achelsis Gatendag stood in the doorway of his cabin, watching the gold-grey clouds rush by and the cold silver rain turn to sleet. By nightfall it would become snow, and by morning, he knew, they would be iced in, locked off from the outside until spring. Spring came very late in the endless green forests of the Sovestjutt.

He turned, slamming the door to shake loose the frost already accumulating on top. He bolted the three locks and laid the massive iron bar across the door, to keep out the massive black bears, the sons of Weiran. The front door, the Clan-door, would not be opened until the snow melted. In a large Clan dwelling, the barring of the door would be cause for ceremony, and occasion for a great feast to mark the death of the year. However, Kachelsis was an outcast, and his Clan consisted of himself and his new bride, Jesla, and the child she carried in her womb.

He felt soft hands on his neck as he finished his private closing ritual, and he turned to see Jesla’s pale, delicate face smiling into his. She was so beautiful, so fragile … what was he thinking, taking a flower like this from all that she knew and locking her in a cold dark wooden cave? Her father had been right; his own father, the chief of Clan Gatendag, had been right. She was from the city, from Ysta Cier, where the people were soft and weak. She would never survive. He had doomed them both.

Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and everything seemed right again.

They celebrated Year’send in their own quiet way, with bread and wine and the last of the fresh meat. For the next six months, they would be strictly rationed -- allowing for Jesla’s pregnancy, of course -- on jerky and meal-cakes, supplemented by whatever he could trap; boiled snow would replace the wine.

In the morning, Kachelsis bundled his furs around himself and grabbed his axe and lamp to inspect the traps, exiting through the kitchen trapdoor into the tunnel. The tunnel, six feet high and eight wide, had taken eight months to dig, but it provided a safe exit from the cabin no matter the weather. It stretched nearly a half-mile westward, coming out from the ground within a thicket of young spruce trees sheltered behind a small hill. The thicket stood near a spring that rarely iced over, and an abundance of game could be trapped nearby.

The tunnel itself was well-insulated by the surrounding earth and made a very efficient storeroom. Kachelsis had to weave around slabs of jerky, large bins of meal and dried vegetables, and huge piles of wood and charcoal. He had worked hard over the past two years, and was as prepared as anyone could be.

The west end of the tunnel was covered by a small hut within the shelter of the trees. Though the spruces caught most of the snow, the conical roof of the hut was designed to allow what fell through to slide off, thus keeping the trapdoor in the top unblocked.

When Kachelsis stepped out of the hut, he was struck at once by just how cold it was. It was never truly warm in the mountains of the Sovestjutt -- frost was common even in the height of summer -- but the first real cold of winter always shocked him.

Pushing aside the snow-laden branches, he emerged from the thicket to check his traps. These were spread along the many small game-trails that wove through the forest, and were especially thickly placed around the spring.

As luck would have it, all of the traps were full. Most contained rabbits and squirrels, but there were two sleek, heavy beavers and, in the last trap, a wolverine.

The beast was dead when Kachelsis found it, its forepaw gnawed almost all the way through in a desperate attempt to escape. Just to be on the safe side, though, he chopped off its head before reaching down to unhook the trap.

It was a large female, frozen stiff from a night exposed to the freeing wind. Wolverine flesh made poor eating, but the thick, stiff fur was exceedingly warm and tough. After resetting the trap, he tied the rigid animal to the rest with a rawhide thong and headed back to the tunnel. Jesla would be pleased.

And so the first month passed.

“Tell me about the Vilternhunten,” Jesla said one night as they lay in bed. She was Ystan and did not know much about the folklore of his people, the Branhilsche.

“Where did you hear about that?”

“I overheard your mother telling your Aunt Herega that maybe you’d be lucky and the Vilternhunten would get you before I drove you crazy.” She smiled and ruffled his thick brown hair.

“She said that, did she? I don’t doubt it.” He frowned for a moment, then grinned. “The Wild Hunters are just a story we tell children to scare them into behaving. That’s all.”

