Chapter One: The End of the Hunt

“Winter will come, and it will not end. Brothers will kill brothers. The bonds between father and son will be rent, and the mountains will shake with each breath of the world. As the Ward Tree wilts, so shall the Oathbreaker return.

“Heroes will rise once more, for this will be the age to end all ages.”

—Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor

It was dusk, and the wood was waning. The wind whispered of happier times as Ein and Alend trudged through the snow.

“Let’s stop here for the night,” Alend said, coming to a halt. “It’s getting too dark to track.”

Ein frowned. “If it snows harder, we could lose all the ground we gained.”

His father gave him a stern look. “Better to lose a day or two than to lose our quarry completely.”

Ein sighed and stepped away from the trail. Alend nodded in approval.

The trees shivered and sent a light dusting of snow across the tracks, almost as if to mock the two. For three days they’d been stalking the buck, three cold, harsh days filled with nought but grey skies, dry winds and white-flecked wood stippling the snow. Sometimes Ein would see a fox scurrying into its den or a snow finch flitting between the branches, but most of the time he and his father were the only signs of life for miles around.

“We could push a little further,” he murmured. “Cover enough ground to end the hunt tomorrow. We’d be back in Felhaven before the week’s end.”

Ein’s father folded his arms. “What can you tell me about these prints?”

Even in his middle ages, Alend Thoren stood as tall and broad as a great oak. He was wrapped tightly in warm leathers and thick boots, a greying cloak the colour of his beard fastened about his shoulders. Muscles bulged beneath his shirt, thickly corded and wrought with a lifetime of experience. By his father’s side, Ein was but a sapling.

Ein pulled back his hood and bent down to examine the tracks, squinting in the murky light. Specks of snow touched his face.

“I’d say a couple of hours old,” he concluded. “The print belongs to a deer, a young male. Looks to be in good shape.” He turned around and stood. “Reasonably well-fed, considering the stool we found a while back.”

“And what about that over there?”

Alend extended a finger to one of the trees nearby. Ein approached it and brought his face closer to the trunk. The outer layer of snow had worn thin, revealing the bark beneath. There was a scrap of fur snagged against one of the grooves.

“It rubbed itself against the tree,” he said. “Probably to scratch an itch or remove some brambles from its side. There hasn’t been enough snow to cover it yet.”

“Does that give you a more accurate timeframe?”

Ein tilted his head toward the sky, watching the snowflakes spiral towards the ground. “Three hours,” he said. “It hasn’t been snowing that heavily.”

“Exactly,” Alend nodded. “Good to see I haven’t raised a thickhead.”

Ein scowled.

“Now, tell me,” his father continued. “If we took your suggestion and kept going for an hour or half, what would any simple-minded animal do?”

Ein didn’t hesitate. “It would run—unless we sneaked up on it. But that would be hard to do in the dark.”

“Added to the fact that we’re both tired and hungry and in no condition to chase,” Alend said. “Still think it’s a good idea?”

Ein slung his travelling pack from his shoulder and set it at the base of a tree. “Alright, Father. You win.” He unstrung his bow.

The shadows lengthened yet another inch. Though light still shone through the clouds, Ein hadn’t seen a hot sun or a clear sky since the start of winter almost three years ago. In that time, snow continued to fall, crops refused to grow, rivers continued to freeze, and animals buried themselves beneath the snowdrifts to wear out the storm. It felt like a lifetime ago when the land had been green and wet, lush with the sweet smell of summer. Now it was a wasteland, a desert of white.

Some said it was freak of nature. Others blamed the gods, as long gone as they were.

To the more superstitious, it was the Great Winter—just as the Three-winged Crow had foretold.

Alend rifled through his bag and produced a bundle of supplies—cured meat and nuts, a hunk of stale bread and a wedge of cheese. Ein took his portion and washed it down with water, taking relish in the feeling of having something in his stomach. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but then again nothing was these days. The abnormal weather had stripped Felhaven of its produce, restricting the villagers to a meagre diet and forcing them to dig into their supplies if they needed more. Many a night was spent with food on the mind and a dream of spring.

