by Robert Jones
"That's it, darlin'. We ain't going to hurt you none."
The man who spoke look wilder than his friend with the bow. His dirty face had a flattened nose, no doubt from too many fights, and his bottom lip and chin were a tangle of thick seams that contorted the skin from where he had once been cut and torn.
"Now, why don't you have bit of this cow and warm yer self by the fire, here," he said with a shine in his eye.
"Been a while since a young lass has come about this way..." he looked nervously to his friend and flicked him a smile. But the mangy brown-haired man kept his bow in hand and sized her up and down.
"What's your name?" he asked directly.
Isolde could feel the tension, they both eyes her like wild wolves about to devour their prey. She had tog et away from them, she had to move so he couldn't get a shot off with that bow.
"Why are you killing our herd?" she asked without thinking.
"To eat," said one. "Man's got a right to eat, right? Why don't you have a bite with us?"
Isolde took a hesitant step back.
"What about the ones you left to rot in the woods?" she asked.
Scarred-lip looked at his friend and they shared the same confused look with furrowed eyes and shrugging shoulders.
"Wasn't us," he said.
She squinted her eyes, trying to see a lie, but the men seemed to have no idea what she was talking about.
"What's your name?" the mangy haired man asked.
Isolde didn't like the way the men were both looking at her. She stuttered her name and both their eyes lit up. Scarred-lip went to grab at her, but Isolde was quicker. She lean't back and let his hand grasp at the air as she quickly jabbed him in the throat. Her knuckle hit the bone in his jaw as she connected and she felt the sharp pain of her wrist twisting. He fell to the ground, clutching at his neck as the other dove forward. But Isolde was gone, she took off into the woods as fast as she could and she could hear the yelling of the mangy-haired man as he kept up with the chase.
Ferns and vines lashed out at her legs as trees whirled past her. She clutched at each one and twisted a new direction to try and throw him off. But she could hear his growls and curses and the breaking of the undergrowth only a few steps behind her. He cried out and dove for Isolde as she scrambled up a slope of loose pine needles and she suddenly felt the sharp grasp of his hand around her ankle. He yanked back hard and Isolde kicked out with her free leg and caught him in the side of his head. He cried out and yanked back harder and she felt her whole body scrape along the ground. She kicked him again, and then again and again until he fell over dazed and in that moment, Isolde vaulted up the slope and kept running.
She pushed through the trees in a dizzying flow of green and yellow streaming light until she was far from where she had lost him. She slid down another slope and ducked into the hollow under a fallen pine trunk and listened to her panting breath and racing heart. She tried to steady them and slowly she could hear again and strained her ear for any sign of the chase. Birds tweeted and fluttered high above her, a stag was rutting somewhere far in the distance, but there was no sound of men or walking feet. She sighed in relief, but something in the woods answered her. It was another sigh, long and quiet, like the breathing of the wind and when Isolde strained to listen, she gasped as she realised what was being said...Isolde...it was calling her.
CHAPTER IV
She couldn’t believe it, the sighing wind that rustled the loose leaves from the trees was moaning her name. It was only faint, but she was sure of it. Isooolde…
Was it real? She couldn’t make up her mind. Maybe if she wasn’t focusing so hard then it would just be a trick of the woods. It could be fairies or elves trying to play tricks on her. Isoolde… No, she thought, she was being ridiculous. She could hear it as plain as anything.
She got to her feet and strained her ears for the sound. The blind blew in against her cheek like a soft kiss and again she heard her name. She looked around, but all she could see was the tall pines and their pines that carpeted the ground. The undergrowth rustled gently, and streams of light broke through th canopy, but there was nothing unusual at all. Isoolde… The whisper sent shivers down her spine. She took a tentative step forward, and then another and another until she was following the press of the breeze.
Every time she thought the wind had stopped or the word was only her imagination, it came again like a gentle reminder. She found the old path through the wood and began to follow it up. Isoolde… the call was getting louder. Her name was forming on the very air itself. ISOLDE!
