless, and while Brandyé would take much time to consider the consequences of their actions, Elven would not hesitate to plunge into danger (or such circumstances as seemed dangerous to children). Inevitably, they would return, often dirtied, bruised and scratched, but triumphant that they had been able to loose Farmer’s Tar’s bull from its paddock, or pull a gnarleck (a large fish with three rows of needle teeth and a temper to match) from the River Burrow and drag it home for supper, much to their parents’ astonishment.

Elven had also three sisters, two of whom were older than him, and one who was younger. The two older sisters had little interest in what the “little boys” did, and indeed the eldest, Maria, was already engaged to a local farmhand and was due to be wed in the fall. The second eldest, Julia, though very pretty, seemed to spurn the attention of the other boys her age, and indeed showed great interest in artistry; her creations – from woven baskets to rugs and great, multicolored candles that could burn with blue or green flame – were second to none, and she sold many of them, much to the annoyance of Marion  Myrtlehüe (she of the little pillows and the goat).

The youngest Dottery, though, Sonora, who was some years younger than Elven, was enamored of the two older boys, and saw them as being very brave and daring, especially when they would return from an adventure scratched and bloodied, grinning like fools and talking of their feats as though their very lives had been in danger (quite possibly, sometimes, with truth). She listened, her bright green eyes wide with wonder, to their adventures, and Elven and Brandyé, pleased to have such a willing audience, enjoyed very much regaling her with their exploits.

Sonora enjoyed also to hear Brandyé’s tales of ages past and the ancient world; she was of course too young to visit the Burrow Wayde, and as their families rarely visited each other, she had not heard Reuel’s great stories, and of course came to believe that Brandyé himself was the author of these yarns. Brandyé, having learned the art of embellishment from his grandfather, added his own details to each story, and a surprising number of the characters in these tales carried the name of Sonora, which gave the young girl a feeling of great importance, believing her name to be descended from such grandness.

Elven was very fond of Sonora, and would often bring small gifts back for her when he and Brandyé returned from their play; sometimes an unusual flower from a distant meadow, or a pocketful of ripe berries (which hopelessly stained Elven’s vests and got him in much trouble with his mother), or a small stone from the riverbank that seemed to let light pass right through it when held up to the sun just right. She delighted in these small gifts, and longed to go with her older brother on his adventures, and share in the wonder of exploration.

As kind as the Dotterys were to Brandyé, the other families of Burrowdown were not always so. Many of them would not look past his terrible birth, or the strangeness of his grandfather, and turned from him as he passed through the streets. When Brandyé was quite young, their children would merely stare at him as he passed, often from the windows of their homes, as their parents would shoo them indoors to keep them away from him.

Most children, of course, are not taught by their parents to think, and as they grow up, they become unconsciously filled with the prejudices of their parents, and where once there was curiosity about the strange boy, there now was dislike, and a few of the older children began to confront Brandyé when he was in town, and would often tease him, or refuse him passage down a street unless he gave them a coin. Reuel had long feared that such confrontations would happen as Brandyé grew older, and hoped that his own patience would pass on to his grandson, but sadly it was not so. Brandyé’s pride would not let him back down from his tormentors, and these altercations would often end with Brandyé returning home to explain his bruises to his grandfather.

Soon, much to the alarm of his parents, Elven also became ostracized for his friendship with Brandyé, and while the children of the village would rarely bear down on him alone, they would not hesitate to include him in their aggression if he happened to be with Brandyé at the time. Matters were not aided by Elven’s own brashness, and while Brandyé would usually react to their taunts with stinging words, Elven would launch himself upon them with his fists. Despite this, Brandyé soon learned that the excuse, “Elven started it,” did not assuage his grandfather’s disappointment in these scraps.

So it was with caution that Brandyé and Elven began to venture out of their homes, and they increasingly avoided the village of Burrowdown itself in favor of the open countryside. One of their favorite pastimes was to journey to a certain low hill, some three or four miles to the South from Burrowdown. This hill was singular in that it stood, alone, in the otherwise flat southern countryside, as though placed there by a giant in ages past. Atop this hill stood an ancient oak, whose branches began very low, and whose highest leaves swayed in the breeze some hundred feet above. Elven had named the tree Soleheart, for he said it was a brave tree to live for so long alone at the top of the hill. Naturally, it was an excellent climbing tree, and Brandyé and Elven would often scale Soleheart for some seventy or eighty feet, and just before the branches became too thin to support their weight, there grew a particular tangle of branches upon which they could quite comfortably sit, side by side, and look out upon virtually all of the land of Consolation. It felt very much that they could gaze upon the entirety of the world from that height, and would spend hours enjoying the isolation, discussing matters of great importance (such as what their favorite meal was, or which of the village bullies they would most like to see fall face-first in the mud). Occasionally, they would forget the passage of time, and only start the journey home when the sun began to sink below the western horizon. They would be in much trouble when they returned home in the dark, but for them it was worth it, for it seemed that no one else in all the lands knew of this secret spot.

Unbeknownst to them, Sonora had for some time begun to follow them when they went out, and though she at first would turn back after only a few minutes, the excitement of seeing what her older brother was up to spurred her to trail them for longer and longer, always keeping back and hidden from their view, lest they should turn suddenly and spy her behind them. It was not long before she too knew of the great oak atop the hill, and envied them and wished she too could climb the tall branches with them. She believed, though, that they would be angered if they knew she had followed them, and knew her parents would not like her traveling so far from home, and so remained hidden in the tall grass, silent, until they started back, and again would trail them secretly all the way home.

It became so that she knew the way to the hill without needing to follow the two older boys, and often she was pass ahead of them, and arrive at the tree before them. One time, she did not know that Brandyé and Elven had stopped on their trail to watch a wild cat catch and devour a small frog, and was very much surprised to find that when she arrived at Soleheart, there were already people there.

Some five or six boys, some of whom she knew from the village, were gathered near the base of the tree, and seemed to be surrounding something that lay upon the ground. Some of them were pointing and laughing, and she felt their laughter was not of good humor, and became uneasy. These boys seemed mean, and she was worried about what lay between them. She drew herself, keeping low in the grass, closer to the circle of boys, so that she might see what they were doing. While she knew it would not be something she thought of as “good”, her young mind could not fathom the cruelty of boys, and she was not prepared for what she saw.

In the centre of the circle of boys, flapping awkwardly and clearly hurt, was a small bird. It had a sharp, curved beak, and its feet ended in very sharp talons, but one of its wings was bent, and it was scrabbling at the earth as though in terror. Some of the boys were in fact throwing stones at the creature, and cheered if it hit home. One of them brandished a long stick, and would jab out at it occasionally, ensuring it did not escape.

Sonora watched, aghast, and felt sick. Such was her horror that she could not prevent a small cry escaping her lips, and at the sound, each of the boys rounded on her, searching the grass with unpleasant eyes. One of them pointed and said, “Look, there – in the grass; it’s a little girl!”

