Winter’s wrath: it came in the form of raging snowstorms and arctic gales, fierce winds whipping across a frozen land. Icy chaos ground the modern world to a halt, driving men indoors to shelter through the long nights. So began the time of the dead, when nature’s fury devoured all but the hardiest of plant life, leaving animals to go hungry as the land transformed from the mundane browns and greens of the earth to glittering white. But such beauty is deceiving.
In a small village on the edge of Southey wood, a handful of the locals had braved the blizzard to gather in the Black Dog Inn. They huddled round the fire blazing merrily in the corner, the dancing flames bringing a warm glow to the old stone walls.
An unexpected icy blast brought the quiet chatter to a halt as the door swung open, the fire flickering and quailing beneath winter’s bite. The locals turned to find a bearded old man stood in the doorway. He limped in, pulling the door closed behind him, and made his way to the bar. An ominous clack accompanied his progress, the sound of his cane striking the floor with every step.
“Can I help you?” the landlord asked, eyeing the stranger warily. Not only was this old man an outsider, they couldn’t explain how he came to be there that night, when the roads were too bad for driving and even trains had ceased to run. There was also something odd about his clothes, the furred cloak wrapped around him seeming out of place in present times.
“I have no coin, yet if you would spare but a small glass of your mulled wine to warm these old bones, I will give you a story in return.”
“What do you think this is, a charity? Fuck off, you old beggar.”
“Have a heart, Alfred, he’ll catch his death of cold if he goes back out there,” a woman said. “Here, I’ll pay for his drink. Make it a large.”
Alfred scowled but took the money and served the wine.
“I’m Sally,” the woman introduced herself to the old man, pulling up a chair for him by the fire.
“Then I must thank you, Sally,” he replied, taking a swig of wine before addressing the rest of them. “Now, I promised you all a story. And so tonight I take you back to the year 1127, when Henry d’Angely was abbot of the monastery in these parts. It was a night much like this one, in early February when the land was still in the grip of a harsh winter. But there is much more to fear in the long, cold hours of darkness than nature’s fury.
“Night had fallen and the monks were about their evening tasks, when the sound of a hunting horn rang through the night. Then came the baying of hounds, sending chills down the men’s spines. Many of them looked out to see a monstrous pack of huntsmen, around twenty to thirty strong, each mounted on horses as black as night with hellhounds at their sides. The Wild Hunt had come, a spectral horde made up of fallen warriors risen up to ride once more, giving chase to any mortal unfortunate enough to cross their path.
“The monks could only watch in horror as the dead charged through their monastery, crossing themselves and praying for their God’s protection – a protection that would not come.
“The Hunt passed through stone as easily as air, running down all who fled before them. Seeing they stood no chance in the face of such evil, Henry gathered as many of the monks as he could and ushered them into the cellar, where they cowered through the long night, listening to the terrible sounds of the spectral hunting party above. They survived, but the horror did not end there.
“For nine long weeks the Hunt rode out under cover of darkness, killing and burning houses built on ancient roads. They were seen all through the area of Peterborough, from the deer park to the town of Stamford, hunting through the woods that stretch across that land until the dazzling white of winter was dulled with blood.
“Outside of the monastery, only a select few escaped becoming hunted: those deemed worthy to join the hunt. It wasn’t until winter finally gave way to spring that the dead returned to the underworld, not seen in these parts since. Until now. Listen closely and you may hear the baying of hounds carried on the wind, the thud of hooves over frozen ground and the horns sounding through the night once more. And so, as the Hunt returns, you must ask yourselves: are you predator, or are you prey?”
The old man fell silent and took another swig of wine, a trickle of dark fluid escaping over his bottom lip and running down his white beard, staining it red. His audience had been held transfixed by his tale, even Alfred, and it took several moments for the spell to break.
One of the younger men snorted. “You seriously expect us to believe there’s a pack of ghosts heading this way?”
“In every story is a grain of truth. Perhaps the Wild Hunt is no more than a warning of the dangers that come with the ice and the snow. Take from it what you will.”
“I’ve never heard such utter bullshit. If you fools want to stay in here and listen to this nonsense be my guest, but I’m heading off before the snow gets bad enough that we’re stuck in here for the night.”
The locals watched uneasily as he took his leave, but no one made a move to stop him.
“Will has a point, you lot better drink up before we get snowed in,” Alfred said.
“You’d be safer staying in here than venturing out there,” the storyteller warned them.
Before anyone could answer, they heard a scream filled with such pain and terror it called to their most primal of instincts – that fight or flight response at the heart of all life.
Another of the locals jumped up. “Sounds like Will needs help!”
The storyteller shook his head. “He made his choice. It’s too late for him now, but there’s a chance some of you might survive, if you stay in here.”
A hunting horn sounded clearly above the howling of the wind. Will’s would-be rescuer turned to the old man with wide eyes, yelling “What did you do?”
“I am but a humble storyteller.”
“You turn up here in the middle of a snowstorm and suddenly one of us is out there hurt and alone with some sick bastard blowing a hunting horn, and you expect us to believe you had nothing to do with it?”
“For God’s sake, Roger. He’s just an old man, leave him be!” Sally said.
Roger rounded on her as if he was about to lash out, but anger soon turned to horror. An impossible sight met his eyes, ghostly figures charging through the walls just like they had in the monastery all those centuries ago. The storyteller’s tale hadn’t quite done them justice, their black mounts larger than any mortal beast with glowing red eyes full of a malice no animal should have been capable of. But rather than the powerful muscular form of earthly horses, these were thin and skeletal. The hounds were similarly terrible and wraith-like, but worst of all were the humanoid figures of the hunters, rotting faces twisted with hatred for the living.
