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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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Nuada found the other elves waiting with the horses and livestock, ready for travel as he had ordered. The pyres, which held the remains of the dead war dogs, blazed and roared and spat out sparks. Over at the furthest edge of the ruins, beyond the firelight, Garbhán and Mathúin stirred in their thorny bonds.

“Is the boy safe?” asked Uileog as his captaen approached. “You had no trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” replied Nuada without breaking his stride. “And the boy is as safe as he can be in such company.” He carried on past Uileog.

The older elf turned on his heel and watched the prince pick a swift trail through the human corpses that littered the ground. He was making straight for the two reivers; it was obviously time to have done with them and not a moment too soon.

Nuada reached their spread-eagled forms. He stopped and drew his sword.

The men had regained full consciousness by now, Mathúin first and Garbhán a moment or two later. Dazed confusion gave way to terror as they took in the sharp hiss of silver and the dark, looming figure of the elven warrior. They struggled against their bonds but the cold from the frozen ground had seeped into their bones and their movements were sluggish. The brambles held fast and only bit deeper into their flesh. All the while, Nuada stood silent and still.

“For the love of all that’s sacred!” cried Mathúin, his eyes bulging and his breath coming in harsh pants. “Have mercy on us!”

Garbhán tried to add his plea to his clansman’s, but Nuada’s fist and the pommel of his sword had done their work; the only thing that came out of the Toísech’s mouth was a thick, choking sound and he felt he might pass out again from the shock of pain in his pulverised jaw.

A cold smile touched Nuada’s lips. Without a word, he placed the point of his sword at the base of Garbhán’s chest.

The Chieftain’s injuries were no bar to the scream that burst forth from his throat. He tensed and closed his eyes, certain that the killing thrust was only a heartbeat away. He felt a sharp prick as the sword-tip pierced his clothes and skin, and then – nothing! At least, not death! Only a frigid rush of air and a swift, stinging sensation down the length of his torso. Garbhán’s eyes flew open – the elf was walking around to Mathúin’s side now – and he went weak with relief. Against all hope, he was still alive. Perhaps they would be spared after all!

He had no time to dwell on the thought. An angry shout rang out from somewhere within the ruins and Mathúin moaned in distress beside him. Garbhán looked over to see his clansman staring back at him – or rather, at his midsection – in horror. Following the line of Mathúin’s eyes, he raised his head and looked down along his torso. His mind froze: incomprehension; disbelief; and finally, sick dread. It clogged his throat as he sought desperately to deny what he saw: intestines – his – glistening wet in the moonlight. His stomach had been split open, muscle and skin torn past all hope of healing. He looked back at Mathúin, aghast, but there was no help or comfort to be had there. His kinsman was being dealt the same fate.

Mathúin screamed and heaved in a futile attempt to get away from the flashing sliver blade, but his struggles only increased his suffering; his bloodied guts slopped out onto the cold, frozen ground beside him. He still lived though.

Nuada’s face was expressionless now. To his dismay, his sword-arm was shaking. He turned and stared out into the darkness, beyond the standing stones. After a moment’s hesitation, he once more whispered a summoning in the ancient tongue of his people, this time to the starving creatures that lurked in the trees. The words had barely left his mouth when there came back a low chorus of avid growls and his arm was violently seized.

“By the Gods, Nuada! Stop what you’re doing!” cried Uileog.

Startled, Nuada wrenched free from his grasp and spun round, almost taking off the other elf’s head with his sword. At the last moment, he managed to pull up short. “Justice must be dispensed,” he snarled as he stepped back and put down his weapon. His arm was still trembling.

Uileog’s heart pounded in his chest; he was took several deep breaths and instinctively rubbed his neck. “You – you must know there is no justice in – in that!” He gestured towards the mutilated humans. It was now clear what Nuada intended and though Uileog had privately thought the men deserved every bit of pain inflicted on them, he felt sick at the thought of this.

Nuada wavered, but his eyes fell on the small, still figure of the baby elf and his resolve hardened. He tightened his grip on his sword, pinned Uileog with a fierce stare, and said, with not the slightest hint of irony, “If you haven’t the stomach for it, then leave!”

However, Uileog could not leave; he had to do something. He went for his own weapon but before his hand had even touched the hilt, the sharp edge of Nuada’s blade was at his throat again.

