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The Season of the Wolf	By : LadyOfTheSouthernIsles Category: G through L > Hellboy Views: 1434 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellboy or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
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Circa 1700BC

The low light of the season cut across the woodland clearing, throwing the landscape into stark relief as the bleak, grey sky pressed in on the surrounding coppice. A light fall of snow lay cold on the earth, frosting the bare limbs of the trees and doing its indifferent best to conceal all sign of the atrocities committed here in hours not long past.
But the fine mantle did not deceive the sharp eyes of the watching warriors. Their great war horses stamped their hooves on the frozen ground and snorted impatiently whilst 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 and seeped 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 which had once thrived with all the life and activity of a dozen or so families now lay silent, the lifeless remains of its inhabitants wrapped in the white winding sheet of winter and the charred ruins of their homes 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 also lay 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 parts 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 which bore the worst signs of brutal use; those tiny remains looked like the discarded playthings of cruel, vicious minds... minds that knew nothing of mercy in any guise.
His horse snorted and shifted impatiently under him once more, this time capturing the young elven warrior's attention. He tore his unwilling gaze from the ghastly scene as he leaned forward to give his steed a pat. The comforting touch was 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 relative inexperience. But a black, burning anger rose to the fore, and Nuada pushed aside the uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt.
He straightened up and looked at the other warriors under his command. The order to see to the dead and restore what dignity they could to the abused, broken bodies of their kinsfolk was on the tip of his tongue when a keening wail rent the still, cold 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 really. He too was shocked and upset.
As the woman's wail died away, from deep in the forest behind her came an answering cry: the bone-chilling howl of a lone wolf. The woman didn't move; she continued to stand like a statue, oblivious to the danger that lurked in the trees as she stared at the ruins of her village. The youth glanced anxiously at the carcass of a slain goat lying not far from them and started to tug on the woman's sleeve. She didn't as much as blink.
Nuada frowned. After motioning for one of his comrades to follow, he gathered up the reins and urged his horse forward with a gentle nudge of his knees. He knew the danger the woman and boy were in even though a dozen armed and mounted warriors and a pack of elven war dogs stood close by. In this season, the Season of the Wolf, the starving predators were often driven to desperate measures by the scarcity of food, and he doubted that even he could persuade the creature lurking in the trees to leave the pair alone if it thought they were keeping it from a few snatched morsels of food.
As he rode around the edge of the clearing, over to where the woman and youth were standing, he drew his sword; gleaming elven silver hissed against leather-bound wood. He reined in his horse and scanned the trees behind the pair, his sharp eyes looking for any sign of danger. Seeing none, he instructed his companion to keep watch and then swung down from the saddle and walked over to the stricken villagers.
"Máistreás," said he, addressing the woman and holding out his gloved hand to her. "We should move to the other side of the clearing. There is greater safety in numbers."
She neither moved nor spoke as she continued to stare blankly at the stark wreckage of her life.
"Máistreás?" he prompted.
Still she made no reply.
Nuada turned and looked at the youth. "What is her name?"
"She is my sister, sir - Sadhbh," replied the young lad, glancing anxiously at her. "She - she will be worried for her... her babe." His voice trailed off as his gaze was drawn to a ruined home on the far side of the village.
The elven prince swung round and followed the line of the youth's eyes; Máistreás Sadhbh would not find her child alive; her home had burned to ashes and her baby likely turned to dust with it. A hot sheet of anger sliced through him at the thought; he had to tamp it down before looking at the distraught woman again. He reached out to take her by the arm and lead her away but she suddenly moved, galvanised by Aiglin only knew what.
Brushing past Nuada, she ran into the centre of the razed settlement and stood there for a moment, glancing around wildly. Then she ran towards her burnt-out home and started tearing frantically at the ruins with her bare hands, muttering all the while in low, disbelieving tones.
Nuada turned to the youth again. "Go to the other side of the clearing," he said, pointing in the direction of the other warriors. "I will see to your sister."
The lad did as he was told and Nuada quickly made for the young woman, sheathing his sword as he went. He tried speaking to her but she did not listen; he tried taking hold of her but she only pushed him away, her desperation lending her a strength she might not have had otherwise. For the second time that day the young elven warrior found himself at a loss; he did not want to hurt the woman by forcing her to leave off her futile search and all he could do was stare helplessly at her for some moments.
... ...
