The changing of seasons had a habit of arriving early in Andron VII, as if it were trying to win a race that no one else wanted to run. It wasn’t just early, either—it came with the subtlety and unpredictability of a charging Aurox, much to the collective grumbling of the locals. Nine moons ran riot on the planet’s ecosystem. The winds, howling down from the north as if they'd been personally offended by the idea of warmth, carried with them not only a cold, but also the occasional visit from red-skinned and dark-haired wolves. These weren’t your ordinary, run-of-the-mill wolves, mind you; these were the sort that walked on two legs and looked at you like you were the main course at an all-you-can-eat buffet. ‘Wolf’ in this case was clearly an analogy for ‘invader’ or ‘raider’, in case you had suffered from a touch of the Denors and hadn’t picked up on that.
In the good old days—assuming “good” meant only marginally less terrible—men from Andron VII could be persuaded to march out from their homes and give these raiders a good thrashing. Those days were gone, swallowed up by General Stantych and his band of merry ‘colonists’ (occupiers, the worst kind of invaders) setting up shop in the northern parts of the planet, all under the watchful eye of those from New Titania. So, the Andronian inhabitants of the last village on the planet found themselves rather alone, left to fend off whatever unpleasantness came their way, which was, admittedly, quite a lot.
There was no more talk of Temrit invaders, any drop ships from that region of space took one look at the Trunian military presence in the north and said ‘oh, sorry there, wrong address’. All they got was blizzards. Endless, soul-crushing blizzards that piled snow so high you’d think it was trying to bury the entire forest. The idea of hunting was about as appealing as a swim in an ice bath. It felt like there were multiple winters, when you either lived off the fruits of your labor or stared miserably at an empty plate, wondering how bad it really was to eat next year’s seed. That they had to help feed the very people who had invaded and occupied their territory on top of this rankled them even further.
For folks like Denor and his family, who weren’t the farming sort, winter was like a game of chance where the dice were loaded against you. Now Ledo's work was entirely pointless, since the Trunians would neither accept his craftsmanship nor allow him to craft weapons for the village. They were well on their way to finding themselves on a diet of cold air and wishful thinking, save for the intervention of kind folks like Charan and Hevath, who shared and shared alike.
Still, Denor wasn’t one to sit around contemplating the grimness of his situation—his folks had enough to keep the portable heater on and the cold at bay, at least for a while. Mostly. His breath smoked in the frigid air, a wispy reminder of the heat he’d left behind in Tycho’s house since marching out on his most recent excursion.
"Hunting, Denor, in this weather?" The voice belonged to Gella, the girl he had saved from the clutches of Litarn, who was engaged to both his best friend and in the utterly pointless task of shoveling snow—which amounted to trying to stop the tide with a teaspoon.
Denor nodded, carefully considering his words since rudely dashing off after their last conversation, he needed to be honest yet also convincing. Profound but also decent. This narrowed down his options to:
"Yes."
Gella’s smile was warm enough to melt the snow she was trying to shovel. "Good luck."
Denor’s eyes glazed over, as his brain tried to form a detailed and complex response that would be interesting. "Thank you," he mumbled, making a swift exit toward the forest.
No, of course he didn’t catch on.
The girl sighed, and continued her pointless task.
Not far enough from the village, the makeshift outpost had become a fixture on the landscape, as welcome as a boil on a backside. Sentries with telescopic lenses loitered behind the energy walls, watching the village with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for drying paint. One asked Denor if he had seen the pie vendor as he trudged by, but Denor, determined not to be friendly to those who were technically invaders, pretended not to notice.
He hadn’t gone far into the forest before the air was filled with the colorful language of Trunians, a sure sign that something wasn’t going according to plan. He moved quietly, slipping between the trees until he spotted the source of the commotion—a supply freighter, destined for the outpost, had veered off course and found itself stuck in the snow. And, as any sensible person would in such a situation, the Trunians were swearing at it.
"Stop that nonsense!" barked the guard, his voice thick with the frustration that only comes from being stuck on a freezing road with a dozen half-mad subordinates and a freighter that should’ve been retired three winters ago. The driver shot him a glare that suggested the only path he cared about clearing involved driving directly over his superior.
"By Martos, holy lord of all that is holy, why should I?" the driver spat, half to the guard, half to the uncaring sky. "This weather’s fit for neither man nor machine. The navigation systems were completely shot from the cold!"
Denor, lurking in the shadows, had finally found something interesting to pay attention to. The driver's disdain was as clear as the icy wind nipping at his ears. He shifted his weight, fingers brushing the tip of his blaster, wondering if it was worth a shot—literally. The man’s cruelty was evident, nobody would miss him. The freighter had crashed and exploded, killing all on board. It was a perfect excuse, really. But in the end, Denor stayed his hand, thinking about what might happen to his family if he kept killing these Trunians, especially when directly opposite the outpost.