“Will you spill your own blood?” Nuada demanded to know. “Mine? Theirs?” – he paused and nodded at the other elves – Lorcan, Cearul and Meallán – who had drawn close by now – “for filth like that!” He fairly spat out the words as his head jerked towards the reivers.

It was an impossible situation, Uileog realised. He would not spill so much as a drop of elven blood over the men: enough had been lost already. But the savagery of what Nuada planned… To be eaten alive… Though the gorge rose in his throat, Uileog was forced to admit there was nothing he could – or would – do. He raised his sword-hand to Nuada’s weapon and slowly pushed it aside. “No,” he said bitterly. “I will not spill any more blood over them.” He paused before adding, “I will, however, do as you suggest. An Ridire!” And with that, he turned his back on Nuada and headed for the horses.

Nuada’s brows drew together as he stared after Uileog’s retreating figure but he ruthlessly ignored the stab of disquiet that tore through him. Instead, he faced the other elves. “If any of you want to go with him, you can leave now,” he said. “You might as well make a start with the livestock. It will be morning before we’re back at the village – or what’s left of it. Take the madraí cogadh with you, to keep the wolves away. I’ll bring the humans’ horses and stolen goods when I’m done here.”

There was no hesitation on Meallán’s part; he immediately turned and started off after Uileog. Cearul was likewise firm in his decision but rather than leave, he stood beside Nuada. Lorcan stayed where he was, looking miserably from one lot to the other.

“Go if you wish,” Nuada said to him, his tone more measured now. “I’ll not think the worse of you if you do. In fact,” – he turned to Cearul – “it might be better if you went with them. There is no sense in any one else facing my father’s wrath over this.”

Cearul shook his head. “I cannot leave – not after what I’ve seen today.” He glanced at the two men, who were moaning in distress, and muttered, “Even though it makes me -” He stopped, shook his head again, and then continued on, more resolutely. “They have brought this on themselves. It is only a small part of what they deserve.”

The pounding of hooves and bleating and lowing of livestock broke in on their conversation and the three elves looked over as Uileog and Meallán left the ancient fortress, driving the sheep, goats and cattle beasts before them with the war dogs covering the flanks.

Nuada spoke to Lorcan. “You had best go now.”

“No,” replied the other elf. “I – I will stay. If this can somehow – balance the scales…” His voice trailed off.

Nuada fixed him with a hard look. “If you are certain - ”

Lorcan nodded and Nuada turned back to the humans. In the shadows, behind the standing stones, the dark forms of the wolves ranged back and forth, their yellow eyes glinting gold in the firelight.

“You had my word I would spare your lives,” Nuada said to the helpless, treacherous men. “You only had to give me the baby and you would have been on your way back to your village now.” His fists clenched and his voice rose. “Why, by Aiglin, did you not - ” He stopped short; it was a pointless question. Regaining his composure, he echoed Cearul’s words. “You brought this on yourselves. What the wolves don’t want, the channering worm can have.” And with that, he turned away from them.

Garbhán and Mathúin screamed in mindless terror; all hope was gone, even that of a quick death. The wolves drew closer, weaving in and out of the ancient stones, venturing further and further into the circle. Heedless of the elves, they pawed and ripped at the human corpses near the outer edges. Skirmishes broke out over the spoils as bodies were rent limb from limb. Leather and woven wool was devoured whole along with everything that lay beneath. With the sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones ringing in their ears and the acrid stench of blood filling their nostrils, the Toísech and his clansman closed their eyes against their fate and called upon every god they knew to save them…

The elven warriors had now readied the humans’ horses for travel and Nuada cradled the body of the baby elf in one arm. They were about to mount their own horses when Cearul looked over at the doomed men. He frowned.

Nuada caught sight of his expression and paused, one foot in the stirrup. Unease stabbed at his conscience once more. “Do not ask for mercy for them,” he said harshly, thinking that the other elf had perhaps changed his mind. He lowered his foot and dropped the reins.

“That is the last thing I would do,” replied Cearul, still watching the reivers.

“Then what is on your mind?”

Cearul met Nuada’s eyes. “You should not bear this burden alone.” He dropped his own reins and started towards the men.

