“Do you mean to say that we are going to accompany him?” Benedik demanded.
Gracchus nodded. “Given that he so cleverly demanded the right to alter the campaign on his sole authority at any time, I’d say that we have little choice,” he answered. “But do not fear. I know how to manage our headstrong young ruler. And if I cannot, well, the battlefield can be a very dangerous place—even for emperors. Besides, once his gifts have won the day, his further usefulness will be questionable.”
Gracchus watched Vespasian walk across the Aedifficium floor. Against the far wall was mounted a golden war lance. Only the emperor was allowed to handle the lance, and it held great significance for the empire. When the lance was brought before the public, its appearance meant only one thing—that a new and important campaign against Shashida had been ratified by the Suffragat.
Vespasian stopped to regard the sacred lance. He had never held it in his hands. The lance’s tip was sharply pointed, and a golden eagle adorned its haft. A gray and white eagle feather dangled from shaft near the tip. Black leather strips were wound around its center, forming a tight gripping surface.
Vespasian reached up and took the lance down from the wall to find that it felt right in his hand. As he marched toward the Aedifficium doors, the entire Suffragat eagerly followed.
Flushed with victory, Vespasian pointed one hand at the massive bronze doors, and they opened quickly. After purposefully striding out onto the massive Aedifficium landing with the Suffragat in tow, he stood among the structure’s huge columns and looked down the hill and out across Ellistium’s massive forum, the city’s great center of trade and commerce. While the Suffragat gathered around him, Persephone and Lucius came to stand by his side.
As was always the case whenever the Suffragat was in session, an eager crowd had gathered on the hill before the Aedifficium steps, waiting to hear news of the meeting. When they saw the war lance in Vespasian’s hand, the crowd joyfully erupted, their rising cheers quickly attracting more curious citizens. Soon the entire area was full to overflowing as the mob eagerly waited for their emperor to speak. When Vespasian lifted the war lance above his head, the crowd went wild.
“The Suffragat has granted you a great campaign!” he shouted.
Gracchus smiled at Benedik. “It seems that our creation can do no wrong,” the lead cleric whispered. “That man was born to end life.”
As Vespasian walked down the hill and toward the coliseum, Persephone took his arm and the Suffragat followed.
In ways that even Vespasian could not have imagined, the die was cast.
CHAPTER VI
HIS NAME WAS ROLF OF THE HOUSE OF BRIGHAM, AND he had hunted the length and breadth of Eutracia’s Hartwick Wood since his father had given him his first bow. Many said that these glens and gullies were deeply enchanted by the craft. Rumor also had it that the woods were the strict provinces of wizards and sorceresses and that these regions should never be entered, lest an intruder come to some dark harm. It was also said that an ancient cave lay in the woods, its opening long sealed by mysterious wizards. Rolf always smirked whenever he heard those old wives’ tales. He had never seen such a cave, and nothing in these woods had ever harmed him.
Even so, Rolf had more in common with the craft than he realized. Shortly after he was born, some men in dark blue robes had come to his parents’ home and taken a drop of his blood for examination. They had then informed his mother and father that he was of fully endowed blood. At the time, such visits were not unusual, for all newborns were once tested this way. It was needed for the nation’s birth records, the mystics had said.
Shortly after, an official-looking certificate, complete with a royal wax seal, had arrived by messenger from Tammerland. Signed by two Directorate Wizards, it attested to the quality of Rolf’s blood. Being unknowledgeable about the craft, his parents had thought little of the matter and filed the parchment away. Over the years the document somehow escaped to wherever so much of life’s flotsam seems to go and hide, never to be seen again. Taken up as they were with the joy of rearing a child, Rolf’s parents never told him of the wizards’ findings. And because he had never been trained in the craft, his blood showed no signature.
Most of the time, Rolf felt as safe here in these woods as he did on the front porch of his modest farmhouse. He had been ten years old when his father had given him his first bow, and twenty-five more Seasons of New Life had passed since. As he expertly moved across the mossy ground, no sound betrayed him.
