by Paul Freeman
He felt hands grabbing him then. He imagined the bone-white fingers of the Soul Reapers lifting him into the air. “My sword,” he mumbled. He would greet his gods with his father’s sword in his hands. Rain landed icy kisses on his face. All else was numb.
Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor
Mist clung to the trees in silky threads and blanketed the forest floor as Duke Normand led his warriors in pursuit of the hunting hounds and their handlers. He could hear the great shaggy beasts barking and yelping in the distance as they picked up the scent of their prey. Was that prey some hapless forest animal, or the mythical man-like monsters purportedly roaming the high and almost inaccessible parts of the mountains? he wondered. He pulled his fur-trimmed cloak tight around his shoulders, yet still the cold penetrated through to his bones. It was becoming harder to breathe the higher they climbed. Countless times that day he cursed himself for undertaking this expedition personally; he had men for this sort of thing. What was he trying to prove?
“My lord, up ahead, the hounds have caught something,” a mail-clad warrior said. Normand simply nodded to the man as he sucked in ragged breaths.
The pack of hounds were being held back on strained leashes by their handlers, he pushed past the circle of woodsmen examining what the hunting dogs had found.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Deer, my lord. A large stag,” a woodsman answered, as he leaned on his unstrung bow, examining the carcass.
“I can see that.” Normand made no effort to hide his irritation. “Is this what has dragged me…” Before he could finish, a loud, throaty growl rent the mountain air, sending a shiver down his spine. “What is that?” Normand scanned around him, but all he saw were trees covered in gossamer strands of mist. Another loud snarl answered the first. The hounds barked and snarled back, straining at their leashes as they pranced and jumped excitedly. A third, then fourth roar called out in the distance.
“Sabre lions,” a woodsman answered. “Sounds like a pack, hunting. He hawked and spat on the ground.
“Lions?” Normand groaned.
“Bigger’n lions, my lord. Big as ponies they grow, with two long fangs thick as yer arm and sharp as that dagger on yer belt. They like the cold so they does, and stay up here high in the mountains.”
“Will they attack? Surely not.”
“Aye, maybe, depends how hungry they is, and how big the pack is. There’s not much they’s afeared of, especially when you’re in their territory. You cross into their lands, that makes you their prey.” He grinned and then spat again.
“And none of you thought it wise to share this before we left?”
“We wasn’t huntin’ lions, my lord.”
Normand drew in a breath to castigate the man for his insolence, but then realised he would most likely only waste his time. The agitated dogs distracted his thoughts as he tried to picture a lion as big as a pony with dagger-like fangs. He shivered again, but not from the cold this time. “So this deer is theirs? Can’t we just leave it to them and go?”
“Not sure about that, my lord. This animal’s had its skull caved in. Sabre lions don’t kill like that. They’ll either hold their prey down and strangle it with their jaws or slice its throat with their fangs and wait for it to bleed to death.”
“Thank you for the graphic description,” Normand answered. The woodsman tipped his finger to his forehead, ignoring or not sensing the sarcasm in the duke’s words.
“So they would attack a group such as ourselves?” Normand’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. The woodsman just shrugged.
“If they see us as a rival pack encroaching on their territory they’d likely feel a need to,” another woodsman said. Normand looked from one man to the other then back to the dead stag, noticing now the bloodied head and broken antler.
“And this deer was killed by some other beast?”
“Aye, my lord. Somethin’ powerful by the looks of it.”
Normand paced back and forth, his hand idly stroking his trimmed beard. “Very well,” he came to a decision, “you two roam ahead and search for signs of the monster we seek…”
“My lord, there’s a pack of sabre lions huntin’…” the first woodsman interrupted.
“You would prefer for us all to remain packed tightly together, with no eyes or ears scanning ahead?” The idea of pushing into unknown terrain without scouts probing ahead was completely at odds with his military training.
“I would prefer if we left the mountain, leastwise the territory of the pack.”
“What is your name?”
“Olaf, my lord.”
“Well, Olaf, take your friend here and lead the way.” Normand kept his voice even and calm, but a twitch in his cheek and the reddish colouring around his eyes told the woodsmen they had crossed a line. “We came here to hunt and kill a beast, who you and your fellows assured me exists, and this we shall do. If these lions are upset by us crossing their hunting ground, well I have news for them… I have news for all of you.” He suddenly raised his voice high enough for the entire group of fighting men, dog-handlers and woodsmen to hear. “This is my land. These are my mountains. No man, nor beast shall tell me where I can or cannot go. Eorotia is my city. My word is law here. Let these beasts come and we shall all wear lion hide coats this winter.”
The men-at-arms nodded their approval while rattling their weapons and slamming their fists off their mail-clad chests. The dog handlers continued to struggle with their charges as the hounds reacted to the distant call of the lions. The scouts slunk away, melting into the forest and disappearing from sight. Without another word the rest of the troop followed the woodsmen, every man looking nervously at the mist-shrouded trees surrounding them.
