Tales of Earth-E: The Phantom Stranger
A Times Past Tale
The Hounds of Halloween

Ireland-869 AD
A cold late-October fog lay like a death shroud covering the
countryside beyond the Viking fortress known to Ireland's natives as
Ath Cliath. Beyond the fog, the sun disappeared below the horizon.

In a clearing ringed by ancient oaks, a single torch rested on a
half-buried boulder. Gathered around the feeble light, a dozen
warriors plan yet another raid on their country's invaders. Despite
their resolve to see the Vikings gone, each one in attendance suffers
from a fear of the unknown.

"They plant rumors as the farmer plants seeds," one of the
warriors said. "They know fear is a powerful weapon."

"Just as we do," another countered. "Yet, if there is even a
single grain of truth in their rumors, we face a danger unlike any we
can truly comprehend."

Back and forth the arguments flew, until a low, mournful howl
reached the clearing. All conversation stopped.

Forming a ring around the stone, the warriors felt its solid
strength at their backs as they searched the trees for the source of
the howl.

"There." One of the warriors pointed to twin pinpoints of sickly
green light in the ever-darkening shadows of the trees.

"And over here, as well."

"I see a pair in this direction."

The final tally was nine sets of what could only be eyes.

For the moment, the eyes were content merely with watching the
gathering of humans. An eerie silence permeated the clearing.

"By Morrigan's Spear," one of the warriors finally muttered. "I
wish the foul beasts would do something other than stare." An instant
later, she got her wish.

One set of eyes receded into the darkness and, seconds later,
two large black horses pulled a chariot to the edge of the clearing.
The reigns were held in the grip of a man of impossible stature.

Standing well over 7-feet tall, the man was as dark and as
mighty as the oaks that surrounded the clearing. A beard of thick
black wire rested unruly on his massive chest, and equally wild hair
sprout in all directions from beneath a helmet of black leather. The
horns of an ancient stag protruded from the sides of the helmet.
Armor of leather and crude iron, each as black as the depths of Hell,
clung to his muscular frame like a second skin. A broad-headed spear
a foot-and-a-half taller than its owner was gripped in his other hand.

"Wod," one of the warriors whispered. "The rumors are true."

"Rumors," the first warrior spat. "I see a giant of a man, but a
man nonetheless. And a man, any man, can die."

Almost in answer to the warrior's challenge, Wod lifted his
head. His eyes glowed with the same sickly green glow as his
companions. A deep laugh began to roll across his lips until he threw
his head back and his laugh became a howl.

Nine monstrous hounds stepped from the forest and joined their
master in his howl. Without warning, the howling stopped.

Then, the master spoke.

His voice was thick, gravelly, and bore the accent of a wrath-
filled Norseman. "In the middle of the path!" he roared.

"There is no damnable path," the first warrior muttered.

And with a howl that could chill the blood of the archangels,
the master and his hounds charged.

* * * * *

The last of the morning fog dissolved beneath touch of the sun
to reveal a stranger standing outside the eastern gate of Ath Cliath,
called Dublin by the Vikings who made it their home.

His clothing was a mix of generations past, the most prominent
of his attire being a Roman cloak, once crimson now dyed black. He
leaned against a spear as though it were nothing more than a staff.
He pushed a stray strand of fiery red hair out of his eyes and stared
up at the top of the wall.

The guards on the wall exchanged glances with one another, not
sure what to make of the man.

With a sigh, the stranger shook his head, turned, and walked
away.

"Is this my lot, to once again serve as an instrument of Your
hand?" he asked the wind.

No one knew from whence he came, yet all gave him wide berth
when he was encountered along his way. He offered no greetings and
gave his name, a name he had long since relinquished, to none. This,
however, did not stop those he met from naming him themselves.

By the day's end, the story his appearance outside the gates of
the enemy had spread throughout the countryside. No one knew why he
was here, but all knew that his coming was to one day be remembered
as an important event. Everyone whispered his new name.

Corrin. It meant "the spearman".

As he passed by a solitary thatch-roofed hut at the forest's
edge, the stranger was surprised to hear the voice of a young woman
drawing nearer. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps it was
loneliness after years of travel, whatever the reason, he stopped and
turned towards the voice.

The young woman, little more than a child really, slowly
approached him. Her auburn hair was woven into a single braid that
trailed down the middle of her back. Soft brown eyes looked at him as
she spoke.

"Has He sent you?"

The stranger's brow furrowed. "He who?"

The girl looked around, stepped closer, then whispered. "The
Christian God."

"Yes," he answered.

"Then come." The girl grabbed him by the hand and began to lead
the stranger into the forest. Not sure of what was taking place, he
allowed himself to be guided along.

"Where are you taking me...?"

"Lea," the young woman said. "I am called Lea. To the place
where the warriors fell three nights past. What is your name?"

"I have had many names," the stranger said softly. "You may call
me by the name your people gave me, Corrin."

"They say that the Vikings called upon Wod," the girl said. "He
came with his hounds and killed the warriors in the clearing."

Corrin had not known the reason he was drawn to Ath Cliath, only
that a great evil was taking place. As he neared the clearing, the
stench of the evil that he must soon confront became overpowering. He
started to ask the girl more about this "Wod", but knew that she had
already told him all she knew.

In the clearing, the first thing Corrin saw was the half-buried
boulder. Slowly, he approached and began to circle the blood stained
stone, his eyes taking in every spatter. Next, he examined the
trampled ground.

"This is not a place of battle," he said after several
minutes. "This is a place of slaughter."