From the other side of the clearing, Uileog de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar watched the newly-commissioned captaen. Though the prince cut a tall, commanding figure in black riding leathers and dark brown fur, Uileog had a heavy frown on his brow. The scene they'd come upon had shocked even him, one of the oldest and longest-serving warriors in the Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae, and he had quickly realised that this would be a hard test indeed for his young charge, for Rí Balor had entrusted to Uileog the task of watching over his son in these early days of the prince's first command.
On this particular day, following reports of unusual human activity in the area, Nuada had taken a small detachment from the Gardaí Capall to patrol the southern borderlands and ensure the humans did not encroach too far into the Fae realm as they were wont to do from time to time. One of the scouts had returned with a report of smoke rising from behind a distant ridge, and the company had gone to investigate.
And what a discovery to make, thought Uileog. His eyes flickered briefly over the carnage in the clearing then returned to the lean, powerful frame of the young warrior. Even at this age, Nuada showed a strength of mind, body and spirit that marked him out as a natural leader. But as the prince watched the distressed mother in her feverish search, Uileog noted a seldom-seen air of uncertainty about him. He was about to head over to see if he couldn't offer a suggestion or two, when the prince seemed to make up his mind to something.
... ...
Nuada left the other warrior to keep watch, and returned to the main group. On reaching the others, he snapped out a series of orders, his voice ringing clear and confident in the crisp, winter air. Three of the warriors were dispatched to help their comrade stand guard around the perimeter of the clearing, and another was ordered to keep a close watch over the young woman as she went about her desperate search. Nuada instructed the young lad to help his sister as best he could, and directed the remaining seven of the company to see to the horses and then gather up the dead.
He looked on grimly as they went about their appointed tasks. Though he was the Crown Prince of Bethmoora, his commission had not been handed to him on a plate; he'd had to earn it in the same way as every other captaen in the Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae, and he knew that here and now he must prove his worth to his king and his people, and serve them to the best of his ability. They could not afford for him to be indecisive and he swore to himself that there would be no more lapses.
Out in the trees, the wolf howled once more. This time, other ravening voices joined in. The elven war dogs increased their fretful pacing, pausing every now and then to bare their fangs and snarl at the unseen foe. Nuada knew that if he but said the word they would be off like lightning; the starving wolves would not stand a chance. He barked out a sharp order and the dogs came to heel. Crouching down before them, he removed one of his thick leather gloves as they sniffed at him and pushed their noses up against him. "Patience, my friends," he murmured, stroking the head of the alpha dog and tickling it behind its ears. "We have another quarry to run to ground. You will get your chance soon enough." His hard, chiselled features twisted in sneering disdain as he thought about the base creatures who had done this to his people.
A sudden retching sound broke in on his thoughts, startling him, and he quickly stood, sending the dogs scampering as he pulled on his glove again. Turning around, he saw one of the other young warriors, Cearul, leaning against a blackened piece of upright timber and gritting his teeth as if against a heaving stomach. He was staring in horror at something on the ground in front of him.
Nuada joined him and when he saw what the other elf was looking at, he almost retched himself. In amongst the burnt timbers, Cearul had discovered three elven babies impaled end to end on a long, bronze-tipped pikestaff, their little faces twisted in torment, their tiny mouths frozen forever in silent screams of agony.
He hadn't thought it possible but Nuada's hatred for the unknown human assailants soared to new heights. An overwhelming urge to kill consumed him; his muscles instinctively flexed and hardened in readiness. Drawing several deep breaths, he regained some semblance of control and knelt beside the sad, abused little forms. He stared at them for a long moment, his mouth a thin, dark line of anger. The long fall of his pale hair swayed as he shook his head in grim disbelief. Reaching out a pale, white hand, he lightly touched the wooden shaft of the pikestaff. Though he hadn't been able to save them, there was one last thing he could do for the baby elves.
He looked to the sky and from within the gossamer threads of Light woven through the very fabric of Eternity itself, summoned the magic of his kind. As he murmured the words of enchantment in the ancestral tongue of his people, a soft, golden glow emanated from his hands and the wooden staff slowly dissolved until at last, there was no trace left of the brutal weapon except for the bronze tip. The magic faded and Nuada looked back down at the perfectly-formed little bodies, free now from their cruel prison. He carefully picked up one small form and handed the girl-child up to Cearul, who had regained his composure and was waiting to lend whatever assistance he could to his captaen.
Without a word, Cearul took the dead babe from the elven prince's hands and headed over to where the adults' bodies had been laid out. Nuada gathered up the two remaining children - boys both - and stood. Cradling them gently in his arms, he followed Cearul and after laying them down beside the body of one of the adults turned his attention back to the scene around him.
