by Chris Turner
While they gulped the offerings, Risgan noticed a scout hawk circling overhead whose lone piercing cry rang shrill in the late afternoon. It scattered the other birds in the twitchwood and flew down toward the hunters. Where were the dogs to help them hunt? He asked as much to the gathered hunters and one of the Caerlineans replied,
“Dogs make short work of game. Their teeth tear into the spoils before we can get there.”
Risgan blinked. “Makes sense.”
“Train them then,” said Kahel.
“Easier to make pigs fly. At least the dogs in these parts.”
Jurna grunted. “Your king seems to enjoy the likes of hunts and horses and hawks. I’d have thought he’d make hounds part of his retinue.”
“We have no king, only a hetman.”
“So we’ve heard,” growled Kahel.
To the side of the common ground facing the huts loomed a hulk of scorched, blackened stone which looked something like a temple or monastery.
“That’s Driadis’s Sanctuary,” said one of the hunters. “Or what’s left of it. Burned by invaders. We used to favour the goddess Driadis. Now our druids worship Wülv. We switched to the wolf god at the coming of the outland tribes during the great migration. Their shamans taught us the wisdom of the wolves and eagles, and the importance of the hunt.”
Risgan nodded in comprehension, as if nothing could be more natural. The variety of gods, heroes and animal totems he had seen during his travels had been too numerous to recall. They had come and gone like flies.
A boardwalk stretched out into the salt marsh; in Risgan’s estimation a region which sported an eerie grey and unwholesome look. Why they built their village so close to it was a mystery.
The hetman seemed to perceive some of this and inclined his head in a sagely way. “Once this was a swale of fruitful bounty and supported us well. The land was well drained with freshwater creeks. The muskrat competed with the sharp-toothed beaver; both multiplied and dammed the rivers, flooding the area for miles. Even today we cannot control the devils. Every time one of their dams break, two more spring up. Ever do we fear we must leave Caerlin and forge some new settlement. That day will come soon enough. Then there’s the marauding isks…” He trailed off, his face pinched in displeasure, perhaps with the foul memory of Arcadia snatched up in grasping claws.
The druid picked up the conversation in a grave voice: “The isks nest across the great eerie divide in the dead firs beyond the hummocks and hills we call the Swalestrike. Perhaps attracted by the fresh meat.” He motioned his hand at the squalid village and gave a bitter laugh. “Even their greedy talons and slavering beaks cannot cull the beavers. We keep sharp lookout for the isks and from time to time they carry off our children when our hunters are engaged. Even though we despise them, they are sacred birds.
Risgan frowned. “These isks seem a menace not worth the risk.”
He sighed. “’Twas not always like this. They used to be mighty protectors. Hasifer the Traitor played them a trick and incurred their lifelong enmity toward humans and thus an everlasting curse.”
“Indeed,” said Risgan.
“What…you question our lore?” the druid snapped.
“Nothing like that.” Risgan held up a hand. “I merely assert that being a man of the world, having hunted fabled treasures far and wide, my very existence depends largely on the truth of such legends.”
“Is that so?” The hetman’s words echoed hollowly.
Upon explicit orders, the horse guards took Risgan and company to a spacious but gloomy hall within a large wooden longhouse. Timber beams supported a high ceiling. A hearth stood at the side, now cold with ashes. An elderly judge with white hair and a visible stoop bent clearing the ash and coughed at the sight of them. “Thäene Vardot, Arcadia, welcome.” He bowed. “I trust the hunt was a success.”
“Indeed it was.”
“I see you have brought back some friends.”
The hetman nodded curtly. He gave a quick summary of the isk attack, the casualties, the near escape of Arcadia, and the presence of the unicorns and outlanders whom he introduced one by one.
The judge rubbed his chin. “I see. Present their cases then—” he gave a long sigh, as if dreading the thought of hearing five defenses in one day.
Risgan and company were allowed to say their part, then Arcadia gave her account when they were done. After much haranguing and questioning back and forth, the hetman called order to the assembly. “Judge Kjarn. What is your verdict?” He paused. “Wait, I want to hear it in private first.”
