What the Wolves Carried

Old Maren was standing at the threshold of her home in the village square, the bell still ringing out peal after peal, the stranger coming quickly over the rise.

Hannah stood close, almost leaning into her. Meanwhile, Maren watched with the attention of someone who watched the weather for years – not fear but more preparing for whatever might happen. ‘Boy’ made it to the mill door, no further. Exactly as he was told by Maren. Now he peeked out from behind it, like a child would.

A few paces from the well he stood, stopping. At a glance, the weathered cloak looked in decent shape, but on closer inspection, it was worse for its wear. His ring caught the remaining afternoon light, the green stone a bit too bright for how tired the rest of him looked.

“You’re Maren.” He noticed her before she could say a word.

She nodded. “Yes. Old Maren, to most in these parts. You’ve traveled a long way only to confirm an old woman’s name.”

“I’ve traveled a long way. But I’ve come for a story.” The square was empty, folks staring out of their windows or from their cracked doorways. He looked down into the well, pulling on the rope. This was the same well Vhorrak had once wrapped itself around, near a scorched-black patch of dirt. Nothing grew in that spot ever again. “The silversmith in Beringer. He had a theory. I do, too.”

Maren stepped out toward the stranger. “Yes, silversmiths generally have theories. So do common folk.” She gestured at the people staring into the square. Maren’s grip tightened, just slightly, on her walking stick. “Let me guess, stranger. You are from a royal house? Searching for a daughter? Maybe it’s revenge you seek. Or perhaps something like it.”

The stranger almost smiled, the hood of the cloak still hiding his face. It didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes, at least not that Maren could see. “Ah, yes. It’s a good story, to be sure. Better than the truth? Probably. As they go, most stories contain even a hint of the truth. I hear yours always do.” He crouched, bringing himself down low, the same spot where the children usually sat, though there were no children left in the square now, only Hannah watching him with the particular stillness of someone who traveled from far enough away to know a threat when the air changed around one. “I’m not here about a daughter, Old Maren. I never had one. Not that I would care to lose.”

“Then what?” Maren leaned against the well, now standing above the stranger.

“The wolves.” He said it plain, the way a man says what he’s been afraid to say, carrying it further than he cares to admit. “You say, to the children at least, that the dragon simply woke up and flew off. Calm as a spring breeze. Not so much as a wisp of dust kicked up. But what, Old Maren, woke it?” his words were biting at her. “You never did tell them. What was it? What woke up that beast? And why does nothing grow there?” He pointed to the charred black area of dirt.

Maren went very still. “There’s nothing to tell.” She turned her back to him, addressed the villagers, those not too scared to open their doors. “It woke. Plain enough. It handled them. Handled all those wolves. Then? It left.”

“Yes. That’s the tale, so you say.” Reaching slowly under his cloak the stranger pulled out a scrap of hide. Wolf-gray. His movements were so slow that even Hannah’s hand found her knife without moving. The hide was old, brittle enough to have gone stiff, marked with something burned into it that wasn’t a natural char. No. This was too even. Too deliberate. More like a brand than an accident. “The wolves that came for your children? They were never lost. They weren’t starving or wandering like a desert nomad. Yet that’s how everyone is telling it. Even you, Old Maren.” He stood up, drew some water from the well, and took a long drink. “Someone drove them straight to this village. But first? They marked each one of them. Eleven years I’ve been chasing them, trying to find out who hearded them here. And today? I’m not leaving Tamsworth until I know if the dragon burned up all the evidence with the pack, or if there are lone wolf survivors out there, hiding deep in the crags with him.”

The watchtower was silent. Even the wind seemed to be waiting for a break in the empty air.

“Whose mark is that?” Maren asked, squinting. Hannah wondered if Maren knew something she wasn’t letting on, and Maren didn’t want to be right.

The stranger held the scrap of hide out, close enough now that she could see the brand clearly for the first time.

He didn’t answer. Not yet.