The Season of the Wolf

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work.

A/N: This work is an extended version of one of Nuada's memories in Chapter 34 (or Chapter 35 according to FF's numbering system) of my longer story, Dragon-Cursed. Please see the note at the end of this chapter for information on the artwork for this story.

M warning for violence, references to killing and rape, and crude language in this story.

Chapter 1

Circa 1700BC
The low light of the season cut across the woodland clearing, throwing the landscape into stark relief as a bleak sky pressed in on the surrounding coppice. Snow lay cold on the earth, doing its indifferent best to conceal all sign of the atrocities committed here in hours not long past. But the sharp eyes of the watching warriors were not deceived. Their great war horses stamped on the frozen ground, snorting impatiently, while the madraí cogadh growled and yelped in protest at the sudden stop. The riders paid no heed to either the demands of the spirited stallions or the complaints of the dogs. Nor did they remark the bitter cold that cut through the thick weave of their fur-lined cloaks, seeping in under their tooled-leather armour. Breath turned to mist in the frigid air as, transfixed, they beheld the awful sight before them. Though most were used to the grim realities of battle, this was a scene of devastation and carnage that few had ever seen before even despite nature's efforts to erase the ugliness.

A small settlement that had once thrived with all the life and activity of a dozen or so families now lay silent, the remains of its inhabitants wrapped in the white winding sheet of winter and the charred ruins of homes once bright with colour no longer anything more than dirty smudges on the pristine landscape. Elven blood mingled with the blood of slaughtered livestock – and with that of several humans who were also dead on the ground, the remains of their earthly flesh telling the tale of what had happened here.

For long moments, no one spoke; there were no words for slaughter like this. Hard, lapidified bodies – warm, living, breathing once – lay with legs splayed wide, the obscene angles attesting to the fate those now inanimate women had endured before they died. Other bodies - the largest ones - lay in pieces, the hewn remains offering silent proof of the fierce fighting that had gone on in the forest glade. But it was the smallest and most fragile of the bodies that bore the worst signs of brutal use; those tiny bodies looked like the discarded playthings of cruel, vicious minds that knew nothing of mercy.

Nuada's horse snorted impatiently and shifted under him once more, this time capturing his attention. He tore his gaze from the ghastly scene and leaned forward to give the stallion a pat, the comforting touch as much for himself as for his mount. The long fall of his pale, gilt-tipped hair shielded his face from the others in the company as he struggled to contain his feelings. Though he'd served his time in the ranks of his father's army, this was only his second command and for the briefest instant he felt the full weight of his inexperience. But a black, burning anger rose to the fore, and he pushed aside the twinge of self-doubt.

Straightening up, he looked at the other warriors under his command. The order to see to the dead and restore what dignity they could to their kinsfolk was on the tip of his tongue when a keening wail rent the air. Nuada whipped round and spied a young elven woman standing frozen on the opposite edge of the clearing, gazing in horror at the wreckage of the settlement. Just behind her was a much younger male, barely more than a child. He too was shocked and upset.