Rolf’s father was dead, but the birth of his son Dale had helped to fill the void left by his father’s sudden passing. And as his father had done with him, Rolf started teaching the boy archery at the age of seven. Now that Dale was ten, it was time for the young man to learn the ways of the forest. During the last three years the boy had become an excellent bowman. But hitting a standing target and killing a living creature were two different things, and that realization was not lost on the nervous young hunter as he trod alongside his father. Although his hands shook, the boy was overjoyed that this day of days had finally come.
It was late afternoon in Eutracia and the sun was starting to hide behind the tops of the trees. The fading sunlight cast ephemeral beacons onto the forest floor, granting the woods the wonderfully surreal appearance that only this time of day could bring. Soon the night creatures would start to prowl and sing and the stars would compete for space in the dark night sky.
One hour ago, the great stag that Rolf and Dale were tracking had unexpectedly turned north. The beast’s change in direction had been welcome, otherwise the two tired hunters would have been forced to give up and head for home. They had caught a glimpse of their quarry only once, but that had been enough to convince Rolf that the stag was the largest he had ever seen.
As night neared, Rolf hoped that he and Dale would overtake the deer soon. If so, he would let Dale try to make the kill. If the deer was taken, Rolf would partly dress it, leaving the entrails behind to make the carcass lighter to carry. He would then smear some of the deer’s blood onto Dale’s face, signifying the boy’s first kill. His only real concern was to leave the forest before the Hartwick wolves started their nocturnal prowling, for the scent of stag blood would draw them like flies. As they walked side by side, Rolf turned to look at his son.
When Dale reached manhood he would be tall and lean. His hair was dark blond and his sharp eyes were blue. Like his father, he wore a brown leather jerkin, matching breeches, and a narrow, brimless hat with a jaunty pheasant plume pinned along one side. His arrow quiver was strapped across his back, and he nervously held the ancestral family bow in his sweaty hands. A large hunting knife lay in a sheath secured to his belt, and his knee boots were of soft brown leather. The boy was desperately eager and equally worried about pleasing his father. He too had seen the great size of the stag. If he missed, a chance like this one might never come again.
Stopping for a moment, Rolf knelt down on one knee and looked at the ground. He pointed at the tracks that the stag’s hooves had left in the soft moss.
“There,” he said quietly. “Do you see how the tracks have become shallower and closer together? That means that the deer has stopped running. The confused track pattern just ahead tells us that he wandered about here for a time. Something must have caught his interest.”
Standing, Rolf looked around. After a quick search he found a telling sign. Four low branches of a nearby hinteroot tree had been stripped clean of their berries. An even more meaningful clue was that the same tree trunk was scarred where the stag tried to rub the velvet away from this season’s set of new antlers. Rolf called Dale nearer. Narrowing his eyes and rubbing his red beard, Rolf thought for a moment.
“What do these signs tell you?” he asked.
“That our stag was here,” Dale whispered back. “He ate the berries and scratched his horns on the tree trunk.”
Rolf smiled. “How do we know that our deer did these things?” he asked. “It is not uncommon for
deer tracks to overrun each other’s. Perhaps we lost him, only to pick up the trail of a different one.”
Dale thought for a moment. “No,” he answered. “He was here. We have not lost him.”
Rolf smiled. “Explain your answer,” he said.
Dale pointed to the ravaged tree trunk. “Only a buck could have done that,” he said, “because a doe has no horns. And the stag we saw still carried his velvet. Odds are that this was done by him rather than by another.”
“Well done,” Rolf said. “But this great confusion of tracks makes it difficult to decide in which direction to go. How do we choose?”
Dale shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered.
Rolf winked. “It has to do with the missing berries.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rolf smiled again. “He was hungry—he ate four branches full of berries. Deer find them delicious, but the berries always cause them thirst. Unless I’m wrong, he’ll soon head for the nearest brook. So we will go east for a time. It’s a gamble, but if I’m right it will be worth it.”
