by Lee C Conley
The folk who dwell at Hern’s farm had allowed and even encouraged the gorse to grow in a thick hedge that enclosed the farmstead like a natural palisade of thorns and yellow blooms. The horsemen rode through the gap in the gorse wall and entered the farm’s wide courtyard.
There are few sizable trees on the north moor so the houses were made of piled stone and had turf roofs. They were still mostly round, but some had an odd shape to them. The animals had broken loose, the enclosures were empty. The buildings were dark, there was no smoke. None of the hearths had been lit.
The men dismounted and moved about, peering into the gloomy doorways with their torches raised.
‘Where are they all?’ demanded Fergus.
Arnulf felt troubled. Where were his men?
‘Arnulf!’ came a shout. One of the men was beckoning from a dark doorway. As Arnulf approached he saw the man shaking.
‘Lord Arnulf,’ he said again, his voice breaking. He pointed into the dark doorway.
Arnulf took his torch and illuminated the inside of the house. An axe lay near the door, both handle and blade smeared in blood. Arnulf looked from the axe to the shaken warrior, and then stepped inside.
The room was in disarray. Tables had been knocked over and furniture broken. There was blood everywhere. The floor was slick and glistening with gore. It was even splattered on the roof beams. Slumped against a wall sat the remains of a guardsman. He had a hatchet through his skull, and his chest and stomach had been flayed open, his innards spilled from the terrible wound. Great chunks of him were missing, some of his limbs stripped to the bone and his face mangled.
Arnulf ducked back out of the doorway and resisted the urge to heave.
‘What?’ exclaimed Fergus.
Arnulf shook his head and waved him away. Fergus went in himself. He emerged with a pale look of horror on his face.
Arnulf’s eyes were drawn to a great dark smear on the ground. He moved his torch nearer; blood. The torchlight revealed the blood streaking off towards the darkened doorway of a nearby building. Something heavy and bloody had been dragged inside.
With a glance from their lord the nearby warriors levelled their spears towards the door. They looked nervously at one another as they slowly edged closer to the gaping darkness of the doorway.
Hafgan strode forward and held his torch low and looked inside.
‘It’s empty,’ he said with some relief.
‘Search it,’ commanded Arnulf. ‘Search everywhere.’
The men moved amongst the houses, their torches flickering light and shadows on the eaves and walls of the squat stonewalled houses. Then came shouts of alarm. Men searching the huts had found another set of gruesome remains, again disembowelled and in places stripped to the bone, like the leavings of wolves or some great hill cat. One of the men ran out and vomited as the others watched in silence. Arnulf ordered the bodies to be covered with stones and dirt. No one wanted to move them so they were covered where they lay and left there to rest in the dark houses of the farmstead.
‘This place has become a graveyard,’ said Arnulf.
‘There has been a great slaughter here, how many were there?’ asked Fergus.
Arnulf scratched his beard, ‘Well, when Old Hern died, his two lads took over together, so with their women and children, and perhaps a few hands, nine, perhaps ten?’ His face flickered with shadows in the torchlight.
‘Some beast has been set on this place, Arnulf. They have been slaughtered and butchered like sheep, perhaps wolves or dogs or some evil beast trained for war.’ Fergus threw a glance at one of his nearby shield-maidens who stood protectively close. She looked around nervously watching for a lurking danger.
‘I fear for the rest of them,’ said Fergus. ‘If any live they must have fled onto the moor,’ he said gesturing out into the dark shapes of the gorse bushes beyond the torchlight.
Arnulf’s face was grim. He could see the distant torches and fires of the other men camped at the Waystone. The fires flickered away in the distance beyond the gap in the thorny palisade as his warriors and guardsmen sat about awaiting their return. They were no doubt resting and drinking, oblivious of the carnage over the moor.
Arnulf felt a shudder. It felt as if he was being watched with unfriendly eyes. His eyes searched the tops of the buildings in the farmstead, then the nearby gorse thickets and up at the shadowy cliffs that were illuminated by their flickering torches. He was half-expecting to see some nightmare creature skulking, watching them; but nothing.