Chaos descended, Roger and three other men obeying the urge to flee. They never made it any further than the door, another hunter bursting through. He swung his sword downwards with the meaty thud of blade cleaving through flesh, severing Roger’s head from his neck in one mighty blow. Blood sprayed from the stump, decorating the doorway crimson.
The other three turned to run the other way, only to be cut down in a similar fashion. Alfred took the opportunity to slip away in the midst of it all, hoping to hide in the pub’s beer cellar like the monks had done in 1127, if the story were true.
One of the women gripped the cross she wore about her neck and began to pray, while another produced a piece of chalk from her handbag and started to draw a circle on the floor around her. Without the proper tools of her craft, she grabbed a steak knife from a nearby table and pricked her finger, using her blood to infuse the circle with power. Then she began to chant, calling on the power of her goddess for protection, her fear turning to confidence. But the wiccan’s surety in her magick soon turned to shock when a black dog lunged through, driven by a power far greater than she could hope to muster. Her life ended in another spray of gore beneath the beast’s jaws.
When the spreading pool of blood lapped at the praying woman’s feet, she lost all faith and ran for the door to the cellar. A whimper escaped her throat when she found it locked, but there was nowhere else to go so she beat her fists against the wood, screaming the landlord’s name.
And through this nightmare they’d found themselves in, Sally was paralysed with fear until a wrinkled hand gripped her shoulder, making her jump.
“Get behind me, Sally. In return for your kindness, I give you my word no harm shall come to you this night.”
Despite his elderly frame and the cane he relied on to support him, there was a strength to the old man that made Sally do as he said without question.
“We need to get out of here. Stay close and whatever happens, do not run.”
Sally forced herself to follow the old man out, somehow managing to keep to his slow, calm pace. There were even more spectral hunters outside, and she found herself clutching the storyteller’s arm while her heart hammered in her chest.
The old man remained calm, walking in the middle of the road hidden beneath the snow, while the Hunt thundered around them.
“Who are you?” Sally asked him, starting to suspect there was something as otherworldly about her guide as the ghoulish pack surrounding them.
“I have had many names. Last time I was in these parts I was Henry.”
Sally gawped at him while that sunk in and it was only the gentle pull of his arm that kept her moving. “But that would make you over a thousand years old! So it was because of you those monks survived that night you told us about?”
“Indeed. Your pub landlord is in for a shock if he thinks to wait out the Hunt’s wrath in his cellar.”
Sally shivered but said no more. As they drew closer to her house it seemed the dead would leave them be, but then the dread leader of this accursed group came charging towards them, a figure both great and terrible to behold. His one eye was the colour of the overcast winter skies that reigned throughout the daylight hours, the other socket empty where its twin should have been. The leader of the dead had more flesh on his bones than the others, but he was less muscular than a living warrior might have been. And yet he radiated power. There was also something feral about that grizzled face snarling beneath a mane of long white hair, teeth glinting through the tangle of beard.
The storyteller bowed his head respectfully. “Odin.”
“Move aside!” Odin commanded.
“No. This one’s under my protection.”
Odin’s mount was none other than the eight legged Sleipnir, a beast equally as shocking as the god himself. He was huge and muscular, and Sally couldn’t help but cower when Sleipnir reared up on his hind legs. He tossed his great head this way and that, as if being held back by some unseen force.
“You will move, Bragi. I gave you your power and I can take it away.”
Sally was stunned. Bragi, Norse god of poetry. And Odin…
“There are plenty others for you to hunt here, Odin. Leave this one be.”
The mad god raised his sword as if to strike Bragi down, but then he laughed and Sleipnir fell back down to all eights, obeying some silent command as he turned away.
“Come,” Bragi said, and the two continued on their way, passing safely back into the village and to Sally’s home.
***
Meanwhile, Alfred still cowered in the cellar. He’d listened to the carnage taking place overhead and he’d heard the woman beating on the door and screaming for him to let her in. But he was concerned only for his own skin. Even when the screams were cut short and blood began to spill under the doors and down the stairs, still Alfred would not make any move to attempt to help the others.
When finally the last of the screams died off, the landlord breathed a sigh of relief. But then a ghostly figure stalked through the wall, forcing him to flee back upstairs. The pub was now empty of wraiths and the landlord was able to run safely outside.
It seemed one other had somehow made it out alive and he was determined to stick with Alfred, try as the landlord might to get rid of the fool.
Another hunting horn sounded close by. Alfred shoved his young shadow with all his might, causing the other man to fall heavily on his side with a scream as his ankle twisted, but Alfred kept on going, never once looking back. He closed his mind to the horrors taking place behind him, focussed only on his own survival, and thus he did not see the young man trying to crawl away from their pursuers, only to be speared in the back, his life draining out over the snow in a crimson tide.
Odin appeared ahead, forcing Alfred to stop.
“Wait,” the landlord shouted, trying to sound brave. It seemed he had but once chance to survive. “I’ll join you. I’ll help with the hunt.”
Odin laughed. “So the hunted wants to become the hunter! What makes you think you’re worthy?”
“Please,” Alfred sobbed. “Let me prove myself.”
Odin’s mouth twisted into a fierce grin as he leant forward and plunged a hand into Alfred’s chest. Icy pain seared through the mortal man’s veins, his mouth open in a silent scream. He would escape the fate of being hunted, but he had just offered himself up for one far worse, his soul ripped from his body and set on one of the dead horses. Alfred had become part of the Hunt, bound to it for all eternity. He had no choice but to ride alongside the rest of the dead as they went on in search of new quarry, never to know peace.
