by Lee C Conley
He needed more men. He did not want to risk an ambush with so few. He now only had one sworn fighting man with him, Hafgan. The others had gone with Hagen, and Erran rode ahead. Of the other men, he left three men at the watch post with orders to light the beacon if attacked. The watch posts must always be manned, and so Arnulf brought every man he could spare. He had less than a dozen men and only one horse, his own, perhaps more with those loose horses.
Arnulf was troubled. He turned to his band of men who had begun covering the grisly remains of Hagen in rocks. ‘Men, we march to the Waystone and check with Hern’s farm. If they’ve seen nothing, we’ll come back and guard the pass around the Waystone. Whoever is out here must come through there to come down from the passes. When Erran returns with the other men, we will return here and search the passes. Someone will pay for Hagen.’ He paused, glancing at the rough stone cairn being piled over his friend.
‘Hopefully, if Hart’s luck was with them, the others have made it back already but keep your eyes open. We don’t want to get caught out.’
Arnulf sent some of his men to fetch the loose horses and watched as the others laid the last stones over Hagen. He shook his head sadly and mounted his horse.
The men started to make their way back down the track and found two of the loose horses. Before long they came to the crossroad where the track met the old trail to the high passes.
Arnulf could indeed see the limp body of a man laid in the rocks near the path. He rode over, it was as Erran said. The man lay twisted with an arrow in him. He rode back and sat upon his horse as he watched his few men file past and head south towards the Waystone.
Hafgan reined in his horse next to Arnulf’s.
‘Look, m’lord, up there.’ He pointed back off up the hill. The old trail was still steeped in mist. ‘There’s people up there.’
Arnulf looked, there was indeed someone there. He saw only one at first, a dark shape approaching through the haze, but he soon realised there were several figures slowly limping out of the mist and staggering towards them.
CHAPTER Nine
Pinedelve
Bjorn had ridden on through the night and now the eastern horizon again grew lighter and silhouetted the surrounding hills against a dawn sky. The trees and rocks rushed up from the gloom, and then were gone, left behind as the horse cantered onwards.
He had ridden his old horse hard through the night only ever stopping briefly to rest and water the poor creature before riding on. His horse was sweating and lathering. He must stop a while or he would kill the beast, but he feared to linger long in case they found him.
The horns had been braying in the distance behind him but it had now been several hours since he had last heard one. However, he didn’t know if they had tracked him or if they even had horses, but he didn’t want to take any chance.
He reined in by a small creek and dismounted. The water formed a small pool where it bubbled up out of the rocky hillside and flowed away down a narrow channel it had carved through the ground, disappearing into the grass. The water was cold as he splashed the water into his face and drank.
His shoulder throbbed, the wound was swollen. He peeled his shirt away from the skin on his back, careful to avoid the arrow still protruding from his shoulder. The cloth was sticky with blood and puss. He cursed and knelt, fighting back the pain. I have to keep going.
He wiped down the sweat from the horse’s flanks and neck with a rag as the old nag drank its fill from the pool.
Once she was tethered, the hunter slowly climbed up the hillside a way and surveyed the country he had ridden through, searching for signs of pursuit. No sign of anything other than the rocky slopes and the clusters of trees that grew here and there.
The forested mountain slopes, crowned with their white and grey peaks dominated the view to the east. The pine forests seemed to spill down from the slopes and stretch away into the now distant hills to the northeast back the way he had come. He looked back down the slope to the pool and could see his horse below.
He looked to the south and scouted the lands ahead. Looming above the rocky valleys that lay ahead, Bjorn could see a landmark he recognised in the distance. The Pine Spire, a lone peak which rose from the forest on Arnar’s northern frontier, it marked the border and the lands he knew lay beyond.
He sat a while and rested, always staying watchful of the trees he had ridden through. Suddenly, there was movement. A figure burst from the distant tree line and sprinted across the open ground towards him. Bjorn swore and ducked down. It looked like one of the savages, perhaps a scout or an outrunner. Bjorn watched for a moment.