They’d never know, those two. Never realize that their lives had dangled by a thread, spun by the whim of a boy who had just enough patience—and just enough sense—to let them be for now. It was miraculous.
He fell back into the forest, literally and without ceremony, but stifled a shout or curse. The Trunians called out, but the branches he had clattered into failed to give them an adequate response.
***
As Denor stalked through the woods, eyes sharp for prey, he realized something else had its eyes on him. The (quite literal this time) wolves’ howls had been distant, a backdrop to his thoughts. But now they were closer, too close for comfort. It dawned on him, cold as the snow beneath his boots, that he’d become the quarry. His first instinct was to run, to flee as fast as his legs could carry him. But thanks to Tycho’s stories, Denor knew that wolves could outrun a man easily, and running would only tire him out. No, he needed to be smart—smarter than a pack of hungry wolves, which, the narrator reminded everyone, was an exceedingly high bar to clear for a boy regularly outwitted by ferns.
Denor paused, listening to the forest, the howls growing louder. The hunt was on, and this time, it wasn’t clear who would be the hunter and who the prey.
Fleeing in panic was all very well for people with other places to be, but Denor had nowhere else to go, and no intention of being repeatedly mauled until he’d thoroughly acquainted the local wildlife with the business end of his blaster. So instead of panicking, he sought out a spot that would turn the upcoming confrontation into something a bit more manageable—less of a desperate struggle, and more of an impromptu military campaign.
He found it soon enough, as one tends to when the universe has decided to have Tamet backing you for his own amusement. Two great rocks stood tall, calling out to him as if to say ‘hey, we’re a natural defensive barrier, look at us’. Between them was a gap, narrow and pointed like the tip of a blade, and behind that stood a pine tree of the sort that could double as a solid backrest and possibly a makeshift grave marker. While Denor was aware that he couldn’t die, he didn’t want to encourage death on like a regular companion. Dying still hurt, as the giant snake had taught him.
The wolves, on the other hand, while sporting teeth, claws, and the kind of hunger that came from being part of a world where meals were more “if” than “when”, were very much mortal.
Their howls, which had begun with a note of impolite inquiry, grew louder and more enthusiastic as they realized they’d cornered him. It was the sound of creatures who had never been introduced to the concept of hubris. The first wolf lunged forward, a flurry of snow under its paws, red tongue flopping out of its mouth like it was already celebrating a meal well earned. Amber eyes locked on our hero with a mix of ravenous intent and the kind of hatred that could only come from having to deal with Denor.
He greeted the pack leader with a bolt from his blaster, hitting it squarely in the chest. The wolf managed a yelp, which translated roughly to “well, that was unexpected,” before it collapsed into the snow, blood turning the ground a festive shade of red.
The second bolt flew shortly after the first had finished its business, ricocheting off one of the stone sentinels and taking the next wolf square in the eye. A third bolt followed, finding its mark in the flank of another wolf, who decided that this wasn’t at all what it had signed up for and retreated to nurse its wounds and rethink its life choices.
The remaining wolves, clearly in need of a new plan, took to turning on one of their fallen comrades, because in a winter this harsh, flesh was flesh, and pride could always be salvaged later. Denor kept shooting, his bolts cutting through the desperate feast until his blaster was nearly exhausted, and when another wolf tried to join the buffet, he sent it on its way with a final, fatal shot.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Our hero had come to hunt game, not engage in a prolonged debate about the ethics of survival with a pack of predators. But on Andron VII, the rules of nature were more like strong suggestions. Sometimes survival meant participating in the savage cycle of life and death with a bit more enthusiasm than one might prefer.
Unfortunately for Denor some of the wolves weren’t done thinking of him as their next meal. One of them, more daring or simply the Denor of his group, leaped over the carcass of its fallen comrade just as our hero clicked and stared at his empty blaster. Another more intelligent man might have hesitated, weighed his options, or considered how his life had led him to this point. Another man might not have directly stared down the barrel of a blaster while pressing the trigger too. But Denor was more of the instinctive sort. He threw the blaster at the wolf, drew his blade, and plunged it into the wolf’s side just as it barreled into him.
Ordinarily his blunted training sword that he had recovered from the top of the ravine wouldn’t have left a mark on the wolf’s hide, but the creature’s ravenous enthusiasm sent it deep into its body, imbued energy or not. Tamet be praised!