By midday the terrain remained unchanged. The mist, at least, had lifted, but despite a clear blue sky, it remained cold. The ragged mountains still rose high above them, cutting a dark, jagged line in the sky, the peaks seeming no closer than when they set out from Eorotia. Normand reflected on the vastness of his new lands, wild lands, previously the preserve of bandit gangs and beasts such as the lions who still tracked them, judging by the calls back and forth, sometimes seeming so close as to be right on top of them, then other times when the roars and snarls seemed leagues away. All of the men were on edge, with weapons at the ready, the hum of jovial banter heard the previous day silent now.
Normand called a halt when the hounds became even more noisy and animated than they had previously been. The fearsome, shaggy hounds snarled and growled, pulling their handlers along as the hapless men tried to control them. Finally one leather leash snapped. For an instant the animal froze, as if its disbelief at being freed overrode its desire to answer the challenge from the forest. And then it was gone. Great bounding strides ate up the ground as it became a grey blur and headed into the trees. The rest of the pack became uncontrollable as they yearned to answer the call of their brother and follow after into the woods.
“Release them!” Normand bellowed. “We’ll follow.”
The entire pack of hounds raced from their handler’s grip, and the men followed the cacophony of barks and snarls as they disappeared from sight. The armed men hurried after, crashing through the woods like a huge, iron-clad monster, setting to flight any small animals brave and curious enough to still be in the vicinity.
The massive hounds were no ordinary hunting dogs, as Normand knew well, they were bred and used throughout the Duchies for hunting wolves, even bears. He had never known a wild predator to be a match for them. They could range for hundreds of leagues with their great loping stride, if need be, also capable of huge bursts of speed over short distance. Their bite was fearsome and relentless. In many ways they were the perfect hunter. A hugely intelligent animal, and fiercely loyal to their masters. They were a breed of hound only found in the Duchies, although they were much prized and sought after far beyond those borders. Which is why Normand failed to hide the utter shock from his face when they came upon a bloody scene, what s
eemed like moments after the pursuit had begun. Two of the huge hounds lay in a clearing, their grey, shaggy fur matted in blood. Both of them had had their throats ripped out. Their bodies bore evidence of further wounds.
“The All Father preserve us,” a warrior muttered.
One of the dog handlers, a boy of about twelve, rushed over and knelt by the corpses of the hounds, his eyes glistening with the visible evidence of his grief as he cautiously reached out a hand and placed it on the flank of one hound.
“Quiet!” Normand snapped, as he strained to listen. The faint sounds of violent struggle between animals drifted through the forest.
A woodsman pointed. “There!”
“I’ve never seen them hounds take such a maulin’ before,” a gruff voice said.
Men glanced about anxiously as the forest seemed to come alive; the trees rustled and swayed. Dark shapes flashed at the corner of the eye and disappeared as quickly when men swung around to catch a better view of whatever it was. Up ahead, beyond sight, where the narrow trail disappeared among the trees, Normand heard a high-pitched yelp and then all went silent.
“The hounds, my lord…” a warrior began but was silenced by Normand flapping his hand irritably. The forest went still, deathly quiet… and then erupted into a wall of noise.
Bursting through the trees, leaping through the air, snarling wicked smiles of terror were the sabre lions. Normand barely had time to see the wickedly sharp fangs dominating the gaping maws of the leaping beasts. The enraged animals slammed into his warriors, knocking them to the ground before slashing at them with sharp claws and reaching for exposed throats with their deadly fangs. The mail-clad warriors were lucky as their armour offered protection against the vicious bite of the lions, whereas the houndless dog handlers and the lightly armoured archers and woodsmen fared a lot worse. The weight and strength of the beasts was colossal as they forced screaming men to the ground, where they were savaged with dagger-like teeth.
Normand stood, disbelieving as his troop of warriors was overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of massive predators defending their territory from what they saw as an intruding pack. He had fought in many battles, both been ambushed and laid surprise attacks on his enemy, yet he’d never felt so helpless by an onslaught. He fumbled for the sword strapped to his waist barely able to tear his eyes from the sight of a huge lion ripping out the throat of an archer with a twist of its massive head. The beast looked up and regarded Normand with yellow eyes, its maw bloodied red.
“My lord, this way.” Hands pushed the duke leading him from the slaughter. Frightened men ran in all directions, while those unlucky enough to be the target of a brown, mottled lion fought desperately for their lives.
Normand followed the back of a warrior as he pushed his way through the foliage, blindly running from the melee with the lions. Behind him, those who had survived the attack followed, confusion and terror plainly visible on their faces. They ran as the sounds of men dying horrific deaths faded into the distance, as the blood-freezing roars of the terrifying beasts grew dimmer. They ran, although they knew not where to, or how to return to the trail. They ran with fear twisting in their guts.
