He had come prepared: his three hounds, well-trained, fierce, and utterly loyal, were in place; his spear was strong and its iron point and cross-brace sharp; his position was well-chosen with both the advantage of height and several options for retreat and advance. Still, staring down a wolf charging at you is never a time to feel comfortable, no matter how much subtle lore of bird and beast your ancestors were taught by Radagast the Brown, no matter how many times you had faced wolves, no matter how many you had tamed and turned into members of your clan. Heriwulf had to remind himself with every breath: I have come prepared.
Why had he baited a wolf here? This wasn't the ideal spot to trap one for taming, using the elaborate ruses and rituals the Brown Wizard had shared. As much as he'd like to tame another wolf, this was not the day. No, the reason was much more basic. A wandering Bree-lander, Aranoll, had spoken of how there had been many wolf attacks this year near Combe, suggesting some sickness that made them rabid, and Heriwulf had to know if it were true. For one, there was no hope of taming such a creature before the trouble was rooted out. For another, rabid wolves were a danger to the clan, as well as their neighbors in Combe and elsewhere. And perhaps more than either, rabid wolves are suffering wolves, and that he could not bear to see.
Had he known at that moment how simple, how mundane, was the cause, he would have found his own fears laughable. Indeed, later when he spoke to Hildegund about it, he did have to bite back a laugh at himself. For reasons unknown, but probably the result of some other chain of causes each of them humdrum, the tanners of Combe had moved their work. Tanning is foul-smelling business, and their new location made the lumberjacks uncomfortable, so they, in turn, moved where they were cutting that year. Not next to the wolf dens; not even the complacent village-folk of Combe were that foolish. But close enough that they drove away warrens of rabbits, small herds of grazing deer, and other creatures the wolves preyed upon. Resulting in hungry, desperate wolves who must range farther, and take greater risks, including taking a bite out of a lumberman or village fisher now and then. He'd doubt he could convince the lumberjacks to change their logging, nor the tanners to move their racks, nor whoever drove the tanners to move to change their mind. Perhaps in time, the clan could lure the wolves to new dens deeper into the woods, if a place could be found that was not already claimed by some other predator. Something to think about one day, when more pressing matters were settled; some good they could do in this land, of which Radagast would approve.
But as he stood his ground, spear planted against a curve in the stone he stood on, he knew none of this. Nothing save the blur of pale gray fur and sharp teeth coming at him, and where, perched on stones nearby, his hounds waited. He gave a whistle; at once three hounds, giving off a curiously sweet scent, jumped down into the small notch, surrounding the wolf. He regretted bringing Brunan; she was halfway to birthing, perhaps twenty nights hence, but he needed her. She was the swiftest and the smartest, and besides, when she was present, Niht, the largest (and the sire of her pups) grew more fierce, and Hundr kept in line better.
The fight was swift, though of course it didn't go quite how he'd planned. Another wolf, larger, and with fur even whiter, joined in at the sound of the yelps from the first. Fortunately, the first was already trying to flee by the time the other arrived. With regret he threw his spear, pinning the smaller one, then snatched up his axe to fend off the larger. It was a struggle he and his hounds had been in many times; by keeping the wolf surrounded, always harried from another direction, with both him and his hounds all bearing the sickly-sweet scent of a particular marsh-herb that bewildered the wolf's senses, they could wear the wolf down without ever letting it make a full attack on anyone. That part, at least, went as planned, for which he was grateful. One could never be sure; even with good position, the marsh-herb scent, and coordinated harrying, a wolf might break free of bewilderment for but a moment, which was enough for one lucky lunge that could tear out a throat.
When it was done, he checked his hounds for wounds, and found many small bites and scratches, nothing serious. They would need a good washing later, and eventually salve, but none needed a stitch. Then he checked himself. The hard, boiled hide undercoat beneath his tunic had been pierced a number of times by bite or claw, but in each case, the hurt below it was shallow. Even the canines of a wolf can only penetrate so deep into skin when they've had to pass through thick hide first. His tunic would need much mending, as would the undercoat, but he himself would suffer no more than some discomfort. Bath and salve for him, as well.
He muttered quiet words of thanks to the wolves as he butchered them. And of relief, finding no signs they were rabid, no indications of mange or any other illness, beyond the ordinary discomforts of being a wolf in the wild. All they suffered is hunger and desperation. It confirmed what he had observed during the many hours of watching the dens from on high, watching small groups of wolves range on the hunt, and scouting the woods all around, over the last few days. But without some butchering there was no way to be totally sure. It was a sad thing, but the pelts, once dried, would be fine, warm, and useful.
Still, he thought, as he climbed the rough stony hillside and set out for the lodge, with pelts hanging over his shoulder, that staring down that wolf's gaping maw hurtling at him was at least good practice for facing the questions he would have to pose at the next clan moot.