He was swift and covered the ground quickly, stooped low as he ran. The savage would soon see his horse. If only he had his bow, he could soon make the shot. Bjorn scrambled back down the slope and mounted his horse.
As he wheeled his horse to gallop off south, he saw him. The savage stopped. It was him, the Wildman. He just stood there looking at the horseman. Had the savage followed him? Worse, had he in turn been tracked? Bjorn looked to the distant trees expecting to see a warband of savages burst from the trees in pursuit but there was none, just the savage wild man staring at him.
He kicked his heels and rode off at a gallop towards The Pine Spire leaving the lone figure stood in the distance behind him.
***
It was late in the day when he began to approach the lower slopes of The Pine Spire. The lone mountain towered above the surrounding pine forests that covered the lands in these parts. Its high slopes covered in pine trees, it could be easily recognised for its distinct twisted looking peak.
It was said that in some time past, a great cataclysm had split the peak asunder and a great landslide took half the mountain side away leaving the twisted claw like summit. The great landslide left bare rock cliffs and rocky slopes on one side of the great mountain but the rest was covered in the thick pine forest.
Bjorn had travelled these slopes before. He remembered hunting mountain cats and stag in these forests while in the employ of local lords some years back. He also recalled visiting a farmstead or two with his hunting party not far from the Spire. And so, he made his way south through the foothills searching for a trail or some sign of the local folk.
He found himself at the foot of a high cliff. The cliff ran in either direction for as far as the eye could see and blocked his path to the south. To his left the cliffs ran off up into the tangle of terraces and ridges that formed the lower slopes of The Pine Spire. To his right the cliffs could be seen above the trees heading off to the west. He could climb it easily, but he could not traverse it with the horse, which would mean he would have to leave the old beast. No, he had to choose a way.
He turned his horse and rode west hoping to find a way up. Bjorn followed the cliffs some miles, carefully picking his way through the trees while searching for a path south.
The day was getting late and the sun was low before he found a way up. West had seemed the best route and the cliffs had indeed got lower, but the cliff had pushed him back north as well as west. He did not desire to return north into the hands of the savages and was relieved to find the way up in the last light of the day. So, taking his horse by the reins, he led her carefully up a scree slope littered with large rocks until they reached the tree line above.
The hunter paused and looked down into the darkening forest below. Light was nearly gone so he led his horse away from the exposed cliffs south into the trees. He picked his path carefully in the dark, leading his old mare through the trees. He walked for an hour or two in the dark woods before finally, he rested.
Bjorn awoke suddenly. He had fallen asleep. He did not remember going to sleep, it had been days since he had last slept, and he had slept longer than he should. He found himself sitting against a tree with his horse tethered nearby. His back was agony, a throbbing, pulsing pain. He felt the shaft protruding from his shoulder and considered removing it, the pain would be intense. No, he shouldn’t. He could not risk b
leeding out from removing it or worse, passing out from the pain and being found unconscious by his pursuers. He had risked too much in sleeping already.
He rose shakily and looked about. The sky was already light but it looked like the sun had not long risen. He was hungry. Suddenly a memory of horror struck him, the revulsion at his hunger upon smelling that arm. That charred human arm. Images of the savages and their gruesome feast ran through his mind. The memory left him stricken and his stomach heaved. Bjorn had thought of little other than escaping, but now couldn’t get the images out of his head. He could almost still smell it.
He shook his head. He knew he had to control himself. He had no food, and he must get word back to Old Stones and tell his gruesome tale to Lord Archeon and his northern lords.
Bjorn mounted his horse and again headed south. He rode south following the cliffs that had blocked him yesterday afternoon. He rode along the cliff top where the trees were sparser until his eyes caught a glimpse of something below. He had himself been down there, following the cliff, only yesterday. He reined in.