The wolf’s breath was less “minty fresh” and more “could fell an Aurox at twenty paces,” but Denor kept its snapping jaws at bay, wriggling his sword about until he was up to his elbow in blood. At some point, the wolf decided that dying was a preferable alternative to continuing this ill-advised encounter and tried to pull away. It failed, collapsing lifelessly on top of Denor with all the grace of a sack of rotting potatoes that had sprouted grey fur and fangs for some reason, possibly in order to be a more apt analogy.
Denor shoved the weight off and stumbled to his feet, grabbing his discarded blaster and hoping that nothing else came after him. But the wolves had learned their lesson. Those still unscathed turned tail and slunk off to find prey that didn’t come with so many energy-based surprises. Denor’s triumphant shout echoed through the silent forest, a sound that was one part victory, one part defiance, and entirely mad.
***
Our wolf-slaughtering hero trudged back to Tycho’s village, which he was still reluctant to call home, laden with more than just the weight of his kill. The return journey seemed to conspire against him, the snowdrifts deeper, the crusts more treacherous and crusty, and the cold biting through his protective clothing like a wolf. Yes, that one was a Denor analogy, how could you tell? By the time he reached the familiar silhouette of the abode, the welcoming heat of the portable heater felt more like a slap to the face than a comfort. As anyone with access to a walk in freezer will tell you, going from one temperature extreme to another isn’t pleasant.
The gunsmith who wasn’t allowed to smith guns glanced up as Denor stumbled through the door, eyebrows lifting with that particular fatherly mix of concern and barely suppressed exasperation. "Are you well, boy?" he asked, the question laced with more worry than a portly Aurox attending a butcher's convention.
Denor looked down at himself, surprised to find he was painted in blood from head to toe like some kind of gruesome artist's canvas. "Not mine," he declared with no small amount of pride, dumping the spoils of his hunt on the floor and making a real mess as per usual. The skins and meat sprawled out like a conquered kingdom, and as Denor’s brain caught up, he realised that it sprawled out like a long clean-up job in the very near future.
Ledo’s gaze lingered on the skins, and when he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "Did you kill them all yourself?"
"By Tamet, I did!" Denor’s grin split his face like a knife, and he launched into the tale of his battle with the wolves, recounting each slash and howl with a zeal that could have started a religion.
Ledo turned, his face unreadable in the flickering light of the overworked heater. "Next time we go to war against the Trunians, son, I won’t hold you back. We need every capable hand we can get."
And for the first time in his life, Denor Kara was called capable. His chest swelled with pride in response, the kind that makes a young man feel like he’s ten feet tall and ready to take on the world, or at least the nearest enemy nation. "I’ll slaughter the Trunians and plunder their credits," he declared, visions of glory and conquest dancing before his eyes.
But Ledo was still staring at the pile of wolf skins and meat, his expression distant. "Maybe you will," he murmured, more to himself than to Denor. "But for now, take all this and wrap it up before freezing it. It’s going to spoil if you leave it next to the heater."
Denor nodded, still riding high on his father’s praise so he didn’t complain about the chore. "Wolf meat’s not the best, but—"
"But it’s food," Ledo cut in, his voice practical in the face of constant hunger. "And if you stew it long enough, it might even taste like something you’d want to eat. Now, clean up this mess. The blood's on more than just your clothes, boy."
***
Later, when he wasn’t soaked in blood and had scrubbed the floor to Ledo’s satisfaction, Denor found himself atop a hill. He had technically chosen to go there, it wasn’t like he had just magically appeared here for the sake of the narrative because something was about to happen in this specific spot that he needed to witness.
It was a dark and stormy night, except it wasn’t stormy, just dark, and not so much night as late afternoon in that hazy bit between when you could still see the path but couldn't quite make out what was lurking on it. So really it wasn’t that dark either.
Denor, who had long since stopped trusting the local wildlife to stick to their side of the food chain, actually did have a purpose for being here. He was out doing what he did best in his spare time (aside from annoying people): trying to ensure Hevath's sheep didn’t end up as someone else’s dinner.
They struggled to find grass beneath the snow, their woolly bodies huddled together like old men at a tavern. His eyes flicked to the edge of the forest, ever watchful, for the wolves were never far in his mind. He had his blaster ready, and Hevath’s sturdy staff—dark, hard wood with silver studs—leaned against his shoulder. "Keep it safe, boy," the elder had said, his voice as serious as a deathbed confession. "Lose it, and I’ll have nothing to beat you to death with for losing my family’s staff." The narrator carefully omitted the hour-long expository monologue from the old man about the origins of the staff, how it had been in his family for centuries, how Tamet himself had sent lightning arcing from the sky to hit a branch… all that waffle.
The point is, Denor conveniently had a staff to lean on, a weapon that conveniently sported much better reach than his training sword.