Changing course, Rolf started leading Dale east. As night encroached, they soon found themselves standing atop a bank and looking down toward a swiftly running brook. Dale knew this stream; he had fished here before. It was a good place for Eutracian black-striped trout.
The steep bank was lined with trees that made for good cover. Without being told, Dale knew that it would provide an excellent place from which to shoot—if only the stag could be found. Guessing that they were nearing their quarry, Rolf silently motioned that they should move on.
Walking stealthily along the ridge of the riverbank, the father and son soon found their stag. As Rolf had guessed, he stood in the middle of the burbling stream, drinking thirstily. Dale quietly slipped a razor-sharp broadhead from his quiver and notched it onto his bowstring.
Rolf put his lips near Dale’s ear. “He will lift his head soon, and suddenly,” he whispered, so faintly that even Dale could scarcely hear him. “Then he will take a look around. When he does, don’t move a muscle! Don’t worry—he won’t smell us because we’re downwind of him. Wait until he lowers his head to drink again. That is when he will be most vulnerable, so draw your bow and shoot. You know where to send the arrow.”
Just as Rolf predicted, as though the wary stag were trying to catch some predator off guard, he suddenly lifted his head from the stream. His body was broad and his massive horns held six majestic points on either side. Even to the experienced Rolf, he was a beautiful, wondrous thing. As brook water dripped from the stag’s mouth, his dark eyes darted around and his nostrils flared, testing the air. Finally convinced that he was safe, he went back to slaking his thirst.
Rolf knew that the deed now lay totally in Dale’s hands, and that all his teaching and care had boiled down to this seminal moment. He watched his son pull the string back to his right cheek, stretching the bow’s lacquered sinews nearly to the breaking point. Hoping against hope, Dale let the arrow fly.
His aim was true and the arrow buried itself deeply into the stag’s flesh, just behind the right shoulder where the beast’s heart lay. But the stag proved stronger than even Rolf had guessed. As the deer twisted in agony, Rolf realized the mighty creature was about to run. If the wounded stag could charge far enough before bleeding out, wolves might claim the carcass first and the situation would turn deadly.
“Shoot again, son!” Rolf exclaimed.
Dale already had another arrow notched and ready. Without hesitation he let it fly.
The second arrow also found its intended mark, slicing into the stag’s neck. It severed a major artery, and blood began to gush from the mortal wound. The stag struggled for several steps, but his demise was near. He lumbered heavily from the stream, then fell to the grassy bank.
Rolf let go a deep breath. Dale’s two shots had been perfect. There would be other hunts that would further bond him to his son, but this first kill would never come again. Nor could this initial prize have been more wonderful. As he looked at Dale he had tears in his eyes. He placed one hand on Dale’s shoulder.
“Well done,” he said simply.
“Thank you, Father,” the boy said. Despite his modest answer, he couldn’t have been happier.
They hurried down to where the stag lay. After warily kicking the animal to be sure that it was dead, Rolf took out his hunting knife and bade Dale to do the same. Soon a pile of steaming entrails lay beside their newly won prize.
Rolf looked again at the mighty deer. For several moments he considered quartering the animal so that Dale could help him carry it from the forest. But because darkness was nearly on them he decided against it. Carrying the deer would be backbreaking work, but if Dale helped hoist the carcass onto Rolf’s shoulders, he believed that he could manage. This was no prize to abandon to the buzzards, wolves, and flies.
“Come with me,” Rolf said, as he turned toward the stream. “We will wash our hands and knives before we go. I want as little blood scent in the air as possible.”
As he bent down and washed his knife, Rolf looked downstream. About ten meters away, the brook emptied into a deep pool before rushing onward. Rolf again looked worriedly up at the sky. We need to get moving, he thought.
Just then he felt his knife edge bite into his palm, and a few drops of his blood dripped into the river. He shook his head. The wound was more embarrassing than serious. He had been careless, and he laughed at himself a little. As his blood ran downstream and into the pool, he produced a rag from one pocket and wound it around his hand.
Dale scowled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Rolf smiled. “Yes,” he answered, as he sheathed his knife. “Unlike your foolish father, you must always be careful.”
