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The eternal hunt, so it was called. Not long after the great war five centuries ago was when it started. The details of its origins were lost to time, but Ardhalis’ potent hatred of wolves was ever-present throughout the centuries. It was no wonder why – livestock and people alike would go missing all too often, and when they did, there were beasts in the treeline of the city’s outskirts. They would bear their fangs as if to gloat. Those loved ones were part of the forest now.
In retaliation of this age-old blight, the royal council had decreed that every single wolf would be hunted until none remained. Wolves were killed by the hundreds, and carted away back to the mountains en masse, for fear their remains would curse the civilised folk of Ardhalis. And yet, despite such destruction being waged against these creatures, people still went missing, and the wolves remained numerous.
The late King Edward hosted many campaigns where he himself would hunt the most formidable of the wolves sighted with the royal hunting party and his family. That was, until he met his untimely end, slashed in the throat by a set of claws.
Bounty after bounty, hunt after hunt, nothing changed.
Dakan found the entire situation pointless. From what he knew, the hunts only served to provoke the wolves and fuel their desperation. In his eyes, these beasts were targeting people in retaliation for their woods being constantly hunted. The monarchy’s unceasing desire for revenge was equally mindless. What point did such violence serve if it did not stop the wolves?
Lizbeth, the contrarian to his entire life, thought of him as mad. “If you like these wolves so much, then perhaps we should feed you to them,” she had taunted on multiple occasions.
He was not alone in his opinions of the wolves, however. Many protested against the hunts as it was a waste of resources. People on the south shore were starving, and yet instead of hunting to feed the people, the monarchy and the kingdom’s hunters only did so to feed their bloodlust and fill their pockets.
The police were not hunters, but they still investigated such cases of these disappearances. After all, the wolves weren’t the only reason people went missing, and yet it still fuelled the public’s fear of them.
Tristan, as the Chief, knew much about the nature of these cases. He shared deeply in Dakan’s doubts of the hunts. “People think that the disappearances are because the wolves have killed their victims and dragged their bodies into the forest, but they’re wrong – monumentally so. Out of all of the victims of these disappearances supposedly perpetrated by wolves, not a single body has been uncovered that could be clearly recognised as any of them,” he told Dakan one night after dinner.
Dakan had looked at him with intrigue. “But the fact remains that they are still missing.”
“Indeed.” Tristan sighed and mournfully cast his gaze downwards. “In the past ten years, almost two hundred people have gone missing without a trace – more than ever before. No matter how destitute or wealthy, how young or old, how much reason they have to disappear or how safe their home is, they simply vanish. I can’t help but think… perhaps something otherworldly is at play.”
Something about what Tristan said had Dakan reaching for his lover’s hand. To Tristan, he looked suddenly sick and pale, his expression stiff with concern. Anyone could be taken – Lauren, Tristan, even himself – and never heard from again. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything for the thought was too horrible to voice. He simply looked at his lover with glistening eyes and squeezed his hand gently.
“I will never leave you, dear.” Tristan reassured him, sensing what had him so uneased. “No matter what, even if I am taken or spirited away by wolves, I will find you again. I promise.”
Now, many weeks after that conversation, gazing out of a window to the snow outside, Dakan thought back to those words once again. His silhouette was framed by pale, clouded daylight in a lone window frame. The house was barren and steeped in subdued shadows. He was the only one there. Lauren was at work. It seemed she always was. Tristan… He felt his throat tighten, threatening tears to well in his eyes.
Tristan was gone. The wolves, it seemed, had taken him.
Over the past two weeks, both he and the police had searched every little nook of the city for any sign of him, and nothing turned up. He was presumed dead, and there was little else in the way of justice for him. It frustrated Dakan. For centuries, people simply looked at the lack of evidence and said it was the wolves. This pervasive superstition was like a disease that had persisted through any developments in technology and in personal security. It was like every citizen of the kingdom had gone mad, obsessed with the eternal hunt to the point of dire ignorance.
Being killed by a wolf looked like what the late King was a victim of – a bloody mauling, a grizzly death. It left behind a struggle and blood, not nothing. Did people think of beasts as so cunning to have done something so far beyond human capabilities? Why were their gaps in reasoning filled instead with superstition?
Dakan did not have the heart to confront the council. Lizbeth would mock him, show him how wrong he’d been to doubt the hunt. He didn’t have the patience to face that.
Instead, he lingered in the Sinclair household, dearly missing what made such a place a home. It was difficult to be there, mentally stuck in a limbo between Tristan being there and being gone. The snow did not help, it only served as a warden to this prison he’d made of a place that was once so freeing.
It was there, gazing out upon the snow-ladened rooftops and the shroud of fog barely concealing the city’s clocktower, that he came to a decision.
He would turn the way so many others did when they lost loved ones to this strange wolf phenomenon and go into the woods. He would find his answers and end this hunt once and for all.