They repaired to the antechamber and both returned, the hetman wearing a brief scowl. “After listening to Judge Kjarn’s esteemed opinion, I concur that action must be taken.”
The hetman, his round face flushed, lifted a finger to lips and gave a sharp exhalation, “Risgan, seeing as your company inadvertently trespassed on our ancestral lands and provoked an isk attack which almost lost me my daughter, I sentence you and your men to hunt down and kill fifteen stags of excellent quality in the upcoming hunts. Three for each member of your party.”
Risgan choked on his tongue. “What? This punishment seems excessive. Clearly we are innocent of any crimes.”
Arcadia leaped to her feet. “I too, Father, must object. Risgan was instrumental in saving my skin. You heard my testimony.”
The hetman held up his hand. “Is that ingratitude I hear? Normally, the punishment for this number of transgressions is severe: a minimum of one year in jail, often accompanied with torture. But in this case, I make an exception, even though these outlanders interrupted a sacred hunt and let a valuable unicorn escape. The adjudicator’s word and mine are absolute.”
Risgan nodded with a curt growl. “As you wish, Lord. Most kind of you.” He turned to leave, quelling Kahel and Jurna’s disbelieving stares. He cut off their grumbles with a wink.
“One question,” said Moeze, unable to resist the urge. “Can we use sorcery on these hunts to speed up our taking of the fifteen stags?”
The hetman harrumphed. “Ordinarily, no, especially considering your unproven magical skill, Moeze. “In a nutshell, I formally forbid you from exercising any form of magic.”
Moeze sputtered but Risgan raised a finger and cautioned him to silence. “Young Moeze is most vocal, lord, and for that, I apologize. He does accept your wishes. I will see that he complies.”
“A wise choice, Risgan. See that you do.”
Risgan drew Moeze aside and hissed. “Fool. Do not annoy the chief any more than you have to. I’ve told you once and again not to practice magic that involves risk for others. For that matter don’t practice magic at all until you are healed from Afrid’s vile spells.”
Moeze sagged. He hung his head, muttering a terse word. “As you wish, Risgan. In the end it will go the worse for you and the others.”
“There is still the matter of this witch.” The hetman gestured toward the thorn cage. “The crone exhibits a fiendish aura which disturbs my sensibilities.”
Risgan sighed. “Pay no heed. Afrid’s suffering penance for her past deeds.”
“And what does penance have to do with her sinister aura?” he jeered. “Why the grimacing rictus? The baby face?”
“Trade places and find out,” snorted Kahel.
“What’s that?” The hetman scowled, noting Kahel’s tone, but choosing to bypass it.
Dodonis, Vardot’s druid, rubbed his chin. “I might have uses for such a specimen in the days ahead.”
Jurna only laughed. “Valuable only as a freak show oddity.”
The druid ignored the comment. “I request a transfer of the witch to my hut, Thäene.”
Kahel gave a barking laugh. “Go right ahead, druid. She’s all yours.”
“Not so fast,” said Risgan. “Afrid is under my protection and I’ll not have her mauled.”
Kahel sneered. “When did you become the hag’s guardian?”
Vardot called for order. “The caged witch will go to Dodoni
s for future study! That is the end of the discussion. In the meantime, you can make use of our humble grounds. I’m not an ungenerous man. We have an obstacle course, training ground, workout area, private sparring grounds, baths and a temple to Driadis. Though that now runs with wolf heads. There by the marsh, some fishing piers and equipment are at your service so you can contribute.”
“We’ll consider it,” said Risgan.
The hetman studied them with care. “You’d better. You would do best to offer us service and participate in the training of our hunters, particularly our younger members. Your skills may accelerate your release. Now we have to contend with Mygar’s brutes who have moved in on us.” He grunted with distaste.
Risgan gave a strangled cough. “Why don’t you repel them?”
The chief frowned. “Easier said than done, outlander. They’re canny as wolves and are immune to ambush. All too well have they become versed in swordsmanship and bullying intimidation.”
