There had been a fortnight of preparation and rehearsal, almost every day during daylight hours spent in the Chetwood, so much that in Heriwulf's dreams he could see specific trees, rocks, worn patches in the underbrush, the nests of squirrels. Sometimes in these dreams he was sprinting, being pursued by a wolf, and the path, the trail of scent markers, was a glowing mist, a diffuse light pulsing softly, leading his steps to the ring, which was a stockade made of beams of shimmering light rising up from the ground and straining to reach the stars.
When everything was prepared and there was a day that promised to be without rain (which would wash away the scent markers), he and Eathwaru set out, with all their hounds at the ready. Hundr and Thyra were excited, Niht implacable as always, and Brunan was an odd mix of eager and tired; she was ready to stop being the pack's alpha female, as the years and the many litters of pups had worn on her and started her fur to turning silver, and perhaps she sensed this would be where it ended.
His tunic pocket was full of small clay phials containing a variety of salves, tinctures, and pastes. Some were the usual treatments for injuries for the hounds (one of which could be used in a pinch for his own wounds), but most were made from the wisdom of Radagast's beast-lore for a variety of purposes, embedded with complex mixtures of scents that affected hounds and wolves, often the same, sometimes slightly differently. The most important were either attractors or repellents. The former, laid out in lines on the dry ground, would guide a wolf; Heriwulf wasn't sure what the scents meant to them, but suspected it was a combination of suggestions, of home, of food, of sex, of the call of their packmates, perhaps even of a mother's scent (as some of Brunan's milk was amongst the ingredients). The repellents, on the other hand, screamed 'warning' into the mind of a canine: it spoke of danger, of poison, of corruption and rot and decay, of hurt and fear. A ring of it would help form a barrier that made a wolf less likely to cross it, designating safe places of retreat and regrouping. There was even a variant on that which repelled not just wolves but most animals (including, Heriwulf had to admit, himself). None of these were certain; any creature might push through the smell of alarm or ignore the scent of promise if it had enough cause. But even when they did not stop something, they slowed it, and bought precious moments.
There were also more diffuse scents that Heriwulf would place in larger areas that would baffle the senses, especially the sense of smell, of a wolf, overwhelming the sensitive nose and leaving them disoriented and, in some mixtures, groggy. Wolves and hounds depended so much on the scent of smell that if you overwhelmed it, they might ignore their other senses. This was key to their plans. A half-dozen "dead end trails" would be placed, each a line of attractive scent ending in a sharp drop into a cloud of befuddling, torpor-inducing miasma. The same would be part of the ring, just outside it.
Next, four different scent markers. These had no particular effect on wolf or hound, but each had a strong and distinct smell. Wolves would notice them, but not ascribe any meaning to them. But the hounds had each been trained to recognize and follow them on different commands. With these placed beforehand Heriwulf could direct the hounds to a particular place with a shout or whistle, even when they were out of sight range.
All these were made thick like a paste so they could be spread on the ground and leave a mark that would last for hours. The most important mixtures, though, were thinner tinctures, about the same consistency as wine, which could be quickly infused into a cut of meat. One would induce calm (with a small side effect of increasing hunger), and the other was very similar to the salve used to imprint newborn pups, only thinned, increased in potency, and most importantly, imbued with Heriwulf's own distinctive scent. (Collecting his own sweat, and other, less salutatory, scent-carriers, to make this tincture, was perhaps the least glamorous part of his unglamorous job.)
All these waited in his pocket. The mist of morning was still hanging over the ground as he and Eathwaru perched on a rocky outcropping over the dens, in the center of a ring of repellent that also served to mask their own scent. He'd spent a few hours of every day here, learning the routines of the entire pack, but especially of his quarry, the alpha female. Once he was sure that on this day the pack was not disturbed or otherwise off their routines, he and Eathwaru went into motion.
First, three circles, each on a small rocky rise, of safe retreat, at different places scattered around the southern Chetwood. No matter where one of them might need a safe place to run, there'd be one nearby. Each was, like the observation post, ringed with the repellant scent (and the hounds were trained to force their way through it at need). Should they have to run there, Eathwaru and Heriwulf also had repellent to put on themselves, and some of the sense-baffling scent to throw down on the ground too. If fleeing one or more wolves, they could hope that they gave up the chase when confronted by the ring; but if worst comes to worst, they could defend themselves in those circles, too. Each also had one of the scent-markers, so the hounds could be ordered to them.
Next, false trails. Heriwulf had memorized these routes so he could quickly run down each of the six paths, dropping the attractor along with one of the scent markers. Each trail would wend through the woods a few hundred yards and end in a confined spot filled with sense-baffling and torpor scents. Eathwaru and the hounds could each lead one or two wolves down them, to draw them away from the quarry, should they come together. At the end, the scent-marker told the hound to leap over the confined spot, thus avoiding the disorientation that the pursuing wolf would soon be lost in. Then the hound could double back and find Heriwulf.
