Soft flute music drifted across the meadows, spreading out around the hill where a lone oak tree stood, its branches offering shade. Sheep grazed lazily in the surrounding fields.
Seated against the tree trunk, the young shepherd held his flute loosely by his side, the notes of his tune fading into silence. Beside him, the sheepdog lay with half-closed eyes, keeping watch over the flock. When the music ceased, the boy looked up at the dog. "Don't give me that reproachful look. I'm not here to play music for you. I'm here for..." He glanced down at the sheep grazing peacefully and shrugged. "Whatever. The sheep would do just fine on their own."
His father Ryoden wandered through the flock, leaning on his shepherd's crook and occasionally bending down to look at the hooves of some of the sheep. He frowned: "I won't live forever and I certainly won't work forever. Soon it will be your sixteenth birthday and you can choose your character class. Then you'll understand the finer points better."
"And if I choose something other than shepherd?"
Ryoden straightened to his full height and turned his full attention to his son for the first time, "Weylan, this is no joke. You must take over the flock when I grow old. To be a good shepherd, you need the appropriate character class!"
"I've already shot a few hares. Both with traps and once with my slingshot. Dorm says that's enough to meet the requirements. So, I could also choose hunter." Despite his words, Weylan harbored doubts, but it was one of the possibilities he was clinging to. The thought of wandering after sheep for the rest of his life kept him awake at night. There had to be a way out.
His father made a contemptuous noise, but didn't sound angry, rather resigned, as he was having the discussion again and again: "If Dorm would stop licking toads all the time, he wouldn't spout such nonsense. Back in my day, there was no need for these discussions. You automatically got the character class for the profession you were trained in, plain and simple."
"You didn't have a choice," Weylan retorted. "But what's the point? I don't need special skills to herd some stupid sheep. Bellmart could handle it alone. I'm just here to carry his food."
"Some skills are vital. But you only get them at level 4 and 5. We are not warriors or some crazy adventurers crawling through dungeons. We are honest workers. We don't accumulate huge amounts of experience points. You have to choose carefully about what you spend them on. As soon as you get above level 5, hardly anything here will be dangerous or challenging enough to earn you experience points. That's it then. I reached level 6 when I was sixty. I was level 5 for over twenty years."
"Curing diseases in sheep is a joke, not a special skill."
"And what if there's an outbreak of sheep rot? Or heaven forbid, foot and mouth disease?"
"Then I'll get a healer from the city."
"By the time you get back, the flock would be..." The shepherd fell silent and looked around in alarm. The herding dog had straightened up and pricked up his ears.
Weylan put his flute down on the grass and stood up: "What's going on?"
Before his father could answer, dark shadows emerged from the bushes at the edge of the forest. Fearful bleating sounded as the sheep also realized that something was wrong.
Three shadows detached themselves from cover and glided close above the grass towards a lamb standing a little to one side. Teeth flashed in the light of the already sinking sun as the wolves became recognizable. Ryoden raised his shepherd's staff, pulled a stone from his shoulder bag and placed it in a leather loop at the end of the staff. With a powerful two-handed swing of the staff, he hurled it at the foremost of the wolves, hitting it squarely in the forehead. Weylan flinched at the crunching sound of the skull cracking and looked at his father in surprise.
Ryoden shrugged: "Protection of the herd. Gives a +5 bonus to all attacks in defense of my herd against animals. So much for supposedly useless special skills."
He inserted another stone and hurled it.
Weylan pulled a long leather strap from his pocket, which had a wider piece of leather in the middle. One end of the strap had a loop on it, which he slipped over his finger in a practiced fashion while gripping a knot tightly on the other end. It took him a moment to find a stone in his pouch, then he put it in and twirled the sling a few times over his head. With a jerky forward movement of his arm, he released the end of the rope with the knot and the stone shot towards the wolves. The projectile grazed one wolf on the hip, eliciting an annoyed growl from it but causing no real damage.
Bellmart threw himself between the retreating herd and the wolves. The two wolves hesitated and Weylan put another stone in his sling: "Ha! You've picked the wrong flock. If you want one of our sheep, you'll have to bring some friends with you."
His father pointed to the edge of the forest: "I'm afraid they have."
More wolves came out of the forest, shoulders swaying and teeth bared aggressively. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Weylan's hands began to shake so badly that the stone fell from the sling: "Llurd's hairy balls!"
"You're not supposed to swear." His father's response came automatically as he watched the ever-increasing number of wolves. "There are too many of them."
"We could hole up in the tree." Weylan looked for a low branch, but the lowest one was still a good deal higher than he could jump.
His father took his eyes off the wolves for the first time and also looked at the oak tree. All the other trees were far too far away, the wolves would never let them get that far. He ran up the hill. A quick movement that could only trigger a reaction. The pack charged.
"Wait, boy, I'll hoist you up!" His father's voice cut through the tension. Weylan looked up at the branches.