“And versed in crass behaviours,” piped up Arcadia, “as some of our females are well aware of.”
Vardot mumbled under his breath. “How I would love to drive the lot of them into the swamp.” He balled his fists. “We are at the mercy. Nonetheless, they offer protection and hunting skills to our community, so a fragile harmony exists.”
“Very fragile, Father—and I wish you’d just—”
“Perhaps there is something you can offer,” the hetman interrupted, toying with his staff and gazing at Risgan, “and if so, the judge may reduce your sentence. We make our young undergo a rigorous practicum to ensure they are fit for the hunt, that they can defend our village from warring tribesmen like these apes who currently control us. Little good our martial skill has availed. Anything you can assist in this regard will be helpful.”
“Understandable.”
“What is ours is yours, as I have said. But do not try to leave the perimeter of the village. Our guards will repel you, and you’ll be punished, not to mention what Mygar’s men will do if they find you have deserted.”
Risgan gave a crisp nod. He accepted the situation as it stood.
“Your quarters are being prepared this moment. We have set up accommodations for you in Kevil the blacksmith’s longhome. He will billet you.”
“That is most kind of you, lord.”
He gave a curt nod. “But come, let us prepare for the feast.”
With a regal inclination of head he strode away in the direction of the common ground to deal with the many petty issues that every chief had. Squealing pigs, two lame dogs in a fight, a field hand squabbling over a few turnips his neighbour had pulled out. Risgan felt glad that he had not the weight of a chief’s duties on his shoulders. Being leader in more than name of this small band was enough of a challenge. Thinking of which, what was he to do about Moeze’s infatuation with these dangerous and inept spells? They could be the ruin of them all.
Shouts came from the common ground. A scout scurried up, his ruddy face glistening with sweat. “My lord! Terror flies—isks—four of them—they ravage the village!”
“What? Don’t just stand there, man, arrow them down!”
“Right!” He fled back to the battle. On brisk feet the hetman stormed over. Arcadia, Risgan and his band followed close behind.
The common ground writhed to the tune of chaos.
Three giant birds swooped low, bone-claw talons grasping and raking the straw-thatched huts, tearing holes along their ridges. Villagers ran screaming for their lives. The birds, fast of wing and long of beak, eluded the huntsmen’s arrows in the fading light.
“The birds seek vengeance for the death of their brother in the woods!” called one of the huntsmen.
Villagers crouched, wielding blades and bows. The arrows skidded off the birds’ tough hides. Only a few caught the feathered flesh and stayed lodged, but even those barely deterred the birds’ menace. The ten horsemen Mygar had left behind from his company circled on their mounts, drawing the isks out, but their arrows failed to penetrate the tough hide. Risgan clutched his club, waving it back and forth at the hideous black creature that dove at him all too closely.
“Can you not do anything with your magic, druid?” spat the hetman.
“My lord, the isk is an ancient bird impervious to magic.”
“Bollocks! Do something, you fool!”
Arcadia snatched the golden arrow from the druid, who sat atop his horse dazed in inaction. She drew back the strings and it flew in a rainbow arc to pierce the lead brute in the chest. It gave a ghastly shriek, sagged, and fell to the ground in a feathery, heap. With wings flapping uselessly on the ground, it crawled along the grass. Miracle upon miracle, the golden arrow emerged of its own volition from the isk’s breast and in a looping arc returned through the air back to Arcadia. She strung it again and took aim at a second beast. It swooped to rake her with its talons but Kahel wheeled in and sent a spinning arrow straight into its eye. Lokbur’s arrow twanged next, catching it in its side as it careened off in a screeching rage. Villagers came running with angry curses in their throats and hoes and axes in their hands, chopping the fallen bird in a frenzy of pent up fury. Its beak snapped out and took the legs off one overzealous villager who got too close. He bled out in an instant.
“Kill it, you fools!” cried the hetman.
Jurna stepped up to jam his sword into its beak, silencing the creature’s fury forever. Kahel and Lokbur stood at the ready to pepper it with arrows. But it moved no more.