Rolf decided that he would not mind bearing the short, jagged scar that would later form on his palm. Long after Dale had left Rolf and his mother and started a family of his own, the scar would always remind Rolf of this day. It will be a wonderful story to tell over and over again before the fireplace, he thought. He put an arm around Dale, and the father and son started back up the riverbank.
As they went, something behind them silently disturbed the surface of the downstream pool. Dark, long, and sharp, two twisted horns surfaced. Next came the crown of a skull that was smooth, hairless, and olive in color. As the horrific thing surfaced, its head and eyes showed next, along with its long, pointed ears. The eyes were wide apart, dully opaque, and held vertical yellow irises. Soon the short nose and wide mouth came into view. As the thing’s lips parted, a bright red tongue and rows of sharp yellow teeth were exposed. A pair of snakelike incisors protruded from the upper and lower jaws.
Silently, the hideous thing’s body emerged from the depths. Its olive-colored torso was human in form, with muscular arms, a broad chest, and highly accentuated abdominal muscles. Each of its eight fingers and two opposable thumbs ended in a dark talon. But as the rest of the creature broke the surface and the thing hurried toward shore, any similarities between it and a human being quickly ended.
From the thing’s waist down, its body was a scaled, snakelike tail. As the tail propelled the creature across the surface of the pool, it whipped to and fro with amazing power. Like the thing’s upper torso, the tail was olive in color, but it had dark spots all along its length and gradually tapered to a forked end.
When it reached the shore, the monster silently coiled and reared upright like a cobra, its tail supporting its humanlike torso and supplying the ability to lunge quickly. As it watched the two unsuspecting hunters lift the stag carcass, it curiously twisted its head this way and that. The red forked tongue slithered in and out of its mouth, savoring the evening air.
Suddenly another of them surfaced the pool, followed by another. Soon the dark water was teeming with them, as they too swam toward the shore. As dozens of the things gathered and reared upright, the first one looked at the others. After centuries of waiting, their time for killing had finally come.
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Without warning, the first creature lunged straight for Rolf and wound its strong tail tightly around his midsection. Rolf cried out in surprise as he did his best to turn and see what had so suddenly attacked him. His eyes widened in horror. As he tried to reach for his knife, he screamed wildly to Dale to help him.
When Dale saw the terrible thing that had hold of his father, terror seized every fiber of his being, freezing him in place. Finally he had his knife in his hand and he started slashing viciously at the beast seizing Rolf. But the thing saw him coming. Opening its mouth, it let go a nasty hiss. With a quick swipe from one arm, it sent Dale flying across the ground.
The thing’s tail suddenly tightened harder around Rolf’s body, snapping two of his ribs and squeezing most of the air from his lungs. Terrified, Rolf watched his son fly through the air and land hard. Dale tumbled over and over again, finally landing on his back. As Rolf watched Dale’s body come to rest, an awful shock went through him.
During Dale’s fall, his hunting knife had plunged into his body. The weapon stood upright in his chest, and blood ran down Dale’s already blood-soaked sides and onto the ground. An experienced hunter, Rolf was well acquainted with sudden death. No one needed to tell him that his only son had just been killed. A sudden, savage anger flooded through him, and with his last bit of strength he finally grasped his knife and freed it from its sheath.
While the other curious monsters surrounded them, the one holding Rolf suddenly unwound its tail and dropped him to the ground. Gasping for breath, Rolf stood shakily and slashed at the thing, but it only hissed and then backed away with amazing speed. Before Rolf knew it the monster arched its back and lunged again, this time picking Rolf up with its two muscular arms as if he weighed nothing. Curling its tail beneath itself, and with Rolf still in its arms, the thing levered its upper body several meters high, into another cobralike pose.
Rolf tried to again to stab the thing, but his reach was not great enough. As the monster held Rolf before him, it turned its head this way and that, as if it was examining him for some reason. Then the slimy tongue again appeared to test the night air and retreated into the awful mouth. His strength gone, Rolf could do nothing but wait for death.
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