[Gwathagor]

Why here?

The storm had passed southward, leaving the evening air warm and clean Occasional rolls of thunder could still be heard in the distance as the sun went down in Stock and the shadows of the three companions grew long: elf, man, and hobbit.

Why here?

This question had troubled him ever since he arrived in Stock. Why had the wolves chosen this particular village of this particular land to invade? Certainly the Shire was a prosperous land, but the wolves had passed many settlements and villages during their long trek down out of the cold north, so they were certainly not hunting for food. What was it that drew them here, far from their accustomed territory?

One by one, the sun's rays were extinguished behind the distant horizon of hills in the west. Darkness fell in Stock, and a chill wind blew down from the north. The elf wrapped his cloak around him tighter and looked over at Songo, who held his pitchfork tightly in both hands, staring grimly out over the fence and past the lane into the woodlands beyond. A few paces away, Jims crouched low behind a tree, waiting with a rather disconsolate look on his face. The elf smiled. Unlikely warriors, these two. This would be the strangest battle he had fought - in a long time, at any rate.

"Jims, Songo. When they come, there will be many of them - more than thirty. They will strike together, as a massed force, and will try to overwhelm us. Fortunately, we do not need to kill them all, only enough of them to make the attack not worthwhile for them."

He didn't know this for sure. Indeed, until he knew why they had come, he could not know how to stop them. What were they hunting? What prey did they seek this far south? The question reverberated through his mind, striking deep subconscious chords; the answer felt familiar and close, something he had overlooked. And yet, it evaded him.

"Look! To the east," said Songo, pointing. They looked.

The moon was rising.

A great silver-blue circle it swung up over the trees. A howl floated up into the night sky. Then a score of others, startlingly close, took up the call. They rose swiftly to a frenzied, chilling cacophony, and then fell silent just as quickly. The elf looked at both of his friends and nodded.

"Do not risk yourselves unnecessarily."

Jims nodded emphatically. He appeared visibly shaken by the wolves battle cry, but he rose to his feet and gritted his teeth nonetheless. Songo muttered angrily to himself.

Then they came, bounding silently across the road. Over the fence and the gate and into the orchard of the Golden Perch loped the Draugring, sleek silver beasts with blue light in their eyes.

Out flashed the elven sword of Doriath, its single blue gem glittering as fiercely as the eyes of the wolves. The first wolf sped straight towards the bearer of the sword, and found itself suddenly swept aside, slashed wide open. It hit the ground with a whimper and chaos broke loose all around. Snarling, whirling tails, and flashing eyes swirled about the trees and about the three companions. With a surprisingly ferocious yell, Songo killed his first wolf as it, leaping towards him, found itself impaled upon his pitchfork. He jerked the farm implement out of the wolf's corpse and turned to face his next foe. Stab, jerk, stab, jerk. Had the elf been watching, he would have seen the hobbit repeat the process many times that evening, as dead and wounded wolves began to accumulate about him. But he was not watching. He was caught up in the fight, oblivious to his surroundings, slashing left, whirling right, hacking down, lunging, dodging, and stabbing, he flew about like a whirlwind of cold steel and fury. Wolves dropped dead about him, piling up like leaves in a forest, and still they came on. 20 wolves had met that length of steel before he began to slow down and reckon with the situation.

Jims had watched as Songo stabbed a wolf with the pitchfork and turned away to face another. He had watched as the first wolf pulled itself to its feet and prepared to tear Songo from behind. He had then found himself charging forward, staff raised high, half-surprised at what he was doing. The wolf turned too late, but just in time to see Jims's staff crack down between his eyes. After he recovered from the initial shock, he began to run about, finishing wounded wolves with swift blows to the head - and more than once saving Songo's life.

One by one, thought the elf. They are attacking Songo one at a time. He is not their prey, which means that...

He looked and suddenly realized that the wolves were attacking him, surrounding him. They didn't care about Songo and Jims, or The Golden Perch or the Shire at all. They wanted him. Or something he carried.

The locket. The realization seared through his brain. But why?

Ignoring the question, he renewed his attack, hurtling forward into the ranks of wolves, striking down the beasts left and right. The circle broke and reformed, and was devastated again and again by the indomitable elf-warrior, whose spirit burnt cold and fierce like his long, bright sword.

Then, suddenly, the wolves drew back, away from the three, who found themselves side by side. The ranks parted, and forward stepped an enormous black beast of a wolf. Around its massive neck was a silver collar, and in its eyes was a deep, burning hatred. Slowly it moved forward and began to circle.

The elf spoke slowly and steadily to Songo and Jims, never taking his eyes off the great wolf chieftain.

"I think you both ought to leave now...it doesn't want you. They're after me, they'll leave you alone...if you RUN!!"

He shouted the last word in command and simultaneously leapt forward towards the monster.

It was the last word Jims and Songo heard him speak, and they obeyed. Only when they reached the door of the inn did they stop to look back. In the moonlight they saw the elf's sword flashing down in a great arc, and then the ring of wolves breaking and rushing upon him. He disappeared for a moment under the wave of fur and claws, but soon rose out of the tangle, sword-first. There he stood for a brief moment, outlined in the silvery light, fighting on madly and elegantly as the number of wolves dwindled. Then, suddenly, he broke free, and the last they saw of him was his ragged blue cloak blowing in the wind as he vanished into the forest, running. North. The wolves followed him.

He was running again, as he had for so long. In his hand he clutched the locket which was the center of all the questions which haunted the dark corners of his soul, which were now simultaneously pursuing him and being pursued by him. Ahead, he thought perhaps to find the answers he sought...and perhaps a certain elf-maiden who had once given him the locket. Behind, he left a village stirred by a cold breeze, and a dead wolf wearing a silver collar.