“Then tell me,” she said, patting her stomach. “I’ll probably need to use it when this little bear is born.”

He sighed. “All right.” Rising from the bed, he blew on the coals in the brazier until a flickering glow filled the room with brown shadows. “The first Wild Hunter was Hasche, a priest of Weiran who lost his faith and began meddling with magic and other blasphemies. He had, he thought, good reason to start with; his Clan was nearly starving, because the hunting and trapping had been so poor, and he only wanted to help them. He thought his faithful service in the past, along with his good intentions, would make up for this disobedience, but Weiran thought otherwise and placed a curse upon him. If he wanted to provide for his Clan, the god said, then he could hunt for all eternity.

“He changed the priest, blackening his skin and causing massive antlers to grow from his head. Green fire poured forth from his eyes and flowed down his back in place of hair. Hasche’s legs broke and reformed like those of a wolf, talons grew from his fingers and toes. He was burdened with a suit of armor that would turn aside all attacks but could never be taken off. His left hand was removed and replaced with a scythe of purest silver. Lastly, from the demon-realms Weiran called forth a nightmare to be Hasche’s steed and a pack of hellhounds for his companions, and turned the whole infernal hunt loose on the Branhil Mountains to prey on whatever it could.

“The shock of the transformation drove Hasche insane, and his first victims were his brothers, Haeth and Hake. When the hounds brought them down, Hasche offered them a choice between death and servitude. Both chose to live, and were themselves cursed, each becoming a weaker version of what their brother had become, complete with demonic mount and pack.

“And so it was with each victim, until thirteen Huntsmen were created: Hasche, Haeth, and Hake, and Jevg, Machen, Guriekn, Frenke, Danas-Tren, Vurign, Horigeane, Palzuris, Kriideten, and Zaran Zelig. No Huntsman ever dies, and they cannot be killed by mortal men.

“They say that Hasche no longer rides with his Huntsmen, but sits all night in his castle, thinking about his past. Night after night he sits and remembers and regrets, while the Hunts ride through the mountains seeking unwary travelers and wicked men -- and women and children, of course -- to capture and bring back to him. The prisoners still get the same choice, but those who chose life are either kept as prisoners in the castle or, worse, turned into hounds themselves and forced to hunt with the pack.”

Through the entire narration, Jesla sat quietly, her eyes slowly growing larger and larger. Finally, she spoke.

“He was punished so, just for using magic? Kacha, I’ve cast a few spells before --“

He clapped a hand over her mouth, cutting her off and saying in a low, angry voice, “That was before. Now you’re my wife, and this is a house of Weiran.” He nodded toward the iron axe hung over the door “I love you, Jesla, but do not mention that again. Ever.”

He removed the hand and rolled over to sleep, leaving her to stare at him, frightened, in the fading light of the coals.

Wolves circled the cabin, getting closer with every passing moment.

“I don’t know where they came from, Jesla.” Kachelsis stood at the west window, watching the huge white wolves circling, circling. “White wolves are a very bad omen. Weiran is angry.”

“What would anger him so much?”

“I don’t know. Magic, usually. My Aunt Germund once cast a spell she learned form a wandering skald. Her husband, my Uncle Villach, died the next day. He was torn apart by white wolves. We burned her the next day.”

He turned to look at her. She had always been pale, but now she was as white as the new snow outside, and her hands were shaking.

She flinched away from his gaze, and he knew.

“What did you do?” he yelled at her. He grabbed her arms and shook her violently.

“You didn’t.” His voice was suddenly quiet. “You wouldn’t dare!” She reeled as his hand, mercifully open, slammed into the side of her head once, twice, three times. “You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t!” He threw her against the wall, grabbing his axe and running for the tunnel.

The wolves had already been there, devouring all they could and fouling what they could not. A few lingered in the tunnel, just inside the glow cast by the kitchen lamps. They were massive, with snow-white fur and eyes the grey-green color of thin and dangerous ice.