“Two attacks in one day. A sinister omen,” cried a distraught villager.
In eerie synchrony the other birds swooped low and snatched two huntsmen off their horses and rose aloft from whence they had come.
Risgan stood dumbstruck as the two isks disappeared into the horizon. A lull set in amid the cries of the wounded. Men’s shouts dwindled to angry mutterings. Others made slow movements to repair their damaged huts and longhouses.
Lokbur strode up and spoke in a feverish tone. “Lord Vardot, we will have to launch an offensive against these isks sooner rather than later.”
“The journey is long and the risk high,” asserted the druid.
“Risks we must take, Dodonis,” mumbled Vardot. “But not now. Mygar still hunts and we must gather meat and hides for the long winter.”
Risgan gazed in wonder upon the hetman’s daughter and the fabulous weapon she clutched. Already its diamond tip and shaft grew redder and duskier and seemed to scintillate with an aura of mysterious power. “This arrow you hold, what magic does it possess?”
“Its magic is not fully understood,” exclaimed the druid.
“And yet even its power is not enough to kill these creatures,” scoffed one of Mygar’s guards.
Arcadia spoke as if in trance: “It was said the arrow is the trophy of Queen Razastaf who bathed in the magic pool in the woods of the dryads in ancient times. The waters gave her powers of foresight, wisdom beyond her years, and mystical experiences. One day—”
“One day she brought the arrow to her pool and it became ensorcelled,” finished Mygar’s man. “We’ve heard the story.”
“She had it fitted with a diamond tip by the best jewelsmiths,” continued Arcadia, ignoring the remark, “and it sat through the ages until it was stolen from the palace by a Zerulian thief.”
“A quaint yarn,” scoffed Kahel.
“Yarn or not,” contended Jurna. “If not for the courage of this hetman’s daughter, we’d be isk bait or weeping tears of blood right now. Seems this arrow and a true aim from a maiden’s hand saved the day from these vicious creatures.”
There came murmurs of agreement.
* * *
The roaring fire blazed amidst the grumbles of the villagers, males and females alike, as the huntsmen shared their accounts of the day’s happenings and the coming of the unicorns. The druid murmured some prayers in a foreign tongue for the three who had perished. Cedar, sage and wild twitch sprigs hissed and crackled over the fire. The hetman ordered the releas
e of three flaming arrows over the marsh into the deepening dusk.
Heads bowed and a silence was given.
Tables and benches were hauled out and laden with food, bowls and barrels of mead. Some small state of revelry returned to the clans but with extra bows and quivers at hand. Soon after, isk meat roasted over spits and joined the overflowing platters of succulent venison. The trophy head was carried off and tied to a stout post overlooking the glade as a deterrent to other marauders.
“Do you not think it an overly brazen challenge to more of their kind?” asked Risgan, between mouthfuls of food.
The hetman growled an oath. “’Tis the only thing these foul isks understand. Slaughter and death! So let them feast their eyes on the head of their kin if they return. We’ll be ready.”
Risgan and members of his band looked upon the mounted head with horror and wonder. Blood dripped from its severed neck and ran down the dark wood of the post, the sight almost enough to spoil his appetite.
Mygar came riding in with his mob of hunters, waving his blade, a sneer on his face. Not a scratch was on him from the dangers of the day. A majestic stag with a top-heavy rack of forked antlers lay stretched over the unsaddled mount tethered behind his own horse.
“Looks as if you fools have lost more men to the beaks of the isks,” he called out.
Angry grumbles issued from the Caerlinean hunters.
“And fat lot of good you were,” one dared to cry out. “The men you left here were next to useless.”
“I cannot be at five places at once,” argued Mygar. “Can’t you weaklings fight your own battles for a change?” He laughed. “Peace! Here’s more meat for roasting. Let’s make merry and wash our hands of the bloody affairs of the day.”
“Not so merry, today, Mygar,” called out Arcadia.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that, my fancy bride-to-be?”
