The students nodded but he doubted they heard him; the air was charged with their excitement, the scent like hot, thin oil. Even Kata’nu’s measured gaze was eager.
One Eye sighed inwardly. They would succeed or they would fail, but either way, they would learn.
* * *
Seven days on the icy sea and they reached the small fishing village that marked the beginning of Skeld’s lands. The dim sky spit new snow at them as they dragged the boat ashore. The village was deserted, although they found no bodies, no signs of violence—only clear evidence that the villagers had packed up and fled, heading north. An inconvenience; Jarl had planned to raid the village for supplies to see them inland, but the villagers had taken their food when they’d gone. The men ate the last of the dried herring and stale bread that they’d brought and slept in the drafty meeting house, taking turns at watch.
Skeld’s Keep was two days from the shore. In the morning they started east, collecting squirrels and rabbits in the woods along the way, a winding climb into hills lightly dusted with snow. They passed a handful of small farms and found them as empty as the fishing village—dead fires and signs of hurried packing, footprints in the rotting wet leaves where the snow hadn’t yet gathered. Some of the men laughed at first, joking about the fearful farmers running from draugar, but as the day wore on, the laughter fell away. The woods and snowy fields weren’t only empty but silent, a watchful tension in the air that all could feel.
Helta, who had the best eyes, saw branches move without wind, thrice. Bjarke, Olav, and Haavid had heard steps beneath the barren trees. The information that they were watched, followed, was passed casually from man to man, and just as casually, Jarl slowed their pace, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
As the weak sun began to cast its long shadows, they saw smoke just south, thin and high above a stand of snow-flocked evergreen. They approached carefully; the scent of smoke was overwhelmed by the smells of shit and blood as they moved through the trees. Jarl drew his sword before stepping into the clearing.
It had been a pig farm. There were a dozen of the dead animals littering the ground in front of the smoking timbers of the farmhouse, the fences torn down around their blood-soaked bodies.
Jarl scanned the small clearing. Nothing moved but the thin smoke. The men spread out, their weapons and shields at the ready.
Jarl squatted next to one of the animals. Its eyes had been gouged out, its jaw broken and hanging open; its guts spilled from a ripped and ragged hole in its belly. A bloody, jagged rock next to the glass-eyed sow was clearly the weapon of its demise. Finger marks of dried blood decorated her spotted skin. Clear teeth marks—human teeth—marked her skinny flanks.
Jarl dipped his fingers into the pool of entrails. Cold, but not frozen, and no smell of rot. That, and the smoke… A day or two, no more.
“Here,” Helta called softly. He and Geir were looking at something hidden by the heap of burnt wood.
Jarl nodded at Stelgar, and they went to see. The farmer and his family. There had been three sons, the youngest only a few years old. All of them—the farmer and his wife, their young—had been beaten to death. Broken bones poked through their ripped clothes, splinters and dirt marking each injury. Jarl saw more teeth marks, on the slender, milky limbs of the children. The woman’s skirt was hiked up, her sex battered into pulp.
“Not a clean wound in sight,” Stelgar said, and Jarl nodded. There were a number of bloody sticks and rocks around the pitiful family. There was no snow near the smoking ruins, and Jarl could see footprints on the ground. Four or five men, perhaps. One of them had been barefoot.
“Draugar,” Geir said. A few of the others nodded, the whispered word passing between them like a breeze.
“There are no such things as draugar,” Jarl said. “These people haven’t been eaten, they’ve been bitten. And beaten. By normal-sized men.”
“Madmen,” Geir said. “Almar said the draugar spread madness.”
From the state of the farm and its inhabitants, Jarl couldn’t argue against insanity. Still, he wouldn’t put it past Skeld to create such a fiction.
He shrugged. “We’ll know when we know.”
Thoralf, standing over one of the slaughtered pigs, called out cheerfully, “So, pork for dinner, then?”
Most of the men chuckled, but no one lowered their weapons. Jarl nodded. They could salvage meat from the animals and use a cook fire near the smoking farmhouse, to keep themselves hidden from—
Skeld’s soldiers? Cannibal madmen?
