by Duncan Pile
Since discovering the demons could be hurt by fire, the tribe had prepared for the inevitable conflict by wrapping arrow and spear heads with oil-soaked cloths, ready to be set aflame. If a demon attacked, they would make it feel pain, even if they died in the process.
Rimulth’s heart was thumping in his throat as he went back into the hut to grab some arrows. As he reached out for them he saw that his hands were shaking. He reprimanded himself as he ducked back out of the entranceway. What kind of warrior was he, to shake in fear when an enemy comes? As he stepped outside again he stumbled into Balkrist. The older warrior put a steadying hand on his shoulder, causing him to wither in shame as the older warrior noted his shaking hands. The hand on his shoulder tightened noticeably, and the other grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet the experienced warrior’s gaze.
“All men fear,” he said. “It is facing your enemies despite that fear that makes you a warrior.” Rimulth stilled, calmed by Balkrist’s words. “Fight well, and do yourself honour,” the warrior said, and moved on to speak to another tribesman.
The Dag-Mar hissed, holding a hand up, and the tribe went silent. He pointed out into the night. “We are attacked. Light your weapons.”
Along with twenty other warriors, Rimulth walked to the fire and dipped his cloth-wrapped spearhead into the flame. The warriors spaced themselves broadly around the camp, digging the butts of their flaming spears into the ground. They were to use the arrows first, and only pull out the spears when the supply of arrows was exhausted. They stood silently, faces lit by the flickering flames of their burning spears, waiting for the attack. Rimulth could still feel the pulse in his neck, but he felt something else too - a growing desire for the enemy to attack, for the waiting to be over. Something fierce was rising up in him, something that was ready to kill.
He caught a glimpse of movement in the darkness and lifted his bow in readiness. A large crow hopped out of the darkness into the light. He lowered his bow. The crow’s black plumage was marred by a white patch on the top of its head. This clearly wasn’t the enemy they were fearing, but something about the creature was unnerving. It swivelled its discoloured head, peering with a beady eye around the camp. When it saw the Dag-Mar, it opened its beak and cawed hoarsely, a sound that disturbed Rimulth to the depths of his soul. An arrow flew across the clearing, missing the crow by inches. The large bird cawed once more and hopped back out of the circle of firelight, sounding its grating caw from the safety of darkness.
The tribe waited in uneasy silence, disturbed by the behaviour of the strange bird. Rimulth opened his eyes as widely as he could, trying to see anything at all. Was that another movement within the darkness? Was it the crow? Was he just imagining it? And then a nightmare emerged, a living horror that glided heavily into the fire-lit circle. It was as if it was made of darkness itself, a dense black mass with a bulky head and shoulders, and a body that tapered away to nothing. Its head swivelled from right to left, taking in the sight of the fire and the burning spears.
The Dag-Mar began to chant, gathering power around him as he did so. The demon turned its black eyes on him, swirling vortices of dark power that burned with insatiable hunger. It opened its maw and roared, the horrific sound turning Rimulth’s bowels to water. Dropping his bow and arrows, he desperately slammed his hands over his ears, trying to cut out the noise that felt like it was pushing him over the brink of madness. It was then that he felt the cold. Frost was spreading over the grass, reaching his toes and assaulting him with a bone-numbing chill that made him shake all over. It inched up the shafts of the burning spears, the freezing air dimming the flames that had been burning brightly only moments previously. The flames flickered and threatened to go out.
Other warriors had also dropped their weapons, but Rimulth could see that Balkrist had not. The ageing warrior was railing at the demon, standing between it and the Dag-Mar, feinting at it with his barely burning spear. Filled with a sudden fury that this creature could terrorise them so, Rimulth took his hands off his ears and yelled out in fury, a primal display of defiance that erupted fiercely from his lungs. Snatching up an arrow, he lit the oiled cloth that was wound around its tip. He nocked and drew it in one swift motion, fixed his sights on the demon and fired. The flaming missile roared through the air, blazing a trail of light across the clearing before burying itself in the demon’s chest.
