Write back if you can, though we may not be able to respond right away. The Beast Hunter already has another work order for a lumber camp up north. Bor’ve’tai is very excited to be among his former peers in the fine craft of hacking down trees. At least, I assume he’s excited. Hard to tell with him.
May your ancestors walk with you.
Jaylocke
Under this, in a surprisingly delicate hand, was a second, smaller note.
Keltin,
Heed the advice that Jaylocke has given you. Malpin is no safe place, though you may find allies if you stay off the beaten path. It pains me deeply that I’m not able to be of service to you, especially now that you are going to a place that I would be most familiar with, and in the service of someone we both care deeply for.
The best advice I can give you is to seek out the Brothers of Kerrtow once you are in Malpin. While I dealt with them little myself, I know that they were a great help to Grel’zi’tael and Shar’le’vah when they were fleeing south. I think that you can trust them. Also, if you meet anyone that you think you can trust while in Krendaria, consider asking for their aid as well. Remember your own counsel. There is no shame in asking for help when it is needed.
May the God of Light keep you safe.
Bor’ve’tai
Keltin set the letters down and felt a sharp pang of loss without his two friends. They were both right, of course. If Keltin did have to go to Malpin, both of them would have been incredibly helpful to have had with him. On the other hand, it might have been especially dangerous for Bor’ve’tai as a Loopi, and perhaps Jaylocke as well as a Weycliff wayfarer. Keltin wouldn’t have wanted to put either of them at risk. Perhaps it was just his wish to not be alone on a mission that was so far removed from what he was accustomed to that made him long for his two truest friends.
Keltin’s thoughts were interrupted by a gentle rap on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened, but Wendi remained outside in the hall.
“Mr. Moore, supper is ready, if you’d like.”
Keltin quickly stood up and followed her downstairs. He found Ross and Harper already sitting at a table spread with sausage pie and maize pudding, with a golden brown loaf of bread waiting nearby. Harper smiled as Keltin took a seat beside him.
“It seems I may have to write another piece about your past exploits, Mr. Moore. Mr. Ross has just been telling me some of your adventures during the campaign that I hadn’t heard before.”
“Really? I can’t imagine he’d know much more than what I’ve told you. We didn’t work very closely together at the time.”
“I tried to tell him that most of my stories were just the scuttlebutt and rumors passed around the rest of the hunters,” said Ross.
“Those are often the best stories,” said Harper. He sighed. “I do wish I could have been there to document it in person.”
“I’m not sure you would have wanted that. It wasn’t a very easy campaign.”
“You’re forgetting that I’ve been a war correspondent. I’ve seen plenty of action. I even had to participate in a suppressing maneuver in the trenches of the Larigoss war. Come to think of it, I’ll bet they would have appreciated a man like you down there. Have you ever considered changing careers, Mr. Moore? I’m sure you could have found great success as a crack military scout, or better yet, a skilled marksman.”
“I’m not a soldier.”
Harper shrugged as he served a generous slice of sausage pie to Ross. “Some men don’t have the luxury of choosing. War comes regardless of the common man’s hopes and desires. It sweeps up people like dust before a tornado, scattering them wherever it will.” He chuckled. “Pardon my flowery prose. But look at the state of Krendaria, still reeling from the bloody blow dealt to it last year, and smarting from a land-grab by Larigoss in the south on top of that. Then look at Malpin in the north. Strong, hungry, and drunk on its own power. A tight-fisted regime requires far fewer signatures on a declaration of war.”
“What is the latest news from Malpin?” asked Keltin, his thoughts on Elaine and her family.
“More dangerous all the time. There’s an election coming up in a few weeks for the seat of Supreme Minister, and the front contender is a Heterack named Grik Pallow. If Pallow is elected, he’ll be the first of his people ever to take that office.”
“I thought Polace Harlev was Supreme Minister. Doesn’t he have the backing of the Vaughs?”