—from anyone watching. They would camp beneath the trees, though, and there would be no fire after dark. They needed their night eyes.
“We’ll be at the Keep by noon tomorrow,” Jarl said, firmly. Whatever answers there were to be had, he was sure they would find them there.
* * *
Ta’roga watched the men sleeping on the ground, rolled into their cloaks and grouped together for warmth. He sat with his back to a massive tree a hundred paces away, occasionally sneering at the three puny guards that slowly circled the camp. They couldn’t see him.
He clicked his mandibles, pleased with himself. Shriek and Kata’nu would burn with envy when they saw him take out the leader of the traveling men, the clear choice. Ta’roga would prefer to see them fight before he moved in, to confirm that the leader was the best, but he didn’t plan to spend another day following these animals around. The legendary man was a short, pale flat-face who ate meat off the ground, nothing more.
One Eye had sent a message that there was a herd of them farther inland, the direction that these men traveled, too many to fight without tech—expressly forbidden in Hunts against primitives. There was a small pulse-beam emitter in Ta’roga’s kit—One Eye had all of his students carry the failsafe—but the young Hunter couldn’t imagine any circumstance that would require him to use it. When the world’s star came into view again, Ta’roga would separate the leader out and dispatch it with a clean blow from the fixed blade on his dominant arm, the weapon as sharp as teeth, as strong as honor. The first trophy would be his.
Ta’roga’s legs went numb from waiting for them to stir; he ignored the discomfort for a while, but after one of the circling guards—the tall one, that carried a bow—had passed him by, Ta’roga quietly shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him.
The guard, the tall one, had stopped walking—and now moved back in Ta’roga’s direction, holding its bow in both hands, an arrow resting between the curved wood and the string.
It heard me.
Ta’roga didn’t move. A minute passed, and then the man took off its head covering, a thick animal skin with metal stitched around the eyes, and set it gently on the ground before standing again, looking directly at the tree where Ta’roga sat. It moved closer, but didn’t seem to be searching for anything. Rather, it turned its hairy face from side to side, slowly. Listening.
Ta’roga had never seen one so closely, and felt, for the first time, that perhaps One Eye was right to speak so respectfully of these creatures. It wasn’t charging to attack, or shouting for help, or deciding to ignore the small sound; it was thinking. Presented with evidence by its senses, it was searching for the source of what it had heard.
Ta’roga’s mask blocked the sound of his breathing, but his heart beat quickly. If this man found him because he’d acted foolishly, if there was a forced interaction, he would be shamed.
The man looked up into the branches, its long, thin hair ruffled by a frigid breeze. Then it took a step back, widening its point of view, scanning the trunks of the trees, finally looking at the ground.
It stepped closer again, lowering its center of gravity by bending its knees… and focused on Ta’roga’s feet.
Ta’roga carefully looked down without moving his head, and saw the symmetrical depressions in the soft dirt beneath his boots. He tensed, ready to react. If he killed the man, here, he would ruin the Hunt, disgracing himself. He could try to lead the man away, claim that
it was his plan, to gain a trophy… but if he moved he would be heard, possibly seen, and the man would attack.
The man’s gaze ran over the ground… and then it straightened, its body relaxing. Since there was nothing visible to its eyes, it obviously thought that whatever had made the tracks was gone.
Ta’roga let out a slow breath as the man turned away. He was embarrassed, but if there was no disruption to the Hunt, no reason to—
The man had continued to turn and suddenly whipped around to face Ta’roga, its bow drawn, an arrow nocked. The man released and already had another arrow in place as the first drove deep into Ta’roga’s inner right thigh.
The suit stunted the arrow’s brief flight but the powerful hit pierced the thin armor, the metal arrowhead tearing deep. Ta’roga rolled to the side and onto his feet, shocked and furious with disbelief.