The warriors were hasty to leave, Arnulf had no desire to linger in this charnel house with its watching eyes either. They were mounting their horses when a young girl dressed in a linen shift appeared from the darkness and ran through the gap in the gorse.
Her white shift was easy to see in the gloom. She stopped in the middle of the track as she saw the warriors and their horses and stared at them. She stood a moment, then turned and fled back into the shadows.
‘Quick catch her,’ shouted Fergus to his horsemen. They cantered after her carrying their torches. Arnulf could hear them shouting for her to stop.
The riders returned carrying the struggling girl and placed her before the mounted lords. She was covered in blood, all over her hands and face, the linen of her clothes stained a deep crimson.
‘She tried to fight me when we caught her, lord. Nearly bit my finger off when I grabbed her, too, but we got her,’ said the horseman, shaking his hand. The girl lay on the ground groaning, clutching her arm.
‘I think she is hurt,’ said the warrior as he dismounted. He pulled the girls arm away and revealed a deep wound on her arm. It looked like teeth marks but the wounds had become rotten. Black veins ran away from the wound, it oozed with puss and blood.
She screamed at him and pulled her arm away and tried to run again but the warrior caught hold of her. Kicking and screaming he again brought her before the lords. Arnulf got down from his horse and looked at the girl.
‘We will not hurt you,’ he said gently. ‘We will help you if you don’t run. Who hurt you?’ asked Arnulf. She looked up at him, and then around at the mounted men and warriors standing around with their horses. She looked terrified.
He didn’t think she would speak, and then, after a long moment, she spoke.
‘It was my brother. He is after me,’ she said then looked away.
‘You’re safe now,’ said Arnulf, and then asked, ‘Where is he? Tell me what happened.’
‘A man came, a warrior like you. He was hurt, we tried to help but when he came close, he attacked my brother and we ran home. I got my da, and they got him and took him home. But he was mad. He tried to hurt my ma, and Brin said I should run away and hide. People were fighting each other. My da and Brin were fighting. I was scared, so I ran onto the moor. I don’t understand.’ She looked around fearfully. ‘I saw other men coming, like the bad man, so, I hid. I saw Brin attack them. I could hear my ma screaming and people shouting but I dare not come out. Everyone was fighting each other, my da, Brin, my ma.’ She started crying. ‘Why were they hurting each other?’
‘It will be OK, lass,’ said Fergus. ‘You’re safe now. What happened then?’
Through her sobs she continued, ‘I hid a long time, `til it was dark. When I came out, I saw my brother, Brin, but he was different, scary. He said it was safe, but he chased me. He was mad like the first man. He was too fast, he bit me and wouldn’t let go `til I hit him with a stone. Then I ran away and saw your lights coming. Please don’t let him get me.’ She broke down again and wept on the floor.
‘Where did they all go, lass?’ said Arnulf. There was no reply.
‘We saw none on the road here, they must have fled,’ said Fergus quietly.
Arnulf signalled his men, ‘Bring her, see to her wound. We can’t search the moor in the dark. We could ride right past them and not know.’
The warrior picked her up and carried her away. Arnulf turned and looked at Fergus, who said nothing but returned a troub
led look, and then mounted his horse. The girl rode with the warrior who had caught her, a man named Olad, a man sworn to Fergus. She rode slumped in the saddle in front of him. He had to hold her from falling most of the way. She said nothing more on their return journey. The warriors left Hern’s farm behind them and rode back along the dark farm track across the moor. The others awaited their return at the Waystone.
CHAPTER Eleven
An Arrow of Stone
Bjorn found himself led through to a sheltered corner of Pinedelve’s hall. A young girl led the way, and spoke only to ask him to sit. The hunter sat down in a wooden chair as the girl left him, pulling across a hanging as she departed. She returned carrying a bowl of water and was followed by another, an elderly woman.
‘Wounded? An arrow I hear?’ said the elderly woman. Her face was wrinkled. She had stern eyes that looked him over from head to toe as she walked about him. She wore a scarf over her greying hair, tying it back to trail down her back.
