Wolves and Jackals (Part One)

"Close in! Close in! Don't scatter!" the count shouted. Compared to a warning or command, those cries sounded more like an outlet for fear, somewhat unnecessary.

After all, everyone who followed him possessed decent martial skill, including the monks—they could gallop on horseback while swinging hammers.

When there was no war, apart from tournaments, hunting was how knights passed the time and honed their skills. There was not much difference between the two: in hunting, the prey were wild beasts; in tournaments, the prey were knights like themselves. But tournaments were few and far between, while hunting was one of a knight's regular duties. Earlier, in order to entertain Count Étienne, the castellan of Holy Cross Castle had urged the knights to go hunting more often.

For that reason, when they heard the drawn-out, shrill howl that made their blood surge, their first reaction was to hasten back to their companions' sides.

Count Étienne and his knights had not made a mistake. They had not entered the dense forest. Though the darkness was so tranquil and warm, they knew full well that it was no more than the devil's trap.

They rested only among the shrubs at the edge of the pine forest. Even when a knight later suggested looking for grouse and rabbits, the men displayed unusual caution. With every step, these seasoned hunters looked back at the flickering firelight, carefully judging whether they had gone too far.

They had gained a few things—a squirrel's nest, full of plump pinecones, hazelnuts, chestnuts, and shriveled fruits of unknown kind. A knight's footsteps startled a rabbit, which bolted out in a mad dash and slammed headlong into his calf. It knocked the knight sideways and successfully knocked itself unconscious.

Another squire found several Brown Fish Owl feathers caught in a faintly gleaming spiderweb. He raised his head and carefully watched the movement above. Soon, he heard the bird's distinctive chirping—Brown Fish Owls bred either in June or in December. If they had encountered one breeding in December... He quickly found the nest. It was not far above the ground, so he climbed up, seized the bird sitting on its eggs, wrung its neck, stuffed it into his coat, and descended with a nestful of eggs in hand.

The Brown Fish Owl's mate, whether female or male, shrieked and circled above the humans in terror. It might not have known that it had avenged its family in this way—between the cobalt-blue vault of the sky and the silhouetted black pine forest, what did a wildly flapping bird draw attention from, if not humans alone?

About two or three li from Count Étienne's party, a pack of gray wolves was resting. The bird's disturbance caught the alpha wolf's attention. It raised its head and stared toward where it had happened, its long muzzle opening and its eyes narrowing. A wolf's sense of smell was limited to within half a li; by rights, it should not have been able to smell anything. But as an experienced leader, it was being driven to act by the instinct peculiar to wild creatures.

It rose and gave a low howl, urging the pack's second-class citizens—the young, strong adult wolves—to rise as well. They were the pack's scouts, responsible for seeking signs of prey before the hunt. They got up, initially at a loss, for there was no scent of deer or boar in the air. Yet under the alpha's unceasing urging, they ran out all the same.

As the light dimmed further and the wind grew fiercer, one scouting adult wolf returned first. It had found nothing. Then came the second, then the third. They circled the alpha wolf, expressing their dissatisfaction, but the alpha merely waited, steadfast and patient. At last, the final adult wolf returned, bearing good news.

The alpha let out a long howl, and the pack woke. The adult wolves went in front, the aged wolves behind them, followed by the subadults and pups, with the alpha bringing up the rear. As it walked, it occasionally lifted its head to scent the air. Tiny snowflakes fell upon its black nose, melting beneath its searing breath before they could settle.

Weather that shifted between snow, clouds, and clear skies caused humans great trouble, but for wolves, it was a rare boon. Their toes were webbed and covered in fur, their claw tips slightly blunt. Whether they encountered ice with almost no friction, slick marshland, or thick moss, they could keep a firm grip and never fall.

The pads of wolves' feet were threaded with special blood vessels that could regulate their temperature independently of the rest of their bodies, keeping them from frostbite. They also possessed cloaks from birth: thick, dense fur that could shut out nearly all of the biting wind, snow, and rain.

Apart from the first few howls used to urge and gather the pack, the alpha made no further sound. Twenty or thirty wolves moved quietly and in order along the dense forest and riverbank. Aside from startling a few rabbits or birds, they caused not a trace of trouble. Bears still slept in their dens. Boars were awake, but merely waited for the pack to pass. Deer and leopards might also have watched them, but no one wanted to provoke such a troublesome enemy.

After they had traveled around two li, they could smell blood and droppings. The adult wolves grew visibly restless. Winter had arrived, snow had fallen, and that meant food was no longer so plentiful for the pack. They looked forward to a fierce, satisfying battle, to filling their empty bellies with their prey's flesh and blood so they could endure until spring.

The alpha stopped. Irritable, uneasy whines rose from the pack. Across a nearly dried-up stream, a pack of jackals suddenly emerged from deep in the forest. Wolves were jackals' natural enemies; they slaughtered and devoured one another, especially each other's young. The alpha wolf's gaze collided with that of the jackal leader, the gray-furred leader facing the reddish-brown-furred one.

They should have fought. Though the wolf pack was large, the jackals were also an unusually large pack, numbering more than forty in all.

A moment later, the jackal leader lowered its head. The alpha wolf hesitated briefly, then turned and led its pack onward. These jackals were also searching for food. Separated by a stream, they advanced together in tacit accord. The scents in the air grew stronger and clearer—human, horse, fire, and those pungent spices, wine...

The squire standing watch gave a sharp cry. "Who's there?"

Count Étienne, his knights, squires, and the guide—who had finally recovered a little of his senses, or perhaps had been lured awake by the smell of meat stew—immediately sprang up and seized their weapons.

Only a few breaths earlier, they had eaten and drunk their fill. The guide had told them that they were likely north of Antioch now. He knew this area well, and he knew where the nearest village was. Once they had rested through the night, he would take them there. As they wished, they could meet the local steward or priest, rest and recover properly, then set out again.