Her heart stopped dead in her chest. The shadow, it was right there in the pathway. Hunched over like a man, with its back to her. She tried to breathe but the breath was caught in her throat. Her mind was blank yet something screamed at her to run but her feet would not move.
“Isolde,” croaked the shadow figure, and she watched as the form turned its dark head as though it was looking at her.
The thing turned full on and rose to twice her height. Its form flickered and fluttered like shadow from a flame and its body rippled as it moved forward in slow, ragged steps. Isolde couldn’t move, she couldn’t take her eyes from it. She watched it spread itself out wide like like a bat opening great wings so that the darkness became a wall that slowly enveloped her.
“Isolde,” it hissed in a shallow tone.
Hands emerged from the black abyss of the shadowy body. A set of two at first, inky black and grasping at her, and then another set ripped out, and another and another, until a wall of outstretched hands were clawing at her as the the whole thing slowly got closer and closer. Isolde tried to scream, she could feel her face contorting but no sound came out. The abyssal shadow was going to rip her apart and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
“Get back!” a voice growled and Isolde felt herself be torn away from the road.
She hit the ground hard and felt her legs scrape against the earth as she was dragged by the shoulders.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” he growled.
Isolde looked up suddenly able to breathe again. It was Wulfric, his eyes red with rage as he bore his stare down on her.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he bellowed.
“The shadow!” she stammered and she jumped up to point at the thing.
Nothing was there. An empty path with only the dark trees and sighing wind.
“That adder would have been the death of you,” Wulfric growled.
“Adder?” Isolde asked confused.
“That damned snake had you with its eyes,” he said unimpressed. “Was about to strike, then you would have known about it.”
Isolde shook her head in disbelief.
“What are you talking about?” she said sharply. “Didn’t you see it? That shadow? Those hands?”
Wulfric looked at her like she had gone mad.
“What is wrong with you?” he said. “Did you get bit? Let me see you.”
“Get away from me,” Isolde protested. “I’m fine.”
Wulfric looked at Isolde with a cocked eyebrow. He was thinking something, but Isolde couldn’t tell what.
He turned his back on her and followed the path back toward the fields. Isolde watched him for a moment and turned to look at where the shadow had been. She had seen it, she had heard it. She knew she had, it wasn’t a snake at all. She quickly turned and caught back up to Wulfric, following the man out of the woods and back out into the fields.
The dying light of the sun threw a deep orange over the pasture and Isolde instantly noticed the dark shadows of the dead cows. It couldn’t have been raiders, she told her self. They walked north toward Eyndale and a dark figure carrying a bundle caught up with them about midway.
“Wulfric, Isolde,” Ivar said with a nod as a greeting.
“Did you bring it?” Wulfric asked.
“Aye,” he replied and patted the bundle.
Isolde thought she saw the cloth move a bit and she eyed it carefully b
ut didn’t catch anything odd.
“What have you got there?” she asked as they kept walking.
“Something to show the Jarl tonight,” he replied without looking back at her.
Wulfric turned his head and caught her eye though. He stopped suddenly and she almost ran into him as he turned to face her.
“You keep your mouth shut tonight,” he growled softly. “You hear me? None of this shadow nonsense. Just sit there and listen for once.”
She screwed her eyes at him.
“Could be good to have her say her piece,” Ivar said.
Wulfric shook his head and began to walk again.
“If she’s got any wits in that hard head, our little bird will keep her mouth shut.”
CHAPTER V
Isolde's father loomed above her, he stood upright out of his dark oak throne, his face strained red with anger at his daughter's outburst.
"You will do what you are told when you are told," his voice shook the cold grey walls of the hall and silenced the crowd within.
The entire village looked on in shock as she stood against her father, defiantly meeting his gaze.
"Sit down, Isolde," he hissed between gritted teeth, the spittle catching on his trimmed brown beard.