Two of the others rushed forward, and before Sonora could move, they had grasped her wrists, and hauled her from her hiding place and held her, struggling, before the first boy. He stood taller than the others, and commanded a presence that the rest of the boys submitted willingly to. The first boy, the tall one, glared at her. “What’re you doin’ all the way out here?” he demanded.

Sonora did not reply. She was greatly scared, and a small tear leaked from her eye. She did not want to anger the boys further, but an instinct told her they were looking for an excuse to do something terribly unpleasant to her, and was afraid to speak lest she unwittingly give them that reason. The boy stepped threateningly toward her, and repeated, “What’re you doing? What’s a little girl like you doin’ all by her lonesome? Are yer parents near?” He looked around, and for a moment seemed nervous. Seeing nothing, though, he turned back to her. “Are you mute? I spoke to you, you’d better answer!”

Sonora trembled. “Please,” she whimpered, “please let me go – I won’t tell anyone what you were doing!”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “And jus’ what exactly were we doin’?” he growled.

Sonora bit her lip, but did not speak.

“Answer!” the boy demanded.

Sonora cast her gaze away from him, and murmured, “I saw you hurt that bird.”

A corner of the boy’s lip curled, and he said, “I could hurt you, ’course, too.” Sonora began quietly to weep, but the boy saw, and swift as a whip, lashed out a hand and slapped her check. Sonora’s head was flung back, and her cheek stung and grew red. “How do I know you won’ speak?” he said. “P’raps we should make so as you can’t return home,” and he raised his hand again.

It was at that moment that a voice called out, high and angry, “Oi! Leave her be!”

The boys turned towards the sound of the voice, and Sonora looked also. Appearing on the far side of the hill stood Elven, fury on his face, and Brandyé beside him, looking astonished. He was not certain by what he was most surprised – that Sonora had found her way to the hill, or that six boys, some of whom he knew from the village to be particularly nasty, were surrounding her with what appeared to be an intent to cause her great harm. Elven had no such consideration; his only thought was to bring all his might upon his sister’s tormentors, and he was not a weak boy.

The leader of the boys moved away from Sonora, and the rest of them followed him. The two who had held her tight released her, and she turned and ran as fast as she could down the hill and toward home, now weeping freely. The sound of her cries enraged Elven yet further, and his teeth ground so that Brandyé heard them.

“You dog!” yelled Elven.

Brandyé was angered now also, and spat, “Cowardly filth! You would strike a girl half your age? Perhaps because you have no courage to face someone who is your equal in strength!”

The group of boys approached them with loathing, and the leader cried, “I don’ need to be afraid of someone my size, or anyone else! Your little girlfriend got what was comin’ to her, and you’ll get the same!”

“You speak of my sister!” cried Elven, and without a further word threw himself at the tall boy.

The boy was a head taller than Elven, but such was Elven’s force that he was thrown back, and the two fell to the ground, Elven swinging in blind rage at the boy, bloodying his nose with his first hit. Swiftly, the remaining boys fell upon him, tearing at him and kicking him and pulling him by his hair to free their leader from his blows.

Brandyé stood back for a brief moment to consider the fight, saw the boy who was bringing his foot down upon Elven with the greatest force, and rushed up behind him and wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat. The boy gave a startled, strangled cry, and Brandyé pulled him away from the scuffle and down to the ground. He drew his arm ever tighter around the boy’s throat until his struggles ceased and his cries turned from anger to fear of choking, and then released him and pushed him away. The boy did not get up, but rather lay on the ground, clutching his throat and gasping for breath. Brandyé turned back to Elven, and began to feel fear at what he saw.

Despite Brandyé’s help, Elven was yet pitted against five boys, all larger than he, and he was no longer atop their leader. The tall boy had staggered to his feet, and though Brandyé was pleased to see his face bruised, cut and bleeding (and, he was sure, a tear shining on one cheek), the other four were now upon Elven, who lay upon the ground, crying out in anger and pain, but unable to rise to defend himself.

Without thought, Brandyé picked up a large branch from the ground and brought it heavily upon the head of the nearest boy. To his astonishment, the branch did not break, and the boy wordlessly fell to the ground and did not move. In a moment of surprise, the other three boys turned away from Elven, who took the chance to crawl painfully from them.

Brandyé faced them, heaving breath, and raised the branch for another blow. One of the boys approached him, and he swung hard at the boy. The branch hit solidly against the boy’s arm, and though Brandyé thought the crack was of the wood, the boy screamed, grabbed his arm, and fled without another word. He raised the branch once more, and was then thrown suddenly to his knees and saw for a moment nothing but a flash of light.

He had too soon forgotten about the first boy, the one he had nearly strangled, and as his vision cleared, he saw the stone with which he had been struck drop to the earth beside him. Elven had crawled far enough from them that the remaining boys did not see him, and now bent all their attention on Brandyé.

“Hold him!” the leader screamed, and Brandyé was pleased to hear tears in his voice, but he knew what was to come would hurt very, very much. His sight was still blurred, but he felt both his arms grasped with painful tightness, and the tall boy now stood before him. He was out of breath, and sniffling, but he seethed with fury and cried, “I hate you!”, and brought his boot with all his might into Brandyé’s stomach.

Brandyé once more lost his sight, lost his breath, and vomited on the ground. He thus did not see the second blow, which struck the side of his head and threw him to the ground. There he lay, unable to move, and faintly heard the tall boy curse him, and sensed that the boys then moved away.

It was some time before Brandyé was able to draw himself up, and he felt as though his stomach were missing entirely from his body. He had never known such pain, and felt blood when he raised his hand to his head. Yet, he did not think any of his bones were broken, and knew that his other wounds would heal. He began to look around for Elven, and eventually found him, huddled on the far side of the tree, weeping softly. His clothes were torn, his face swollen greatly, his lip stained with much blood. Brandyé sat painfully beside him, and was quiet.

After some time, Elven looked up and him, blinked his tears away. “They hurt my sister, Brandyé.”

“We hurt them back,” replied Brandyé, and at this, Elven smiled.

“I heard you break one of their arms,” he said.

“You should have seen the tall one,” Brandyé said. “You made him cry.”

Elven seemed pleased at this, and did not speak again for a while. Gradually, they became aware of a quiet sound from nearby, and cast their gaze around. Suddenly, Elven cried out, “Look! There’s a bird!”

Indeed, the bird the boys had been tormenting lay still on the ground, its wing still bent, and was cawing in pain. The two boys approached it, and saw that it was very young, and terribly wounded. Elven let out a sob, and said, “It is one thing to cause harm to another man, but this…this is inexcusable.”

Brandyé, likewise, stared at the bird, disbelieving that anyone would want to cause harm to such a small creature. “Do you think she will live?” he asked Elven.