Lea pointed to a spot on the ground. "That is where my cousin's
sword was found. Though drawn, it had not tasted the blood of her
enemy. None of the warriors' weapons did."

Corrin knelt down and examined the ground more closely. "I find
no evidence of an attacker, save for the stench of evil."

"'Twas the hounds of Wod," Lea whispered.

"Wod?" Corrin asked.

"The Master of the Hunt, called by the Vikings," the girl said.

"That is the second time you have said as such," Corrin
replied. "Who is this Wod?"

"They say that a Viking witch called him forth using foul
magicks. He rides forth with his hounds of Hell to kill the enemies of
the Norsemen. They say that he calls his targets to the middle of the
path, and if they move to the middle of the path, they are spared."

"But, there is no path here," Corrin observed.

"He chose a place where the warriors could not find mercy," Lea
said.

"How did you know what had happened?"

"We heard the baying of the hounds," the girl told him.

The girl's words were barely out of her mouth when the most
macabre of coincidences occurred. An eerie howl drifted into the
clearing.

Lea screamed and leapt to Corrin's side.

"Listen to me," Corrin said. "You must do exactly as I say."

Numb with fright, the girl nodded.

"Keep your back to this stone," he told her. "No matter what
happens, you must stay next to it."

Without waiting for a reply, Corrin took the spear he carried
and touched the point to the ground. Walking around the stone, he
made a circle around both it and the girl. He made a second circuit,
ensuring that there were no gaps in what he had drawn.

"Do not step beyond this boundary," he said. "You will be
protected."

As Corrin stepped across the circle, careful not to disturb it,
he raised the spear and readied himself for an attack. Once he was
well outside the protection he had called up for Lea, he glanced back.

His face showed no expression as the spirits of the twelve slain
Irish warriors appeared. From inside the circle, Lea saw only the
stranger, yet the ghostly figures stood on the circle, weapons drawn,
with no other task than that of protecting her.

"Keep her safe," Corrin commanded them.

The twelve nodded.

Less than a minute later, Wod, in his chariot, and his nine
hounds emerged from the trees. Their appearance was even more
unsettling than Corrin expected.

"You have no place here," Corrin said in a voice stronger than
should have been possible. "Return to your realm beyond the sight of
man."

"In the middle of the path!" was the only reply Wod offered.

Leveling his spear in front of him, Corrin took a step towards
his foe. "I walk the path laid before me. It is a path from which you
are forever barred."

"I know of you, Stranger," Wod said. "Today, you shall die on
your path."

Sensing their master's will, the hounds charged the enemy. As
they came, a dreadful howl filled the air.

Corrin met the lead hound with a forceful swipe of his spear. As
the tip struck the creature, its howl faded into silence while the
hound was reduced to a dissipating infernal mist. The fate of its
alpha had no effect on the rest of the pack.

A second hound leaped, and, planting the butt of his spear in
the creature's belly, Corrin sent it soaring over his head and
towards the circle of protectors that surrounded Lea. The ethereal
blade of a warrior clove it in two, sending it back to its hellish
place of birth.

Continuing the movement that sent one hound flying, Corrin
whipped the point up and caught a third hound through the muzzle. In
thirty seconds, the number of hounds had been reduced by one third.

At some unspoken command from Wod, the remaining hounds attacked
en masse. Four of the beasts snapped and snarled at Corrin while the
remaining two attempted to reach Lea.

The girl was well protected and her attackers were soon
dispatched. Corrin was not as lucky.

The man went down hard under the weight of the hounds. As he
struggled to protect his throat with the shaft of his spear, Corrin
felt their hot breath and the sharp teeth of one of the beasts sink
into his arm. The pain was beyond anything he had ever felt in his
unnaturally long life.

An evil laugh echoed over the din of his battle with the hounds,
and Corrin knew that Wod was drawing near.

"Enough!" Corrin roared. At his pronouncement, four gouts of
flame erupted from the earth and consumed the hounds.

"That finishes your pets," he said as he climbed to his feet.

Wod struck out with the butt of his own spear, catching Corrin
in the right shoulder and spinning him around.

"They were barely more than specters," Wod snarled, "as you
shall soon be."

"A stranger am I now, and a specter I may one day be," Corrin
said as he let his momentum spin him completely around, "but your
time on Earth is at an end."

Wod lunged at the man, but Corrin sidestepped the attack and
drove the point of his spear into the huntsman's calf.

The man went down, but regained his feet before Corrin could
take three breaths. Holding his spear in outstretched hands, the
unholy green energy that burned in his eyes began to flow down his
cheeks and dance along his arms. It coalesced around the spear. With
the unfettered rage of those who called him, Wod struck.

Corrin got his spear up just in time to block the attack. When
the two spears met, an explosion of eldritch energy filled the
clearing.

The spirits of the twelve warriors were obliterated, and Lea was
thrown from the circle. Wod's chariot and horses, too, were lost in
the explosion. The huntsman himself ended up flat on the ground, his
chest, face, and hands filled with the splinters that was once his
spear.

When the light finally faded, Corrin stood firm. The only
visible evidence of what he had just survived were the wisps of
eldritch steam rising from his body and the streak of silver that
decorated a shock of his fiery red hair.

Battered and beaten, Wod looked up at the man who had beaten
him. He started to speak when his body began to evaporate like dew at
the coming dawn.

Corrin went to check on Lea. She was unconscious, but at least
she still lived. Lifting the girl gently in his arms, he started back
towards her village.

As he walked, he could already feel the drawing power that would
lead him, unerring, to another confrontation with evil. In the coming
years, the name Lea's people had given him would be forgotten and he
would be remembered as nothing more than a phantom stranger.