2. The Hunter


  

  Rurik felt the fur lining of his jerkin press against his skin. His breath caught when the leather cuirass went over the top and his wife fastened the straps.

  "It's midsummer. I'm going to die of sweat in this," he complained.

  "Better you sweat than some stupid boar gores you inside out. I won't have my husband killed by a hog. I won't stand for that."

  Rurik tested the hardened leather over his belly. Between that, the yak hide and fur he ought to be tusk-proof. But not sweat-proof. He could feel it welling already at the small of his back. The oiled leather started to stick against the damp fur beneath it. He picked up his bow, quiver, hand axe, and scramasax and lastly, the boar spear, the worn wood of its shaft a familiar reassurance, just in case they ran into one instead of the deer they sought.

  "I feel like I am going to war in all this."

  "You are. This is a fight to survive. Soren told me three men from the Stone Wolf Clan have gone missing in the last moon alone."

  "Soren also says she hears elfsong, Hilda."

  "Who is to say she is wrong?"

  "Everyone. Everyone says she is wrong."

  "I do not."

  "Everyone but you." He smiled down at his wife and kissed her on the cheek, as comfortably as someone could while balancing a hefty spear in one hand.

  Rurik looked down at her as she tightened the last strap, and for a moment the weight of the leather and fur felt like nothing at all.

  Hilda stood close enough that he could smell the faint smoke in her hair from last night's fire and the clean, sharp scent of the pine soap she favoured. Her short, dark auburn hair was tousled from sleep, falling in soft waves around her face, framing freckles scattered across her nose like embers on fresh snow.

  Those storm-grey eyes, sharp, warm, impossible to lie to, looked up at him now with the same stubborn certainty they'd had the day she decided he was hers.

  She patted the armour with the satisfaction of a woman who knew her way around war gear, her strong arms a testament to her former days of training, as much as a life hauling water, chopping wood, and chasing two wild children through the snow.

  He looked at the curves, muscle and femininity in perfect harmony. She was beautiful the way a winter pine was beautiful: strong, enduring, alive in a way that made everything around her feel sharper.

  Outside his hut, the village was coming to life. The air was heavy and saturated with morning dew, wet earth, and pine resin. Folk dragged themselves out of bed to attend to braying dogs and goats. Erik the smith started up the fire for his forge; the air punctuated by the hiss and crackle of kindling catching, and the slender plume of dark smoke rising as the first clear mark against the pale, watery morning sky.

  Ainur and Torvin stood waiting, propped against the fence beside the mead hall that lay black and silent at this hour. They smirked at him, seeing how weighed down he was. Their own gear was light, just oiled yak hide and cloth, designed for speed, not armour.

  Both of them had bows like him. Resting against Ainur's shins was a circular shield painted with the blue-grey bear paw print of the Stone Bear Clan on a dark red background. Torvin had a net slung over his shoulder. Each of them knew their role should something with sharp tusks or horns come charging. They were ready for the forest they knew.

  "Are you in a blood feud, Rurik? I think we should know if we are to travel with you," Torvin joked.

  "I am merely preparing myself for your terrible aim."

  Ainur laughed and Torvin conceded with a nod.

  "Come. Let's get in there before the sun rises further."

  "We were waiting for you, Rurik," Ainur retorted.

  "And now I am here."

  The three of them moved towards the tree line, following the main track for now. The pines mixed with broader leaves here that in the height of summer gave the light a yellowish tinge where it passed through. Barely had the clear ground behind them given way when a snap of a foot breaking a twig made them turn. Rurik gripped his spear and eased his fingers in quick succession.

  It was no foe. It was a girl.

  This was not just any girl, though. It was Sigrid, the Jarl's daughter. With her shock of deep copper red, thick and tumbling and cool green eyes, she was recognisable in an instant despite her attire.

  She wore a vest of heavy, light-coloured fur over dark leather, the front panels emblazoned with massive, ivory-white claws or teeth, set against the dark hide like a primal suit of armour. The garment offered little modesty, quite unlike the formal dresses he was accustomed to seeing her in, standing by the Jarl's side.

  Sigrid acknowledged them with a nod and a smile but said nothing. Rurik was not going to start a conversation with the Jarl's daughter uninvited.

  "Lady Sigrid," he said with a short bow of the head that was copied by the other two.

  She nodded back, accepting the formality, and walked on toward the village.

  "She's out early," Ainur noted when she was gone.

  "Or coming home late," Torvin suggested.

  "Not our business either way," Rurik surmised.

  Still they kept to the main track for the meantime as it wound down the hillside. All around the forest became an echo of music. The winter frosts on the mountain were all melting now, turning gentle brooks into babbling white waters and once dry cascades into tinkling waterfalls. The noise drowned out the usual subtle sounds of the wood, a natural shield that was both reassuring and unnerving. The ferns growing from the forest floor glistened with evaporating moisture, an early warning of the heat that was to come.

  Rurik kept his eyes on the ground, searching the worn earth for any print that was not a boot or a hoof. The air smelled strongly of clean, cold snowmelt and the heavy, sweet decay of damp earth releasing winter's sleep. The moisture settled on his exposed skin, already mixing with the sweat beneath his heavy leather cuirass. He knew the thunder of the runoff was their enemy; the noise swallowed the forest's warnings, and they would be easily heard over the roar of the water.