The lead warrior stopped abruptly at the edge of a clearing. Normand dropped his hands to his knees as he gulped air into his burning lungs. He yearned to unbuckle his mail shirt, but feared to do so having seen what the claws and jaws of the lions were capable of doing to un-armoured flesh. Men all around him wheezed and coughed as their chests heaved. A wave of shame washed over Normand as he thought about the men he’d left behind and how he had run from the fight. He wanted to blame the men who ushered him from the scene and led him in a blind flight. Yet, he knew that was unfair. Blind terror had gripped him at the sight of the slaughter. He had stood mesmerised as men became meat; prey to the apex predators of the mountains. He looked around him, half a dozen or so, mail-clad warriors, and a handful of archers gathered about him, each of them bearing a haunted look in their eyes. He empathised with each one of them. He knew what he had to do. He had to take charge once again and lead his men back. To round up those who were left alive. Shame burned within him as he thought of the left dead and dying.
“My lord…” Normand turned around to see why he had stopped so abruptly.
“What is that?” Normand asked as his gaze followed to where the warrior was pointing.
“That is a man wedged in a tree,” the warrior said quietly.
Normand could make out the shape now. “Where is his…?”
The warrior pointed at the ground at the base of the tree. Normand’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of a head and arm. The trunk of the tree looked as if someone had painted a wide line the length of it with red paint. The duke felt bile rise in his throat.
“The lions did that?” His voice cracked.
“I don’t think so, my lord.” Neither man could tear their gaze from the horrific scene.
A realisation came to Normand. “That is Olaf… the woodsman I ordered to scout ahead.”
“What’s left of him at least.”
Normand shook of the trance and took a step closer to the tree housing the decapitated scout. “How did he get up there?”
“Looks as if he were flung there, my lord.”
“What could have done that?” Normand moved closer. He could see tear-shaped drips of blood hanging from branches before falling to the forest floor. His gaze wandered up, to where Olaf’s remains hung ten feet off the ground, wedged between two branches, the headless corpse coating them, and the surrounding leaves, in red gore. Hot bile rose to his throat, making him wretch. His men remained silent and motionless around him.
“My lord…” the warrior reached out a tentative hand, which Normand brushed aside.
“For the sake of the All Father, get him down from there,” he instructed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The warrior gave a nod to two others and they quickly moved to make an attempt at climbing the tree. No easy thing with the trunk slick and greasy with gore. Eventually one of them made it up and clambered out onto one of the branches supporting the body of the scout. Gingerly, on hands and knees the armoured man made his way to the corpse. The others watched in grim silence as he tugged and heaved until finally Olaf crashed to the earth. Normand flinched at both sight and sound of the body landing with a sickening squelch.
Normand had no time to gather his thoughts as a spine-chilling roar erupted from the forest, shattering the silence of the clearing. A flock of birds who had been observing from a lofty perch took flight, rustling the treetops all around the men. Lions, was Normand’s first thought, although somewhere deep down in his subconscious he knew that the roar he had just heard was not the same. A primeval instinct yelled at him to run. This time, though, he fought his fear.
“Form a line!” he barked at his men. The warriors quickly formed a small shield-wall as the sound of snapping branches told them something heavy was moving quickly towards them. He could taste the fear in the air, as he suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to turn and run as fast as he could in any direction away from what was crashing through the forest. A second roar made him flinch and the world turned to chaos.
A massive shape smashed into the clearing. Running upright, on two legs, just like a man, was a colossal beast, its entire body covered in white and grey fur. Twice the size of any man in both height and width, it crashed into the clearing in a whirlwind of violence and terror. Arrows flew over Normand’s head, fired by the archers standing behind the shield-wall.
“Hold!” a man yelled from the end of the line.
The beast bellowed a fear-inducing screech as a hail of arrows hit it. Enraged, it swatted two massive hands at the line of warriors, ripping their shields from their hands, before it smashed through them, flinging men into the air. Normand swung his sword at the mountain of fur, not even knowing if he connected. The man-beast swatted at him, backhanded, sending him sprawling into the trees. He landed hard on his
back and smashed his head off a tree. He could hear the cries of terror, but try as he might he could not move. When he tried to focus on his surroundings, all he could make out was a blurred image of colours.
As he fought down panic, he suddenly felt hands upon him, and realised he was being dragged. Urgent voices filled the air around him, voices of strangers, both men and women. They spoke in whispers in a sing-song accent he did not recognise. He tried to fight them, to even focus on them, but they were just blurred shapes in a sea of blues and greens.
“The Dragon Lord has returned,” they whispered.
“Kill him now. He is the bringer of doom.”
“No! That is not how it is written.”
“He will wake the dragon and bathe the world in blood, so it is written” they said in unison, an edge of panic and awe to their voices.
“Kill him!” a female voice insisted.
“No! The Lord of Shadows forbids it.”
Panic welled inside Normand. He had no feeling other than the sensation of being dragged. He could see nothing but blurred shapes.
“The Dragon Lord is among us.” The voices trailed off and Normand drifted into blackness.
“My lord… my lord!”
He flinched and a whimper of fear escaped from him as he gazed into the grizzled face of his man-at-arms.
“Are you well, my lord?”