Elven knelt, and picked the small bird up. It flapped its good wing anxiously, but Elven was gentle, and it did not try to escape. “I think her wing is broken,” he said. “But I can make a splint at home. If her wing recovers, I think she will be fine.” He stood, and cradled the young bird, who seemed to relax into his arms. She was no longer cawing, and seemed content to allow Elven to carry her. “She’s a falcon, you know,” he said to Brandyé. “A young one; I do not know where her mother is. See how her beak is short but curved to such a point?”

Brandyé lowered his head (with pain, it must be said), and peered closely at the bird. “Look at her eyes,” he said to Elven. “They are green.” And indeed they were; the young falcon’s eyes, which faced forward so that the bird of prey might more easily see her prey, shone with an emerald glint, and Brandyé felt he had never seen such beautiful eyes. “She looks like Sonora, you know.”

“She does,” agreed Elven. And so the falcon became known as Sonora, and recovered, and lived with Elven for many years to come.

Chapter 5: Fever

As it happened, Brandyé needed no help in staying indoors over the following weeks. On the day he had seen the Fierund, he had stayed outdoors too long, and his boots had taken too much water and had turned to ice around his feet, and he took ill and could not move from the house. His grandfather chastised him for having stayed out so long, but only gently; he knew Brandyé was still concerned about the Fierund, and did not want to upset him further during his illness. During the day, Brandyé spent most of his time before the fire, and though his face was flushed and sweating, his skin became cold to the touch, and he had always wrapped around him several blankets.

Brandyé had not been so ill before, and felt surely he must die if he did not recover soon. Reuel of course knew better, and spoke to him of times when he had himself been ill, often so violently that he believed his very body would turn itself inside out, and in fact welcomed the thought, so that at least his troubled stomach would no longer be inside him. This made Brandyé smile, and Reuel was comforted to know his grandson was not so ill.

He kept him warm, and kept him well fed. Soups and stews were placed before Brandyé every few hours or so, so that one bowl had not the time to grow cold before the next was brought. In each, Reuel had brewed a herb called Munadé, which possessed wonderful properties for aiding illnesses of the head, and Brandyé found he was able to breathe much easier afterwards. Despite this, Brandyé felt secretly his grandfather enjoyed the stews and soups himself, and was pleased for the excuse to cook all the more. By the time Brandyé had recovered, he perceived that Reuel had grown quite round.

In the meantime, he sat miserably before the fire, and over the following days, the weather took a turn for the worse, and soon they were isolated from the village and the moors and all else by many feet of snow, with more falling all the while. Reuel had to make daily trips outside to clear a path to the large pile of cut wood stacked neatly along one side of the house, and though he and Brandyé had spent many hours stocking this in the fall, the winter had been unusually harsh and it now grew low. This would have been of concern in any winter, but Reuel knew that if Brandyé was not kept warm, his illness might become ever worse, and he was worried. He soon began keeping only the parlor fire burning throughout the day now, and did not light the kitchen stove except to heat water for soups and tea. Even the dishes were now rinsed in cold water, which, fortunately, there was no shortage of, as he had merely to bring into the house great buckets of snow and allow it to melt next to Brandyé and the fire.

To help Brandyé pass the time, Reuel brought to him a small tray that he could rest on his lap, and paper, and a thin piece of coal for writing with that could be smudged out in case of a mistake. Brandyé would spend time tracing script, and when he tired of that he would draw, and when he tired of that, Reuel would tell him stories.

It seemed to Brandyé throughout his childhood that his grandfather could never run out of stories. As he was growing older, he began to be able to tell between the stories that were true, the ones of which Reuel himself did not know the truth, and the ones that were pure invention. His favorites were the ones of the ages of old, although he was always amused at the stories his grandfather brought back from the village, about the odd and sometimes inexplicable behavior of the townspeople.

“Did I ever tell you the story of Marion Myrtlehüe’s goat?” he asked one evening, as Brandyé sat sniffling fiercely, with a mug of Munadé tea in his hands (his grandfather was putting Munadé in everything now). Brandyé shook his head, and then winced, for he had a headache and moving his head caused him great pain.

“No, grandfather,” he said. “What happened?”

“Marion Myrtlehüe lives in the village, near old man Carle’s glassery. She makes small pillows, and will put anything you like on them – a word, a saying, her cat’s face…she doesn’t do much business, as there are few people who have use for a pillow with a cat’s face on it. But, there you are – there are sometimes no explanations for the oddities of the world.” Reuel took a sip of his own tea. He was taking great care of Brandyé, and was also taking great care to keep himself in good health also. It would do Brandyé no good if he also took ill.

“I think I’ve met her,” Brandyé said. “She came to the dairy one day last summer. She was angry with Gloria about something; I was there, she was scolding her about some milk that had soured. I think she had poisoned her cat with it. Gloria said she had bought the milk five days ago, and what did she expect in the heat. Anyway, they argued, and Gloria said she had been making little pillows for too long, for it seemed that was all she had left between her ears. Marion left; I liked Gloria for that.”

Reuel smiled. “Indeed. Marion is stubborn and has a temper. Gloria is not the only person in town to have felt her wrath. One day, many years ago, Marion woke one day to find a goat in her garden. She was furious – it had eaten nearly all of her lettuce and tomatoes, and was making good on her carrots when she came out with a cane and began thrashing at it.

“The goat didn’t much mind her, and this likely made her all the madder. In the end, she gave the goat a great kick, and the goat kicked her back. She fell backwards in the mud, and vowed she would have the goat put to death before the day was out.

“In the end, though, no one would come near it; they seemed to find it greatly amusing that Marion had met her match in obstinacy. She was not even able to drag it out of her garden. So she had to live with it, and she steamed over this for many days.

“Then, perhaps a week or so later, Farmer Gaël came into town, and began asking if anyone had seen his missing goat. Well, the people laughed greatly, for they knew exactly where the goat was. Word got to Marion that Farmer Gaël was looking for it, and must have suffered a brainstroke of sorts, for all at once she said that the goat was hers, and that she didn’t mind it in the slightest.”

“Why was that, grandfather?”

Reuel grinned mischievously. “Some years before this, Marion Myrtlehüe had been making a nuisance of herself in the village, for the South Road had, just before her front door, sunk slightly in, and during the rain would create quite a puddle. It was not deep, and bothered no one but her, but she insisted that someone fill it in with earth so that she could step from her house without muddying her petticoat. I believe I recall someone at the time suggesting she fill it with her pillows, but I’m sure she never heard that.”

Brandyé giggled.

“Anyway, just as she was standing on her doorstep berating any who came within earshot, who should appear up the road but Farmar Gaël, driving a cart and bound for the morning market. Well, he passed before Marion, and the cart wheels sent a great jet of mud high in the air, and it came down squarely upon her, her house, and her cat, who had been sitting next to her.

“Arthur, of course, stopped the cart right away and tried to apologize, but she was inconsolable. To this day, she insists he passed through the puddle deliberately, and would have nothing more to do with him.