“Both Harlev and Pallow are tight in the pocket of the Vaughs, but Pallow has the ear of the people. He blames Harlev for the economic downturn they’ve had since the Heterack Empowerment. He said that it would have been better to keep the Loopi craftsmen and laborers on a tight leash, rather than drive them from the country. It’s a clever tactic with an easy scapegoat, and it looks like he’s headed for a landslide victory.”
“What would that mean?”
Harper’s expression was grim. “It could mean a more militant regime than our continent has seen in more than a generation. Closed borders, trade embargoes... it all gets very messy if the neighboring nations can’t find some common ground. It could even mean war.”
Keltin shook his head. “I don’t believe there will be a war. Malpin is surrounded on three sides. It would be a slaughter if they instigated anything. Besides, there’d be nothing to gain.”
“There’s land. Krendaria is severely weakened, and has a lot of prime farmland in the north country, including this province. Malpin could march a few thousand soldiers across the border with little opposition and lay a firm claim before any of Krendaria’s allies had time to react.”
“Don’t count out Krendarian heart too easily,” said Ross. “We’ve gone through hard times for certain, but my people have seen bad times before and rose above it. If Malpin comes south, we’ll be ready for them.”
Harper smiled at the hound trainer.
“I’m sure that you’re right. I certainly saw my share of Krendarian courage to the south against Larigoss.” The newspaperman then shifted topics with a social grace that made Keltin envious. “So, you’ve both made your recognizance of the surrounding farmlands. Now that there are two of you,” he glanced at Kuff on the floor beside the table, “pardon me, three of you, what will be your next move?”
“I think we’ll split up,” said Keltin. “With this many farms under our protection, we need to be able to cover as much territory as possible.”
“Isn’t that too dangerous? Going out into beast-infested woods, alone?”
“Well, Ross will have Kuff with him, and until this last year, I did almost all of my hunting on my own. Besides, there’s little need to sleep out-of-doors, which is the biggest danger on a hunt. We should all be fine.”
“Still, I’d feel better if you had someone to watch your back. How about I tag along with you? I’m a fair shot, and I’d dearly love to see a beast hunter at his trade.”
Keltin hesitated. “Well... perhaps. We can head out in the morning. You and I can make a circuit of the surrounding farms while Ross and Kuff stay here to watch Lona farm and the other local fields. Though you’d have to be very careful. I can’t afford to spend my time watching out for you while I’m working.”
“I promise I’ll do my best not to be a burden. Just think of me as a passive observer, unless, of course, there is any way that I can be of help.”
“Just keep yourself safe. Leave the beasts to me.”
* * *
The autumn morning air was cold and crisp. Keltin felt a slight chill through one of the poorly-sewn patches in his hunting jacket and again wished he had invested in a new one. He could have afforded it, after all. But it had sentimental value. Its tough outer layer had saved him from many stray claws, teeth, and spikes over the years, and the removable inner lining had kept him warm even on the banks of the frozen Wylow river. Besides, his father had worn it, his mother had mended it, and then his sister had. And Elaine had.
A twig snapped. Keltin spun and had half
-raised his rifle to his shoulder before realizing that it had only been Harper missing a step. The newspaperman gave an apologetic, rueful smile. Keltin gave a tight-lipped acknowledgement of the gesture as he examined the reporter’s outfit and kit. True, he didn’t look entirely out of place alongside a beast hunter. His clothes were sturdy and sensible, showing many miles of hard wear, and he held his Clefferton bolt action rifle with confidence. But there was something in the man’s bearing that was unmistakable. It was a sort of stiff awkwardness, like a man trying to move around early in the morning or when he was too cold to be comfortable.
Keltin spoke softly to him.
“I suppose there wasn’t much call for moving stealthily in the trenches.”
Harper looked around uncomfortably. “I wasn’t sure if I should try speaking with you. Are you sure it’s safe to talk?”