His father had a lapse in judgment in his eagerness to save him, but now was not the moment for discussion. Turning towards the tree, he quickly devised a makeshift ladder with his hands. "You go first!" he instructed, his voice firm amidst the turmoil.
His father narrowed his eyes in annoyance, saved himself the air to curse his stubborn son and ran straight towards him. He slowed down just before him. He threw the shepherd's crook up so that it snagged on the branch. Then he stepped into his son's ready hands and, with a little extra momentum from Weylan, managed to reach the lowest branch. With strength unbroken by age, he pulled himself up.
Weylan ran towards the wolves. The animals let out a bloodcurdling howl and accelerated even further. He gulped, turned around and raced towards the tree. Carried by his momentum, he ran over a meter up the trunk. He stretched his hands upwards and grabbed the shepherd's crook that his father was already holding out to him. As soon as he had grabbed it firmly, his father pulled it high enough for him to reach a branch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement below him and reflexively pulled his legs up. The wolf's teeth snapped underneath him with a terrifyingly loud noise. A second wolf also jumped up, but now he was out of danger. He frantically pulled himself up and then climbed up another branch after his father.
Ryoden made sure that his son was sitting safely in the tree. " Can't you ever listen?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Weylan inwardly sighed at his father's lack of trust in his judgment. Gritting his teeth only slightly, he explained his logic: "If I had been up here first, I wouldn't have been able to pull you up. You're far heavier and stronger than me."
The old shepherd thought for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. Then the two fell into silence. Down below, the wolves leapt up the tree and tried in vain to snap at them. Sharp claws furrowed the bark, but found too little grip to get any higher. Further back, the panicked bleating of a lamb stood out from the howling of the wolves. The wolves had managed to separate it from the flock and surround it.
The herding dog, which had previously kept away from the wolves, barking furiously and repeatedly making a wild escape, fell silent. He turned fully towards them and planted his hind legs firmly against the ground. Another bleat sounded. The herding dog sprinted off.
"No! Bellmart! Don't! Run away!" Weylan leaned so far forward that he almost fell out of the tree. He wanted to rush to the aid of the dog he had grown up with. But his hands betrayed him by tightening around the branch. He wanted to intervene, he wanted to fight... but the more rational part of his mind knew that he had no chance of success or survival if he left the tree.
"Run Bellmart! Get outta here!"
The dog ignored him and grabbed the front wolf by the hind leg to pull it away from the lamb. A second wolf snapped at him, but the herding dog skillfully dodged. Then he jumped onto the back of one wolf and from there, surprisingly, onto the throat of another. The windpipe burst with a crunch and blood sprayed onto the grass. Bellmart had already disengaged and was about to jump away when a wolf bit his heel from behind. The dog's snout hit the grass. He turned to snap back, but the wolf had already let go and retreated. When Bellmart tried to put weight on his hind paws as he jumped away, his leg buckled.
The wolves circled the faithful herding dog and took turns snapping at him from all sides. The blood loss was already weakening him, he could no longer jump or run. Weylan averted his eyes. After a while, it became quiet. The fight was over.
When he looked again, the wolves were already retreating with their prey. The wolves under the tree also trotted off without looking back.
Weylan couldn't believe it: "Why are they just leaving again? That's not normal behavior for wolves, is it?"
His father frowned as he watched the wolves.
"Father? What's wrong?" Weylan waited tensely for an answer. It wasn't the first time the herd had been attacked by wolves. But never by so many. His father had told him numerous stories from his youth. Wolves had once held Ryoden up in a tree for three days until the village hunters had found him and chased the wolves away.
When his father replied, he spoke slowly and hesitantly: "You're right. Wolves are not satisfied with a single lamb. Once they start stalking someone, they don't just give up. Normally, they would stalk us for hours, maybe even days, and hold on to this tree once their hunting instinct has been awakened."
"But why are they doing that?
His father began to climb down.
"Father! I can still see the wolves!"
"That doesn't matter. They won't hurt us now. Let's get the herd back together." Weylan hesitated, then followed his father down. He didn't take his eyes off the bushes behind which the wolves had disappeared.
***
Ryoden and his son trudged along the road, herding their flock in front of them. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains and the last rays of light were beginning to fade.
"Father..." The fifteen-year-old stroked his hand nervously through his blond hair. The old man didn't respond. "Father, what should we do now?"
His father stopped and looked around. With the sky covered in clouds, it threatened to be a pitch-black night. "We should have set off earlier. Even if it meant leaving a few of the sheep behind. The path is dangerous in the dark, even in good times. Now..." He fell silent. The path sank further into darkness and the two of them stumbled over bumps. The old shepherd scanned the path in front of him with his shepherd's crook, but found no roots or similarly low bumps.