“Well, Farmer Gaël confronted her, and − politely, I might add – asked for his goat back, but she refused to allow that it was his, and would not let him take it back with him. Arthur is not a terribly patient man, and he pretty soon became fed up and said that if she would not return the goat, he would come in the night and steal it back. And indeed, that night, he returned, snuck quietly into her back garden – even cut down her fence – and made to fetch the goat. But–” He paused. “It was gone.”

Brandyé frowned. “Not there at all?”

“No! There was no sign of the beast. Farmer Gaël was enraged, and said later that Marion was a witch, and cursed her to spend the remainder of her days alone. It turns out that she did not spend her days entirely alone, for it was not long before people began to notice that she was making daily trips to Farmer Tar’s dung pile outside of town, usually carrying one or two large buckets. Can you guess what was in those buckets?”

“It was the goat, wasn’t it, grandfather?” said Brandyé.

Reuel smiled. “Indeed. You see, she was so certain that Arthur Gaël was not to see his goat again that she brought the creature in the house with her, and it had been living in her parlor, eating all her vegetables and leaving droppings all over the floor.”

Brandyé was astonished. “What happened?” he asked.

Reuel shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “As far as I know, the thing lives with her still.”

For a moment, Brandyé was quiet with disbelief; then, quite suddenly, he burst out laughing. “Is it true, grandfather?”

Reuel himself began to chuckle. “As true as the snow is cold, son,” he answered. This made Brandyé laugh yet harder, which of course Reuel caught, and the two were soon in a fit of good humor. Brandyé then began to cough, and laughed yet all the while, and it was some time before there was stillness in the house again, and Brandyé felt a little better.

 

It was not long after that the winter storm began to show its might, and soon the tall windows of the parlor could not be seen through for the snow that now piled high against them. Try as he might, Reuel could not keep the cold air from seeping in through the cracks and under the door, and Brandyé soon began to shiver even before the fire. He increased the dose of Munadé in Brandyé’s food, but his fever rose, and soon he would do nothing but sit and stare at the flames, wrapped in seven blankets, shivering, and all the while his skin was cold and white, his hair drenched with sweat.

He began to vomit when any food passed his lips, and so Reuel brewed an entire branch of Munadé in a pot of boiling water and placed it beside Brandyé, so that the infused steam might at least be breathed. He stopped speaking, and whiled the day away dozing, trying desperately to drift away from the misery of his fever. Eventually he grew so listless that even Reuel began to worry. His own daughter, Brandyé’s mother, had of course been ill as a child, but this was beyond his experience. He began to wonder if it was more than cold, and whether the wolf, the Fierund, was somehow responsible.

If Reuel had known Brandyé’s thoughts, he would have been convinced this was the case. As the world of his grandfather’s house began to fade away from him in a haze of heat and fever, thoughts of the Fierund began to consume Brandyé’s mind. He saw it at all hours – behind closed eyes, in the flames of the fire, even in the swirls of the soups he could no longer bear to stomach. He began to imagine his grandfather’s eyes glowed red, and forgot his illness and became afraid of all around him. Eventually, he began not to understand the sights, sounds and smells of the house, and sank deeper into a black fog of disturbed sleep and uneasy thoughts.

Reuel watched his grandson toss, turn and moan in his seat beside the fire, and worried. What had the Fierund done? What had it to do with Brandyé? He had never thought to see such a creature in Consolation, and that it was Brandyé whom it had set its eyes upon was unsettling. He believed, yet, that the Fierund would not approach the house, and would certainly not be found in such snow.

Reuel began to place rags in the snow outside, and would use them to lay over Brandyé’s face to cool his fever, but to little effect; he seemed only to get worse. All he knew of medicine, which was admittedly little, was not helping, and soon Brandyé was hardly even moving, his breathing slow and rasping and uneven.

One night, when Reuel was preparing a small meal for himself (he had ceased to heat stew or soup for Brandyé – he had not taken a spoonful in three days), he suddenly heard Brandyé utter a loud cry. He had been slicing a small piece of old ham, and it startled him so that he very nearly sliced the tip of his thumb off. As it was, it sank into the flesh beneath his nail, and he grunted and dropped the knife. With the tip of his thumb in his mouth, he rushed into the parlor to find Brandyé standing upright, though he was leaning so heavily on the back of his chair that it threatened to tip wholly over. His eyes were wide, and his whole face drawn tight in terror. At first, Reuel stared in the direction of Brandyé’s gaze, but there was nothing there but a bare wall.

He turned his gaze back to Brandyé, and as he did so, Brandyé gave an even greater cry and pushed himself backwards with force. The chair that had been supporting him gave way, and both it and Brandyé toppled to the ground heavily. As he fell, Brandyé’s foot caught the heavy stand which held the pokers and tongs, and they fell into the fireplace. A smoldering log was knocked out of the hearth and rolled onto the rug beside Brandyé, and set it afire.

Reuel did not hesitate, but moved swiftly to Brandyé, lifted him bodily from the floor, blankets and all, and thrust him away from the spreading blaze. He heaved the pot of Munadé water over the flames, and they spat and sizzled but did not go out. He turned back to Brandyé.

“I am sorry, son, but this is for both of us,” he said, and ripped the blankets so swiftly from Brandyé’s body that he was flung once more onto the floor, where he lay still, shivering and moaning once again. Reuel threw the blankets over the flames and stamped on them heartily. The blankets began to smoke, but the fire did not appear through them. He turned his attention to the hearth, which burned still steadily, and carefully pulled the tongs from the flames, hissing as they burned his hands. He placed a small mesh grate before the hearth’s opening, saw that it would not fall, and turned back to Brandyé.

The boy was huddled in a corner, shuddering. What struck Reuel was that he did not seem to be moaning in pain, but rather whimpering in what could have been mistaken for fear. He knelt by his grandson’s side, and placed the back of his hand against his face.

“By the Ancients,” he muttered. Brandyé’s skin felt almost as the pokers he had just dragged out of the fire. He knew he must act swiftly, or Brandyé’s body would fail under the heat of the illness that now ravaged him. Without a second thought, he lifted Brandyé bodily off the ground, moved to the door, threw it open and heaved Brandyé through the door and into the nighttime snow.

Brandyé screamed as he fell deep into the drifts outside the house, and Reuel followed him to see he was not harmed. The boy lay rigid in the snow, his eyes staring empty into the black sky, and did not see the tears in Reuel’s eyes as he fell beside him and held the boy close. For many minutes, the two remained there, unmoving, as the storm swept about them and Reuel wept. Finally, wiping the tears from his cheeks, for they had begun to freeze, Reuel placed a hand once more on Brandyé’s skin and felt it was now much cooler. He stood, and hauled Brandyé once more over his shoulder, and carried him into the house.

The wind pouring through the open door had nearly blown the fire out, and Reuel laid Brandyé down upon the parlor table and stripped him of his wet and cold clothes, leaving them upon the floor, and carried the boy upstairs and lay him upon his bed. He felt his skin once more, and, satisfied, placed several blankets over his body, and then sat on the bed beside him. “You must get well, son,” he said softly. “You are not to die tonight.”

