MOONLIT LOVE

Pilgrimage

The Highlanders had finished piling the last of their spoils onto the carts, their grins wide, spirits high despite the blood and loss around them. As they bandaged their wounds, Dougal opened a flask, passing it around with a chuckle.

"To the spoils of softies!" he said, and the others laughed, clapping each other on the back.

Their revelry was interrupted by the sound of feet scrambling down the rocks above. A young lad, their lookout, tumbled down the hillside, his face pale and wild-eyed. He wasn’t Highland-born—too slight, too soft—but he was quick, and his eyes were sharp.

“Wolves!” the boy panted, his voice tinged with desperation. “Wolves coming!”

Brannock raised an eyebrow, unconcerned. “Wolves, eh? Bah, a couple of howlin’ strays drawn to the smell of blood. Good fur for the cloaks if they’re big enough. Let’s see how they fare against Highland steel.”

The bandits around him chuckled, nodding in agreement.

But the boy shook his head frantically, “No, no! Many wolves! A whole pack—like an army!”

He tried to show them with his hands, widening his arms and looking frantic. At this, the laughter faded. Brannock’s grin disappeared, and he exchanged wary glances with his men. No one in the Blackwood had ever seen a gathering of wolves like that.

“Stop standin’ there and start covering our tracks!” Brannock barked, his voice a low growl. “Let’s go, lads, hide the blood as best you can!”

But just as they started to cover the scene, the distant sound of paws, soft and rhythmic, reached their ears. Soon the wolves came into view, their eyes flashing in the dim light, sleek and silent as shadows moving through the trees. There were more than the bandits could count. Massive, with coats glistening in shades of black, gray, and white, the wolves trotted forward as if driven by some ancient, silent purpose.

The bandits crouched in the cover of their cave, hearts racing, as the wolf pack passed. Not a single animal paused or sniffed in their direction, but their eyes briefly flickered toward the humans in the cave, as if acknowledging their presence before moving on, unconcerned.

Dougal let out a shaky breath. “I’d rather face ten Eirenthean merchants than that. Those wolves…” he swallowed, “they’re no ordinary pack.”

The lad who had warned them huddled near Dougal, his small frame trembling. “I’ve never seen wolves like that. They’re—they’re headin’ somewhere. Almost like they’re on a pilgrimage.”

Brannock watched the pack disappear into the dense shadows, his mind whirring. Something felt… different, even sacred about the scene. It was unnatural. His hand went to the hilt of his sword instinctively.

“Dougal,” Brannock muttered, his voice low but firm. “Follow them. See where they’re goin’ and what they’re after. I’ve got a feelin’ there’s more to this than we’re seein’.”

Dougal glanced back at him, hesitant. But a Highlander didn’t question his leader’s orders, not if he valued his life. With a resigned nod, he set off, moving stealthily into the trees after the wolves, his footfalls barely making a sound.

As the night deepened, the rest of the bandits took refuge in the cave, the celebration of their victory over the merchants now soured by an uneasy silence. They busied themselves sorting through their loot, their minds distracted, their ears straining to hear any sign of Dougal or the wolves.

One of the younger bandits muttered, “Strange, ain’t it? Wolves don’t move in such numbers. Not like that.”

Another, an older man with a scarred face, grunted, “This is Blackwood. Nothing’s normal here. Best be grateful they didn’t turn on us.”

Hours passed, the quiet inside the cave becoming as oppressive as the dark woods outside. Finally, Dougal returned, his face pale, eyes wide with an intensity that made even Brannock pause.

“Leader,” Dougal’s voice was barely more than a whisper, “you’re not going to believe what I saw.”

Brannock straightened, narrowing his eyes. “Out with it, Dougal. What did you find?”

Dougal took a deep breath, “The wolves… they were gathered around the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen—bigger than any beast I’ve heard of. And the way they looked at him… it was like they were all answerin’ to him. All those wolves, around this… this black beast.”

Silence filled the cave as the men absorbed this. Brannock’s eyes narrowed, a dark suspicion forming in his mind.

“Big as a horse, was he?” Brannock asked in a low tone, a hint of unease in his voice.

Dougal nodded slowly. “Aye. And those eyes… I swear, there was somethin’ almost human in ‘em. I thought it was just tales, leader, but now…”

Brannock scowled, a feeling of dread sinking in. He knew the legends that haunted these woods. People spoke of a creature, a wolf beyond wolves, whose very presence could drive lesser beasts mad with terror. Some said it was the spirit of Thornwall’s first lord, cursed to wander the forest.

“The Black Wolf,” he muttered, almost to himself.

One of the bandits, who’d been quietly eavesdropping, looked up sharply. “The Black Wolf? You’re sayin’… you think that was him?”

Brannock shook his head, though his face betrayed his concern. “I don’t know. But we’re not takin’ chances. Thornwall needs to know. If the Black Wolf’s stirring, it might mean trouble for all of us. We’re headin’ back.”

His men exchanged uneasy glances. One spoke up, “Leader, it’s nearly nightfall. We can’t march the Dark Forest paths in the dark without a risk of gettin’ lost… or worse.”

Brannock’s expression hardened. “Cowards, the lot of you. We’re Highlanders! We don’t let superstition make us weak. We pledged our loyalty to Thornwall and to Roderic. If Thornwall falls, we fall with it.”

The men, reluctantly convinced by Brannock’s sharp tone, began gathering up their loot, leaving the untouched remnants of the merchant wagons behind. It was an unspoken rule that any spoils taken within the Blackwood must be shared with the Grand Council, but the bandits knew well enough to conceal the best of their finds. The Grand Council might expect a cut, but they had no need to know about every coin.