Screaming the name of Weiran, Kachelsis ran toward them, axe raised for a stroke that never fell. As soon as he got within range of the wolves, two of them jumped at him and pinned him to the floor. His axe skidded away from his hands. Another wolf, larger than the rest, walked out of the darkness and stood on the man’s chest, staring into his eyes and crushing him beneath its weight. The wolf had a dark spot between it eyes in the shape of Weiran’s great axe.

The beast opened its mouth and spoke. Its breath smelled of pine and winter wind, and its voice was forbiddingly deep.

“You should choose your mate more carefully next time, boy.”

It turned and left the tunnel, and the other wolves followed.

Three weeks later, the last of the supplies were gone.

“I’m hungry, Kacha,” Jesla said for the fifth time that day. It was an hour after noon.

So am I, thought Kachelsis. He said nothing.

“Is there nothing at all to eat?”

Just conjure us up something, he thought. He still said nothing.

“Kacha! Answer me!” She pushed against his shoulder.

He turned, glaring at her. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me a story, Kacha. Tell me a story, Kacha. Tell me a story so I won’t think about how hungry I am.” She lay down, laying her head on her outstretched arm. Hanging from her emaciated frame, her distended stomach seemed huge and grotesque.

He thought for a moment. “I will tell you of the Vanega.”

“The Vanega is a great furred beast who roams the forests between the mountains and the lakes. It’s twice as tall as a man, and its eyes glow like burning coals.

“Just like the Wild Hunters, the Vanega was a man once. His name was Norn Zimering, and he was a druid living in the north, near Lake Goklae. The circle of which he was the leader was known as the Wolf-eaters, because they believed that by eating predators, they would take into themselves ferocity and power.

“One night, while sleeping, Norn Zimering had what he thought was a revelation. If he could truly gain strength by eating the predators of the wild, then how much strength would he receive if he fed on humans, who preyed on the beasts of prey?

“He tested his theories one night soon after. Changing himself into a wolf, he ran to a tiny farm many miles away. A family lived there, a mother and father and three daughters. The oldest girl was seven.

“Calmly, methodically, Zimering slaughtered and fed from the entire family, changing shape almost constantly as he did it. Afterward, he waited for the Earth-Mother to take her vengeance for his unnatural act. She did not.

“For a year he continued to prey on farmers and trappers, never more than once a month and never in the same place twice. He was careful; he hunted in his own territory, as well as those of his druidic brethren.

“One of his brothers, Raufar the Brown, became concerned about the continued murders around the great lake. He was the most accomplished tracker in the world at that time, and he picked up on Zimering’s trail easily. He tracked the man-eater for a winter and a spring, eventually catching him in the act on Midsummer’s Night.

“To Raufar, this defilement of the druid’s holiest day was beyond forgiveness. He rushed at Zimering, his sacrificial sickle at the ready, but months of eating humans had strengthened him to the point that Raufar was nothing more than an annoyance. He reached out and easily, almost casually snapped the tracker’s neck, and then realized that if eating normal humans could strengthen him this much, then the flesh of one who ate nothing but flesh-eaters would be even more effective. And so, smiling in anticipation, he fed on Raufar as well.

“Eventually Raufar was missed, and the ten other druids in the circle began asking questions, casting divinations, and receiving disturbing answers. The Earth-Mother and the Horned-God were in conflict; one of their own had become a force not for balance, but for unanswered destruction. After the sacrifice of three white wolves (three sacred pines were planted to maintain the balance and to appease Weiran), all was revealed.

“Horrified, they did not know what to do. For months they deliberated, and the killings continued. Zimering forsook the circle entirely, and two young adepts were promoted into its ranks. The druids knew that without a circle Zimering would have none of his old powers, but he seemed to be content with his new source of strength.

