I

          He only had three important things. A book that was a gift, a stolen map, and a long heavy knife that he had made himself. He sharpened the knife on an almost daily basis. The edge was so fine, simply running your thumb across it produced a razor-thin cut and a thick bead of blood. It was strapped to his back. He could feel it bouncing against his shoulder, mounted to his pack, as he walked.

          His pack was small. Not much was needed on the road. Just water. And food. He kept some other useful things; string, flint, a porous sandstone for sharpening, and a jacket. There was also a second knife strapped just above his ankle. It had a metal handle and a blade no longer than his thumb.

Tonight was cold. Every night was getting colder as he moved east. He wore a wood toggled shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and that was enough. But not for long.   

All around him, the plains buzzed with the sound of crickets and cicadas. A cold wind flowed over the grass, whistling as it swept over the carpet of gold. The moonlight cast milky white light over the plains. Nothing for miles. The soil under his feet had a hardness to it from the strands of dead grass and twigs that had shriveled and died in the early frost. Straight ahead was the road. Long and flat. It seemed to stretch so far that it just disappeared into nothing.

          But he knew there were mountains out there beyond the haze and mist. He was close. Traveling during the day, he could see them silhouetted against the blue sky like scratched lines on a canvas. He would reach them soon.

          A wolf’s howl carried from the plain and reached his ears. He didn’t stop. He looked to the north were the mournful cry had echoed. Pulling absently at the strap that steadied the knife against his back, he wondered about the road behind him. He turned around all the way and looked west from where he had come. But there was nothing there. Just like always. He was alone. His fingers itched at the strap for another moment as the final note of the wolf was carried away to the moon on the wind.

          He turned back to head east once more. He was down wind for now. The breeze was still headed south but winter was approaching fast. He needed to clear those mountains before the first snow spit upon the ground. His eyes found the road again as clouded memories of what lay behind him faded away. He listened to his feet crunching over the soil, the wind rustling through the waist-high grass, the crickets and cicadas chirping and buzzing at the night, and a howl at the moon far off to the north.

II

Another wolf howled in response, but much closer. It must have been no more than a hundred yards away. He stopped. The night got all the more quiet with the absence of his boots against the dirt. He felt the breeze against his face. Downwind. They would not smell him. But even so…

          Not taking his eyes from the surrounding grass, he untied the knot over his chest that steadied his pack and slipped off the shoulder straps. He knelt down placing it on the dirt in front of him and pulled out a small piece of flint. He cast his eyes around for something to burn. If he could get a fire started the smoke might keep them away if the wind changed. He left his pack on the ground and, crouching low, searched the edges of the road, pulling dried grass and twigs up from the dirt.

          A gust of wind ruffled his hair and the grass, inches away from his face, was pushed back as air ran through it. Upwind. He stood and watched the wind push the plains north. Colors changed from gold to white as the moonlight followed the churning sea of grass. His heart began to beat in his ears. He quickly piled whatever else he could into his arms and returned to the center of the road where his pack lay. On his knees, he dumped his armload onto the ground and began arranging the twigs and stuffing grass between them.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

          The crickets stopped chirping. His eyes darted up again at the sudden silence. A shadow darted across the path ahead of him. The cicadas stopped humming. All sound was now snuffed out as though someone had placed their hands over his ears leaving only the gentle whistle of the wind and the shallow rhythm of his own breath. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the flint over his small pile of kindling. Eyes scanning the grass around him he scratched blindly at his boot searching for the hilt the small knife. The world seemed a lot smaller from this angle. Now below the grass level, he felt trapped like he was in a narrow box. He thought he could hear rustling from somewhere behind him.

          His eyes fell to the kindling and he struck the flint with the flat of his knife. Sparks danced over the weeds and twigs, but no fire. He struck again. Sparks flared, casting yellow light over his face. Nothing. He crouched lower and struck again. A spark flew into the center of his kindling and began to smoke. He put his face down by the smoke and blew on it gently, his cheek scratching the ground.

The smoke got thicker. He leaned back and cast a shower of sparks down on the sticks and a flame appeared dancing in the center of his makeshift fire pit. Heart pounding, he quickly dropped more dry grass on the fresh flame. His spine tingled and his hair stood on end. He felt at each second like the next would bring sharp teeth into his neck and hot rancid breath against his cheek.

          The silence pressed against him, but the small ray of light grew. He looked around at the surrounding grass again.

Large white eyes glowing in the moonlight stared back at him from inside the grass. He turned slowly counting the pairs. There were five at least. Two had come up behind him on the south side of the road. They all lurked in the shadows.

One howled right in front of him. Its call chilled his very bones and sent goosebumps up and down his back and arms. It was powerful, ringing in his ears, yet graceful. He looked at the spot where it had come from. The white eyes blinked slowly at him. He heard the grass sway under the wolf’s weight as it moved forward. The eyes reflected the dancing firelight, turning red, as the animal drew up the dirt road. It waited at the edge of the grass, shadows revealing only the snout and broad chest which rose and fell methodically.

          He waited, not daring to breathe. The wolf barked suddenly and he jolted backward without thinking, sprawling in the dirt. The wolf growled, low and long. One foot came out onto the road slowly. Then a second. Its hackles were sharp as needles and its fur jet black.

The animal moved forward, its dancing devil eyes fixated on his neck. Its head was low and his teeth bared. They glittered, shockingly white against the black fur. It moved in slow calculated motions with the grace of an alpha predator. The rest of the glowing white eyes watched silently. His hand drifted toward the handle of his larger knife jutting out of his pack only a foot away. The wolf barked again and snarled, lines of drool dripping from its teeth. He froze, hand still in the air. The wolf was so close now that only the dwindling fire took up the space between him and it.

          It was still down on its hunches, shoulders pointed together, head low, hackles up, ready to pounce over the last coughs of life from the smoking fire. But it didn’t move. It stared into his eyes daring him to challenge. Smoke curled around the wolves face as it leaned over the fire.

Its nose flared, breathing in both plumes of grey smoke and the scent of its prey. Then it arched his neck and howled straight up at the moon for a third time. The alpha’s head turned back down to look at him. Its shoulders were now back and its head held high so that he towered over him.

Then it slowly backed away. Red slowly faded back to pearl white in its eyes as it retreated into the grass. They blinked once. And then they were gone.

One by one, the other pairs of eyes followed. He did not move for a full thirty seconds. The cicadas began to hum. The crickets resumed their chirping. He collapsed on his back looking up at the moon, breathing deeply through his nose. One of his hands fell onto his chest and felt his heart racing with life just as the last of the flames blew out at his feet.

He stood up slowly after a few moments, brushing dirt off his elbows and palm. Looking east again, a pink glow shimmered above the horizon, silhouetting the mountain valley peaks. He grabbed his pack, took one last look around at the dark plain around him, and set off again faster than before.