Next, the ring. In the most sheltered spot, a narrow defile that anyone running through would be forced to take a single route down its center, in the middle of which was be a snare, laced with attractor scent. A wide ring around it, twenty paces from the snare to any point on the circle, was covered with repellent, with a large gap on the side facing the dens. Outside it, an even wider circle of scent-baffle. This would be where, if all went well, Heriwulf, Eathwaru, and the hounds would spend much of their day, so it must be defensible. Even a small distraction could ruin the entire effort.
The snare at its center was a simple trap, something Jessandra probably would laugh at. Just a single spring and a loop of leather, bound to a stake with a few bits of metal. It was crude but sturdy, made to be reused over and over, needing only a new strap of leather each time. The secret was in the attractor scent, which would lead the quarry to step into it and trigger it, far more powerfully than any scrap of meat or other bait.
And the last element, a trail of attractive scent built backwards, from the snare through the ring's gap and leading back closer and closer to the den. The trick was to get close enough to be able to quickly build the last part when the moment was right, but not so close that any of the wolves might stumble upon it early. In practice this meant the trail didn't start for some fifty paces from the den, which, not coincidentally, placed it near to, almost below, the observation perch.
After day after day of rehearsal, Heriwulf was able to set all these scent markers into place within less than an hour, with Brunan's keen nose verifying them. Then came hours of waiting, standing on the perch. There was the alpha, out to sniff, to growl at others in the pack, to nuzzle against the alpha male, to wander back to a den to sleep. It was never the same day to day but there was a routine in it Heriwulf had come to know.
One could keep hoping for the most ideal moment, when she was alone, away from the rest of the pack; or one could take a moment that was less than ideal but good enough, as there might not be a better. It was one of those, a bit after noon, that Heriwulf took. She had gone out a bit farther than the rest of the pack, and in the same general direction as the attractor-trail, but she was not as alone as he would have liked; three other wolves were nearby, including one of the larger males. With a silent gesture he set Eathwaru and the hounds to readiness, then dropped down, spear in one hand and scent in the other (he'd left his bow at home, as he would not need it and could not afford to be slowed by it). To the head of the trail, then extend it as close to her as he dared, his hounds nearby.
Then the moment of truth. He howled a challenge at her, throwing down the last of the attractor scent before her, and some of it on himself. She snarled. Before he turned, though, he heard her bark a warning, a call to action. That was what he had feared, but they were prepared for it. "Hundr!" He pointed to the large male, then gave a particular whistle. Hundr charged the large male, but only enough to get his attention, then bounded towards one of the scent-markers, the one his whistle had referred to. He didn't wait to watch this happen; he was already doing the same to peel another of the three off another trail with Brunan, and a third with Eathwaru and Thyra.
By this time, the alpha, his quarry, was nearly upon him. It was not mere luck that she had focused on him, rather than on Hundr, Brunan, or Eathwaru. He had been speaking to her all along, in his body language, that he was the leader, the greatest threat -- the one that she, as the alpha, should challenge. He would use this to lead her where he wanted her. She thought he was her quarry. Time would tell which of them was right.
He turned and sprinted, hard as he could, Niht running ahead of him. Of course he knew the route deep in his dreams, knew every root and stone on it, but Niht could also follow its scent-trail, so if either of them got disoriented the other could be a guide. He did not look back. If she was swift enough, she would tackle him from behind, or nip at his calves. No, that was not a matter of swiftness. She was a wild wolf, an alpha. She was swifter than him, even at her worst (and hungry as her pack was, she was at her worst). If the scent-trail were not drawing much of her attention, and thus slowing her, she would easily take him down long before the ring.
And there was the ring, or rather, the gap in it. And then through it. And then nearing the snare: he veered left and Niht veered right, then they came back together on the other side. She kept coming straight, and they kept running.
He heard the swift metallic sound of the trap, but he did not slow until one heartbeat later when he heard her yelp of pain.
It was a harsher, harder yelp than he had wanted to hear. Spear in hand, ready to set in case the yelp was a feint, he turned. She was in the trap, but it had caught both of her hind legs, not just one as intended, and she was twisted in a painful position.
He drew breath sharply through his teeth. But there was no way out but through. He could not free her without not only losing the chance to tame her, but also, facing her wrath. Scrawny as she was she would not kill him and Niht, but she would hurt them both badly. He could apply scents to himself and Niht to help, but there was no way out that would not involve her tragic death, and dire wounds for him and Niht. No way, save finishing what he'd started, listening to her piteous whines the whole time.
First, to close the ring. He filled the gap with repellent and baffle. "Niht, patrol." The husky set to circling the ring, watching for any creature that might come close, not just wolves; the ring would dissuade most creatures, predator or prey, because even a squirrel crossing into this area would make the snared wolf lunge, and could cause her to hurt herself or lose focus. But any that the ring did not stop, either because it did not reach them (birds were particularly likely to not care about it) or because they would plunge through heedless, Niht was ready to scare off, or warn of.