“Finally it was agreed that Zimering had to die. His continued existence was an affront to the creativity of the Earth-Mother, and an embarrassment to the necessary destructiveness of the Horned-God. Preparations were made for the winter solstice. One of the newly promoted druids, Honefoss, was sent to find him and invite him back to the circle.

“When Zimering came back to the circle on Midwinter’s Eve, it was with Honefoss’ blood on his face and Honefoss’ head in his hands. Throwing the head into the midst of the circle, he laughed and roared, “I suppose there’s a place for me now!” Then he collapsed. Honefoss had been poisoned before setting out, as a trap for the cannibal.

“The eleven dragged his inert, not-quite-dead body into their sacrificial grove, circumscribed with runes and symbols unused for hundreds of years. As the first of their golden sickles touched his corrupted flesh, Zimering’s body burst into flames, consuming the ten druids wholly within the circle. The eleventh was Alesund Tayern, the other new adept, who had half-stepped out of the circle to avoid witnessing the sacrifice. He alone survived to tell the tale, but in breaking the circle he was responsible for what was created.

“When the conflagration had burned itself out, all that was left was an ashy pie of burnt flesh; apparently all of the druids had fallen upon Zimering’s body as they burned. As a horrified Tayern watched, the pile rose and formed itself into a humanoid shape, twelve feet tall and six wide. Hair sprouted from still-growing skin; eyes blossomed and stared at the young man quizzically.

“‘Great Mother, protect your son...’ the young man prayed.

“‘I am not your mother. I am Norn Zimering,’ the abomination said slowly. Then it smiled at Tayern and shambled off into the forest.

“From that time on, people have told tales of the Vanega, the Black Father of the western woods. It wanders between Lake Goklae, Lake Yggen and the Branhil Mountains, killing and eating everywhere it goes. Many have gone forth to kill it, but they have only fed its ravening hunger. My grandfather said that it was seen near here when he was a boy, but that it mostly stays farther north. Some say that the Vanega is only a tale to frighten children, but I myself have heard howls and screams in the night that I couldn’t explain …”

“Why did you tell me that story? I hate it.” Jesla was angry; tears welled up in her blue eyes.

It’s the only story I could think of, he thought, wondering why. Saying nothing, he rolled over and went to sleep.

That night, Jesla lost the baby.

Bearing his tiny grim burden, Kachelsis stepped into the empty tunnel. As he walked through the cold darkness, he relived the encounter with the wolves. They had been no ordinary animals; of that much he was sure. They were the Yswulfen, the ice-wolves, the Sons of Winter.

He tried to forget what he was carrying. He tried to forget everything that had happened in the last two months.

The blood was seeping through the makeshift bandages, freezing on his trembling hands. There was so much blood, he thought, for such a small body. So much blood … his and Jesla’s. So much.

The smell of blood was overpowering. The traps had been empty for three weeks now. Whether the game had simply disappeared or the wolves were eating the trapped animals, he didn’t know, but he suspected the former. Weiran had seen, and had been displeased, and had punished.

The blood overlay and even deeper smell, the smell of meat. He reached the end of the tunnel, now drifted with snow since the wolves had torn the door off its hinges. Struggling into the blinding sunlight, he slung the bundle atop one of the snow-laden trees. A tiny hand fell out. My son had fingers, he thought.

Meat. He possessed the keen senses of the starving, and three pounds of meat and blood lay in front of him. In a grey, blood-sodden haze, he ate.

Jesla was asleep when he returned. Kachelsis was glad. He had no desire to face her just then. His face and hands were red and raw from his frenzied scrubbing, and he lay down beside her, not sleeping.

They stopped speaking after that, for the most part. Jesla was weakened from the miscarriage, and Kachelsis was having to range further and further afield to find anything to eat. Mercifully, the traps sometimes contained meat, but it was usually scrawny or diseased. They had taken to eating the leather from her snowshoe laces, and once he had caught her boiling wood.

All he ate was leather and snow, and all he wanted was blood.

