A Night of Burns
A story of Elfhame
© 2026 by Walter Reimer
Blame assigned to  EOCostello
Thumbnail by  tegerio, color by  Major Matt Mason
Draconic courtesy of rot13.com


Seven



The next shipment of [Tears of the Trees], the potent and much-sought-after persimmon brandy, went south a day later, along with several stoneware jars of persimmon jam to grace the Royal tables and a variety of Glenallid cheeses. Accompanying the cheeses was a paw-carved cheeseboard engraved with what I was assured was the new village arms of Glenallid, consisting of a pair of roebuck antlers with a wolf’s paw between them, and what the Wanderers call a ‘hex-sign,’ sort of a stylized sunburst, on the paw.

Obviously I would have to wait for the Royal Skunks’ reactions to the addition to their tithe, as a few days after the wagon went south I showed up in Glenallid before dawn in a pair of worn trousers and a warm coat, standing among a group of similarly-dressed wolves and roebucks as freezing rain came down.

Sergeant MacGonagall was pacing around, a spear roughly as tall as he was gripped in one paw. There was a small crossbar maybe a foot below the iron tip of the weapon. Most of the other wolves in the group also had spears, while others had ropes. “Right, tha ‘orrible lot!” he said, his voice carrying. “Goal’s ta git as many sheep as’ll feed th’ whole lot of us, with some fer th’ Lady Windimere an’ th’ boys. There’s wild flock away north-kattywampus from us – aye, Master?”

I lowered my paw. “Why not use some of the penned sheep for the dinner?”

“We will if we must,” MacGonagall said, “but they’re needed, an’ feral sheep gives th’ haggis a fine flavor, as tha’ll find.” The other wolves winked, grinned, or gently elbowed each other in a knowing way. “’Sides,” the sergeant added, “it’s great sport.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said, trying hard to keep from sounding too sarcastic. A spear was put into my paws and we all started out.

My breath steamed and I managed, Fuma knows how, to avoid slipping on the rain-slick grass. I saw several farmer-bucks and their lupine counterparts watching the hunt go past, and they would exchange grins after spotting me.

In addition to that, I spotted a short wolf sporting what could best be described as Mephitist plaid, a riot of clashing colors, and a matching flat cap. I know a punter when I see one, and when I saw him open a small notebook warded against the rain my supposition was confirmed.

Most of the betting, I was sure, was coming from the roebucks, but honors were likely equal between them and the wolves. The betting was probably on how many sheep were brought down, who got first blood (and who would give first blood), and how many members of the hunting party would require healing spells.

Still, it was nice of MacGonagall to specify that some of the bag would go to Windimere, Westie and Windie. It was a good way to get in the wyrms’ good graces.

“Oi!” I called out to the wolf with the flat cap. He trotted up to me and I asked, “Any odds on a sheep getting caught on Mount Humbert?”

He whistled. “Alpha nuzzle ye, master, but odds’re long on that.”

“How long?” I pressed.

He checked his notebook. “Hunnert ta one.”

“Hmm.” I pulled out a copper. “I’ll take a piece of that.” He nodded matter-of-factly and made a notation in his notebook while I jogged to keep up with the rest of the pack.

At a sudden paw-motion from one wolf, everyone stopped and dropped to their knees. He peered past the grass on the hilltop in front of him and gestured with his left paw. A third of the wolves and a few roebucks started moving to the right, keeping out of sight. The lead wolf glanced behind, saw me, and waved me forward.

I low-crawled on my belly through the wet grass and ended up beside him. “How many?” I whispered.

“Bit o’er a score,” he whispered back. “Some o’ t’lads movin’ doonwind.” He tapped the side of his head, indicating that he was in Elf-mind contact with at least one member of the party. “Tha’ll gimme word, an’ then we’ll see sport. Alpha willin,’ they’ll coom straight at us.”

I realized why the spear I held had a crossbar just below the point. It was designed to keep whatever I stabbed with the spear at arm’s length.

“But wait,” I hear you suddenly protesting, “what are you doing with a spear and about to spit some mutton on the hoof? Aren’t you a deer?”

Well, that’s all true, but I’m a soldier, and I’ve seen blood before. I was also the village’s laird, out on a hunt with a pack of wolves, and I really couldn’t let the side down, could I? Besides, there were some other roebucks out on the hunt, and I can only assume they were just caught up in the sport of it.

The wolf I’d been talking to suddenly flicked his ears and I felt all the others around me tense up.

There was a sudden clamor of noise in the distance, followed by panicked bleating and the sound of racing hooves getting nearer. On the reverse slope of the hill, those of us with spears braced.

One sheep, a fat ewe, came rocketing over the hill directly over me and I struck upward hard enough to make her end a swift one and to spatter me with blood. Two unarmed wolves applauded my effort and dragged the animal away as the initial onrush broke down into scattered groups of wolves and bucks pursuing individual sheep.

“Ah! Tha’s fair bluided, Laird!” one young wolf said as he ran past me, chasing one sheep. I was sort of caught up in it now, so I took off after him, my spear in one paw.

Off in the distance behind us, someone had gotten a baglute from their Elfintory and was playing some sort of jaunty tune.

We’d been hunting in a field sort of widdershins of Grace’s Grotto, and the sheep dashed past the splotch of fair weather and sunshine. I waved to a very surprised and bemused ghostly skunk and kept going, aware that another sheep had run this way and landed in the pond, much to Ooo-er and the Wolf Queen’s surprise. But I didn’t have time to say anything, as our quarry was headed in the direction of the [Star-Mirror].

Now, wolves can’t move as fast as deer, but they can eat up the leagues and the wolf I was trailing was gaining on his quarry. I gritted my teeth and put my hooves into it and began to catch up when the young fellow leaped and landed on the sheep’s back. The pair started running all over the place and finally went into the [Star-Mirror] with a thunderous splash.

I caught up in time to see that the wolf had the young ram in a headlock. “Glad ye’re here, sah!” the lupine cried. “C’mon an’ use tha’ stick – errr . . . “ His voice trailed off and he looked up.

And up.

I followed suit. “Hello, Windimere.”

My wyvern friend sniffed at me and gave a dainty snort that bathed me in nice warm air. “{Lbh fzryy},” she said. “{Bs furrc oybbq.}”

“I’ve been hunting,” I said. Elves Don’t Lie.

She angled her head and gazed at the now-terrified wolf, who was still gripping the sheep. “{Lbh oebhtug qvaare, naq lbh rira jnfurq vg. Gunax lbh!}” She glanced behind her, where Westie and Windie were peering out of the den’s much warmer confines. “{Zrng’f onpx ba gur zrah, oblf.}”

“{Lnl!}” the two young wyrms chorused.

Convincing the wolf to let go of his prize was easy, especially after Windimere bared her teeth, and we headed back. He trotted on ahead, and I was starting to feel a little wet, cold and tired. I paused at the base of a hill, and my ears swiveled at a sound.

I looked up and it was him.

[Killer Diller.]

The ram was huge, with unkempt and shaggy fleece as black as a moonless night, his beady eyes like red-hot coals. He had four horns, one missing a tip and one looking like it had notches cut into it.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

[Killer Diller] snorted and stamped one hoof.




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