His eyes searched the gaps in the trees below. There again, he saw something. It was someone running. He lingered a moment, searching the trees, his heart beating fast, but he saw nothing more and turned and rode on.
Bjorn was troubled, he was being tracked. Was it the strange wild man? He could easily climb the cliff but had he tracked him and followed on foot? He could be one of them but had not proven to be any danger, yet. Still, he would take no chances.
More worryingly, what if it was the savages? A sudden flicker of fear shivered through him as he thought of the savages running behind him in pursuit. It was not like him to be afraid, but he was unsettled. Yet again Bjorn was being hunted.
Either way, they were on foot, and he on horseback. He was also now close to the safety of the halls and farmsteads of Arnar. Would they follow him into towns? Surely not, but it was not impossible. Bjorn would have to be on his guard. He rode on.
***
Bjorn stopped at the top of the hill and looked down into the large clearing. Nestled below was small cluster of round wooden buildings with conical roofs, a farmstead.
Smoke gently streaming from the holes at the top of some of the larger buildings. People could be seen moving about. A few had seen the horseman on the hill above and had stopped what they were doing to gaze up at him. Bjorn made his way down. As he approached Bjorn dismounted to show he was a friend and slowly walked amongst the houses. There were a few sheep and some pigs in enclosures woven from willow. Game birds hung along the top beam of one of the houses.
A man approached. ‘Greetings, friend,’ said the man, although he eyed the hunter warily. ‘I am Bennis. This is my farm.’ He said gesturing to the surroundings. ‘Folk call me Old Ben.’
‘I am Bjorn the huntsman, in the service of High Lord Archeon. Well met, friend. I am unarmed but I’m hurt. I am in need of some food and water for me and the horse before I move on.’
The farmer looked him over, and then said, ‘I have heard of a Bjorn the Hunter. Perhaps the same?’
Bjorn smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied with a nod. The farmer’s eyes widened.
‘I have heard stories of your hunts and deeds. My home is honoured. Come, sit by the fire and sup with me if you will. Tell me what brings you to my home while I have someone see to your horse.’
The farmer beckoned to one of the watching farm workers to take the huntsman’s horse, and then motioned for him to follow.
The farmer Bennis was an older man but still broad and strong from his years of farming. He led Bjorn towards the largest house and ducked inside. Two of the farm boys stood staring at the stranger before a woman hurried them off. She threw a nervous glance at the hunter before hastily returning to her work. Bjorn followed Old Ben and ducked under the thatched roof and entered.
The room was well lit from the open shutters built into the timber frame which held the thatch roof. There was a central hearth enclosed by wooden partitions that also divided the round house in two. Colourful hangings and drapes made from stitched hides hung from the walls and partitions. The hearth looked as if it could be opened to the back room also. But now, in the old way of receiving a guest to hearth and hall, the partitions were closed to the back rooms, leaving the hearth open to the door.
Bennis took a seat facing the fire and the door and beckoned Bjorn to sit beside him.
‘So, Bjorn, tell old Ben what you will. You are wounded? Indeed, you look pale…’
‘I was ambushed north of the border. I took an arrow, I need a healer. I cannot remove it alone.’ Bjorn leaned forward and twisted as best he could.
The farmer gasped, ‘So much blood. We must get that out of you soon, friend, before a sickness sets in. I dare not let my people touch it – we have not the skill for such a wound. But there is a healer in the village for the lord’s men. We should get you there as soon as we can. I will take you myself.’
‘Thank you, friend,’ said Bjorn.
‘It will take a small time to prepare your horse. Perhaps time enough for a drink. I’m sure you’re thirsty.’
Bjorn nodded thankfully. The farmer continued ‘And perhaps also, you could tell me what brings you to the border? An Ambush you say? And I suppose you would like to know the latest on Donal’s place?’
‘Donal’s Place?’ asked the hunter with a shrug.
