Chapter 26: Wolf And Jackal
“Close ranks! Close ranks! Don’t scatter!” the Count shouted loudly. These cries were more like an outburst of fear than reminders or commands, somewhat superfluous.
After all, those who could follow him all had good martial arts skills, including the monk—they could also spur their horses to gallop while swinging a hammer at the same time.
When there was no war, the opportunities for knights to pass the time and hone their skills were, besides the martial arts tournament, hunting. Although there wasn’t much difference between the two—prey during hunting was beasts, while prey during the martial arts tournament was knights like themselves—martial arts tournaments were rare after all, while hunting was one of the regular tasks knights did. Previously, to entertain Count Etienne, the castle steward of Holy Cross Castle had urged the knights to go out hunting more.
Precisely because of this, when everyone heard that drawn-out, shrill howl that made their blood surge, their first reaction was to quickly return to their companions’ side.
Count Etienne and his knights had not made any mistakes; they had not entered the dense forest. Although the darkness was so quiet and warm, they knew deep down that it was nothing more than the devil’s trap.
They were only resting in the shrubs at the edge of the Pine Forest. Even when a knight later suggested looking for grouse and rabbit, several people showed unusual caution. Every step they took, these seasoned hunters would look back at the flickering firelight, carefully using it to judge if they had gone too far.
They had some gains—they raided a squirrel’s nest, which contained many plump pine cones, hazelnuts, chestnuts, and shriveled fruits that couldn’t be identified; a knight’s footsteps startled a rabbit, which bolted out and crashed into his calf, knocking the knight off balance while successfully knocking itself unconscious.
Another attendant picked up a few brown fish owl feathers from a spider web glistening faintly; he looked up and carefully observed the movement above. He soon heard the distinctive chirping of this bird—brown fish owls breed either in June or December. If they encountered one breeding in December… He quickly found the bird’s nest, which was not far from the ground. He climbed up, grabbed the bird incubating its eggs, twisted its neck, stuffed it into his coat, and came down the tree with a nest of eggs.
The brown fish owl’s mate, whether female or male, cried out and circled in fear above the human. It probably didn’t know that it had unwittingly avenged its family—what attention did a frenzied dancing bird attract between the cobalt-blue firmament and the silhouette-like black pine forest, if not from humans?
About two or three miles from Count Etienne’s group, a pack of grey wolves was resting. The bird’s unusual movement caught the alpha wolf’s attention. It raised its head, staring at the source of the disturbance, its long muzzle opening, eyes narrowing—the wolf’s sense of smell was limited to half a mile, so by rights, it shouldn’t smell anything. But as a leader with rich experience, a unique instinct of wild animals urged it to act.
It stood up, howling lowly, urging the wolf pack’s second-class citizens—namely the young and strong adult wolves—to stand—these were the pack’s “scouts,” responsible for finding traces of prey before hunting. They stood up, initially somewhat at a loss because there was no scent of deer or wild boar in the air, but under the alpha wolf’s incessant urging, they still dashed out.
When the light grew dimmer and the wind stronger, one scouting adult wolf returned first, empty-handed, followed by the second and third. They circled around the alpha wolf, expressing their discontent, but the alpha wolf just waited firmly and patiently. The last adult wolf returned, bringing good news.
The alpha wolf let out a long howl, waking the wolf pack. Adult wolves in front, old wolves in back, followed by sub-adults and pups, with the alpha wolf close behind. As it walked, it occasionally raised its head to sniff the air scents. Tiny snowflakes fell on its black nose, melting instantly from the hot breath.
This weather of intermittent snow, clouds, and sun brought great trouble to humans, but for wolves, it was instead a rare boost—their toes had webbing, covered in fur, with slightly blunt claws, allowing them to grip steadily whether on nearly frictionless ice, slippery mud, or thick moss without falling.
The meat pads on the wolves’ soles were filled with special blood vessels that could regulate temperature independently of the rest of the body, preventing frostbite; they also had an innate “cloak”—thick fur that almost completely blocked sharp cold winds, snow, and rainwater.
Apart from the initial howls to urge and summon, the alpha wolf made no more sound. Twenty or thirty wolves moved quietly and orderly along the dense forest and riverbank. Besides startling some rabbits or birds, they caused no trouble at all—the bear was still sleeping in its den, the wild boar was awake but just waiting for the pack to pass, perhaps watching them were deer, leopards, but no one wanted to provoke such a tricky enemy.
When they had traveled about two miles, they could already smell the scent of blood and feces. The adult wolves became noticeably restless—winter had arrived, snow was falling, meaning the pack’s food was no longer plentiful. They anticipated a hearty battle to fill their empty stomachs with prey’s flesh and blood, to last until spring.
The alpha wolf stopped, and the pack emitted irritable or uneasy whines—a nearly dry stream separated them, and a pack of jackals suddenly emerged from deep in the woods. Wolves were jackals’ natural enemies; they killed and devoured each other, especially their young. The alpha wolf’s gaze met the lead jackal’s, the grey-furred leader facing the reddish-brown-furred leader.
They should have fought—the wolf pack was large, but the jackals here were also a rare big group, numbering over forty.
Moments later, the lead jackal lowered its head. The alpha wolf hesitated a bit, then turned around and led the pack onward. These jackals were also searching for food—they thus advanced in tacit understanding across the stream. The scents in the air grew thicker, clearer: human, horse, fire, and those pungent spices, wine…
——————
The attendant on watch let out a sharp cry, “Who is it?”
Count Etienne and his knights, attendants, and the guide who had finally regained some wits—or rather, been tempted awake by the smell of broth—immediately jumped up, weapons in hand.