Alend began packing snow into his flask, so Ein did the same. There was a stream about half a day away on foot, but there was a good chance it would be frozen, so they’d taken to drinking snow instead. Although it took an entire night to thaw, it was far better than running out of water.

When they were both finished, Ein’s father unfurled his bedroll and burrowed into it. They decided not to light a fire—there was nothing to cook and no pressing need to melt snow. The light and smoke of a flame would only alert their quarry to their presence, and there was no time or strength to be wasted on gathering wood.

Ein remained seated against the trunk, watching as the trees blended into the shadows. Slowly, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. He was still hungry; most of the fullness he’d felt before had been the water, and hunger did little to drive away the cold.

A winter night was dark and long. It was cold and quiet, and if you weren’t careful you might find yourself never waking up. The sky fell into pitch black, turning the woods into an unseeable mass. Ein allowed his other senses to take over, listening to the rustle of leaves above him, smelling the crispness of the snow. His heartbeat slowed. Before long, his eyelids had grown heavy with fatigue.

It was then that the first of the howls rang sharp in the night, and then a second, and a third. Ein’s eyes shot wide open and he reached for the knife by his waist, heart thumping.

Wolves, he thought. But what are they hunting? Us?

The chorus of howls echoed. They were further away this time, just a bit. He became aware of his father sitting upright in the darkness, having woken from his sleep. He couldn’t see Alend’s face, but he knew those steel eyes would be alert and searching. Alend had a sixth sense forged in the pits of Hellheim.

“Should we go?” Ein asked.

There was no response. The dark shape that was his father tilted an ear to the sky. They waited patiently, wordlessly, listening to the wind. The wolves cried again. They were travelling in the opposite direction, their sounds growing more and more distant, fading like the toll of a bell. When their cries could no longer be heard, Alend fell back to his bedroll.

“They’re hunting something else,” he said. “We should be safe for the night.”

Ein felt the tension ease from his shoulders as he sunk back into his covers. He’d never fought for his life before, even if he’d been taught the skills to. He hoped that day would never come.

Alend was already asleep, breathing long and deep in tune with the wind. Ein wished he could do that. Sleep and wake at will, like the flick of a switch. It was a learned skill, one he had yet to master, along with hunting, tracking, fencing and the myriad other skills his father knew. Idly, he wondered how a person like Alend had ended up as a village blacksmith. That was his last thought before he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Alend was up before him in the morning, bedroll already folded up and packed away. He tossed Ein another hunk of bread, barely a mouthful to break his fast. It was tough as a rock and his mouth was unbelievably dry, but he ate it anyway. Ein reluctantly left the warmth of his blankets, slapping some life into his cheeks, shaking his limbs, ironing out the tiredness from his joints. His fingers felt cold and leaden in his gloves.

“Come on,” his father said. “Let’s not waste any time.”

They were ready to go in moments. It had stopped snowing at some point in the night, and patches of dirt and grass were beginning to show like bleary brushstrokes on a blank canvas. The land changed as easily as the wind—some days he saw the verdant leas of old, buried beneath a layer of weathering snow. Other days the snow piled on so heavily it smothered everything under a thick white blanket. Ein supposed it was lucky they hadn’t experienced any snowstorms during their hunt.

They slogged further along the trail, Ein leading, his father following. They followed the prints at a steady pace without stopping or speaking—the hunt had stretched on for too long. Every day they spent away from home was a day their family starved. It was the thoughts of his mother and little Cinnamin that kept him going, and he was sure it was the same for his father. Ein noted the clumps of hair and fur snagged in the bushes, scratchings over rock where the buck had clambered across, half-bitten stalks of grass where it had stopped to eat. They found another piece of scat, but didn’t stop to analyse it. The sky grew brighter, just a bit, and Ein thought he saw a single ray of light peek out from behind a cloud. Then, just as soon as it had appeared, it was gone.

“We’re getting closer,” Alend said. It was noon.

“Are we?” Ein had been mindlessly following the tracks, too lost in thoughts of food and sleep. His feet were sore, his eyes prickly, his muscles burning with exertion. They were likely going to skip lunch as well.