Reuel watched Brandyé for an hour, and slowly the boy seemed to regain himself. He had closed his eyes, and they did not roam behind his lids. His breathing had returned to normal, and his skin had not grown hot. He was about to leave the boy to sleep through the night when Brandyé, quite suddenly, opened his eyes. He looked at Reuel, and Reuel saw life behind his eyes and knew his senses were with him.

“I was cold, grandfather,” he said weakly.

Reuel smiled, so gently. “You were hot, son.”

“I do not feel well. Am I ill?”

“You are, son. If you must know, I was worried. But I think you will be well now.”

Brandyé was quiet for a time. Then, he said, “I saw a wolf, grandfather.”

Reuel held his hand. “I know you did, son. Do not worry about this now.”

Brandyé shook his head. “I saw him again.”

Reuel grew serious. “There was no wolf here, son.”

“It felt real, grandfather. It intended to eat me.”

Raising his hand to hold Brandyé’s face gently, Reuel said, “The fevered imagination runs wild, sometimes. This is perhaps what you saw.”

Brandyé frowned, but did not respond. He looked down, and thought. For a moment, Reuel continued to hold his hand, and then pushed gently at Brandyé’s shoulder and bade him lie down. “Rest, son,” he said. “You will feel better in the morning.” Brandyé lay his head back on the bed, and Reuel stood and moved towards the door. As he made to open it, Brandyé called out to him softly.

“How did the wolves come to be, grandfather?”

“That is not for this moment, Brandyé,” he said.

“Please, grandfather. I must know. I have seen it over and over in my mind, for days now it has haunted me. Why are there such creatures?”

Reuel seemed to consider the consequence of his answer. He did not want to cause Brandyé further undue upset, yet he knew his grandson and knew his mind would not rest while it yet had an unanswered question. Finally, he spoke. “They were creatures of Erâth, once,” he said. “They were twisted by the Duithèn many ages ago and turned to Darkness. There is no light left in them; they will destroy men, if they can. Rest calm, son, that they will not enter into our lands.”

This seemed to satisfy Brandyé, who lay back once more, and closed his eyes. Reuel looked upon him for a moment, and then left the room and closed the door. His grandson was slowly growing beyond his own reckoning, it seemed. He knew there were things Brandyé would not speak to him of, and wondered what Brandyé saw behind his closed eyes.

 

It was some time before Brandyé fell asleep that night. He tossed and turned, and felt his fever return, though not with such vehemence as before. He began to sweat, and threw a blanket onto the floor. The vision of the Fierund would not leave his thoughts, and try as he might to dwell upon other things, the wolf incurred on him over and over again. He pictured himself, in the spring, dancing in the moorland meadows, and there was the wolf, watching him through a fence. He saw himself in town, walking towards Gloria’s dairy to help with the morning milking, and there was the wolf, hiding among the cattle. Even in the Burrow Wayde, sitting by his grandfather’s side, the wolf’s head was mounted on the wall, and turned to throw its gaze at him.

It was with these thoughts that, for the second time in his life, Brandyé found himself inexplicably somewhere else, far from his home, his bed, and the world that he knew.

It was certainly not where he had gone before, years ago when he had been younger. He stood on a bed of fallen needles, in a forest such as he had never seen before. The trees were firs of a deep, rich green, but were strange in that this color only appeared when one looked at them sidelong. Staring directly at the branches and needles, they held almost no color at all. Looking slowly around him, he saw the whole of the place was so; it was as though something was draining the very color from his sight.

He felt his fever had left him; he seemed well, and whole, but was wholly lost. As before, in the lost city, there was not a sound; no wind, no birds, no animal calls or any sign that life existed in this place. There was yet one, single difference – where before there had been also no smell, the pungent scent of rot now filled his nostrils. It was not overwhelming, but he was unsettled to think something dying lurked nearby.

It was dusk, and not a light one; the sky overhead was clouded, and the sun could not be seen among the thickness of the trees. He peered as far into the depths of the trees as he was able, but could see nothing bar further branches and trunks. As the world grew dark around him, he became aware that there was a man lying on the ground beside him. His face was hooded, and his head rested on a large stone. He did not move, and Brandyé wondered if he might be dead, or merely asleep. He made to move towards the man, and see if he could help him understand where he was, when faintly he heard the soft pad of paws on the forest floor.

Already, he knew what came his way. The visions that had filled his mind since his illness had begun, it seemed, could not be escaped even here, in some distant part of Erâth he was not even sure existed. He looked around, and the sounds grew ever closer, and then he saw their red eyes appearing slowly through the gloom. No less than seven of them there were, fourteen dismal crimson eyes glaring at him in the gloaming.

He waited, breathless. It was beyond hope they were not bound for him; even if they came for the man lying ever still at his feet, they could not fail to see him, and would certainly kill him as well, if for nothing but the sport of it. Closer, they came, and Brandyé was now truly afraid; there was no distance between the Fierundé and himself, no Farmer Tar to make him feel safe – only a man who might be dead and would not stir even as the beasts came into view.

They were as horrible as he remembered, and now, so close, he could not bear the sight of them. One approached him directly, leaving the others lurking behind him among the trees. He stepped over the motionless form lying still on the ground, and stopped, mere feet from where Brandyé yet stood. It was of no use to run – the beast would be too fast. It would be futile to fight – its fangs shone with spittle and what might have been blood, and its eyes…the eyes were terrible to behold. At once filled with fire and a terrible, fathomless emptiness, they pierced through his thoughts and he felt the world fade around him as though it were draining the very life from him.

Brandyé felt he was being brought to his knees before the beast, and as he collapsed, a figure appeared in the trees behind the beast. The Fierund halted, and raised its head, nose to the air. Its great black nostrils flared wide, and abruptly it turned to face this new person. Brandyé tried to look towards the figure, but could not make it out clearly at all. It seemed the figure raised a hand towards the Fierund, and amazingly, it lowered its head and moved slowly away, creeping back into the trees and vanishing.

The figure came closer, and Brandyé looked in fright, terrified to behold one who could command the Fierundé, and he bowed his head to the ground, unwilling to look. For many minutes, he stayed in this position, but he heard and felt nothing. He began to grow restless; perhaps the unknown person had merely been following the beasts?

Slowly, he lifted his head, and the figure stood, still, not more than two feet from where he crouched. He raised his face, and looked up to meet what stood before him.

Before him was a woman in black, face pale and fair shrouded under a cloak. Her robes were of a black that even the fading light of that miserable day did not touch, and a single crimson jewel that hung from her neck was the only color that she bore. She stood on the forest floor, gazing calmly at Brandyé, and he saw that her feet were bare. He saw her eyes, and saw they were black also, and looked swiftly away, for he felt he might be drawn into them directly and drown.

“Fryae na, Brandyé.” She smiled, though her mouth did not move.

Brandyé did not understand her words, but he recognized his name, and knew she spoke the language from which his name had been drawn.