A small portable heater sputtered nearby, and if it had eyes it would glare accusingly at our hero for taking it outside and planting it on a bloody hill of all places. Denor kept close to it, trying to glean some heat, more out of stubbornness than hope. It wasn’t much, but Hevath had kept it functional, and Denor wasn’t about to let it seize up, not while he could still move his fingers.
Promises, he’d learned, were like eggs—they cracked under pressure. Hevath had promised to be back before sunset, but the sun had a habit of setting whether you were ready or not. Andron VII’s seasons and weather patterns didn’t adhere to any kind of logic, and it was why the planet was avoided by all meteorologists. Not to be confused with the rock-chasing meteorologists of the same name, who specialised in meteors like the name suggested in the first place.
As if sensing a pointless narrative, something dark swooped overhead, and Denor glanced up, barely paying it any mind. No bird, no matter how big or enthusiastic, could carry off a full-grown sheep. Or so he thought until that dark shape plunged from the sky with the speed of a big and enthusiastic bird, and the agonized bleat of a ewe rang out across the snow-covered hills.
This creature didn’t bother with any of the usual preliminaries, like howling or rustling ominously in the underbrush, which was very difficult to do when airborne. No, this beast was all business. It swooped down with wings that looked as though they’d been stitched together from nightmares, black and leathery. Its eyes glowed a bright, feral red, the kind that eight out of ten evil villains would recommend for monsters. Its ears—sharp, pointed things that could have doubled as steak knives—rose above its head like two exclamation marks in a very badly written sentence!!
And then it growled!! Not just any growl, but the sort of deep, resonant rumble that spoke of ill temper, bad breath, and a mouth full of teeth that had never met a substance they couldn’t chew through!! It was clearly not a creature that had been invited to many social gatherings!!
Was it a bat? Demon? Overgrown rat with wings? Denor wasn’t an ornithologist. All he knew was that it had one of Hevath's sheep in its clutches, and that was something up with which he would not put!! His blaster was in his hands before his (admittedly, sluggish) mind had even caught up with the situation, and a moment later, the bolt had ricocheted off the squealing portable heater, bounced off the staff, and settled into the creature’s flank.
The beast didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, it looked down at the impact zone as though mildly inconvenienced and trying to decide if that was really an attack at all. Denor frowned. This was not going according to plan. He let loose another bolt, this one finding its mark… on the portable heater. Which spontaneously combusted for no reason, or at least that’s what he’d tell Hevath. The creature remained unconcerned by the sparking and flames, and perhaps felt a bit of second-hand embarrassment for Denor’s attempts at aiming.
“Demon! Filthy, infernal thing from the bottom of someone’s darkest imaginings!” Denor shouted, mostly because he felt it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. Then, because shouting at something only got you so far, he threw his blaster at the creature, unsheathed his training sword, and charged. It was the sort of move that might have been called brave if it had turned out well or utterly stupid if it hadn't. No guesses as to which it was at this juncture.
The creature, which had up until now been mostly interested in the sheep, suddenly found itself faced with a much more irritating target. It dropped the sheep and lunged at Denor, its breath smelling like it had skipped a few meals and wasn’t picky about what it might eat next.
Denor toppled back, lost his trusty sword, bounced off the flaming portable heater, and collapsed face-first into the snow. The creature, pausing at this improbable bit of physics for a moment, proceeded to advance.
Our hero groped in the snow for the blade, but it had turned into a solid bit of wood for some reason.
Denor swung it wildly, then realised he had Hevath's staff—a solid bit of wood with a silver tip that had never been used for more than prodding the occasional recalcitrant sheep—and the increased reach compensated for the terrible swing, connecting with the creature’s ribs.
It howled, a sound that spoke of pain, surprise, and a sudden desire to be elsewhere.
"Aha, so that’s how you like it," Denor said, grinning as he struck again, completely missing but demonstrating that he was willing to cause more pain. The creature, now fully appreciating that its current predicament was no longer worth the effort, screeched in anger and took off into the sky like a bat out of—well, exactly where it had probably come from.
Denor watched as the creature flew, and then plummeted somewhere beyond the woods. There was a faint hiss as it hit the snow. Whether that was real or just Denor’s imagination, he couldn’t say, but he knew what he’d heard, and no one could convince him otherwise.
Now that the demon had been dealt with, Denor turned his attention to the sheep, who seemed to be more annoyed than injured. He did what he could, which mostly involved pouring beer over the wounds because, as Denor reasoned, if it was good enough for Hevath, it was good enough for the sheep. The sheep, in return, gave him a solid kick just below the knee, a gesture Denor chose to interpret as gratitude.