If they did not wish to do so and wanted to return to Jerusalem instead, that would not be a problem either. He knew several ships; surely one captain would be willing to take guests of the Lord of the Holy Land aboard.

Only then did Count Étienne and the others finally set their minds at ease. The count allowed the guide to sit at his side and eat and drink as a knight would. He even gave him a bottle of wine. At such a time, that bottle was worth almost as much as gold. The guide enjoyed it respectfully, yet very comfortably, and the smug look on his face was enough to disgust anyone who saw it.

They did not know what the guide was thinking. Though Count Étienne had promised him ten silver coins if he could bring them to a Christian city—God bless him, under ordinary circumstances, he would have knelt and kissed the count's boots for those ten silver coins—he now had a bulging hundred gold coins in his purse. So long as he brought these men into Mleh's territory...

Of course, merely driving beasts into a net was not worth the four hundred gold coins to come. He also needed to find a way to contact the traitor to the knightly order, that shameful coward, that vile thief—Mleh, Prince of Armenia—and ensure that these men fell into his hands, suffering every torment and enduring every hardship.

But after waking, he had roughly surveyed the surroundings and delightedly discovered that this was a pine forest with which he was quite familiar. He had even spotted secret marks he himself had made, marks only he could understand and no one else could find. This was nowhere else—it was Mleh's territory. In other words, one fifth of his task was already complete. All that remained was for him to summon a Turk.

Thus, when the watchful squire cried out, while everyone else tensed, the guide was seized by wild joy. After that joy came unease. He feared that if the Turks were unwilling to let him see Prince Mleh, how should he speak? Should he directly expose these Christians' identities? That would be the same as handing over his greatest bargaining chip.

Should he say nothing? Then he feared those overbearing, ignorant beasts would sever his neck with a single stroke, leaving him unable to say another word, while all his gold coins went to those bandits.

Yet only an instant later, he no longer knew whether he should hope to see beasts standing on two feet, or hunters running on four...

What came was a wolf pack.

In the darkness, those eyes reflecting the firelight were like white tridacna shells and white fluorite set into a black lacquered board.

They gave the humans little time to react. After a howl like the long blast of a horn, an enormous gray wolf leaped into the circle of light. It was like a powerful calf, its length from snout to tail roughly equal to a spear, its shoulders higher than a knight's thigh.

The squire facing it let out a cry of terror. He truly should not have exposed his cowardice so quickly and so easily, though it was not his fault. But the giant wolf, which had been watching the horses, immediately turned its head. It bared its long muzzle in what looked like a savage smile. Étienne had only time to shout before the giant wolf had already knocked the squire down.

This squire was the bastard son of Count Étienne's elder brother. Count Étienne had no time to think. He rushed forward, gripped his dagger tightly, and plunged it into the gray wolf's shoulder blade. As the wolf twisted around to bite him, he nimbly vaulted over its back, pinning its ribs tightly with his elbow and knee.

A knight beside him also ran over and struck the gray wolf's skull with a short axe. The blow sent that huge head lolling to one side. The gray wolf let out a mournful cry like weeping, and the count could clearly feel the body beneath him rapidly going limp.

He rose and pulled his nephew up, but in that brief span of time, the battle between the humans and the wolf pack had erupted in full.

Wolves had never been creatures that liked to fight alone. They were the devil's army, skilled at deception and ambush. They even knew how to lure enemies; pursuit, interception, and division were their specialties. They split into several groups: one to bite at the horses, three to deal with the most dangerous enemies—the knights and their squires...

And another group—the true hunters.

Their targets were the old, weak, sick, and crippled among the party. The weak were naturally the young squires and servants. And the crippled... naturally meant the guide, whose head still buzzed from time to time.

This detachment of wolves was in no hurry to kill them—killing a person was not easy.

They attacked in turns, avoiding the swinging clubs and blades, clawing at their feet and tearing at their clothes, baring their teeth again and again to intimidate them. The moment fear robbed them of their senses and balance and they suddenly fell, wolves that had long lain in wait would rush from the darkness, seize their hands, feet, or shoulders, and drag them deep into the pine forest. Amid such chaos, once they had been dragged ten or so feet away, those still fighting the wolves could no longer spare them a thought.

The guide was the second to fall. Though he did not have a father who was the Count of Champagne, a knight hurried over nonetheless, considering that they would still need him to lead the way. The knight waved a burning pine branch, scorching back the wolf biting the guide's shoulder. He grabbed the guide by the hood, trying to pull him back into the firelight...

More claws reached out, hooking into the guide's clothes and flesh. He screamed in pain, while the knight felt his scalp prickle and could not help shouting, "Devils!" Was that not exactly what they were? He had found it strange before. He had lived for more than thirty years, yet had never seen a wolf pack of more than fifty wolves.

The ones holding the guide had originally been only two subadult wolves, visibly smaller than the others. But after he drove them away, what pounced back at them were... jackals. Jackals and wolves were like heathens and themselves: whenever they met, they fought to the death, never stopping until the last one had died. Yet what was he seeing now?

Wolves and jackals had formed an alliance, and they were hunting the humans together!

If a man encountered a single wolf, unless he was too old to move or too young to know better, one wolf could never defeat one man. A wolf had only one mouth with which to bite, while a man had two hands. He could throw a wolf to death, crush it to death, strangle it to death...

But this was a wolf pack. If there had only been wolves, they might still have had a chance of victory. Then the wolves would instead become their food and clothing. But now, besides more than a dozen wolves, they had to face jackals whose number was certainly no fewer—and jackals were smaller than wolves. Ordinarily, they could only hunt rabbits, chickens, birds, even insects, but numbers could sometimes outweigh strength!