If the creature’s first howl had been disturbing to hear, the second was doubly so, but Rimulth’s action had set the other tribesmen free from their stasis. More arrows flew across the clearing, piercing the demon’s dark bulk. It howled once again, but this time it sounded pained, and it doubled its efforts to reach the Dag-Mar. It rushed at Balkrist, who buried his spear in its side before it reached him, but it knocked him aside with a single swipe of its arm. Balkrist fell to the ground and didn’t get up again.
Rimulth was yelling hoarsely, using his rage to overcome fear as he sent arrow after arrow flying at the demon. It was peppered with the burning missiles now, its roars filled with pain and anger, but still it struggled to reach the Dag-Mar. The shaman summoned a glowing ball of power and flung it at the demon. It exploded against the creature’s chest, snaring it in a magical trap. For a moment Rimulth thought the Dag-Mar’s spell would hold it captive, but the demon slowly absorbed the magic of the spell and the trap dissipated. Seeing its quarry only feet from it, the demon howled in triumph, and surged forward, arms outstretched.
Acting as one, the warriors pulled up their spears and ran at it, whooping fierce battle cries as they attacked. The demon paused, arrested by the sight of twenty burning spears rushing at it. It opened its mouth to howl once more, but before it could make a sound, it was pierced twenty times over from all sides. It writhed and fought, trying to pull away from the painful flames, but it had nowhere to go. Rimulth could feel its muscular wriggling through his spear head. He pulled the flaming weapon out and plunged it back into its body again and again, yelling in fury as he sought to destroy the enemy that dared to attack his home. His fellow tribesman did the same, the demon writhing and shrinking under the onslaught, and then all of a sudden, with one last howl of agony, it was gone.
…
Rimulth sat in the men’s circle later that night, feeling for the first time that he had a right to be there. He had fought for his tribe, and they had won. He looked around at the familiar faces, seeing the same look of sombre satisfaction in each of them. The entrance to the Dag-Mar’s hut flapped open at the edge of his vision, and Balkrist came hobbling out. The warrior had been wounded in some way by the demon’s touch, and the shaman taken him into his hut and performed some kind of healing on him as soon as the battle was over. He was clearly still debilitated by the after-effects of the attack, but Rimulth was cheered to see him up on his feet.
Supported by a fellow tribesman, Balkrist walked slowly over to the men’s circle, and took his customary seat next to the Dag-Mar. The shaman had been staring into the flames for the last few minutes, and didn’t even look up. Chief Hesketh sat on his other side, and once Balkrist was in attendance, he held his hand up for attention. The circle quieted, waiting for him to speak.
“We meet tonight in victory,” he began. “So far we are the only tribe to have defeated one of these creatures. If we had not received word from other tribes, whose shamans have perished for us to have the knowledge that these demons can be hurt by fire, then we too would have been defeated.” Heads nodded around the circle, some reluctantly, but no-one disagreed. Hesketh’s eyes flicked briefly towards the Dag-Mar. “If we had lost, it would have been at great cost to all our people. The tribes of Eagle’s Reach would have lost their Dag-Mar.”
Mutters sounded from around the fire. Rimulth was taken aback. The Dag-Mar had always seemed invincible, and to see him as vulnerable shook one of the immovable pillars of his world. Chief Hesketh fell silent, looking at the Dag-Mar expectantly. The old shaman poked at the fire with a stick, staring at it in silence for so long that when he did sta
rt to speak, it made Rimulth jump in shock. Embarrassed, he looked around furtively, but no-one seemed to have noticed.
“I have never felt so close to death as I did tonight,” the Dag-Mar began softly. Rimulth stared at the way the wrinkles in his face distorted the patterns of his many tattoos. Where he’d always seen a man of power, tonight he saw an old man staring at his mortality. It was deeply unsettling.
“If not for Balkrist, the demon would have taken me before we could kill it,” he said, acknowledging the injured warrior with a nod of his head. Balkrist smiled grimly. “And if not for young Rimulth here,” he said, gesturing in his direction, “we would perhaps not have gathered our wits about us in time at all.”