She stood there, heart pounding in her chest, teeth gritted, fury in her eyes. She could feel the eyes of every single person in the hall. The whole town had been called together tonight for dark news such as this hadn't been heard in years.
It was a large room, easily housing the hundred or so people standing in audience. Dark oak timbers made up the floors, rubbed smooth with age. They ran from the ancient wrought-iron entrance doors all the way to the throne stage where Isolde and her father were locked in a battle of will.
A long fire pit commanded the centre of the room, running its length and held together by masterfully chiselled granites that sparkled in the tongues of flame. Great oaken pillars held the roof high and were as thick as the trees they had come from. Beautiful engravings of dragons and hounds and birds and heroes ran up and down their length.
The roof itself loomed far overhead, it was dark now in the night, but with the light of day, the thick yellow thatch could be seen glowing in the sun like ripe fields of wheat. Intricately engraved iron oil-burners hung low from the ceiling's crossbeams, they spat out tongues of fire that let off long shadows which danced across the walls and up to the seat of the Jarl himself.
Before the silent crowd, Jarl and daughter stood off, eyes locked in dread determination. He was a heavy-set man, strong and commanding, his long brown hair salted with grey. Isolde seemed so frail in comparison, her golden hair shone in the light of the flames and was perfectly parted, held back by two fine braids stretching around each side of her head before meeting at the back. Her emerald eyes sparkled as she stood proud and tall.
"Sit back down and let the grown-ups sort this out," someone from the mass called out.
Isolde shot a glance into the crowd. Her eyes lost their lustre and darkened as she glared into the gathered townsfolk. It was Wulfric who had spoken, his smug grin of chipped white teeth standing out against his darkly weathered face. She met the eyes of the hulking man, the rasping condescending tone could not have belonged to anyone else.
Isolde glanced back at her father.
"Sit down," he commanded once more.
It was all she could do before turning back to the chair behind her and slumping down into it. She closed her eyes, sighed and listened as the meeting continued.
"Why don't we just send word to King Krazkul?" old-man Ivar said in a nasal tone. "The threat would be barely a day's travel from his door."
Wulfric laughed and put a strong hand on Ivar's shoulder. "King Krazkul? I don't think he or his dwarven company have seen the light of the sun since they set foot in their mountain. You'll find no help there."
"Surely it is worth the message, these are dark tidings, Wulfric, we need help," said Ivar.
"Wulfric is right, Ivar," Isolde's father said. "We deal with these things on our own, the way we always have."
"This is no small matter of border raiders, Jarl," Ivar continued. "The harvest has never been so thin, the fields failed early, the animals are half starved, and now our livestock rot in the field."
"And what would you suggest, Ivar? If Krazkul hides in his mountain, who do we turn to? King Hrothgar? Would you ask us to bend our knees to the High-King and beg for his help?"
Ivar's lip quivered at the mention of the High-King and he broke his gaze with the Jarl.
"I will do it, Jarl," Wulfric said. "These shadows shouldn't be feared. Let me head north, if it is Orlog then she will be stowed away in her caves."
The Jarl stopped for a moment in thought and he carelessly brushed his short speckled beard.
"How do we know it is Orlog?" he slowly questioned, looking out to the congregation of people. "Why would she return now?"
The group began to murmur amongst themselves before Ivar stepped forward once more.
"Jarl," he said, "We have all seen the signs. Have you not witnessed the bloated cattle and sheep? It's witchcraft!"
"Orlog hasn't been heard of in decades, Ivar. This could be anything, some new plague for all we know. We should wait to hear the council of Skaldi."
"Skaldi!" Wulfric laughed stepping forward. "If we wait for that beggar to arrive we'll be dead by winter. Ivar, show Jarl Sigurd your lamb."