“Fatigue is no excuse for tardiness,” Alend said. “Look at the tracks and tell me what you see.”

Ein resisted the urge to snap a reply. Instead, he took a glance at his feet. Then, he blinked and looked again.

“Al'Ashar’s eyes and ears,” he muttered.

They were no longer following a single target. Somewhere along the way, a pack of beasts had joined the trail, their pawprints running rampant across the buck’s.

“Wolves,” Alend said. “From last night, no doubt. Look at the width between each step. They had it on the run.”

It was true. The stag’s walking pattern had changed from a simple trot to an all-out sprint. How had he missed it?

“Let’s keep moving,” his father continued. “I think we can afford to go a bit faster. Our buck is probably dead by now; the earlier we confirm it, the earlier we can head back.”

Ein nodded, and they broke into a trot. Sweat dripped down his face and cooled on his skin, soaking his shirt. His breath escaped in puffs of white, the travelling bag chafing against his back. Alend had taken him running when he was a child, through the woods and the rolling farmland to build endurance, but they’d never gone on an empty stomach before, on five hours’ sleep and in temperatures below freezing. Before long his mind began to wander, veering away from the trail on the ground. So it was that he came to a halt where the snow ended and mossy-green grass began, at a loss for what to do.

“Come on,” Alend urged. “Why are we stopping? Every step we take is a step further from home.”

Ein stared at the ground. What little snow that had covered it last night had vanished, melting under the light of midday—taking with it signs of the animals’ passing.

“Get on your knees,” his father said. “You don’t need snow to track.”

A flame of frustration welled within him. He knew all this; he knew what to do. He had just been too tired and hungry to focus.

Come on, he berated himself. You can do better than this.

Ein bent down and angled his head so that the light shone a glossy layer on the grass, highlighting the smallest inconsistencies. It was bent in places where the beasts had passed, the stalks snapped at unnatural angles to the ground. There were faint marks on the ground, places where dirt and grime had either been pressed together or wiped away by a footfall. The trail wasn’t dead; far from it. Alend saw the recognition on his face and nodded.

“String your bow,” he said, “and let’s run.”

Ein did as he was told and slid his bow from his pack, looping the string around both ends. Giving it a few strums, he nodded at his father. Suddenly he felt fresh and alert, the tiredness gone from his limbs, his body no longer sluggish. Things were about to come to an end, for better or worse. Alend raised his own bow, an arrow already nocked. Without waiting for a response, he broke into a jog.

For a man of his size, Ein’s father moved surprisingly swiftly. His boots barely made a sound as they pressed into the dirt, his cloak flapping behind him. Ein felt like a clumsy beast in comparison, rousing the entire forest with each step. They stole through the trees and the trail, across patches of snow and grass alike, hopping over stones and through snow-crusted bushes. Every so often, Alend bent down to the ground to make sure they were still on the right track.

In half an hour, they’d covered several miles of ground through the twisting growth, following the wolves and the buck deep into the woods. It was familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. Ein had spent many a day of his childhood in the woods, but with the place covered in snow he barely recognized it anymore. He remembered when he, Merrill and Evaine had gotten lost playing fetch-and-find once, spending an entire night alone and huddled beneath a large pine. That was back when Alend had yet to teach him how to navigate the wilds with only the sun and the stars, how to set up traps, a fire, even create a tent with limited supplies—

“Ein.”

Alend raised a hand, signalling him to stop. Ein crouched low and was in the middle of drawing back his arrow when he realized his father wasn’t doing the same. They hadn’t stopped because they were nearing their prey, or because there was danger. They’d stopped for a different reason.

Ein stepped up to his father’s side and looked at the ground. There was a splotch of dark red, almost rust, the blood of an animal seeped into the dirt. Bushes had been broken in a struggle of some sort, claw and bite marks marring the base of nearby trees. It didn’t take a skilled tracker to understand this was where the buck had finally been killed.

“Where’s the body?” Ein asked.

Alend wordlessly pulled apart the bushes and stepped through. There was more blood, splattered along the ground and the undergrowth. Snow began to fall.