As he stood there, clenching his fists and staring at the wreckage through a black-gold haze of anger, another of the younger warriors, Lorcan, approached.
"What about the humans, sir?" he asked as he reached his captaen.
"What about them?" Nuada skewered him with a sharp, auriferous look.
"Should - should we bury them now or-or later, sir? After we've performed the deasghnátha naofa," said Lorcan, suddenly unsure of his ground. He had never seen the young prince in such a dark mood though admittedly he hadn't served long with him.
The other elf's bewilderment pierced the shield of Nuada's rage and he attempted to rein in his temper; it was not well done of him to take his anger out on the younger warrior and he forced his mind to Lorcan's question.
It was the practice of the Fae to respect the bodies of the dead, including those of fallen foe, but having seen how the humans had treated his own people this day, the gorge rose in Nuada's throat at the thought of offering even the smallest token of regard to the half-dozen or so fleshly corpses that lay scattered amongst the elven dead. As he considered his dilemma, the wolves' eerie chorus resonated with renewed urgency from deep in the forest.
He swung his head towards the sound, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the bare, snow-covered trees from where it had come. Piercing howls cut the air once more and with them came a ruthless but entirely fitting solution though Nuada knew that later, when he made his report to the king, his father, he would be held to account for it.
He turned back to Lorcan. "No! Take their filthy carcasses to the edge of the clearing, along with those of the slaughtered livestock. Their own kind did not bother to attend to them and nor will we! The wolves can have them!"
Lorcan started in surprise.
"But remember," continued Nuada. "Keep back a piece of clothing. The madraí cogadh will need it later... for the scent!"
For the briefest instant, Lorcan baulked at leaving the human remains for the wolves but as he looked into the hard eyes of his captaen, a grim sense of rightness settled upon him. He'd seen things that day which he never wanted to see again and he found himself in complete agreement with the prince. Unable to hide the cold gleam of satisfaction in his own eyes, he inclined his head in acknowledgment and went off to carry out his orders.
Nuada frowned as he watched him go. The younger warrior had reminded him of the need to perform the Rites for the Dead in respect of their slain kinsfolk, and carry out the Purification Ritual; the ancient Gods needed to be appeased and the woodland cleansed of the dark stain which now hung over it. Only then could they set out after the rest of the murdering humans and appease their own need for justice.
The young captaen spied out Uileog and went to consult with the older elf on the requirements for the Deasghnátha na Marbh and the Dóiteán Íonú. They hadn't been talking long when Tadhg, another of the warriors, suddenly cried out to his companions.
"Over here! I've found a survivor!"
At his call, Nuada and Uileog broke off their conversation and hastened over to him. Under the scorched timbers of a wrecked dwelling, Tadhg had discovered a boy of some fourteen or fifteen summers. He was badly burnt and near insensate with shock and pain. Though elves could withstand flame and heat, they weren't immune to a conflagration. Most of the youth's flesh had been consumed by the fire and it was clear he was in a very bad way. Nuada and Uileog knelt at the injured boy's side along with Tadhg. Each had a grim look on his face; it was clear the young elf would not survive.
"Not even the most skilled of the elven healers can help him now," murmured Uileog. "All we can do is make his last moments on this earth as comfortable as possible. Lend your hands to him."
Uileog placed his palms on the boy's chest and Nuada and Tadhg did the same. The three of them called upon their magic and a soft, golden glow radiated from their hands as the older elf whispered the words of enchantment to ease the boy's passing.
An expression of calm soon fell across the dying youth's face and for a short while he recovered his senses. In a hoarse and broken voice, he told of how a large band of human marauders had ridden into the village and attacked without warning. Though the elven farmers had mounted a valiant defence, the raiders had greatly outnumbered them, and held the upper hand from the start. They'd been after livestock, gemstones, and the precious metals from which the elves forged their tools and weapons. Before they looted the village, they'd raped the women and then put everyone to the sword, from the most ancient and revered of the elders to the youngest of the defenceless newborns.
As the boy recounted his tale, Nuada vowed silently – and not for the first time that day - that the humans involved would pay dearly for their base, depraved actions.
The fatally injured youth breathed his last not long afterwards, and it was with heavy hearts that the warriors laid out his blackened, stone body with those of his kinsfolk. No other survivors were found and the thoughts of the living turned to the deasghnátha naofa.
