The Shrew of Silvermount

Chapter I - The Huntress

The wolf-lady had a crossbow loaded with a bolt for days, patiently waiting for its moment. And four jars of flammable oil, tethered together by twine — just a shot away from turning an arrow into a fiery menace. She carried enough to turn an entire caravan into ashes within minutes.

She had paid a pretty penny for some information, but it was worth it. A caravan of five slavers would cross that border at sunset on the last day of September. Arriving three days early, she meticulously set up an array of ambush traps.

Ropes hidden in the snow and stretched between tree trunks along the road, ready to topple the wagons and twist the horses' ankles. This particular road was the sole path cutting through the dense and expansive forest.

She slinked behind the bushes, blending into the mist left by recent snowfall. The accumulating snow adorned her black hair, clung to her pointed ears, and clumped on the fur of her messy tail. Leaning against a tree trunk beside her loyal wolf companion, she waited.

Peach, a female wolf with a voluminous black coat, had been her companion since their days as small pups. Nearby, a black warhorse named Blackberry, a gift from her late master, was tethered to a tree.

"They should arrive in an hour," she murmured, taking an hour-counter from her pocket. "Sorry to make you endure this cold, I promise to make it up to you two in some way afterward, okay?"

Peach rested her head on her lap, nestled under her master's caresses, while Blackberry lay on the soft snow. Neither of them dared to go against their caretaker. Not out of fear, nor just out of respect. The serenity in their eyes couldn't be conquered by authority.

As the hands of the watch moved, her fingers numbed, and shivers ran down her spine. A tingling sensation crept into her heel. The wolf-lady lay in wait, armed with a glaive, ready to dismantle the approaching gang of scoundrels.

The most challenging aspect of these confrontations was avoiding harm to the kidnapped hostages used by the slavers. The common strategy involved using the hostages as human shields to induce hesitation in potential vigilantes. Only those specialized in hunting these scoundrels possessed the courage and skill to deal with such despicable tactics.

Her ears perked up as, with the sun descending on the horizon, the distant galloping sounds reverberated through the once-silent forest. Wolves are said to be able to sniff out wounded prey up to five kilometers away and even hear the sound of leaves falling in autumn.

The rhythmic hoofbeats on the gravel road served as a warning to anyone within that radius. Peach began to growl, sensing the imminent conflict.

"We need to keep quiet, Peach,"  she whispered, hissing and placing a finger on her own lips. "They're almost here, we can't ruin this ambush in any way."

And the wolf obeyed, as if they spoke the same language. She kept quiet without hesitation, as silent as the warm breeze of the Highlands.

Hidden amongst the trees and bushes, she ignited the tip of her arrow and prepared to launch the oil jars at the approaching caravan. The footsteps grew louder, closer — imminent. Her heart raced, and cold sweat trickled down her forehead.

As the mercenaries crossed her line of sight, the horses stumbled over the concealed ropes, dragging and toppling the wagons to the ground. In the blink of an eye, she counted all the enemies and hostages — a total of six mercenaries, two open wagons, and no hostages.

Undeterred, the huntress swiftly unleashed all her oil jars toward the mercenaries' wagon. The ceramic jars shattered, echoing through the forest. A flaming shot followed the throws, sparkling like a shooting star.