/////
Another unfortunate, yet less superstitious phenomenon was the many people who followed their missing loved ones into the woods to find answers. These secondary disappearances had more evidence than the first – motive, footprints, oftentimes a maimed body. It was largely considered suicide for individuals to walk into the woods alone, and yet many deemed it necessary given how little the police and monarchy did about it. Their only response was to hunt, because despite abolishing capital punishment for humans, Ardhalis surely loved the death sentence too much to fully let go of it, even if it ultimately did nothing to stop the wolves.
At this point, Dakan likened the royal council and the entire bloodthirsty system it governed to the wolves themselves. Nothing else could equal or explain their hunger.
Dakan walked down one of the main roads, wrapped in his fur-lined coat, the blistering cold gnawing at his exposed skin. Over his shoulder was slung a sizeable crossbow. It had been passed down to Tristan as an heirloom of sorts, from the era where his family were hunters. It was an honour that Tristan let him use it, when he brought Dakan out to the shooting range to teach him when he was curious. Dakan was initially hesitant, but he vowed he would never use it for harm. Now, it was Dakan’s last defence, his lifeline. Still, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
Few other people were out of their houses, and fewer still for very long. It was a concerted feat to remain upright in the snow and to see past the next few houses in the fog. A patrol of policemen atop horses passed by, so grim by the weather that they did not acknowledge Dakan even when he nodded towards them in greeting. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t acknowledged.
Surprisingly, Dakan came across a group of people gathered around the noticeboard out the front of the district’s church. Ardhalis’ churches were rarely used for much actual worship anymore, and instead for community gatherings and for their noticeboard, which hosted a great many wolf bounty notices. For there to be so many people surrounding it, it meant a large bounty, and a large bounty meant a fearsome beast.
Out of curiosity, he approached the crowd and peered over them to view the flyer. A printed black-and-white picture of a dark, shaggy wolf stalking between trees caught his eye. It was larger than the average wolf, possible even larger than the average man. The glint of its eyes in the photograph did not capture their colour, merely their voracity.
The text that accompanied the picture read:
The subject of this bounty is a wolf with a mottled dark brown pelt and a black muzzle. It was first sighted on the 3rd of December and subsequent sightings have reported it to be as close to civilisation as the Devil’s Den. It appears to be male, approximately 90 kilograms in weight. This beast has slaughtered three men and the royal hunter’s guild deems it highly dangerous.
By royal decree, whomever can prove they have slain this beast will be awarded 25000 pence.
Dakan whistled inaudibly to himself. The sum of money alone was telling enough of this beast’s reputation. It was a similar bounty placed on the most notorious assassins in Ardhalis. To be sighted so recently, too – thirteen days ago. He regarded the beast in a horrified awe, before he realised that this could be the very wolf that supposedly ‘killed’ Tristan, if he chose to believe that anymore. Perhaps, given the timing, this beast was being blamed for his death by the hunters, to give the public a reason behind the loss of the APD’s Chief.
But if Tristan did not believe the wolves killed those who went missing, neither would he.
He moved on from the noticeboard and continued westward, towards where the woods lay outside the city.
/////
Dakan really had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Was he so stupid to think that he would stand a chance in these woods? Once he lost sight of civilisation, he was effectively lost. The snow and fog in the forest had him completely disorientated, but by the time he thought to turn back, it was already too late to remember where he came from. He kept pushing forward, but only ended up circling himself twice over the course of about an hour. Already exhausted from making it this far, he sat beneath a short tree beside one of the mountain’s slopes to rest for the moment.
He was an idiot. He had been so played by grief, wrapped up in his newfound purpose to find answers and then spat out into complete failure. It had been peaceful in the woods thus far, but he only counted himself as lucky that he hadn’t met any of the wolves throughout the forest. He tried to glimpse the sun through the sparse canopy but all he could see were clouds. If he had any chance at making it back to civilisation, he would have to wait for the sun to start to set and then head away its light upon the horizon, for he brought no other means of navigation aside from a map, which he could not find himself on.
Waiting and standing by as he had already done for the past weeks made him feel a whole other kind of lost. Tristan was gone, and there was nothing he could do about that. If he had any chance of moving beyond this, he would have to accept what many others had. Still, he refused.
He rested his head back against the tree’s trunk and blinked cold tears from his eyes. He breathed a long, shaky sigh. “You promised… you would find me…” he mumbled defeatedly.
As soon as he finished speaking, there was suddenly a piercing howl from somewhere up the slope. Dakan’s blood froze. His heart lurched in fear. Before he considered to doubt himself, he slung his crossbow down from his shoulder, cocked the inbuilt lever to draw back the string and placed a bolt atop the weapon’s frame. It was a reassuring weight to hold in his hands, and while he still did not intend to use it, it helped substantially to settle his nerves. In some way, it felt like Tristan was watching over him.