Nuada stared after him for a moment, puzzled, and then quickly followed him through the litter of corpses and feasting wolves. As he went, he transferred the weight of the baby elf to his left arm and reached for his sword. He had no idea what the other warrior was going to do, despite his words.

Cearul reached the men and knelt down between them. They looked up, their eyes alight with a burst of unexpected hope – though whether for life or death, it was impossible to say. Cearul ignored their silent entreaty. He removed his fur-lined gloves, flexed his fingers, and whispered for the weather to come to him.

Nuada, still none the wiser as to what his companion intended, stood silently to one side, watching, waiting for some hint.

As Cearul spoke, a rush of air hit the group. In a night already at freezing point, the temperature dropped even further. The space around them became so cold that each gust of wind was a sharp, cutting torment on their skin and each breath they took burned in their lungs. A white mist swirled about the weather-smith’s hands. It seeped into his skin, turning his fingers into translucent sculptures of ice, and his lips thinned, as if in pain. It was not enough to stop him though. He splayed his hands and reached out to touch Garbhán and Mathúin’s eyes. Each man gasped at the sudden needle-sharp stabs of cold. Cearul then lifted his hands and whispered to the weather once more. The white mist seeped back out of his hands and floated on the air before dissipating into the darkness. He worked his fingers to get the feeling back into them, slowly at first and then more vigorously as the blood started pumping.

Nuada leaned in and saw that Cearul had frozen the men’s eyelids shut: purple, spider-web veins stood stark against brittle shells of ice, from which hung thick, black eyelash spikes. The elven prince opened his mouth to ask for what purpose but Cearul was not done with them yet.

He drew his dagger and turned to Mathúin. Placing the point carefully over the crest of one eyeball, he tapped the hilt gently with the flat of his hand. With the faintest chinking sound, Mathúin’s eyelid chipped off and fell to his cheek. The other lid quickly followed and a pair of terrified brown eyes rolled desperately in their sockets. Cearul then turned to Garbhán and did the same to him. When he had finished, he sheathed his dagger, pulled his gloves back on and stood to address the men.

“You gave no quarter to any of our people today,” he said fiercely. As he spoke, he glanced at the dead baby girl who lay in his captaen’s arms, and thought of the three elven babies he had found impaled on a pikestaff at the razed village. “You deserve no mercy from us and I would hate to think you missed one single moment of your own deaths.” He raised his eyes to Nuada, partly defiant – as though he expected the prince to take issue with what he had just done – and partly seeking affirmation for the deed.

Nuada looked away and back again, once more shaken. But what Cearul had done was no worse than what he himself had done and he was the one who had started them on this path in the first place. He nodded briefly to the other elf and said, “It is only fitting.”

An awkward silence fell upon them, broken only by the ragged moans of the reivers, and then Cearul inclined his head and started back to the horses.

Nuada followed, without so much as another glance at the mutilated lumps of living flesh staring up, terrified, from the brambles. He focused, instead, on the dead child in his arms, and as he picked his way back through the carnage in the field, a snatch of conversation he had overheard in the humans’ camp came back to him: they would not have meat to last until Imbolc but the wolves just might. It was about the only good thing that could possibly come out of this night now. He reached the others and mounted his war horse.

After one final check on the pack animals, they set off, Cearul at the head of the line, Lorcan on the flank and Nuada bringing up the rear. They had just crossed the open field and entered the trees when an awful scream rose up from the ancient ruins. Several of the horses snorted and skittered sideways but Lorcan quickly calmed them and they continued on their way. None of the warriors said anything or looked at one another; they all knew what the sound meant. But despite their determination to wreak vengeance on their people’s murderers, none of them rode so straight in the saddle any more either.

Another scream rang out and Cearul and Lorcan’s shoulders hunched over even further. They kept their eyes fixed doggedly on the way ahead, trying to concentrate on the dull thud of the horses’ hooves and the soft noises of the living animals. Neither noticed Nuada rein in his horse and nor did they notice that for the span of some dozen or so moments, he was no longer with them. A third scream filled the air and they quickened the pace and then it stopped full-throat.

After that, nothing else disturbed the frozen stillness of the night except their passage. They rode on, through bare-limbed trees and brittle thickets, across sleeping meadows and ice-clogged streams, through all the hours until dawn and with barely a word between them. As morning approached, star-flecked black gave way to dark velvet blue, fading through from cerulean to the palest shade on the eastern fringes. Delicate wisps of cloud glowed fiery, burnished pink as they scattered the first rays of the sun, and the snow was limned with gold in the early light. Only the brightest of the night’s stars were visible in the firmament now.