As the oldest and most experienced of the company, Uileog would lead the rituals. Whilst he prepared for them, Nuada went to check on the young elven mother. She was still searching through the ruins, and with only a little less fervour than before. Her simple clothes and slender, white hands were blackened with soot, and her cheeks were smudged and dirty. Whether she trembled from the effort of her labours or from the depth of her distress, Nuada couldn't say. He looked over at the woman's brother, who was watching her forlornly, then walked up to the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. "How are you bearing up?" he asked.
"I-I don't know," replied the young elf, bewilderment and grief clear in his voice.
"Tell me how you came to escape the slaughter here," said Nuada.
"We – we were gathering wild thyme, and other winter herbs... in - in the woods, on the other side of the ridge," replied the boy. "We had no idea..." His voice trailed off and there was a pause. "What – what will happen to us now?" he asked with apprehension.
"We'll take you back to Bethmoora with us. The king will see to your welfare," Nuada assured him. "First though, we will hunt down the rest of the filth that did this and make sure they pay for their transgressions."
The boy shot him a worried look, which Nuada correctly interpreted. "I'll leave a guard here with you and your sister, and we'll come back for you once we've run the humans to ground."
The young elf nodded and turned his attention back to his sister.
"Tell her we are about to start the rituals," said Nuada. "She will have to stop for those." It was clear from his tone there would be no compromise on that point. "Can you make her listen, do you think?" he asked, his pale brow creasing slightly. He would prefer she left off her futile search of her own accord rather than requiring him to force her away from it.
"I'll see that she does," the youth replied.
"Good lad. What is your name?"
"Faolán, sir," replied the boy, with quiet pride.
Nuada stared at him for a long moment. "You have had to grow up quickly today, Faolán," he murmured at last. "I wish it were otherwise. See to your sister now." He then left the young elf to the job of persuading the woman to cease in her efforts, at least for the duration of the ceremonies.
... ...
It was now late afternoon and all was ready. Though it hadn't been easy, Faolán had convinced Sadhbh to leave off her search and attend the observance of the rituals. He stood with her alongside the warriors who had been tasked with providing a guard for them. Using the magic of their kind, the other elves had restored some semblance of order and dignity to their slain kinsfolk, and it was time to start the ceremonies. The dark-clad forms of the living alternated with amber-coloured clusters of the dead to form a large circle in the middle of the clearing. The fallen would be included in one last act of magic before they were consigned back to the care of the earth.
The Dóiteán Íonú was the first ritual to be performed; the glade had to be rid of the weight of the day's dark deeds before the Rites for the Dead could be undertaken. Uileog was to lead the proceedings and as elven royalty, Nuada stood opposite him, on the western point of the circle. The older elf raised his arms and began chanting in his ancestral tongue. As he intoned the words of summoning, calling forth the cleansing fire, the others raised their arms and touched the stone bodies on either side of them, forming a link between the world of the living and the land of the ancestors, and lending their magic to the task.
In the centre of the circle, a white-gold light appeared and in the grey, winter gloom, a delicate ethereal flame began to burn, shimmering and sparkling like flecks of sunlight. Fine filaments spread out from the centre, and soon the whole clearing was agleam with a myriad of glittering flames, which neither scorched nor singed as they danced amongst the grass in the meadow. A faint, tinkling, harmony chimed through the air, and elven ears hearkened to the sound, delighting in its celestial notes. And although the land lay fast in the grip of winter and spring was many weeks distant, a soft, delicate perfume filled the air as though the fields and meadows were abloom with the all budding, vernal life of a thousand flowers.
As Uileog worked the enchantment, the dark, heavy air which hung over the glade grew lighter, and the suffocating, grey cloak of the clouds rolled back. Breath came more easily, and it struck Nuada that he hadn't realised until then just how oppressive the atmosphere had been. By the time the magic fire burnt itself out, none could be in any doubt that the ancient Gods were appeased and the stain of the day's events was now lifted from the clearing.
With the land being tended to, it was now the turn of the dead. Uileog began to intone the words which would mark their journey to the realm of the ancestors and consign their lapidified remains back to the care of the earth. Though they would dwell for all time in the memory of their people - travelling down through the ages with them, as the dead do - their light was now lost to this world and would remain, from this day forward, forever hidden from earthly eyes.
Nuada's mind wandered as the familiar words of farewell washed over him. He looked at those gathered in the clearing, the living and the dead. A sudden thought whispered through his mind; it would be a hard fate indeed to die alone, in darkness and amongst strangers and unremarked by the rites and rituals of his people. He shook off the disturbing image.