Ivar stepped up to the wooden stage, a package of wriggling rags under his arm. He hefted it to the floor before the Jarl's feet and unwrapped the rotten remains of a lamb barely six months old. Its wool soiled with filth and pus where bulbous growths swelled out the skin. Many had burst leaving sores that wept openly. Isolde nearly retched at the smell of living flesh rotting away. The poor thing squirmed, it lifted its head from the wooden floor and gagged a moan, but its swollen blue tongue had choked its airway.
"Kill the wretched thing," the Jarl ordered as his eyes darted away from the bundle of misery.
"There is more Jarl," Ivar said flipping the lamb to its other side.
Isolde couldn't hold her stomach, the bitter acid shot up to her mouth filling her eyes with tears. She choked her mouthful back down and noticed her father's eyes again dart away from the putrid animal. The side Ivar had offered him was much like the other, full of pustules and sores. But across its ribs, the wool had rotted away leaving the dark markings of the same strange three crescent moons. Red burns stood out against the pink skin and it looked as if the sigil had been seared into the skin from within.
"Get the thing out of here!" the Jarl roared.
"It's the Black Witch, Jarl, there can be no doubt," Wulfric said.
"I know," the Jarl snapped, "and I know she will tear you apart if you go."
Isolde had heard enough. "Let me go, father, she doesn't know..."
"She knows more than you think," her father roared.
Isolde cast her face down hiding the blood boiling to her cheeks. Let me speak, she silently screamed.
The Jarl paced back and forth, his eyes cast down at the floor as he rubbed his short beard. He was still a relatively young man closing in on his fortieth year, but the rigours of leadership had begun to show early through the deep furrows on his face and the grey that speckled his dark brown hair.
"Go to her cave," he said to Wulfric, "but keep your distance. If she is there, come home and we will drive her away together."
A squeaky voice shot out from the back of the crowd, "and if she is not there?"
The Jarl squinted into the low light of the hall and caught a glimpse of young Ulfer, standing on the tips of his toes as his head bobbled just over the sea of people.
"Ulfer," the Jarl smiled. "If she is not there then we will know that these shadows were only a rumour."
Isolde was clenching her fists. "Let me go with you, Wulfric! Let me prove myself."
Wulfric laughed at her, "you are too beautiful to die, young Isolde. Stay home where you are safe.
"
I am not too young! The blood ran from her face. Her eyes turned wild at the insult and before anyone could stop her she rushed at the giant of a man. I will be heard! Her eyes pinned Wulfric, his face, his scars, his long red beard hanging in two thick braids. I will be respected! She saw his smug smile, her hands flying out to tear it off his face. Crack! A sudden burst of pain threw her back reeling and she hit the floor.
Isolde was still thrashing, desperately trying to claw out before realising what had happened. The great man had thrown her off like a rag doll. The shadows of the crowd came smothering over her, the laughter assailing her ears and Isolde's stomach dropped. The laughter was one thing but her father and Wulfric were standing above her with hard eyes that made her feel ice cold.
The laughter was silenced in an instant. The great doors to the Jarl's hall were suddenly thrown open and a howling wind was released into the room that threw out the fires and chilled Isolde to the bone.
A young man stood at the entrance, his dark brown shaggy hair blowing in the wind. His outstretched arms held the entrance against the wind, a war axe in one hand, a round shield in the other. It was Harald, his eyes were wild and the gathered people looked on in shock. The Jarl pushed his way through the crowd.
"The gates..." Harald stammered. "They are at the gates!"
***
Isolde rushed from the Jarl's hall to the gate of Eyndale with the crowd at her heels. The small road led down the hill and past rows of small longhouses with their dark stone fronts and roughly thatched roofs.
The full moon had risen high into the cloudless night illuminating the world around her. The settlement's wall ringed around the village in a great wooden circle. Hundreds of pine trees had been felled in its construction, each dug deep into the earth so that that they struck out skyward like a mighty crown of glistening spears. The gatehouse looked south. It was nothing more than two intricately engraved oaken doors, heavily barred from the inside and designed more to impress any attacker than to actually stop them from entering.