Who – who are you?” he asked, uncertain.

“Ye-vèr Namira,” she spoke.

“I do not understand you,” he said.

“Ye va,” she replied. “Tuthae.” She leaned down, and drew him up to his feet, so that her face was before his, and cupped his face in her hands. They were smooth, and pale, and very cold. She wore a ring, as black as her robes, on the third finger of her right hand, and he felt it against his cheek. “Unéyae. Ye therù.”

She kissed him lightly on the forehead, and turned.

“Wait,” he called. But she moved away, and was soon lost among the trees. He turned back, and saw the man was lying still on the floor, as though nothing had passed. He felt her kiss linger on his skin, and the coldness of her seemed to slowly spread over his face and down his neck. He thought his vision darkened, and he sat on the forest floor. Slowly, he felt his whole body become cold, and he lay down, and saw no sky above, and passed into a blackness from which it seemed he would not return.

Chapter 4: The Wolf in the Distance

It was a cold, bright winter day, when the snow lay fresh and thick upon the moor and the sun was small in the blue sky, that Brandyé first saw a wolf.

It was not long after hearing the tale of the battle between West and East, when the Demon Lord had so nearly conquered all of Erâth, and was defeated only by a mystical creature, the Dragon. It had snowed for several days afterwards, and in the weeks that followed, when the weather was bleak and grey, Brandyé had spent many hours sitting before the fire, or watching the flurries from behind the large round windows, but what flew through his mind was not flame and snow, but the clash of steel, the cries of battle and the smell of blood and dirt. He was fascinated by the thought of such a battle; it would be unfair to say he could not imagine such a thing, but rather that he could not accurately imagine scenes of death and horror, for it was outside of his experience and his comprehension.

The idea that men could hate each other so deeply that they would desire to bring death to their own kind was difficult for Brandyé to grasp, but his young imagination had no difficulty at all picturing the terrible demons that brought destruction upon the brave soldiers of the East. Great monsters, their size exaggerated grossly by his mind, towered over the soldiers on the field of battle, high as ten men, and crushed men underfoot as they stomped across the fields. Their clubs swung madly through the air, spikes jutting elbow-length from the shaft, and clawed at the earth and the men who ran before them.

The wolves, too, were terrifying for his thoughts to behold. Picturing himself as a soldier of the East, he saw great jaws approach him, a mouth that gaped wholly as wide as his own body, glistening teeth bared and bloody. The beast’s fur bristled along its flanks, each strand stiff and sharp as a razor. And the eyes – mad, evil eyes that glared red at him and saw nothing but the death of the flesh before them.

And, inescapable in the midst of such gruesomeness, the Demon Lord stood high above all others, tall and proud, black armor drawing all light around it and drowning it in darkness. In Brandyé’s inner sight, he had no face to speak of; his helm, thorned with black steel, hid from sight what countenance he might have had, but through the eyeholes, which were large, there was nothing at all. Emptiness stared out from blank sockets and held you in fascinated horror, unable to move. And his blade was fearsome. The length of a man, the Demon Lord wielded it as effortlessly as a feather, and bore it in his left hand, and so was odd, for all the other soldiers carried theirs in their right. The blade’s edge did not run straight, but rather had been forged to small points along its length, as thought its purpose was as much to saw and hack as it was to pierce armor and flesh. Its color also was black, apart from the grip, which was bound in leather the shade of blood. At the base of the blade was a marking – a large, curved V, with a smaller A behind it:

 

Even then, Brandyé was struck by the clarity of the Demon Lord as he pictured him. While the beasts, and the soldiers, and the sights of battle were clouded, and changed in his mind even as he imagined them, the Demon Lord did not waver: he saw him with equal clarity each time he allowed his mind to wander, and above all, saw the blade, and came to know the marking on its blade as well as his own face in the mirror, or the tracings of the script he wrote at his desk at night. Eventually, Brandyé named the blade End of Eternity, though he knew now where this name came from.

Yet Brandyé was not fearful of these thoughts, but rather dwelt on them enthralled, and saw himself as the bravest of warriors. Sometimes he was swinging his blade, hewing at the legions of wolves and monsters, an army of men behind him, encouraged by his own fearlessness. Other times, he saw himself among the kings of the East, as the Demon Lord closed on them, and he alone stood to face him, and would bring his sword up to meet End of Eternity as it bore down on him, and as the two blades clashed, his own held strong, and the Demon Lord was brought to his knees. Brandyé wrested End of Eternity from the Demon Lord’s grasp, and with renewed strength drove it through him bodily, and so brought an end to the conflict between West and East.

Though these thoughts occupied him often, the one that overcame more than any other was the sight of himself, suddenly held aloft over the field of battle, and saw below the struggle laid out before him. And he saw the Demon Lord from afar, bearing down once more upon the kings of old, and knew that he was being carried on the back of the very Dragon itself, and to Brandyé this was a thrill beyond the measure of any other. As he looked down upon the Demon Lord, so too did the Dragon turn its great head there, and bore down upon him at such a great speed that Brandyé felt the wind threatening to pull him off the back of the Dragon entirely. Closer they came, and the Dragon opened its jaws and sent flame upon the Demon Lord, and thus he was conquered also.

Such were Brandyé’s thoughts and imaginations during the period of ill weather, and so naturally when the clouds cleared and the sun lit the snow around their home, he donned cowskin boots, put on his hat and coat, marched out across the moors to act out the fantasies that had played through his mind for so many weeks.

While he was yet young, Brandyé loved nothing more than to be outdoors, whether in cold or in heat. He often enjoyed work and small jobs – he would regularly be sent by his grandfather into the village for wood, or fruits, or small novelties that amused Reuel, and would sometimes be asked by villagers to drive carts from farm to farm, or to dig and turn soil in their fields and vegetable gardens. Even as he worked happily for them, they would yet often keep a distance from him, and, if they chose to pay him for his efforts, would leave the coins on the porch and not speak to him when he was finished.

But above all, Brandyé loved the freedom of the open moorland, and it was here that his imagination was able to truly fly. So it was that morning that Brandyé spent several hours at play, brandishing a long stick at the crows and the lone, leafless trees that grew meagerly here and there across the landscape. He was first a soldier of the East, swingingly bravely at the bestial birds and towering monsters of the West (and thoroughly defeating them, as the crows flew off, annoyed at his attempts to skewer them on the end of his branch). Then he was a king, commanding his troops (the unlucky crows, again, who would not obey his orders), and thoroughly enjoyed rushing them towards a row of enemy snowmen he had built up. He would draw back and plunge his branch through them, or sweep their heads clean off their shoulders in one fell stroke.

As the sun moved across the sky, Brandyé found himself drawn further away from his home, and towards the North. Abandoned in his play, he did not particularly notice until he realized his house was no longer in view, and he had begun to descend into a shallow vale. He knew well his grandfather’s warnings about the mountains to the North, and although there were yet many miles off, he had not often been this deep into the north moors, and was worried his grandfather might be concerned for him. He made to turn back, and as he did, saw at the bottom of the vale a glimmer in the sun, something that reflected light and shimmered gently.