A month after she lost the baby, Jesla wanted to see its grave. She insisted that she was strong enough, that the cold would not bother her, but Kachelsis refused, knowing that there was no grave. There were only some broken bones thrown into the spring for the sleek little weasels to try and fish out. Finally, he told her.

“There is no grave, Jesla.” His face was solemn.

“What? What do you mean? There’s a grave, isn’t there, Kacha? This isn’t funny. I want to see my baby’s grave.”

“Jesla, I told you. There is no grave.” He hesitated. “The ground is frozen. I had to build a cairn, and now it’s buried in the snow. I’ll have to dig a grave in the spring, when the snow melts and the ground softens. Why don’t you go rest now?”

She walked toward the bed, seemingly pacified, but then turned and stared up at him, pleadingly. “Kacha? I just remembered. You don’t have a shovel.”

“I’ll make one, Jesla. When the snow melts.”

One day he came home with four fat rabbits. Jesla was ecstatic and tried to jump up and down, but she was too weak. He made broth and stew from three of them and fed them to her over the next three days. She seemed to get much stronger.

The fourth he kept for himself. At the spring, he drained the blood from it, sucking at the carotid artery like a baby at its mother’s breast. Then he ripped the skin off with his teeth and ate the still warm meat, cracking the bones to suck the marrow. He prayed constantly to Weiran while he did it.

When the trapping slacked off again, he grew desperate. They were four months into winter, with another two to go, and the last was always the hardest. They had eaten literally everything edible in the cabin, and Kachelsis -- or the wolves of Weiran, which he occasionally still heard howling -- had decimated the game within a five-mile radius.

They snapped at each other constantly. She often woke in her sleep, asking for her mother. She asked him several times a day when they were going home, and when he replied that they were home, she laughed her dry cough of a laugh and said no, when are we going home? He didn’t know what to tell her.

All he could think about was blood. Her blood. Her blood had run in the baby’s veins and it had been so good and she had so much of it.

Finally, as if desperate to make one last stand, she exploded at him one day. “This is your fault! You brought me here to die! I hate you! I hate you!” She began punching him with weak, ineffectual strokes. “I hate you!”

“Me? You came here. You married me. You didn’t have to marry me. You could have stayed in the city with your mother in your big house with your servants and fireplaces and your damned witchcraft. We wouldn’t be dying if it hadn’t been for you and your spell.” He picked up his axe and headed for the kitchen and the trapdoor.

“Me? It was your damned bastard heathen god who did this!” With utter hopeless strength she struggled to lift the great iron bar from the door. Swaying, she cried, “You hear me, Weiran? You’re a rotten bastard! You’re nothing! Nothing! I dare you to strike me! I dare you! Bastard!”

Kachelsis came from behind and slung her across the room. She kept her balance somehow and ran for the kitchen.

“You started this,” he grunted, following. “You and your spell. You damned me. You made me eat him.” The axe was light in his right hand. He reached for her with his left. “Your spell,” he said distantly, “what was your spell? What was your spell?”

Horror flooded her features as she realized what he was saying. My baby, my baby...you ate my baby. You ate my baby, you ate my baby, you ate my baby!” She was screaming now, thrashing her emaciated body at him, trying to harm him with sheer force of will. Her hands found a large knife and swung it at him.

He caught her knife arm as it came around at him, squeezing the wrist until bones popped. “The spell, woman! What was the spell?” She screamed as her wrist snapped and splintered bones broke through the skin. The sharp points drove into his own hands, drawing blood that mixed with hers. The mingling of their blood, it was like their marriage ceremony, an Ystan ceremony, and maybe Weiran had been angry about that, too.

She was passing out now from loss of blood. It poured onto the floor, running between the fitted planks in little streams and rivulets. He opened his hard brown hand and looked at her fragile one, broken and bleeding. Her delicate wedding bracelet was crushed into the bloody pulp of her wrist. He felt a pang of love for her, but he loved her blood more, and so, before she could suffer any longer, he let her slide to the floor and removed her beautiful head.