There is something about having a litter of pups that lifts the spirits. Perhaps that's true for everyone, but if so, it may be more true for someone like Heriwulf, who spends so much of his life's energy on the care of hounds that their spirits influence his. In the past he'd always found this cheering up to be welcome, for he tended to be a serious and sometimes dour fellow, his eyes fixed on the pragmatic needs of the day, his heart darkened by the tragedies he'd seen and endured, his outlook tending towards the pessimistic. Or so people told him. (Perhaps the contrast with his sister Aelfrida, who seemed undauntable, didn't help any.) But today, the infusion of joy from seeing pups wriggling against their mother, starting to clumsily explore the birthing shed, of piling atop one another for warmth, felt unwelcome.
The news at the clan moots had been more and more dire, ever since the day when he had, reluctantly, accepted the position of nominal chieftain.
At first, the Chetwood, and Bree-land in general, had seemed so welcoming, so easy. Mild winters, friendly neighbors, fewer orcs and goblins, easier hunting and foraging, and most of all, a healthy, thriving forest, untouched by the creeping poisons of the Shadow. It was like what the Woodmen had, for generations, hoped for, dreamed of, worked towards with no hope of seeing it themselves, only imagining their descendants might one day dwell in the shelter of Greenwood the Great again. Of their first year in Eriador, the clan had spent some of it expecting to leave soon, then when it became more and more clear the Brown Wizard would be in these lands a long time, they had built a lodge and a few other homes and service buildings, all with that middle-of-summer feeling of no hurry, for the lands around them were friendly.
But now, in addition to wolves displaced by loggers, growing hungry and desperate, they had word of at least three different tribes of orcs and goblins dwelling a few hours to the north, near the great lake. Thus far, Hildegund and Faron had not seen one another to reconcile the differences in their accounts. Probably it meant that the orcs were on the move, or had reacted to Faron's attack by moving, or for some other reason, the situation was fluid. But without accurate information they couldn’t be sure what level of threat the orcs represented.
But it was clearly a great, and serious, threat. Back home, a gathering of this size would have been little danger; the doughty warriors of the Woodmen would gather and drive them back, and perhaps use the opportunity to train their younger, unblooded warriors. Living within the twisted Mirkwood, a clan would face far worse than a few score disgruntled orcs. But here, with no stockade, with a clan of less than a dozen (and not all warriors), and most damningly, with no other clans nearby to help, nor the followers of Beorn in their lodge, even a small clutch of orcs could, if they chanced to wander this way, be the end of the clan, quickly and painfully.
He tried to put on the bravest, most calm and collected, face he could. Leadership, he thought, required making the clan feel they could rise to this challenge, for a dispirited clan was a clan handicapped by their own doubts. He didn't think he was doing very well at it, though. When Aelfrida announced that it was nearly two months more before the stockade would be completed, his heart had nearly sunk right out of his chest.
There had been a moment where he'd felt some hope, before that. Hildegund noted that it was not one tribe, but several, and not even closely related ones, for they had to use Westron to speak amongst one another. That was itself worrisome, for it suggested a leader that had gathered them for some purpose. (It might not be any greater purpose than because some larger orc wanted to be a warlord; but even so, that still made them less aimless than orc tribes tended to be.) But it spoke of opportunity. Fractious by nature, and often easily fooled, orcs could be tricked into becoming their own worst enemies. Stealthy tactics to fool one tribe into thinking another one had attacked it, stolen from it, defaced its banners, and the like, could set them to wiping each other out. And of all the people in Far-Scout's clan, there were none better qualified for such tactics than Hildegund and Faron. He had visions of Hildegund moving silently into one camp to steal arrows, as she'd herself suggested, then passing them to Faron who could plant them in the hearts of another tribe from such a great distance they couldn't see the archer and would assume they'd come from the first tribe's camp. In his vision they fell upon one another and soon there were so few left that he could lead the rest of the tribe in with axe and spear, and soon, all of Bree-land would be safe from a threat it had never even known about.
Which would only further make them complacent, he thought. They already seemed to think there was nothing they had to worry about, which is why they had no aid to offer. His overtures about how they might react to an orc threat had been met by incredulity -- surely no orcs would come out of their caves and burrows and cross great distances of plain under bright sun just to strike at their villages! Why, such things simply had never happened here in living memory! Which might be so, though Heriwulf couldn't help think these villages had better luck than they deserved, as if someone else was also saving them from threats they never even saw coming.
But while a strategy of trickery was promising, it was also risky: if it didn't wipe the orcs out, any that survived would no longer be wandering aimlessly, or pursuing some other purpose, but would move straight for the clan's dwellings in a hunger for revenge. Hence why he hoped the stockade could be completed first. Destroy most of the clutch, then retreat to defensible positions and weather the counter-attack until it is broken. But could they wait for the stockade to be done? The only virtue in the sabotage plan was that it could be executed soon, while the tribes were fractious and not yet moving towards some uniting purpose. But by the time the stockade was done that moment might have passed.
So hurry the building, of course. But how? The only answer was to get help. But the village-folk wouldn't help, not without pennies to pay for it. If they had some, they could buy lumber (though he knew Aelfrida would object to buying the very cutting that was causing the wolves to be starved), or hire workers. But their pennies had never been that many, and they'd traded most of them for tools and supplies; most of what was left was currently saved for livestock Ljota would tend, and even if it was diverted, it would not buy nearly enough help. He'd been counting up how much he might get by selling off some of the goods they'd carried over the mountains, like cook-pots and forks, but none of it seemed of particular value. If Faron were willing to keep hunting, they could make a good few pennies that way, since hunting in winter is scarce, but people are no less hungry; but hunting in winter is scarce, for good reason (as Hildegund had pointed out), and in any case, Faron had refused to even consider it. (Perhaps if someone else had asked she might feel differently? The mere thought of that made his blood boil; she made such a show of giving some of her honey to the clan, for instance, and it was greatly appreciated, but that it was her honey in the first place was maddening, as no one else treated the fruit of their efforts as belonging to themselves rather than the clan. Perhaps she'd spent too much time in Bree, and their attitude had rubbed off on her.)
If only he could sell one of the puppies. He knew Ellie Cutleaf in Combe would pay many pennies for one; she did not have the means to bring new blood to her pack through the taming of wolves, and even fifty pennies would not be too much for a healthy pup that might become the sire or dam of a whole line of hounds whose sale would recoup the cost. Perhaps he should bring the idea up again. The clan had not been eager to consider it months earlier, but circumstances had changed. One pup sold for breeding purposes, for the services of ten men to build a stockade for a sennight, might seem worth it. He would inquire about prices, subtly, while he asked Cutleaf about possible causes for the rash on Gelvira's hound, so he'd be prepared to suggest the idea again.
But that was just another brief hope that he felt was going to crumble under him. The clan would reject the idea, or Cutleaf wouldn’t be willing to pay enough, or workers would be hard to find. And even if none of those things happened, a stockade was not enough, not without more Woodmen, or allies (of whom there were none to be found). Was he failing the clan?
Perhaps another visit to the pups before he headed to Combe would be a good idea after all. A smile might help him put on a brave face.