His golden eyes no longer burned with rage; rather they flickered thoughtfully over the lapidified figures in the circle. Those kinsfolk would lie here now, the planes and angles of life slowly wearing away in the weather of the centuries until at last, there would be no vestige of the people they had once been. Lichen would cover the smooth, pale, amber-coloured stones, and birds and insects would alight on their surfaces from time to time. Others of their kind – the living – might pass by every now and then, and stop to rest their backs against the menhirs as they paused in their journeys. And the dead would continue to stand in the glade, silent sentinels for all seasons, until the tide of time finally wore them away.
As Nuada stared at the stone figures, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the trees, striking the snow in front of him and turning it for an instant into a glistening ripple of sun-dappled silver. Then the sun sank below the horizon and the effect was gone, along with the last remnants of the day. For some moments, all within the glade was quiet, motionless, as if time itself had stopped. But the rituals were performed and night was falling, and the silent still soon passed.
In the gathering darkness, Nuada discovered that his burning anger had coalesced into a cold, hard fury that would only be satisfied when the vicious miscreants who'd dealt so savagely with his kind had been brought to account. It was time to turn his mind to more practical matters, namely the hunting down of those depraved creatures, and the meting out of elven justice to avenge the needless deaths of the tuath of the forest.
The warriors moved off, leaving only the silent dead to form the circle now. No orders were necessary; each member of the company knew what was required. It was the night of the Quiet Moon, and the silver light of the celestial sphere would suffice for elven eyes to see by as they went about their work.
First, they attended to the needs of the woman and her brother, erecting a rough shelter for them and fortifying it with a stronghold charm which would conceal them and provide some measure of protection. Three warriors would also remain to stand guard until the main party returned.
Next, they lightened the load on their horses. The spirited steeds had been well-rested in the intervening hours but much would be asked of them that night; the ride would be hard, and the fighting harder. Bedrolls were dispensed with, food was cooked and eaten. Heavy cloaks would not be needed but armour would. Finally, they were ready.
Nuada walked over to those of the company who were to remain behind on guard. "We'll be back by dawn," he said. "Humans travel neither quickly nor by night, and our business with them will be concluded before the sun rises. See that the woman and boy are ready to travel by then. We will rest when we return to Bethmoora."
"Yes, sir," replied one of the elves.
Satisfied that there was nothing more to be done, Nuada strode over to his horse and swung up onto its back with an easy, fluid grace that spoke of long hours spent in the saddle. With a light press of his knees, he guided his mount to the centre of the clearing, where the rest of the company waited.
All of a sudden the wind picked up, and from deep in the trees came the bone-chilling howls of the wolves once more; they seemed to sense that they were not the quarry this night.
The elven war dogs were given the humans' scent and at Nuada's command, they set off across the clearing, low, threatening growls issuing from their throats, fangs bared as they disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
Nuada gave the word to the grim-faced warriors. With soft, clicking sounds, they urged their horses on, letting them have their heads, and in the blink of an eye, the great war stallions were following the madraí cogadh. They fairly flew over the cold, hard ground, nostrils flaring, dark eyes flashing, and drumming hooves thundering out into in the night.
The wild ride had begun and at its head was Nuada, his lean muscled frame bent low over the withers, his long gilt-tipped hair streaming silver in the moonlight. He looked back once, and then no more. His dark lips formed a thin line of uncompromising determination against the pale, stone-chiselled planes of his face and his hard, flame-gold eyes were filled with cold, certain death.
.

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References:
Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.
Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.
Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).
Deasghnátha na Marbh: (Irish Gaelic) Rites for the Dead.
Deasghnátha naofa: (Irish Gaelic) sacred rituals.
Dóiteán Íonú: (Irish Gaelic) Purification Ritual. (Dóiteán = 'fire', meaning cleansing fire in this sense.)
Faolán(FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.
Gardaí Capall na Bethmoora: (Irish Gaelic) The Horse Guards of Bethmoora (the cavalry).
Lapidify: To change to stone [from French lapidifier, from Medieval Latin lapidificāre, ultimately from Latin lapis stone].
Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.
Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.
Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) Mistress.
Quiet Moon: Celtic name for the full moon in January.
Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.
Sadhbh(SAH-eev): (Irish Gaelic) name likely meaning 'sweet' or 'goodness'.
Season of the Wolf: in old Europe, winter was known as the Season of the Wolf because wolves were forced by a scarcity of food to leave the forests and scavenge in outlying villages.
Tadhg (TAYG): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'poet' or 'philosopher'.
Tuath (plural tuatha): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".
Uileog de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar: (Irish Gaelic) Uileog (IH-lig) – name meaning 'resolute protector'; de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar – phrase meaning 'of wise counsel'.
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The Season of the Wolf