It was normally his favourite time of day but Nuada hardly noticed the beauty around him. He felt apart from nature, as if he was suffocating under some strange weight. Drawing in lungfuls of crisp, clean air, he attempted to shake off the miasma of the night but it only settled more heavily upon him. He now avoided looking at the child nestled in the crook of his arm. It seemed to him that he had failed her twice over: once in not saving her life and then again when instinct and upbringing had forced him back to the ancient ruins to despatch her murderers. They did not deserve mercy and yet mercy was what he had granted them in the end. His eyes flickered from Lorcan to Cearul, who were still riding ahead. Thankfully, only he himself knew of that last failing. He would never speak a word of it to anyone, not even his sister, Nuala. Though she might sense something through the connection they shared, she would never know the details. And as for Athair, with his clear, shining sense of justice and mercy… Nuada could no longer be convinced of it and he knew his father would judge him to have failed there as well.

A shout from somewhere ahead roused him from his thoughts. He looked up and saw that the sun had fully risen now. The blackened remains of the elven village were visible through the gnarled, frosted branches of the trees and one of the warriors who had stayed behind to guard Máistreás Sadhbh and her brother, Faolán, was waving to them from the edge of the glade. Cearul and Lorcan acknowledged the greeting and the sentry returned to join the activity in the warriors’ camp.

On reaching the clearing, Nuada discovered that Uileog and Meallán had arrived not long beforehand, and, to the bewilderment of the warriors who had not accompanied them on the night’s expedition, the two parties studiously avoided each other as they prepared for the return journey to Bethmoora. There was little talk amongst the elven company; they stayed only for as long as it took to give the horses and other animals a short rest, feed and water them, and then strike camp. The last thing they did was lay the elven baby with her kinfolk.

Nuada found no solace at all in the sacred rituals this time. When the child had still lived, he had thought that perhaps she might be Máistreás Sadhbh’s missing baby and he could salvage something out of the night. He knew now that she was the elven woman’s child but there was nothing to be saved. Sadhbh was distraught with grief and Faolán stood helplessly beside her not knowing what to say or do and trying to fight down his own anguish: another youth who had seen too much this past day, though he would fare better with his own kind than the human boy, Treasach.

Finally, everything was done that could be done and the warriors and their charges mounted and turned north, to Bethmoora, with Nuada once more bringing up the rear. As the company entered the trees, he stopped at the edge of the clearing and turned back for one last look at the sad vestiges of all those lives cut short. His eyes skimmed the blackened timbers and fallen stone. It was a pointless indulgence, he told himself sternly; he would find no sense in any of it. He wheeled his horse back round, eager to leave this silent, lonely place, and as he urged the stallion forward, he was swamped by a sudden longing for home. Though he had finally admitted that Rí Balor would be angry with him when he returned, he had never needed to see his father and sister more. The feeling consumed him – it could not be shaken – and as he rode, he barely noticed the roiling black gash in the sky to the north, the portent of another coming storm.

References:

Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'.

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning ‘rough one’.

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of Mathghamhain, a name meaning ‘bear’.

Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Meallán: (Irish Gaelic) possibly means ‘lightning’.

Ridire: (Irish Gaelic, from Old Irish ritire – “rider, knight”) Sir (nobility – knight).

Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.

Channering: old Scottish or English word meaning ‘gnawing’. Probably part of a regional dialect.

Imbolc (i-molk): one of the four Gaelic festivals of the seasons, this one marks the beginning of spring. It is usually held 1^st February, roughly half-way between the winter solstice and spring equinox. Originates from the Old Irish i mbolg, meaning "in the belly" (referring to the pregnancy of ewes.) The date is thought to have had significance in Ireland since Neolithic times (4000 – 2500 BC). For example, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages (built 3000 – 2500 BC) on the Hill of Tara is aligned with the rising sun on this date.

Athair: (Irish Gaelic) Father.

Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) Mistress.

Sadhbh(SAH-eev): (Irish Gaelic) name likely meaning 'sweet' or 'goodness'.

Faolán(FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning “warlike” or “fighter”.
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The Season of the Wolf