He checked his surroundings and quietly moved to hide behind a thick bush a few metres away from the tree. There, he waited. Five minutes turned to ten, and ten minutes to twenty. Dakan was about to let his guard down when he heard heavy footfalls approach the vicinity. His heart began pounding in his ears. He couldn’t see the beast through the leaves, but it was getting closer, sniffing through the snow and fallen pine needles. The sound of its inquisitive breathing grew closer, and closer still. Dakan was sure it was locked onto the bush as the source of the noise, but he didn’t dare move. He fixed his crossbow’s aim on the being before him, his fingers tightening around the trigger…
Then, thankfully, it turned away, instead paying a great deal of attention to the tree Dakan was just resting under. It spent longer than Dakan would have liked sniffing at the tree’s base before eventually losing interest and continuing the way Dakan first walked. As the footsteps faded, Dakan’s curiosity got the better of him and he peered around the branches to take a look at the retreating beast.
Dakan had walked into a literal den of wolves, and the first one he had found was the most fearsome. There was no mistaking its stature, nor the dark brown patterns of its fur. The bountied wolf’s ear twitched and its head tilted at the subtle sounds of Dakan breaching cover. Sure enough, Dakan could make out the ochre eyes gleaming against its dreary surrounds.
The beast seemed to pass off the sound as something else moving in the woods, and it turned back to the path ahead, disappearing into the trees and snow.
Dakan let loose a deep breath when he was sure the beast was out of sight and earshot. Knowing that Tristan would be annoyed with him if he left the crossbow loaded for extended periods of time, he intentionally fired into the ground, pocketed the bolt, and returned the crossbow to its place on his back.
Following the wolf’s tracks would lead to certain death, but until sundown, it was the only direction he had. In the back of his mind stuck the idea that this wolf had something to do with Tristan’s disappearance. Was that perhaps why it was so curious about Dakan’s scent?
Desperate, he followed the wolf. The heavy clouds overhead grew somehow darker as the snow and wind lashed between the trees. Dakan drew his coat closer around himself as he pressed on, keeping himself moving lest he froze up. If nothing else, the very least these wretched woods would inflict him with was a serious cold.
It must have been an hour that he wound his way through the trees. The sky grew even darker. Night was approaching. He couldn’t make out the horizon through the trees and the elevated terrain. Just as he became aware of this, he stumbled upon the abandoned mine – the Devil’s Den. At least that meant he was closer to the city now. Through the treetops he could make out the city’s highest towers.
Was the wolf trying to lead him back to civilisation? Did it know he was here?
Well, he certainly didn’t know it was there with him until it appeared from behind a particularly withered tree. Dakan jumped back, putting as much distance between himself and the beast as possible. For a moment, he found himself caught in that ravenous glare, in the dark lines of a wolfish scowl across its face. It looked ready to attack.
Dakan fumbled for his crossbow, dropping one of his bolts as he tried to load it and having to reach for another. He raised the crossbow to aim it at the beast’s head and keep it trained on him. The wolf took a step forward and slightly to its right. Dakan took a step back. A step forward, a step back. They circled each other, waiting for the other to jump first.
It was a dance, a game. Studying the wolf so closely, there was something strange about it, the way it moved, the way its eyes locked with his as if there was more than this immediate tension between them.
He remembered Tristan’s words. I can’t help but think… perhaps something otherworldly is at play.
Lost in thought, his aim faltered, and the beast found its opportunity to strike. Dakan fired – too late – and the wolf slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and sending his weapon flying from his grasp. His bolt had completely missed, and he was pinned under this fearsome beast, completely at its mercy.
The beast paused mindlessly to stare at the man it had bested. Its nostrils flared once, then twice. Equally propelled by instinct, Dakan reached up and caressed the wolf’s head, stroking through its curled fur. All fear was omitted so suddenly from his mind, replaced instead by a yearning tranquillity.
“Tristan…?” he said gently.
Then, the beast’s teeth sunk deep into Dakan’s neck. Immediately it was pain, choking, the taste of blood.
There was an abrupt twanging sound, and something slammed into the wolf’s chest, straight where his vitals were. He reeled, drawing his teeth out of Dakan and stumbling onto the ground beside him.
Lauren lowered the crossbow and rushed to Dakan’s side, closing a hand over the deep wounds in Dakan’s neck. Blood pulsed out of his neck into a growing puddle in the snow. His breathing and talking were replaced by a grating gargling.
“Dakan, please…” Lauren pleaded. “You idiot…” There was nothing she could do but watch the colour drain from her godfather’s face.
“Tris…tan…” he rasped, more sound seeming to come out of his torn neck than his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth oozing crimson. “T-The… wo…lf… is…” A mangled cough put an end to his words as it sprayed blood between her fingers.
She looked up at the dying wolf, and to her horror, she understood. “No…” The less and less movement she felt between her fingers drew her attention back to Dakan. His body was animated only by uncontrolled spasms now.
She had been too late.
“No… No…” She drew back her hand, dripping with red. Sobs racked her chest as she curled it into a fist. As the reality sank in, she punched her fist into the ground and screamed her anguish into the frigid, open air.
The consequence of Ardhalis’ ancient war against wolves was that they would become what they hated. For generations, they would hunt their own friends and families blindly with claws and crossbows alike, fuelling a malicious cycle that never ended. This was the true nature of the eternal hunt.