Part XIV: The Huntress
A chill filled the air. The sun had just set. It was a clear night: stars began to fill the skies. The moon was full.
Hunger gnawed at her stomach; she had not had a good meal in weeks. Ever since the two-leg uprights had invaded their forests with their metal fur, food had been scarce. When they had not been eating more than their fill, the metal-furred frightened away every with their noisy walking.
She led a few of the pack in search of game. Quietly, they walked through the woods, each three tails’ lengths from each other; none made a sound. She sniffed the air. Nothing. A few more paces; she sniffed again. Nothing. A few more…nothing. And then – faint but noticeable – a familiar scent.
Deer.
She growled, signaling to her companions. They tracked the scent through the night; when the moon was at its highest, they tracked the scent to a clearing. Surrounding the deer, they crouched in the brush, ready to pounce. The smell of wolf filled the air. Low to the ground, she inched forward, before bounding into the clearing.
The pack was met with a freshly-killed deer, and resistance. A lone wolf, fur stained with mud and covered in fresh blood, sprang up, teeth bared, but silent. He – for she could tell by scent it was a he – was bigger than most, just as big as herself, if not bigger, in fact. Her pack prepared to fight, but she growled a halt just in time. She looked the he-wolf over.
It was hard to tell the color of his much-stained fur in the darkness of the night, but it appeared to be white. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder equal with her, and his red eyes bore into the deepest depths of her mind.
White fur. Red Eyes. It was her littermate, her runt brother, Umbra White-tail.
Recognizing her, White-tail stepped back from the carcass, inviting them to share. When they had eaten their fill, he looked at her intently, turned, and walked away, tail held high. After a moment, she realized he wanted them to follow.
He led them through the forest until it was almost rise-of-the-sun-dawn. He finally stopped on the outskirts of the woods-den of the metal-fur-men. Three smells filled the air – wolf, men, and burning deer.
She was not quite sure what exactly Umbra White-tail wanted, but she knew one thing – these metal-fur-men had enough food to feed her starving pack until the next hidden moon.
Two stood guard, one with a long-point-claw [spear] and the other with a sharp-metal-arm- extension [sword]. She readied herself to stalk them, but two flying stick-feathers flew through the woods, and they fell dead. Her head tilted in confusement, she watched as multiple two-leggeds no-metal emerged from the woods, while one younger one sat on horseback with a flying-stick-thrower. Some looked and smelled familiar, but she could not remember from where.
Confusing her just as much, Umbra dashed from his cover, passed the men, and sprinted deeper into the sleeping woods-den. When she and her pack did not follow, he returned, looked her in the eyes, and left again. His meaning was clear – he, and by extension these men, needed his help; if her pack wanted to run off with the metal-furred’s food, they would have to earn it.
She raced from her cover with a howl and led her wolves into battle.
It was a slaughter, for a few minutes, anyway.
The metal-furred were caught sleeping in their beds; only a handful of guards were awake, most of whom were slain by flying-stick-feathers. Her wolves pounced on the sleepers and tore their throats while they snored. She could count on one paw how many realized the imminent danger before dying.
They drove deeper and deeper into the woods-den. Adrenaline surged through her paws. Her fur was caked with blood, her mouth filled with the taste of it.
Her human allies led the path of destruction against their mutual foes; but unlike her, they seemed to have a destination in mind: a small structure near the middle of the encampment, made of crossed sticks. Unlike many buildings, it did not hide itself from the weather. It was close, barely a few bounds away, but the metal-furred here were ready and fighting.
She had been in fights before, but never had been blessed with a thrill like this. She took in everything around her – the smell of human and wolf blood, mixed; the hordes of metal-furs that poured into the fight; the girl, holding a sharp-metal-arm-extension, trying to destroy the crossed-stick building, the young two-legger with light brown fur inside, the pile of furs and mud in the corner of the crossed-stick building; her wolves slowly succumbing to long-point-claws and flying-stick-feathers.
Soon she found herself with metal-furreds all around her. She dodged a slash from a sharp-metal-arm-extension, clawed out the throat of one, then felt a metal-sharp-hand [dagger] stuck in her side, opening her flank from front-right-shoulder to her bottom rib; her side felt like it was in flames.
In front of her, a large warrior reached back to throw a long-point-claw; she tried to dive to avoid it, but the wound slowed her too much. The pole went straight threw her heart.
Twenty feet away, Arya Stark awoke to the howl of a dying direwolf.
Wow. Writing from the point of view of Nymeria was by far the hardest thing I've ever written. It's not easy trying to figure out what a wolf names things!