By this time, Brunan was prancing back, proud of herself, carrying a rabbit. She hesitated and pushed herself through the ring, then dropped the carcass and sat, as if to say, adore me, look how clever I am. Heriwulf spared her a few pats and coos, then quickly skinned the rabbit and added the calming tincture to the meat, and tossed it before the alpha.
She was angry. Muzzle bared, snarling, hissing, whining, sometimes trying to tug against the leather thong but unable to get any leverage to do so. The rabbit held no appeal for a long while, during which Eathwaru and Thyra came back. Then finally, hungry as she was, she could not turn it down. She tore the meat apart and gulped it.
Once Hundr was back as well, a bit scuffed and scratched up (the large male must have caught him at one point), they began the long, slow wait. Heriwulf and Eathwaru stayed in the ring, but at any moment, two or three of the hounds were outside it, looking for prey they could catch and bring back. Each time some meat was brought, tinctures were added; less and less of the soporific, and more and more of the imprinting salve laced with Heriwulf's own scents. Calmed by the earlier tinctures, the alpha was more ready to eat each bit thrown to her. At one point, Niht and Brunan came back dragging a small doe, which meant enough meat not only to finish the tame, but to let the hounds have a much-earned meal (and to cook up a bit for Heriwulf and Eathwaru too).
This part was a fight against tedium; having to stay alert for hours and hours while essentially nothing happened was a challenge in itself. Heriwulf was beginning to think it was nearly done, when Hundr let out a concerned bark, and soon the others were joining in. The large male that Hundr had led down a false trail earlier had found his way out of the mist of baffling scent, had wandered around enough, had caught the scent of his alpha, and was now charging towards the ring. It would slow him, but he was too determined for it to stop him, and nothing they could do, no warning bark or growl, no body language, no splash of repelling scent, would keep him from coming to his alpha in distress. Heriwulf's stomach sank as he realized there was no way to avoid having to slay this majestic creature, weakened by hunger, and only doing what was right by his pack.
The battle was quick; the hounds harried the wolf, but he managed to sink his jaws into Heriwulf's right arm before impaling himself on the set spear. The force of his jaws would have torn through skin, muscle, sinew, and perhaps even bone, had half the bite not straddled Heriwulf's stiff boiled-leather gambeson. Instead of losing much of his arm, he merely received a dozen deep punctures, and a bruise that would, within days, make most of that arm turn angry purple.
The ring was quiet after that, somber. The pile of pelts and hides from the day's hunting grew by one large dark grey fur.
When Heriwulf felt that enough of the tinctures had been applied, then came the final test. There was no way to tell if she had been tamed but to release her. He set the hounds to guarding positions, a circle around her, ready to jump to his aid at a whistle or cry, but holding back until that call. Then with a sharp knife he cut the thong. She bristled, bared her muzzle, snapped at him, growled. That could mean that she was still too wild, that his scent did not yet say to her "brother", that she would lunge at him and he would have to call the hounds to save him, and they would all go back bloody and sad. But it could mean that she did see him as a brother, and like any other brother of the pack, one she had to challenge, to determine who would lead; and if so it was a challenge he could meet only by being stronger, more menacing. He stared her down, he growled, he held his body stiff with his arms curved out in a posture that spoke of confidence and strength and readiness to fight, and he loomed above her, his eyes saying "you will let me lead you, and I will protect you." She barked and snapped again, lunging, and he held his ground, as did the hounds, and waved his spear beside her. She smelled him. She then turned to face away, haughty, holding her head high and her tail higher, as if to say, "I don't need you."
But she didn't walk away. He went around to stand in front of her again. The look she gave him, had it come from Leohna, would have made him alarmed; but here, he took it as a good sign. She was annoyed at him. Angry at him. But it was the anger toward a pack-mate who wasn't doing what she needed yet, the annoyance that she even had to tell him what to do. She turned again, but only halfway, showing her hind leg to him, and lifted it slightly.
He nearly laughed. "Yes, my queen, your hind legs do need some treatment," he agreed, and as he crouched to examine the hurt that the thong had caused, he added, "Queen… you should be called Cwoen." She of course had no idea what this meant, and she wasn't happy about him touching her hind legs, putting a salve on them (foul-smelling, so she would not lick it off nor worry at the bruises), but she allowed him to treat her, and when the pelts and snare had been gathered, the injuries bandaged, and she'd had a chance to introduce herself to the other hounds (becoming fast friends with Niht, but finding all the others a bit impertinent to have not recognized her authority as quickly as she would have liked), she followed Heriwulf and Eathwaru as they made their weary way back to the lodge in exhausted triumph.