Weylan followed him and tried to avoid the obstacles that his father stumbled over. The sheep had less trouble. Normally they would have refused to walk in the dark, but after the attack they were literally lamb-happy. Weylan narrowed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief: "There's a glimmer of light up ahead. That must be the inn on the edge of town. We'll be there in a minute."
The two of them quickened their pace. Next to the inn was a fenced-in area where they had often stowed the sheep safely when they could no longer make it home. When they opened the door to the inn, they were met with a few surprised looks. No one had expected any more guests at such a late hour. Most of the guests had already finished their last beer and were preparing to leave. There was a lot to do tomorrow. As there always is.
With a salute to the crowd, Ryoden dragged himself to the nearest table with an empty seat and dropped heavily onto the chair. The other guests at the table raised their mugs of ale in greeting. He himself nodded back wearily and waved to the innkeeper to bring him a beer as well. His son moved to the back, to the table with the other young people.
"Well Ryoden, long day?" The village weaver was a good customer of the shepherd, so he swallowed his bad mood and forced out a polite reply: "You could say that. I've been looking for sheep that have run away until sundown."
"Is your dog sick? Bellmart doesn't usually let sheep escape. And your son Weylan hasn't fallen on his head either."
"At least not as often as you." One of the other guests jokingly interjected. Ryoden ignored him.
"Aye, a good dog. He was." Ryoden raised his tankard in the traditional salute to the dead and drank. The others at the table followed his example. Before anyone could ask, Ryoden continued, "Wolves. Night-black and tall. Over a dozen. Maybe as many as twenty, I haven't had time to really count them. They descended on the herd without warning. Good Bellmart pounced on them when they jumped on one of the lambs. But he had no chance against so many. They snatched a single lamb and dragged it away. Me and Weylan managed to save ourselves by climbing a tree. The flock ran off into the sky. I found most of them again. But not all of them."
The villagers around the table looked at each other worriedly. Murne, the blacksmith, said what everyone was thinking: "There haven't been any wolves this close to the village for years. Autumn has barely begun. The woods have been full of game all year. That makes no sense."
"Then you know as well as I do what that means."
The crowd remained silent. No one met his gaze.
The shepherd spoke reluctantly, as if he had to fight for every word: "They will tear the rest of my flock if no one takes care of them."
Everyone at the table moved away from him. Murne raised his hand in horror: "Don't say it!"
"What choice do we have?"
"Anything is better than that!"
Ryoden looked at his jug with a blank expression. "The wolves will eat my herd. Then me. Then they will descend upon the village. It will not end. It will never end. I don't want to wait until they eat the first children. Or do you think our doddering village watchman can stop a pack of wolves?"
At the end of the restaurant, the aforementioned watchman protested quietly. When questioning glances were directed at him, he lowered his eyes and shook his head. He was already overwhelmed when a fight broke out between the young people of the village.
Weylan followed the conversation, as did all the other young people in the small dining room. When he exchanged questioning glances with his peers, they responded with indifferent shrugs. The others had no idea what the adults were talking about either. Even some of the adults didn't seem to be able to follow the conversation, but clearly didn't dare to ask any questions.
Weylan saw Trulda, the innkeeper's foster daughter, come out of the next room with the beer barrels, four beer mugs resting on her expansive bosom. He waved to her shyly, but she didn't even notice him, instead looking around the guest room in confusion.
Silence had fallen over the room. Confused, she looked around and followed the glances to Ryoden. Before she could ask what was going on, her foster father put his hand on her shoulder and told her to wait.
Weylan pushed forward and stood behind his father. He didn't understand what was going on, but wanted to support his father.
Ryoden hesitated, closed his eyes and spoke emphatically: "We should hire adventurers to take care of the wolves."
Something on his forehead began to glow red, then the light lengthened into a vertical line with a dot underneath.
Trulda dropped the beer mugs, which shattered with a clatter, sending splinters and beer carelessly flying. She put her hands over her mouth in horror, ignoring the mess. She turned to Weylan: "What has your father done? Why is he suddenly a Questgiver? What happened?"
Weylan shrugged his shoulders helplessly; he understood just as little as she did. Questgivers, quests, adventurers... or as they were more often called in the stories: revenants. The Age of Plagues was two hundred years ago.
The innkeeper raised his voice: "That's it for today. They'll probably show up tomorrow. Go home people, get a good night's sleep. Today's drinks are on me. When Ryoden has paid the adventurers, they'll spend a lot of gold here."
Weylan protested: "Gold? Father can't afford that, we..."
Ryoden pulled his pouch from his belt and dropped it on the table. The unexpected dull clink of the thud silenced his son. When Ryoden opened the pouch, silver and gold coins fell out, where there had otherwise only been a few pieces of copper. Weylan lifted one of the coins. It was perfectly smooth, with inlaid silver lines that formed a circular labyrinth. The mark of Pallandur, the god of quests.