‘Well, we’ll need that shirt off. Quickly now, off with it, don’t be shy,’ she said with a wry smile.
Bjorn unclasped his wool cloak and carefully removed his open leather tunic with the aid of the girl, gently sliding it over the exposed shaft. The shirt below had to be peeled away from his skin. The sticky blood had dried and encrusted around the wound.
‘What a mess, man. How long has this been left?’
‘Long enough,’ grunted Bjorn. ‘I couldn’t take it out alone.’
She gave him a steady frown, and then moved behind him to clean around the shaft with a damp cloth. The hunter winced as pain shot through him. She eased the arrow back and forth slightly.
‘It glanced the bone over your shoulder blade. Lucky, any lower it could have punched through to your lungs. I will need my things, lass.’ The young girl nodded and went to fetch a satchel from the floor and brought it to the woman.
‘There will be pain. But I will be as swift as I can, dear. Bite this,’ said the old woman, placing a roll of leather in his mouth.
He did not cry out as the pain tore through his chest, but he couldn’t help a heavy grunt as she pulled the arrow free. He felt fresh blood spill down his back. Another burst of numbing agony as she probed the wound with her finger, before washing the wound out, and then covering it with blood moss and binding his shoulder with tight linen.
She handed him a small flask. ‘Drink, it will help.’
The liquid appeared to be some local fiery spirit. He drank deep.
‘This will, no doubt, need seeing to again. Keep it clean,’ said the elderly woman. She took back the flask and drank herself, and then dropped the bloody arrowhead into his hand.
‘I wish you blessings of the Mother and the Crone. You have my thanks,’ said Bjorn looking up at her.
She returned a smile that filled her face with lines.
‘Safe travels, hunter,’ she replied.
She ducked through the hanging and left Bjorn to get dressed with the aid of the young girl. The girl gave him a blushing smile, opened the hanging, and scurried off quickly without word.
Bjorn rose from the chair. His shoulder throbbed still, but despite the pain, with the arrow gone and his wound bound tightly, it felt somewhat more comfortable than before.
He looked down at the bloody arrow in his hand and lifted it to examine it closer. Set upon the broken shaft with pine resin, an arrowhead of flint stone.
As he strode back into the main hall Kervan beckoned for him to sit at one of the chairs around his great table. Bjorn pulled out a chair and sat. Some of his men stood by the door while others sat down. He called for food and ale as Bjorn looked about at the lord’s hall.
Kervan’s banner was hung behind a fine oak chair on a raised dais. His banner showed a black stag on a green field top left and black bottom right, the same as shown on the shields of his warriors. There were furs and cushions adorning the furniture and hunting trophies lined the roof beams. Bjorn thought it a fine hall.
‘How is your shoulder?’ asked Kervan. ‘I hear Maud removed the arrow and dressed your wound. She is skilled at such.’
‘It’s been better,’ said Bjorn as he seated himself.
‘Good, good,’ said Kervan.
‘So, the great Bjorn has come to hunt the Beast,’ said Kervan, addressing the others at the table. ‘But instead, he tells me there is no Beast. He says it is a hill tribe of savages from the north trespassing in our lands?’ said Kervan. At hearing this, the other men muttered amongst one another.
‘And you’re certain they have been crossing the borders to raid?’ asked Kervan as he poured himself and his guest ale.
‘I believe so, I will report as much to the high lord when I ride west,’ said Bjorn.
‘Savages. Stone Men?’ said Kervan bemused.
The hunter produced the broken arrow. It clattered across the table as Bjorn tossed it towards Kervan. The lord picked it up and examined it.
‘A stone arrowhead,’ observed Kervan with a frown.
Bjorn nodded, and then after a moment said, ‘Will you hear my council, lord?’ Kervan nodded and gestured for him to continue.
‘Send word to the other lords nearby. Summon a force and ride north and stop them. It is in your power to pursue those who would threaten your lands.’
Bjorn paused as several servants, the young girl amongst them, appeared with food which they laid out on the table, cured meats, cheeses, bread, and fruit. There was cooked meat. The other men including farmer Bennis sat eating and listening. Kervan took a steaming leg of Padridge, a local wild fowl, and took a bite.