Rimulth flushed from the point of his chin to the crown of his head, looking at the ground in embarrassment. It was Balkrist who spoke next:
“Rimulth you acted bravely today, and as much like a warrior as any other member of this circle.” Several other men dropped their heads in shame, knowing it was Rimulth and not them that broke the demon’s fearful hold on them in the early stages of the battle. “You will be a great warrior one day,” he finished, his eyes shining with pride.
“No he will not,” the Dag-Mar said, and every head in the circle swung back to him in disbelief. Rimulth flushed again, but this time in shame. Had he done something so earn the shaman’s displeasure? The Dag-Mar looked him in the eye. “Rimulth is to be my apprentice,” he said.
“You what?” Rimulth squeaked, so taken aback he momentarily forgot to adopt the proper tone of respect.
The Dag-Mar’s face broke into a rare smile, transforming his tattooed visage into a mass of wrinkles and overlapping blue lines. “I sense the gift in you, but you are yet to know it,” he said. “My heart tells me you are my heir, and I am not foolish enough to start ignoring the Great Spirit’s promptings after a lifetime of obedience.” Rimulth didn’t know what to say. He was sure the Dag-Mar must be wrong, but didn’t want to dispute with him in front of the tribe.
“Don’t worry young warrior,” the old shaman said. “We will perform the testing soon enough and then you shall know.” Mercifully, that seemed to be all he had to say on the matter, and Rimulth was relieved when he moved on. “We must send news of our victory to the tribes, telling them that these demons can be defeated,” the shaman said.
“You are certain there is more than one?” Chief Hesketh asked.
“There can be no doubt,” the Dag-Mar responded. “The reports have come in from throughout the mountains, sometimes at the same time from two places very distant from each other. We face several of these demons.”
“So be it,” the chief said sombrely. “We will send out the news of our victory, and trust that our people will have men like Balkrist and Rimulth among them when they face their foes.”
Rimulth flushed again, staring fixedly at the ground as the men round the fire brought out flasks of fern-whisky and toasted both him and Balkrist in the same breath. Younger Talmo clapped him on the back and shoved a tumbler made from a hollowed-out horn in his hand. It was brim-full of the foul smelling liquid. “Drink,” he said, tapping his elbow.
Rimulth had never been allowed fern-whisky before, and lifted it to his lips tentatively. Close up it smelt even worse, but he didn’t want to look like a child in front of the men’s circle, so he tipped the contents into his mouth and tried to swallow. A fraction of a second later, it came spraying out again, the majority of the contents landing in the fire and going up in an explosive surge of flame. The men broke into gales of laughter, slapping their knees and whooping with mirth. He was mortified, but Younger Talmo just clapped him on the back and pushed at him playfully until he broke into a sheepish grin.
“Try again,” he said, filling Rimulth’s tumbler with more fern-whisky from a bulging skin.
“If you say so,” Rimulth said, and lifted the noxious liquid to his mouth.
Eleven
Emea sat at the side of the quad, watching the football bounce around between the legs of a dozen enthusiastic boys. Everand streaked down the pitch, keeping the ball at his toes, and scored another goal, arousing cheers from his team and groans from the other. Seeing how uneven the game had become, Emea mused that she wasn’t the only one missing Gaspi. He’d really come to the fore as a key player in Owein’s team, and scored a lot of their goals. The once-even games were now heavily weighted in Everand’s favour, and as a result they were playing less and less frequently.
Both teams walked heavily off the pitch, discouraged by the widening difference in the score line. Apparently, it wasn’t even fun to win when it was that easy. Everand came loping over to her with easy strides, a relaxed grin on his face.
“Hey Emmy,” he called. She’d found it a bit uncomfortable when he first started using her nickname, but over time she’d got used to it. They were spending plenty of time together after all and she’d started to see him as a real friend.
“We’re thinking of playing koshta instead,” he said. “We’re all terrible at that so at least the score will be even. What do you think?”