The man loosed a second time, the arrow thunking into the tree where his head had been a second before, and Ta’roga extended his arm, wrist blades snapping into place, stepping forward to cut the throat of the man—who leapt backwards and shot again. The arrow hit Ta’roga’s chest plate and was deflected, but the sound of it had the other guards calling out, running toward the bowman. Most of the men were suddenly on their feet as if they’d only pretended to sleep, their weapons in hand.
The bowman shouted something—and was cut off mid-cry as its head was split in two. Ta’roga recognized Shriek by his height and the angle of the cut. The bowman collapsed, blood and brain running down its shoulders. Suddenly there were a dozen of the men upon them, raising swords and heavy bludgeons, more running over. Their eyes burned, their strange mouths set in lines.
Shriek cut the throat of the first to leap forward. Red blood spurted from the cut, steaming in the cold air, gouting across the arm of his suit. Another man brought its bludgeon down on the moving splash of red. Bone crunched and Shriek fell backwards. Ta’roga spun, driving his wrist blades into the man’s soft belly. Astoundingly, the man raised the bludgeon again, trying to attack even as the blood poured down its body, even as it died.
Ta’roga jerked his blades free and grabbed Shriek, pulling him back from the attacking men. The leader shouted something and the men circled, facing outwards, their weapons at the ready. They ignored the three who bled at their feet.
Combat through incompetence was not a Hunt. Ta’roga had failed. The only honorable choice was to turn off his camouflage and fight, to face death, but Ta’roga was not thinking about the Hunt or his honor; he only felt a profound dismay at the realization that he had so badly underestimated these creatures.
Shriek was backing away and Ta’roga backed away at his side. The men raised their weapons and started after them, showing their teeth, shouting in their incomprehensible tongue, loud and furious. After a few steps Shriek turned and ran, cradling his injured arm. Ta’roga clutched at the arrow in his thigh and ran after him, his humiliation complete.
* * *
They followed the sound of running steps but in seconds, the sounds were lost… and although there were a few strange green splashes to be seen, spattered and far apart, glowing like fire, those, too, dried up after only a short distance; beneath the shadows of trees, they could not track which way the invaders had gone. Jarl called a halt and the men returned to their camp, to investigate where the attack had taken place.
There were marks on the ground as of footprints, but too big and oddly shaped to be a man’s. There was a small pool of the liquid green fire at the base of the big tree, next to where the three dead men lay.
Jarl counted Helta’s arrows. There was one in the tree, a second on the ground, its tip bent. A third was missing.
Stelgar squatted by the green pool. He carefully touched it with his finger.
“What is it?” Bjarke asked.
Stelgar shrugged. “Helta is missing an arrow. He hit something.”
“It is draugar,” Geir said, nervously. “The draugar must bleed green!”
“Draugar don’t use weapons,” Stelgar said, and motioned at the dead men. Helta the Bowman’s skull was cleft in twain. Thrain’s throat was cleanly cut, and Sten the Reckless had been stabbed in the gut by dual swords. “They don’t hide, either.”
“There were two of them,” Bjarke said, pointing out the strange prints, at the tree and just east of it. “One rested here. The other came this way.”
“Helta heard something,” Rangvald said. He had also been on watch, as had Thoralf. “I saw him take off his helmet, to better hear. He shot only a moment later.”
“I saw something,” Thoralf said. “The air moved, like shadows.”
Geir looked around anxiously. “We are tracked by monsters.”
“Grow some balls or fuck off to your mama’s teat,” Stelgar said, standing. “If they bleed, they can die. And if Helta heard them, so will we. We know to listen now. And we know to watch for shadows in the air. If they return, we will kill them.”
Jarl nodded, along with most of the others. Stelgar was the voice of reason.
“Gather branches,” Jarl said. “Keep in pairs and threes, with one to watch and listen. We will build a pyre for the fallen, and to warm ourselves for our journey to the Keep. From the tower we can hold off any foe.”
The men nodded and broke away. Jarl gazed down at the dead men, at the two wet pieces of Helta’s head, hanging from his broken neck. Stelgar nudged one with his boot. A powerful blow, to be sure, and it had come from almost directly above; Helta had been a tall man, too.