A few breaths earlier, they had eaten and drunk their fill, and heard the guide say they were now possibly north of Antioch. He was familiar with the area and knew the nearest village from here. After resting this night, he would take them there, and as they wished, to see the steward or priest there, rest properly, then set off.
If they didn’t want to, and wished to return to Ayyarasa Road, that was no problem either. He knew several ships; surely one captain would take the Lord of the Holy Land’s guests.
With him saying this, Count Etienne and the others finally relaxed. The Count allowed the guide to sit by his side, letting him eat and drink like a knight, and even gave him a bottle of wine—at this time, that bottle was as good as gold. The guide enjoyed it respectfully yet comfortably, his smug satisfaction on his face making people dislike him.
They didn’t know what the guide was thinking. Although Count Etienne had promised that if he could lead them to a city of Christians, he would give him ten silver coins—God bless, normally he would kneel and kiss the Count’s boots for those ten silver coins—but now his pouch held a bulging hundred gold coins. As long as he led these people to Prince Mulai’s territory…
Of course, just driving beasts into the net wasn’t worth the four hundred gold coins afterward. He still needed to contact the Knights’ traitors—cowardly scoundrels, base thieves—Prince Mulai of Armenia, to ensure these people fell into his hands, tortured and suffering fully.
But upon waking, he had roughly surveyed the surroundings and was delighted to discover this was a Pine Forest he knew well. He even saw the mark he had made, understandable only to himself and undiscoverable by others—this was none other than Prince Mulai’s territory. That meant his work was one-fifth done; he just needed to call a Turk.
So when the watch attendant shouted, unlike the tense crowd, the guide felt a surge of ecstasy, followed by some anxiety. He worried that if those Turks wouldn’t let him see Prince Mulai, how should he speak? Directly reveal these Christians’ identity? That would be handing over the biggest bargaining chip.
Say nothing? He worried those barbaric ignorant beasts would sever his neck with one knife, leaving him unable to speak again, his gold coins all going to those bandits.
But in just an instant, he no longer knew whether to hope for upright beasts or four-pawed hunters…
What came was the wolf pack.
In the darkness, these eyes reflecting firelight were like white cowries and white fluorite embedded in a black lacquered board.
They gave the humans little time to react. After a howl like a horn’s long blast, a huge grey wolf leaped into the light circle. It was like a sturdy calf, body length including tail about equal to a spear, shoulder height exceeding a knight’s thigh.
The attendant facing it let out a cry of fear. He really shouldn’t have exposed his cowardice so quickly and easily, though it wasn’t his fault—but the giant wolf that had its gaze on the horses immediately turned its head, opening its long muzzle like a ferocious smile—Etienne only had time for a shout before the attendant was pounced on by the giant wolf.
This attendant was the illegitimate son of Count Etienne’s brother. Count Etienne didn’t have time to think much and rushed forward. He gripped his dagger, stabbing into the grey wolf’s shoulder blade. When the grey wolf twisted to bite him, he had already agilely jumped over its back, pressing its ribs tightly with his elbow and knee.
A nearby knight also ran over, striking the grey wolf’s skull with a short axe. This blow sent the huge head lolling to one side. The grey wolf let out a whimper like crying, and the Count could clearly feel the body beneath him rapidly going limp.
He stood up, pulling his nephew to his feet, and in that short time, the battle between humans and the wolf pack had fully erupted.
Wolves were not creatures that liked single combat; they were the devil’s army, adept at deception and ambush. They even knew to lure enemies; pursuit, interception, and division were their specialties—they split into several teams. One team went to tear at the horses, three teams to deal with the most dangerous enemies, namely the knights and their attendants…
And one team—they were the true hunters.
Their targets were the old, weak, sick, and lame in this group. The weak were naturally the young attendants and servants; the lame… was of course the guide whose head still buzzed occasionally.
This wolf pack detachment wasn’t in a hurry to kill these people—killing a person wasn’t easy.
They attacked in rotation, dodging swinging clubs and swords, grabbing their feet, tearing their clothes, constantly baring teeth to intimidate. Once they lost reason and balance from fear and suddenly fell, a waiting member would rush from the darkness, biting their hands, feet, or shoulders and dragging them deep into the Pine Forest. In this chaos, once dragged ten feet away, those still fighting the pack couldn’t attend to them anymore.
The guide was the second to fall. Though he had no father like the Count of Champagne, considering he was still needed to guide later, a knight hurriedly ran over, waving a burning pine branch to scorch away the wolf biting his shoulder. He grabbed the guide’s hood, trying to pull him back to the firelight…
More claws reached out, hooking the guide’s clothes and flesh. He cried out in pain, while the knight felt a chill of horror and couldn’t help shouting: “Devil!” And indeed, he had found it strange before—he had lived over thirty years in this world but never seen a wolf pack of over fifty.
What grabbed the guide were originally just two sub-adult wolves noticeably smaller than the others, but when he drove them off, what pounced again was… jackals. The relationship between jackals and wolves was like that between heathens and them—they fought to the death on sight, not stopping until the last one. And what was he seeing now?
Wolves and jackals had formed an alliance, hunting them together!
If a person encounters one wolf, unless he is too old to move or too young to understand, one wolf absolutely can’t beat a person. The wolf has only one mouth for tearing and biting, but a person has two hands—he can slam, crush, or strangle the wolf to death…
But here was a wolf pack. If it were only the wolf pack, they might still have a chance of victory; then the wolves would become their food and clothes. But now, besides over a dozen wolves, they also had to deal with jackals numbering no fewer—jackals were smaller than wolves, usually only hunting rabbits, chickens, some birds, even insects, but numbers could sometimes overcome strength!