“That’s a great idea,” she said, genuinely delighted. Whenever the boys used the enchanted device to cover the quad in ice, it reminded her of Gaspi. When he’d left to go and study with the druid, she’d missed him so much she’d taken the drastic measure of forcing herself to stop thinking about him altogether. But now they were halfway through his long absence and it felt like he’d be back sooner rather than later. It made being apart much easier to handle and she allowed herself the occasional moment of longing for him. In the main, she’d kept herself busy with Everand and his crowd of friends, as Lydia was just too involved with Taurnil. The two of them seemed to be dragging out their crisis about sex, which was no fun to be around at all!
“Do you want to do it?” Everand asked solicitously, and after a moment Emmy realised he meant activate the device.
“Sure,” she said with a smile. Everand offered her his hand to help her up, but she felt uncomfortable with the implied intimacy. Laughing to cover the awkward moment, she stood up by herself. “You think we ladies need help to stand up?” she asked playfully. Everand’s look of disappointment was quickly covered by his usual veneer of genteel confidence.
He made a face and withdrew his hand. “Come on then,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Get a move on.”
“Okay! Give a girl a chance!” She picked up her bag and walked over to Gaspi’s enchanted device. It was a simple-looking object, made from the wood of the koshta tree that towered over it in the corner of the quad. The polished wood was so rich it almost glowed, and it was lovely to touch – smooth and somehow always warm. She ran her hand over it, feeling the grain of the wood slide against her skin, and allowing herself to dwell on the boy she missed so much. She revelled in her feelings for a moment, and then sighed deeply, rallying herself and returning to the present. She looked up to check that all the boys were off the quad, and seeing that they were, summoned a slender thread of power. The device took very little power and needed no kind of focus at all, as it was enchanted to do one thing and one thing only. The slender thread of power flowed into it until the whole thing began to glow, a soft golden light that shone steadily as it thrummed beneath her fingers.
Mist began to form, freezing in fragile layers that sank slowly to the ground one after the other until the quad was covered border to border in a thick coating of gleaming ice. The device stopped vibrating beneath her hand and the soft glow of enchantment winked out.
“Get your whackers,” Everand shouted, and all the boys ran off to their rooms. They returned within about ten minutes, whackers in hand, and threw themselves on the ground as they strapped their ice-boots on. In no time at all they were ready to play.
Emea laughed heartily as she watched them attempt to play koshta. The boys slipped and fell with comical frequency. They tripped over their sticks, fell on their faces, and generally made a right mess of it, but they were clearly having much more fun than t
hey had when playing football. Emmy smiled to herself, wishing Gaspi could see what was happening. He would laugh his head off!
…
Everand entered his room, closing the door behind him and summoning a small globe light. He sent it up floating up to the ceiling, where it lit the room with its gentle radiance as he got ready for bed. He changed into his nightclothes and climbed under the covers, his mind full of conflicting thoughts.
He’d spent the evening talking with Emmy, and as was increasingly the case, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t just that she was attractive; she was just so easy to talk to, and she clearly liked being with him. Everand paused, arrested by that last thought. She did like being around him. In fact, she often sought him out. Ever since Gaspi had gone to study with the druid they’d become really close.
Therein lay the problem: Gaspi! If Emmy was single, Everand wouldn’t hesitate for a moment. She’d be his girlfriend – it was as simple as that! But she wasn’t single. Everand was used to getting what he wanted, and he wanted Emmy, but he liked and respected Gaspi, which made the whole situation really hard to figure out. In the past, Everand had treated Gaspi pretty badly, but Gaspi had been gracious enough to accept his apology when he’d offered it. That alone had given Everand a lot of respect for him! Since the summer, they’d even built a kind of friendship, and when Gaspi had gone away, Everand had not been planning on making a move on his girlfriend.
Everand sighed, trying to work out what he should do. He couldn’t help how he felt, and if he wasn’t very much mistaken, Emmy was starting to feel the same way too. That was the crux of the matter; in the end, it came down to what Emmy wanted. If she’d be happier with him instead of Gaspi, then so be it. It would be a nightmare when Gaspi returned, but that was still a long time away. He had six more weeks to spend more time with Emmy, and see how things went. He knew how he felt about her, and if it became clear that she felt the same way, then he’d just have to pick his moment and lay all his cards on the table. Content that he at least knew the way forward, Everand closed his eyes and tried to sleep.