“Walking corpses and green-blooded giants we can’t see,” Stelgar said “You sure you want this Keep?”
Jarl laughed. “What better path to Valhöll? Any fool can be killed by men.”
Stelgar laughed along with him, a full, bright sound in the cold air.
* * *
The arrow had to be cut out of Ta’roga’s leg, leaving a good-sized hole in his suit. A tab of disinfectant and a skin-seal took care of him, but he did not meet his teacher’s eye, as was appropriate. Shriek’s forearm was broken in six places; he sleeved it himself and injected a painkiller, his head even lower than Ta’roga’s.
One Eye wished he did not have to share in their shame, but he’d known their deficits and sent them to hunt men, anyway. A Hunter’s code was strict, but early mistakes were tolerated as part of the learning process. They had been arrogant and reckless, as he might have expected; it was their decision to flee that was unacceptable. Bested and injured, they had run.
He looked coldly at the two shamed and silent Yautja in the medical bay. It would be within his rights to kill them, but there was his own culpability to consider; the last time One Eye had hunted this world, there had been no fighters quite like these.
A clicking from the ship called his attention. One Eye stepped to the console closest and raised a screen, running his claws down the lines of symbol. Kata’nu was accessing sensory information. Their travelers were crossing an open field, moments from the barrier to the village, or whatever it was. Kata’nu was south of the men, but close; he was counting the villagers and checking for forged metals behind the village wall. Kata’nu’s patience, his lack of arrogance… these were the traits of a Hunter.
One Eye looked back at the disgraced Yautja, thinking. Ta’roga and Shriek might yet be given a chance to redeem themselves… either by exhibiting excellence, or by dying well. There would be no trophies, but they might erase their shame.
“The men you were hunting are about to enter a village, where there are four times their number,” One Eye said. “A Hunter worthy of his blood might shed all of his weapons and stand without armor, without hiding, and face his prey with bare claws. A Hunter worthy of his blood might even win… and if he dies, he might die cleanly.”
Ta’roga and Shriek were on their feet before he stopped talking.
“You will not disrupt Kata’nu’s Hunt,” One Eye said. “Get in his way and I will carry your heads to your fathers and tell them of your dishonor.”
Ta’
roga fastened his suit and started shucking its armored plates. With only one good arm, Shriek struggled to keep up, his blades clattering to the floor. One Eye watched their sincere, solemn preparations without comment. There was a chance that they might survive; even injured, both were technically proficient.
He would move the ship closer to Kata’nu’s position, the better to clean up afterwards and to keep the two disgraced Hunters from charging in prematurely. And he had already decided, he would not be bringing any more of his students to the man’s world. Hunting men was a skilled warrior’s game.
* * *
Skeld’s Keep sat against the low peak of an iss fell, at the top of long slopes where the snow was starting to build; the Sword’s Son and his party walked through fields of bowed winter rye, past empty houses and empty farms. They saw signs of Asger’s siege, dead men and rotting horses, and the remains of large fires where bodies had been burned, blackened bones sticking up from the snow. Stelgar pointed out drag marks through the crops, long lines of crushed rye and dead barley leading toward the Keep. The one house they stopped at had dried blood on the walls, and dried shit, and vomit, and torn clothing. What they didn’t see was a single living person.
The snow was picking up as they finally climbed within sight of the Keep, thick flakes coming down. No one guarded the high wooden wall; the heavy gate was standing wide open. The tower of stone peered over the top, gray and empty, its windows like dead eyes.
A few hundred paces from the wall, Jarl turned to look at his allies, his friends and brothers. He saw wariness but no fear. Whatever they were to face—hidden giants, madmen, draugar—these men would fight well.
“There seems no need for stealth,” Jarl said. “We have come for the Keep and will have it. Stay within reach until we know what we face. And watch for shadows in the air.”
“They should watch for us,” Thoralf said, and everyone grinned, and Jarl’s heart was full. What better feeling than to head into battle with skilled men, united against an unknown foe? They would win or they would die, and both had their rewards.
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