Keltin shrugged. “As long as we keep our voices low, we shouldn’t draw the attention of the more skittish beasts. As far as the more dangerous ones go, if they’re nearby, they’re already hunting us.”
Harper nodded though he didn’t look very reassured. They continued on in silence throughout the morning until they had reached one of Mr. Whitt’s farms. Called the Flaherty Farm, its fields consisted mainly of potatoes, squash, and turnips. Keltin spied a number of workers using specialized, pronged shovels to dig up the turnips from their neat rows. Among the workers stood a man scanning the outer edges of the field with an old Matlock rifle in his hands. Keltin approached him.
“Hello, Bryce. How are things around here?”
The foreman of the Flaherty farm turned and fixed him with a somber look.
“Fair enough here, but I expect you’ll want to press on to the Graggery farm. They’ve been having a hard time of it. A man was taken down by a beast.”
Keltin sucked in a breath. “Dead?”
“Not since I last heard, but he wasn’t in a good way from what I was told.”
“Any word on what sort of beast did it to him?”
“Only that the boil got away. Hope you bring down the hexed thing. My men can’t work very fast while looking over their shoulder.”
“I’ll get on it. Stay sharp until you get word that I’ve brought it down.”
Keltin turned and began to stride quickly away, leaving Harper to catch up or be left behind. This was the first casualty of the season, and it set Keltin’s nerves on edge. Though it wasn’t the first time he had heard of someone hurt or killed by a beast, it stirred the familiar driving fire that had fueled him ever since he was a young boy looking up to his father, uncles, and grandfather as they left on their own hunts. He remembered imagining them like modern-day knights, questing to save innocent folk from monsters of nightmare and legend.
Of course, the real thing was less glamorous than the legends he’d read in his mother’s home library. Reality was full of things like tediously long stretches of wandering through the woods, eating cold potted meat from a tin because you had to make a cold camp, and praying that you wouldn’t be attacked while stepping out in the darkness to relieve yourself. Still, he’d go through all that and more to protect good people from the sort of tragedy he’d seen so often. The sort of tragedy he’d faced himself more than once.
“Try to keep up, Mr. Harper,” Keltin said over his shoulder. “You’re finally going to see what’s it’s like to hunt a beast.”
Chapter 7 – Specters from the Past
They reached the Graggery farm just as the sun was setting behind the trees, the sky stained with lacy pink clouds against a blue and orange background slowly giving way to the blackness of night. There were no workers in the fields or the farmyard, leaving an eerie silence in the emptiness. Keltin led Harper directly to the worker barracks. He rapped on the door to the bunkhouse and was greeted by the sound of several crossbars and braces being removed from the other side. The door opened, revealing the golden warmth of lantern light within. The man at the door peered out at Keltin and turned back to call inside.
“It’s that new beast hunter!”
“Get him in here and close the door, you slack-jawed git!”
Keltin and Harper were rushed inside, the door secured firmly behind them. Usually a place of banter, gambling and good nature, the bunkhouse was nearly as silent as the farmyard outside. Keltin was confronted by more than a dozen silent field workers all sitting on their bunks, watching him. Thom Parse, the farm foreman, emerged from the back of the bunkhouse where several blankets had been suspended from the rafters to provide some privacy.
“It’s a hexed good thing to see you again,” he said, his quiet, strained voice filling the silent common room. He cut a glance in Harper’s direction. “Who’s that?”
“Marius Harper, he’s traveling with me.”
Parse grunted a greeting and turned back to Keltin. “We thought we’d have to wait for another full patrol of the other farms before we saw that loafer and his mutt again.”
“I came as soon as I heard that one of your men was attacked. How is he?”
“He’s back this way.”