He was curious, and slid down the slope towards the bottom of the vale, towards the shimmer. To his delight, he discovered the sun had been reflecting off a shallow stream, hidden beneath the snow. A small part of the snow roof had given way under the gaze of the sun, and he could see the little brook murmuring away, running back under snow and onwards down the valley. He knelt beside it , cupped his gloved hands beneath the water, and drew some towards his mouth. It was icy and made his teeth shiver, but it was clear and refreshing, and he drank several more times before standing once more.

The stream was only a few feet wide here, and he wondered if he could leap across it. Drawing back a few paces from the stream, he threw himself at it at a run, and launched himself clear over the water. He landed a few inches past the bank on the opposite side, and grinned, for he had never leapt over a stream before.

For some time, he amused himself by taking ever more daring leaps across the stream, and even cautiously stepping over where the snow still covered the stream. Finally, his luck gave out, and he plunged with both feet into the cold water and gave a small shout of surprise. He leapt out quickly, and sat down on the far side of the stream. His boots were well proofed, but the stream had been deep and water had poured in over the top, and his feet were now wet and cold. He wanted to take them off, but there was nothing to rest his feet on but more snow, and so resolved that he would head home now, and warm himself before the fire. Reuel had gone into the village for the day, and he would likely not arrive back home before him if he left now.

As he stood, though, on the far bank of the river, with home to the South and mountains to the North, the ice in his boots slowly melted and his feet did not feel quite so cold, and he wondered what he would see if he were to peer just over the next ridge. It was not far – a rise of no more than a hundred feet – and so he thought he would venture just that much farther today, before returning. He began to trudge up the hill, the effort of wading through the snow warming him more, even as the sun began to sink low over the horizon. Soon, the top drew near, and as he crested the ridge, the view beyond greeted his eyes.

To his disappointment, it was nothing extraordinary to behold. Yet further moorland stretched off for many miles beyond, and the Trestaé, dressed in white, still as distant as ever they appeared. The only distinguishing mark in all the white land was a row of trees, firs that kept their green through the winter, some half a mile to the northwest. For some time, Brandyé stood and watched the landscape, the setting sun beginning to bathe it in gold, and it was then that he saw something move.

At first, he was not sure, but as he looked closer, there among the line of green firs, something was slowly moving. It was distant, but to his eyes it seemed very large. The trees seemed tall, and their first branches stood probably some eight or ten feet from the soil, yet this creature moved so that its head seemed to brush the needles and pines. It slunk on all fours, and though in the twilight it was hard to discern, its color seemed a muted and mottled grey.

In and out between the trees it wove, and for several minutes disappeared entirely from view. Brandyé stood, transfixed, for he had never seen such a creature before. Some of the cows and horses in the village were large, but this creature seemed it would dwarf even them. Certainly none of the wild creatures he knew – the marmots, the crows, the gobays – were anything like it in size. And it moved with stealth, as though it wished to avoid being seen.

Brandyé began to feel it must have retreated deeper into the woods, when suddenly it reappeared from the end of the line of trees nearest him. A thrill of fear now suddenly rose in Brandyé’s chest, and he suddenly felt exposed as he stood on the hilltop, for he recognized this creature: it was one of the demon wolves from his grandfather’s tale of battle. He didn’t see how it could be so – his grandfather had not greatly described these creatures, and so their look and manner had so far been merely of his own invention. It was impossible that any such creature could actually exist, and even if it did, it surely should not appear as it did now.

Yet there it was: a wolf, tall as a man, grey fur bristling menacingly from its body. It stood even as Brandyé did, unmoving, as though it sensed it was being watched. Brandyé wanted to drop to the ground, to hide, but he felt he was powerless to move. For many moments, the wolf and he stood. And then, the wolf turned its head, slowly, deliberately, and brought its gaze to bear directly upon Brandyé, and in a moment, he saw its eyes and beheld they were red as he had seen in his mind, and in that moment he was very afraid.

Time froze, and the sun refused to set, and the sky refused to change, and the wolf refused to lower its gaze. It held Brandyé, and he was under its power. Brandyé knew now that were the wolf to move at him, he would not run, would not be able to move his feet, and would fall victim to whatever terrible fate the creature should choose to bring upon him. In all his young life, he had not felt such anxiety and fear, and knew for the first time that his life was in actual danger. Yet the wolf did not take a pace toward him, and indeed seemed as though it wished merely for Brandyé to recognize its presence, to make itself known. After many endless minutes that were as hours to Brandyé, the wolf suddenly turned, and made its way slowly back towards the line of trees.

It was at almost that moment that a voice called out, and renewed the thrill of fright in Brandyé’s chest. “You! Boy!”

Brandyé turned swiftly and saw on the ridge opposite the vale behind him the small figure of a man, silhouetted against the evening sky. He called again. “Oi! What’re doin’ out there on yer own?”

Brandyé now recognized the voice as Farmer Tar’s, and felt relief. Farmer Tar did not dislike him, and he felt that he would be safe with him. He would tell him about the wolf, and Farmer Tar would say that they would gather a party the next day to hunt for it. He made his way rapidly back down the hillside, sliding in the snow, leapt once more across the water, and very nearly ran up the far side. Soon, he drew abreast of Farmer Tar, and stopped before him, panting and out of breath.

“What’s a matter?” Farmer Tar asked gruffly. “Seen a ghost?”

Brandyé shook his head, for he could not yet speak.

“You shouldn’ be out so far, you know. What’f you was to get hurt? You know there’s no one around up there. Yer foolish.”

Brandyé felt Farmer Tar spoke the truth. “I know,” he said breathlessly. “I should not have gone so far. I was curious. But I saw something.”

Farmer Tar now narrowed his eyes, and looked suspicious. “What did you see?” He asked.

“It was big,” Brandyé said, still drawing rapid breaths. “Very big. A wolf, I think. I have heard wolves spoken of, but not like this. It was a wolf out of grandfather’s stories. It stood as tall as a man, I am certain. It was in the trees – I think it was hiding – and then it was gone, and then it was back, and it was looking at me. It saw me.”

Farmer Tar now was frowning. “You saw a wolf. So what? Yer right – they’re out there. They look fer hares n’ such. Not men. They’re like as dogs.”

Brandyé shook his head again. “This was no dog. It was monstrous. And it’s eyes–“ he shivered “–they were red, they glowed red, and it looked directly at me. It knew where I was. I think it knew who I was.”

Farmer Tar grunted, and seemed reluctant to speak. “Nonsense,” he said finally. “Wolves don’ get that big. An’ their eyes don’ glow. An’ they don’ look at men. It saw somethin’ behind you, no doubt. You was against the sun – it wouldn’ have seen you.”

“I am certain it saw me,” Brandyé protested. “And what of its eyes? I should not have been able to see its eyes at such a distance, yet they shone fierce and red.”