‘You want me to muster a force,’ said Kervan with a full mouth, ‘and ride north and attack these savages? On your word alone…and leave my folk unprotected?’
He frowned, and then said ‘Eat, friend. You look like you need it. It is good,’ while offering the hunter a bowl of bread.
Bjorn felt pale, his appetite had dissolved. That smell, it was the meat. It made the blood drain from the hunter’s face.
‘They are eating them, m’lord,’ said Bjorn, his voice low. ‘They are slaughtering the folk they take like pigs and eating them. I saw it with my own eyes.’
The others stopped chewing and stared. Kervan looked at his Padridge leg and put it down.
‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ declared Bjorn. ‘They were not men. They moved like animals and were feasting on men’s flesh. They were savages, cannibal Stone Men, like in the old stories, but more terrible than I could have imagined. I saw it. On my honour, I swear.’
The men looked shocked at Bjorn’s unexpected words. They looked from one another nervously, and then to their lord.
‘You swear this is true?’ said Kervan, not quite sure if he believed it himself.
‘On my honour, m’lord,’ answered Bjorn.
‘Then evil things do indeed haunt the forests,’ said Kervan quietly. He shuddered. ‘I will give your council some thought friend Bjorn. May the Crone guide me. But now, what will you do?’ asked Kervan. He sat staring at the steaming pork on the table, a horrified look upon his face.
‘I was sent to hunt the beast and get answers, if there are any to be found,’ replied Bjorn. ‘So now I will ride back west and speak with the high lord at Old Stones. I will advise Archeon to send men north to stop them if he will listen. These savages need the steel of warriors to end this, not the bow of a single hunter.’ Bjorn paused. ‘If he commands it, the northern lords may ride in force but this place, the farms, the folk here, are under threat now. These savages must be stopped.’
Kervan rose and paced about the hall, being followed by his hounds; they were dashing between the chairs looking for scraps.
‘So, you will ride west for Old Stones?’ said Kervan. ‘You will need a fresh horse, that old mare won’t make it much further. Leave her here, she will be cared for. I can give you another.’
‘Thank you, m’lord,’ said Bjorn with a gracious nod. ‘And could I ask a favour of you before I ride out?’
>
‘For this grim news I would grant you perhaps a favour at least. What do you ask?’ Bjorn did not like to ask and lowered his eyes.
‘They took my axe, my bow…’
‘Of course,’ cut in Lord Kervan. ‘Kell! Come, show Bjorn.’ One of the warriors stepped forward. ‘Kell, give him your axe, I’ll get you another and show him to the Fletcher, get him what he needs. Good man.’
The warrior hesitantly laid an axe on the table beside Bjorn. It had a thick handle and the blade was slightly bearded and inlaid with a rune mark.
Bjorn picked up the axe.
‘Thank you. I will return to repay you, on my honour I will.’ The hunter nodded to the Lord of Pinedelve and to the warrior named Kell. Then draining the last of his ale, he rose to follow the young warrior to get the provisions he needed.
The lord watched him leave and called after him, ‘Repay me by returning for a hunt friend Bjorn.’ He laughed, and then sank into a chair deep in thought.
***
Bjorn was soon mounted and ready to leave. Kervan stood at the top of the wooden steps that led to his hall.
‘Safe travels, friend Bjorn,’ said Kervan. ‘As I said, return when your tasks are done. I would use your services for a hunt. I would see you make another shot like I saw those years ago. I’ll pay you well.’
Bjorn ran a finger along his bow. He had chosen a sturdy looking long bow from the lord’s stockpile and the Fletcher gave him a good-sized quiver. The arrows were fletched with black feathers, Rhann perhaps and they were well made.
Bjorn nodded slowly to Lord Kervan and smiled at his host before turning his horse toward the west road and urged it onwards. He rode a young bay horse, well broken, it rode well. Bjorn felt a sudden pang of sorrow for the old mare he was leaving behind, his only companion for many weeks. She had been a good horse. He patted his new steed on the neck, and it flicked its head as if sensing Bjorn’s thoughts.