They found the corpse a little while later, under the shadow of a rocky outcrop. The buck lay crumpled on its side, soaking in a pool of frozen blood. It had been stripped from neck to tail, leaving only bones, bowels and bloodied fur held together by a ragged spine. Ribs stabbed the air like broken fingers among the reds and whites of flesh and fat. Half an antler lay broken and discarded, partly embedded in the packed dirt. Alend bent down and placed his knife against the corpse, sawing away at the freezing fur without a moment’s pause.

Ein walked over and pulled out his own knife. They worked quickly and efficiently, taking what little that could be taken. The bits and pieces of fur might be enough for a pair of gloves or a cap. There were a few shreds of meat attached to bone that could be stripped, and in a pinch, the eyes, tongue, even the neck could be eaten for sustenance—though the thought of that wasn’t particularly appealing. This was what the Great Winter had reduced them to.

As Ein packed away the last of plunder, Alend stood up. He peered at a trail of prints on the ground, leading through another blood-stained thicket.

“Wait here,” he instructed.

Ein didn’t wait, of course. He shook free the layer of snow that had settled atop his head and stalked his father into the trees.

“Did you find something?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Alend looked at the tracks on the ground. “I wonder what happened to the wolves.”

“They probably ran off, having had their fill.”

Alend didn’t answer. Ein glanced at the ground and frowned.

Mixed in with the tracks of the six odd wolves were another set of prints—larger, heavier ones. Something that walked on two legs, but wasn’t human. They were already fading with the coming snow, but Alend seemed to have no problem following them.

“They’re not the right shape to be a bear,” he murmured.

What other creatures lurked in the woods? Especially big ones capable of taking on packs of wolves? There were bears… and that was all Ein could think of. Even then, wolves had strength in numbers. Snow tigers perhaps? But they were rare, and walked on all fours. These prints belonged to a bipedal creature, one with five toes ending in razor points that moved with an uneven gait.

Alend picked something up and exhaled.

“What’s that?” Ein asked.

Alend turned and seemed to pause for a moment, hiding his find. Then, he brought his hand out from behind his back and raised it to the light. He was holding half of a wolf by the ears, its body ripped apart at the belly. A spine dangled among bloody entrails, dripping slick blood onto the ground.

Ein’s breath caught in his throat. He’d seen dead animals before, but this one had been murdered in such a vicious manner he couldn’t help but gasp. It reminded him of the careless way a child would rip apart a doll simply to see what its innards were made of.

“There’s more,” Alend said. “Look.”

He pointed into the trees. Forgetting his bag, Ein trudged over and broke through a small clearing, a meadow of sorts bordered by a few jagged rocks and stunted trees. The smell of blood flooded his nose, thick and permeating.

It was a scene of carnage. Wolf corpses lay lifeless in the snow, ripped to pieces and thrown aside like ragdolls. Entrails scattered the clearing like blue snakes, glistening under the afternoon light. It was as if a whirlwind of claws and teeth had run into the pack and killed them for the sake of simply killing. The flesh remained on their body, untouched. Eyes open, lifeless, they looked like pups instead of predators.

“At least our trip wasn’t for nought,” Alend smiled grimly. Ein looked at his hand and realized it was shaking.

What sort of creature had done this? Wolves who ruled the woods, who man had feared since they’d first learned to hunt and create stone spears to wield—they’d been decimated, torn to shreds with such ease. The bodies lying dead on the ground could have easily been theirs.

He caught Alend’s eye as his father bent down to skin one of the grey hides, jaw firmly set. As usual, he seemed unfazed.

“Come on, boy,” he growled. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than you do.” He looked at the tracks, leading off into a battered section of trees. “It looks like the creature’s gone the other way, but it could turn back at any moment. We don’t want to be here for that, do we?”

Ein felt the spell lift, and he was able to move once more. He unclenched his fists and bent down in front of one of the carcasses, drawing his knife. As he set about shaving off slabs of meat to take back to the village, he tried to not to breathe in the stench of blood or think about what was out there in the woods, waiting for them.