Farmer Tar looked away. “Light playin’ tricks on you,” he mumbled. “Nothin’ but the settin’ sun. T’was a wolf you saw, I’m certain, but no monster. Such creatures is silly fantasy.”

Brandyé felt his face grow warm. His grandfather’s fantasies were certainly not silly. “I’m sure of what I saw–“ he began, but Farmer Tar cut him off.

“You didn’ see what you thought you did,” he said with emphasis, and Brandyé knew that was the end of the conversation. “Get on home. Yer grandfather’ll be wonderin’ where yer at.”

Brandyé lowered his head, and said nothing more. Slowly, he trudged through the snow towards his house, which he now saw in the distance, dark against the fading sky. He had long since forgotten the cold in his feet, and his thoughts were filled with the clarity of the vision of the wolf. He knew what he had seen.

For some time, Farmer Tar remained on the hill, looking to the North.

When Reuel arrived home that evening, carrying a basket laden with carrots and onions and potatoes, it was to find Brandyé still on the rug before a high fire, naked feet stretched towards the flames. Brandyé did not turn as he came into the parlor, and Reuel was the first to break the silence. “How was your day, son?”

Brandyé did not answer, and this was unusual. Reuel has the sense, however, to know Brandyé was brooding and did not interrupt him. Instead, he retreated to the kitchen and began the preparations for supper.

Later, as they sat in dim warm firelight over steaming bowls of winter stew – potatoes, carrots, leeks, lots of onion, and half a flank of lamb, smoked and diced – Brandyé was yet silent, and Reuel began to wonder what cause his grandson had for such quietness. Finally, he knew must ask, and said quietly, “Speak to me, son.”

Brandyé looked him. “I saw something today,” he said.

Reuel return his gaze calmly. “Tell me what you saw, son,” he replied.

“I thought I knew,” Brandyé said, “but now I am not certain.”

“Tell me what you thought you saw,” said Reuel, “and together we will decide if it is certain.”

Brandyé hesitated, then took a breath and said, “I saw a wolf.”

Reuel raised his eyebrows. “A wolf? Well done, son; they are not easy to spot. Most will hide until they see prey. Was he seeking food, do you think?”

Brandyé shook his head slowly. “I do not think he sought food. I believe he sought another thing. Grandfather – this was no ordinary wolf.”

“What do you know of ordinary wolves?” his grandfather inquired.

“Little, I suppose,” admitted Brandyé. “Farmer Tar says they are scavengers, or hunt small animals. He says they are as dogs.”

“He is right,” Reuel said. “A wolf is no more than a wild dog, one that does not take kindly to men and seeks to prey upon those smaller than itself. Was the wolf alone? They most often are to be found in a pack, many hunting together.”

“This wolf was alone, grandfather. And that is not all. I know what ordinary wolves are – both Farmer Tar and you say they are as wild dogs. That is how I know this was no ordinary wolf. What if I were to tell you this wolf would have towered over both you and Farmer Tar?”

Reuel’s eyebrows lowered, and his face grew grave. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Farmer Tar says the light was playing tricks on my eyes. He says such creatures do not exist. He says your tales are silly.”

“Farmer Tar, like so many others, son, does not believe in what he does not see. He will convince himself that things that ought not to be do not exist, even if his own eyes tell him otherwise. Tell me about this wolf. Not as Farmer Tar says it was – tell me what you believe you first saw.”

“It was so large, grandfather. I was not scared at first. I thought perhaps it was a lost horse, but it was not the right color and did not move right. It was in the trees that lie beyond the stream to the North.”

“Why were you so far to the North?” Reuel interrupted.

“I was curious, grandfather. I know I should not have strayed so far, but I wanted to know what lay beyond. I did not think there would be any danger. You have always told me the land of Consolation is protected from darkness.”

“I have not said it is protected,” said Reuel. “Merely that darkness has not yet found it. What else did you see?”

“When it came out from the trees, I saw it clearly. It was huge, and it was of an ugly grey color and its fur bristled. The head was large. And…grandfather – it saw me. It turned its gaze wholly on me. And I saw its eyes. They glowed, grandfather. They were red, and they glowed. I know this; I should not have been able to see any creature’s eyes at such a distance, but these eyes burned into me as though they were candles.”

Reuel was quiet for a moment. Finally, he pushed his bowl away and stood. “We have finished supper,” he said. “Come sit with me by the fire.”

Brandyé took the dishes into the kitchen and set a large kettle boiling on the stove to rinse them with, and then joined his grandfather in the parlor by the fire. They had lit no other candles, and the glow from the flames cast flickering shadows over the walls and Reuel’s face. Reuel was looking into the fire, and did not turn his gaze from the flames as he spoke.

“What you saw was a Fierund,” he said. “A Beast-Wolf. They are of the Trestaé Mountains. It is a creature of Darkness.” He paused, and allowed Brandyé to take this in.

“Then the creatures of your tales are real?” Brandyé asked.

“You know this,” Reuel replied. “I may embellish the details of my tales, but of the creatures and men I would not lie. Fierundé are real. Darkness is real.”

“What would it want with me?” Brandyé asked.

Reuel shook his head. “I do not know, son. It is a creature of evil, and it has the intelligence of a man. It is not driven by beast instinct, but rather by Darkness itself. I do not doubt a Fierund would not hesitate to kill a man had it the chance. Perhaps it was deciding whether you were too far to prey upon.”

“Grandfather, you are frightening me,” said Brandyé.

Reuel looked at him now, gazed deep into his eyes. “You should be,” he said. “A Fierund is not to taken lightly. You were lucky today; do not venture to the North again. In fact, do not go out onto the moors at all for now.” He sat back in his chair and gazed into the fire again. Absently, he stroked his beard, and now spoke quietly, as though to himself. “Most odd. I have not seen them venture so far into Consolation. Last I knew, they kept to the mountains and did not descend into the valleys.” He trailed off, and spoke no more.

Finally, Brandyé spoke up again. “What does this mean, grandfather?”

Reuel did not look back, but merely said, “I do not know, son. I do not know.”

Brandyé was not pleased that he was now forbidden from playing on the moors; it was his favorite place to be, and now, in the winter, he could only stay indoors, or visit Burrowdown, which had little to do in the cold months. But he knew he would not disobey his grandfather, and the presence of the wolf – the Fireund – unsettled him. He had sensed the danger of the creature, but had not realized its nature. What had it been doing in the trees? What had it to do with him? He felt certain the beast had known him – as though it had been deliberately seeking him, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, of the small cottage on the hill of Burrowdown in the land of Consolation.

He resolved to find something new to pass the time through the winter so that he did not miss the moors too much. Perhaps by the spring his grandfather would relent, and allow him once more to play in the open heather. Maybe the Fierund was merely passing through, and had been drawn to the sight of a person so nearby. Perhaps Farmer Tar was right – it was but an ordinary wolf, made large by the poor light of dusk. Somehow, though, he did not think so.