Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juciewicz. Warnings of blood, violence, death, and bad language. But then again, is old-school Valkyrien, what do you expect?
Somewhere in Northern England, out on the heath, the stillness of the summer morn was broken by the baying of hounds and the calling of horns. Cries of “View ‘Alloo!” shattered the silence, as a great red fox, a Vixen by the look of it, burst from the brush. Within moments, the men, the hounds, and the horses were in hot pursuit. The Vixen ran, staying just far enough ahead of the pack to hold their interest, but not close enough to give them any chance of catching her. She cut and dove, ducking through patches of gorse, worming her way through rabbit warrens, following the babbling brooks that cut all across the marshy heath. Anything to give her an advantage.
She wasn’t worried about the pack following her, in fact, she was viewing their attempts at catching her as a bit of fun. Death was not something that had worried her for a long time. And she had a surprise for the poncy gits on their well-bred hunters. The corners of her lips turned up in a very un-foxlike grin, as she thought of what was to come. Now… Where had she left him… She scanned the hills, looking for landmarks, and veered again. Showing herself for a moment, she heard the renewed cries as the baffled hounds turned back to the chase. Ah, by the gods, this was fun.
Not too far away, another awoke. He awoke to find his mate gone, vanished, and the sun high in the sky. Ah well. He had fed well the night before, and wasn’t particularly hungry. He wandered down to the brook, to rinse himself off, wake himself up, and maybe catch a nice fish for his breakfast. He was lying on the grass, staring intently at the calm, tranquil water, waiting for the big brown trout to come just a hair closer, just enough that the readied paw could strike with ease, when the water splashed into his face. Spinning with a snarl, he spotted his mate, the, to him, little Vixen he had taken up with. Then he heard the hounds. He spun back the direction he had come and snarled at them.
The hounds froze. The horses froze. The hunters sat in shock. One minute, they had been chasing a fox. The next, the red fox was sitting on the other side of a brook, grinning at them, shaking with mirth, and making peculiar coughing noises. In front of it stood a great dark gray wolf-thing, larger by far than any wolf they had seen. It was almost the size of a small bear, with great dark claws, and yellowed fangs more than an inch and a half long. Yellow eyes gleamed with barely suppressed fury, and no one was particularly surprised when it threw its head forward and roared a challenge.
Gorm was pissed. Try hunting his woman, would they? Chase her down with dogs, from horseback? With the intent of cutting her down as vermin? Not while he was about. He stood there for a moment, just watching, as his Vixen’s pursuit froze, quaking in their boots. He took a savage pleasure from the knocking of knees, the shaking, the cold chills he knew were running down every spine bar his and his lady’s. He threw his head forward and roared, filling the sound with all his fury, and all his rage, and all the hatred born of his incredibly long life. And then he leapt. He slammed into the pack of hounds like the daemon of the north he was named after. Bowing his head as he hit, he threw it back, hounds flying with it, and he flipped up on onto his feet, and around, catching one in those powerful jaws. The jaws crunched, and a spine severed.
He finished his spin, the broken corpse flying from his maw to knock a group of hounds to their knees. Their planned rush collapsed as they did a second later, when he hit them with all the fury of a blizzard. Claws raked and tore, his fanged maw ripped and shredded and crushed. The hounds began to attack back, climbing on his back to try and get grips with their own teeth and claws. Feeling the hot pain of their blows, Gorm began to twist and buck, like one of the wild stallions he had watched fight, long ago and far away, in another life. Snapping at his assailants he caught one, and flung it at the first of the hunters to recover her wits. The flying dog knocked her off her horse, which panicked, and ran. Woman and dog both landed badly with sickening cracks and meaty thuds, and the great grey beast howled in triumph.
His spins gave him a glimpse of the other hunters, readying rifles and sabers and aiming in his direction. As the first of the hunters spurred his mount forward, Gorm charged. He bodyslammed the horse as he went past, knocking it off-balance. It toppled, landing on its riders leg, and bone shattered under the weight of horseflesh. The saber stroke went wide, and Gorm ran on, pouncing into the midst of the now worried horses. He lashed out, as he ran, striking from side to side, and the searing pain, the scent of blood, and the fear of their companions were too much. The horses broke and scattered, too far gone in terror to care for rein or spur. The great wolf did not bother to pursue. He watched as the hounds fled, and then turned towards the man with the shattered leg. He stalked up, keeping within sight of the stricken huntsman, and when he had drawn nigh, he struck.
His great yellowed fangs shut with a ‘clop’ mere millimetres from the poor man’s face, and Gorm made a sound that was almost human, almost a laugh, and he spun, and loped off across the moor. Vixen followed behind. She had some explaining to do.
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