Howls of Fate

The fire crackled low in the longhouse of Kors’ Hold. Shadows danced along the timber walls, flickering shapes resembling warriors locked in an endless battle. Around the central hearth sat a gathering of warriors, their eyes fixed on an old man draped in a cloak of raven feathers. His name was Foles the Soothsayer, and his one remaining eye was as clouded as a stormy sea.   “Listen well, for the winds of fate have spoken,” Foles rasped, his voice like the grinding of old stones. “The doom of Kors’ Hold is written in the runes. The wolf’s jaws will break the shield wall. The snow will bleed red. The raven will feast.”   The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Among them sat Horrik the Bold, a chieftain known for defying all odds. His face, marked by scars and shadowed by age, twisted into a scowl. Musing over the fate that would befall him and his people countless times over and over, a fate that would not come.   “Every winter, you say the same, Foles,” Horrik growled. “The wolf will come. The snow will bleed. The raven will feast. Always the same tale, yet here we sit, alive and unbroken.”   Foles turned his empty gaze toward Horrik. “The runes do not lie, chieftain. They are patient, as is fate. It matters not how long the wolf stalks the edge of the woods. When it hungers, it will strike.” The old man knew it would come to pass as the Wheel of Ages knows all fates carved into its surface.   “Then let it strike,” Horrik said, rising to his feet, his fur cloak swaying like storm-tossed sails. “Let it come, and we shall break its teeth.”   The warriors roared their agreement, fists pounding the tables. Swords were raised, and oaths were sworn. But Foles remained silent, his eye fixed on something none of them could see. Something that stirred beyond the realm that men could even fathom, lurking in the dark, waiting for its time to reveal itself.   “Fate is not a beast you can slay, Horrik,” the seer muttered. “It is a current that drags you toward its end. You do not fight it. You drown in it.”   The winter winds howled that night, carrying with them a sharp, biting cold that gnawed at flesh and bone. The snow came heavy, covering the land like a burial shroud. For weeks, Kors' Hold was cut off from the world beyond the fjords. The sea froze at the edges, and the woods beyond the village grew eerily silent.   Horrik stood at the edge of the palisade, his breath a misty cloud in the frigid air. His eyes scanned the treeline, searching for any sign of movement. Behind him, the warriors of Kors' Hold sharpened their blades and reinforced the wooden walls with stone and ice. They worked without complaint, and their trust in Horrik was absolute. With many alive because of his unyielding will against all foes, be it man or beast.   The first sign appeared on the fifth night of the coldest storm. A low, mournful howl echoed through the forest. It was not the cry of a lone wolf but a chorus of them, deep, resonant, and unrelenting. The howls grew louder with each passing night, closer each time, until it seemed like the darkness was alive with unseen eyes. The cold, sharp winds only carried their cries all throughout the night without end.   Horrik did not fear beasts. He had slain bears twice his size and hunted elk that moved like shadows. But this howl was not of any wolf he had known. It was something older, something that had lingered on the edge of the world since the new age.   He ordered his warriors to hold fast.“They are beasts, nothing more,” he declared, his voice carrying over the storm. “Beasts can be slain.”   But on the seventh night, the wolves came, and they were beyond that of this realm.   The darkness moved with them, not like shadows but like a living fog that swallowed the world. Their eyes glowed like embers in the night, and their breath steamed in the cold. They were larger than any wolf seen in mortal lands, their shoulders as broad as oxen, their fangs long as daggers. Their black fur blended in with the night as if they were a part of it.   The shield-wall was called. Warriors lined the palisade with spears and axes in hand. Hakon stood at the front, his bear fur cloak draped over his shoulders, his axe in his hands. His heart did not waver, for he had often stood before death and would once more defy its lingering grasp.   The first wolf charged. It leaped over the wall in a single bound, its claws raking across the throat of a young warrior named Ruken. The boy fell, blood steaming in the snow. The others moved quickly, jabbing spears into the beast’s side. It snarled, twisting in rage, but Horrik was faster. His axe came down with the force of a thunderclap, splitting the wolf’s skull. The beast fell dead at his feet.   “See!” Horrik roared, his breath coming in white puffs. “The wolf is slain! Fate is a lie!”   