The farmer seemed surprised. ‘No? Then never mind. I just thought…’ He trailed off then continued, unable to resist the gossip. ‘You see, a lot of folk have been talking. Don’s place was left deserted. No one knows what happened to them – very strange.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Well then, if not about Donal…’ He left it hanging and poured a dark ale into a horn while waiting for Bjorn’s response.
Bjorn took the horn and drank deep; it was bitter and heavy but good.
‘Well met friend,’ he said again, raising the horn to his host. ‘No, friend, I was not sent here for your Donal, but the tale is indeed of interest and perhaps also to the high lord who sent me.’
Bennis raised his eyebrows at the mention of a high lord.
‘Tell me what you can,’ continued Bjorn. ‘Have there been others missing?’
Old Bennis leaned back and scratched his beard. ‘Well there’s been talk and rumour coming in from the west road for the last couple of moons but few believed the stories, and then Don disappeared. Now people are nervous. They fear the stories are true. Neither he nor his boys have been seen since before the last full moon.’
Bjorn listened on. ‘Go on,’ he said when the farmer stopped.
‘There’s not much to tell, I only know as much as the next man about these parts but Lord Kervan sent men to search his farm and the forest but they didn’t find anything. Just empty buildings, no sign of anything or anyone.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Folk are saying the Beast took them, but the village is full of talk,’ said the old farmer before taking a long drink from his horn.
Bjorn sat thoughtfully and the farmer watched him. Then he finally spoke. ‘Your lord, Kervan, his hall is in the village we’re going to? I must speak with him before I ride west.’
‘Aye, his hall is in the village. I can send word ahead for you. I’m sure he would be glad to receive you. I have lived here on his land for years, he collects his dues as any lord, but he is a good man. I have drunk with him in his hall and we’ve talked many times. Now friend Bjorn, you have yet to tell me of your ambush?’
Bjorn smiled and nodded. ‘I do thank you for the ale and the hospitality of your home, friend. But now you must listen,’ said Bjorn. The farmer looked suddenly wary. ‘I was sent to hunt the beast folk speak of.’ The old farmer sat up with interest. ‘But if there is such a creature, I have not yet seen or heard any real trace of it. I have searched many of the places where folk have disappeared and from one such place, I found something.’
The farmer leaned in closer toward his guest. ‘What did you find?’
Bjorn smiled. He always
enjoyed telling a good tale. Then after a moment, he said, ‘Tracks.’
‘Tracks?’ repeated Bennis. ‘What tracks? The Beast?’
Bjorn smiled. ‘As I said, friend, I have seen nothing of this Beast. Instead tracks from some sort of raiding party and I followed them, tracked them for days out across the border into northern Barrens.’
‘Outlaws from the Barrens?’ asked Old Ben taking another sip of the dark ale.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Bjorn. ‘But I was ambushed by my quarry and taken, but not by outlaws, but by some sort of Wildmen. It is hard to believe, friend, but they looked like the Stone Men from the old stories. They seemed strange, wild and primitive.’
Old Ben laughed suddenly. ‘No, friend, if not outlaws. You must have been attacked by one of the tribes that dwell out there. Well you’re safe now friend, they fear Arnar and would not dare come south to face our steel.’
He laughed again but awkwardly stopped as he met Bjorn’s gaze. Bjorn sat running his thumb along the blade of his small knife, the knife that aided his escape. The farmer looked at it nervously as Bjorn slipped it away in his boot.
Bjorn leaned forward, his look deadly serious. ‘They are one, perhaps two days to the north. If they found you here friend, and they likely will, I think they would kill you all.’ The room became tense, and the farmer looked worried.
‘Mother save us,’ muttered Bennis.
Bjorn continued, ‘I have travelled far and seen the folk up there. These were no border tribe. I have not seen their like. I saw terrible things, friend Bennis. I warn you now, they are a danger to our borders, and to you and your folk. Do not doubt me, friend.’
The big farmer sat back with a deep look of concern on his aged face, and then asked, ‘How many?’