Keltin followed Parse back to the curtained-off portion of the bunkhouse. Pulling the blankets aside, the foreman gestured Keltin and Harper within the close-quarters before carefully pulling the blankets back into place behind them. The injured worker was striped to his underclothes, his bare chest heaving with each strained breath. A jar of spirits sat on a nearby table along with a small pile of bloodied bandages. Keltin could see little of the man’s wounds, only that the greatest injuries had been around his neck and upper torso. As he stepped closer to investigate the man, he noticed Harper watching from a respectful distance, his expression somber but not pale. It seemed the newspaperman was made of stern stuff after all.
Keltin spoke softly to Parse.
“Did anyone see the beast?”
“Not clearly. It was like a blur that came out of the woods and threw itself at him. I had a rifle, but Monse and the beast were both rolling around in the dirt and I didn’t dare fire for fear of hitting him. I fired into the air, and the rest of us rushed at the thing with shovels, shouting and cussing at the top of our lungs until it took off, fast as a dart.”
“That was very brave of you,” Harper said softly. “There are many that would call you and your men heroes.”
Parse grimaced and spat on the floor. “We’re not hunters, but we couldn’t stand by to let one of our own get torn apart by that boil.” He turned to Keltin. “Do you know what sort of beast it could have been?”
Keltin knelt down to examine the soiled dressings on the man’s body.
“I have an idea, but I don’t know enough yet to be sure. Does he have a fever?”
Parse nodded. “I think the wounds got infected. We’re trying to draw it out with hot compresses, but it keeps leaking blood and pus.”
“Is he talking much?”
“Nothing but screaming in pain and crying for more whiskey. We poured half a still in him just to get him to sleep.”
Keltin nodded and rose to his feet.
“When are you planning on changing his dressings next?”
“In a little while. It’ll wake him, and I wanted to let him sleep while he could, if only for the sake of the rest of us.”
“All right. Let me know when you’re ready to do it. I need to see his wounds.”
“Fair enough. Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
Parse waved a hand towards the other end of the bunkhouse. “We’ve got a pot of beans down there and some travel bread. It’s cold, but it’ll fill you. None of us are eating very much right now.”
“Thank you.”
Keltin held the blanket open for Harper and the two of them made their way to the pot of vittles. He scooped himself a healthy portion from the pot and grabbed one of the hard little loaves stacked nearby. He sat at one of the long tables that ran the length of the room, flanked by bunk beds on either side. He bent over his bowl and began to eat, acutely aware of the eyes of the
workers upon him. He could imagine what they were thinking, looking at this heavily armed stranger sitting in their midst. Perhaps they fancied him a great hero, or a dark, dangerous figure. Perhaps they even imagined him to be something of a monster himself.
As the silence grew thicker, he found himself wishing for Jaylocke’s lively wit and banter to brighten the setting a little. It seemed as if Harper was equally aware of the deep silence. He leaned across the table and spoke to Keltin in a voice that imitated softness, but was clearly meant to be audible throughout the silent bunkhouse.
“So, Mr. Moore. I don’t think you’ve ever told me about your first beast hunt. Do you remember it?”
“Not really. I went on a lot of hunts with my father and uncles when I was young. I can’t really remember which one was my very first.”
“What about your first hunt on your own, then? Surely that one stands out in your memory.”
Keltin finished chewing a healthy portion of bread before answering.
“Yes, I can remember that one. I was sent to hunt down a sleevak that had escaped from a traveling sideshow.”
“Those are the beasts that some hunters use to hunt other beasts, correct? Something like Ross and his tamarrin hound?”
Keltin shook his head firmly. “Sleevaks are nothing like tamarrin hounds. Hounds are well-trained and intelligent. Sleevaks are stupid and savage. The hunters who use them are mostly Heteracks from Olpin, and they don’t train them, they handle them. Hunting with a pack of sleevaks is a delicate balance of starving them, releasing them into the general area of whatever you want killed, then drawing them back home with live traps and drugged meat. It leaves most of the work of hunting to the sleevaks. I suppose the sort who do it prefer dealing with the devil they know rather than facing the unknown. There were sleevak wranglers in last year’s campaign here in Dhalma. We didn’t get along.”
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