But then the howls came again, louder, deeper, and closer. From the fog, more eyes lit up like dying coals. Not a pack of wolves. An army of them. All are charged with reckless abandon and only desire the blood of Horrik and his warriors.   The battle was a storm of snow and blood. Wolves surged over the walls like a tide of black fur and flashing teeth. Spears snapped, axes shattered, and screams pierced the howling winds. For every wolf slain, two more took its place.   Horrik fought like a man possessed. With each swing, his axe cleaved through hide and bone, and his roars echoed louder than the howls. Blood soaked the snow beneath his feet, staining it red as Foles had foretold. But no matter how many wolves fell, more emerged from the fog.   The shield wall broke. The warriors fell, one by one. Lorn the Brave was dragged screaming into the night. Liu, shield-sister to Horrik, stood her ground until a wolf clamped its jaws around her leg and pulled her into the frost. One by one, the warriors who believed they could defy fate vanished into the night, their blood trailing in the snow to where the dark tide of the wolves dragged them away. The Hold became a slaughterhouse as its walls had fallen and all of its people taken, all except for one.   Horrik stood in the center, his breath ragged, his arms numb with exhaustion. Around him lay the bodies of his kin, frozen in twisted shapes, eyes wide with fear. The snow fell heavier now, each flake a nail in the coffin of his home. All the wolves vanished into the darkness, with none yet returning, only their glowing eyes being seen in the dark. None had yet moved as if they were waiting for something or someone.   From the edge of the fog, a figure approached. Not a wolf, but a man in a cloak of raven feathers. Foles the Soothsayer. His face was serene, his one good eye gazing at Hakon with pity.   “You see now, chieftain,” Foles said softly. “Fate is not a beast you can slay. It is a tide you cannot hold back.”   Horrik's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. “I… I fought.”   “And the runes do not care,” Foles replied, stepping forward. “You sought to defy fate, and fate broke you.”   From behind Foles, a final wolf emerged. Larger than the rest. Its fur was paler than a corpse, its eyes blue as ice. It stepped forward with slow, deliberate purpose, its gaze locked with Horrik's. A hunter of winter who was only sent to collect those who refused to accept death.   “ Tenvir ...” Horrik whispered. His grip on his axe tightened at the dreaded servant of Berun. He raised it with the last of his strength, his breath coming in shallow, pained bursts. “If I am to die, I will face my fate with a blade in hand.”   Foles’ gaze softened. “All men do, chieftain. But the runes were carved long ago.”   The great wolf lunged at a speed that not even Horrik could match. Its jaws closed over Horrik's body, crushing him with the force of a falling mountain. Blood sprayed the snow, and his axe slipped from his grasp. The world dimmed, the pain fading into a cold, distant numbness. The hunter of death claims another to take the realm of the dead to be judged.   The howl of Tenvir echoed throughout the forest, a sound older than the trees themselves. The white wolf vanished just as it came without a trace. The fog swirled around the village, and Kors' Hold was swallowed by winter. The snow turned red as blood flowed over it. The raven’s cry pierced the air as it settled upon a blood-stained shield feasting upon the remains of the fallen.   Foles knelt by Horrik's broken body, placing a hand upon the chieftain's brow. “Rest, warrior,” he whispered. “You fought as all men fight. But fate bends for no one.”   The raven took flight, its wings beating against the storm. The winds carried it far from Kors' Hold, where no fire burned and no shield remained. Far to the south, another hearth glowed in the night. There, another chieftain would hear a soothsayer’s warning.   “The wolf will come,” the soothsayer would say. “The snow will bleed. The raven will feast.”   The chieftain would rise, and as Horrik once did, he would say, “Let it come. We will break its teeth."

It is a tale told all across the Continent of Norria and should never be ignored.

Doomed to Fail

  Many who are drowned in ignorance have boasted that they could stand against fate if they are the strongest or the smartest, as if their very will alone can change everything. But it often takes a moment of absolute fear that drags them back to reality to make them realize their defiance is futile. The Howls of Fate is a story that makes them truly understand that futility. No matter how much they fight, how far they run, or how well they hide, fate will arrive to meet them. When that moment comes, will they die in fear or embrace it with courage and honor?