  They continued for another twenty paces, the track narrowing to a single, slick path between wet, lichen-covered boulders. The light grew dimmer, and the atmosphere pressed down with the weight of the water-saturated air.

  Ahead a small footbridge crossed a narrow ravine where water hissed and spat through the gaps in the stone. The sound was a sharp, high whisper that cut through the broader rush of the streams. After this, they were free to divert from the path and seek the deer where they would roam.

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  Rurik looked down at the soil. The days had been dry but the nights damp, allowing the ground to turn to mud and then half-bake again, perfect for leaving clear hoofprints. The soil shone darkly where the dampness lingered beneath the surface, but the top layer cracked minutely under the pressure of their thick leather boots.

  He crept forward, keeping his eyes downwards. "There." He pointed ahead to the unmistakable mark of a deer print. With no discussion they moved forward together, tracing the track further down the hillside until they reached a dell with a mere formed beneath a trio of slender waterfalls.

  The small lake was ringed with slick, green moss, and the air above the water was thick and cool, a humid pocket carved out of the forest. The tracks stopped. They all looked at the ground questioningly. The prints led clearly to the mossy bank and simply vanished.

  "Did it go into the water?" Torvin wondered. The thought was plausible, given the confusion of the rushing streams.

  Rurik shook his head. "No, look." He stepped into the space beyond the prints beside where the water lapped against the earth. He ran his hand over the dense, wet moss and found no disturbance, no drag marks, nothing. "Nothing here."

  "Maybe it took wing," Ainur said with a shrug, dismissing the impossible with Clan humour.

  "Yes, or maybe the elves took it." Rurik rolled his eyes. Things didn't just disappear like this. The half-baked mud that should have held the deer's print was stubbornly blank. They all circled around the clearing, their boots crushing the wet fern fronds, looking for the tracks they must have missed. There was nothing to be seen on the ground.

  Rurik looked back to his companions and saw a deep, startling streak of red on Torvin's back. The colour was too bright, too fresh to be natural dye or mud. "Stay where you are, Torvin."

  "What?" He answered from his half-crouched position, his eyes still searching the tangled roots. Rurik watched. Another splodge of viscous red appeared and splashed wetly against the yak hide near Torvin's shoulder, and Rurik traced the point upwards through the dense, mixed canopy. A faint, metallic scent of blood pricked the heavy, earthy air.

  "By the Gods!" The sound caught in his throat.

  "What?" Torvin's voice was more urgent now.

  Rurik pointed upwards and their gazes followed his fingertip to the branches of an ash tree.

  "How the fuck...?" Torvin began but could not finish. They all stood in horrified, sweat-soaked silence at the sight of the deer impaled and twisted on the tree branch, its torso half stripped of flesh yet still dripping blood. The raw, red gore looked impossibly high against the cool green of the leaves.

  "I recall no storm last night," Ainur reasoned, reaching for something rational. He looked toward the deep gash the water cut through the earth, searching for some proof of wind damage.

  "There was no storm," Rurik confirmed. He gestured to the rest of the hollow. "Where is the damage? The fallen trees and branches." The ash tree itself stood straight and strong, its bark undamaged by any force but the one that had skewered the deer.

  "What are you saying happened?" Torvin asked.

  "Nothing yet. I am saying what has not happened." He circled the tree, running his hand over the bark. "Could this be a trap? A pulley and rope?"

  Each of them crouched and peered to find some evidence of human interference. The soil, which had been perfect for tracks, was smooth and undisturbed around the base of the tree. There was no rope. No pulley.

  "Maybe the trappers took it down?" Ainur suggested.

  "And left half the deer behind? Why do this?" Rurik responded. The other two shrugged. "Mayhap they were interrupted." Not even he was convinced by his speculation now.

  "We should try to get it down, perhaps?" Torvin advised. "There's good meat there still. An easy hunt for us." He glanced at the net slung across his shoulder, its hemp cords looking thin against the impossible height of the branch.

  "Can you reach with the net?"

  "I can try."

  Rurik looked around for anything useful that could help, a vine or branch to extend their reach. The mere faced him now and above it sat a layer of mist. Not vapour burned off by the sun, but a fat and heavy fog that seemed to be rolling off the water's surface and was filled with chilling air. The abrupt shift in temperature struck their sweat-soaked skin like a slap.

  "It's cold." Clouds formed around his breath, pale and sharp against the dark green backdrop, as the words came out. The pleasant echo of music from the waterfalls had died almost instantly, replaced by a dense silence. All birdsong had died except for the screeching of crows, their black, jarring calls coming for the carcass no doubt.

  "What is happening?" Ainur pleaded. The mist had moved from the water and was swelling around them now, a heavy, chilling white blanket that choked the dell. The sound of crows was noisy and harsh. Not excitement. Dread. Warning.

  "I got it!" Torvin declared with delight, seeing his net land over the deer. He turned to them. "Look." His face read theirs and he looked with wide eyes as the summer had turned to autumn during the time his back was turned. The chill air burned their lungs.

  "We should leave," Rurik urged. His own breath pluming in thick white clouds. "Now."

  "We've got the deer..." Torvin objected, his voice trembling despite his practical focus.

  "It doesn't matter..." Rurik's voice was drowned out by a heavy thud that made the ground shake and the sound of a thousand unseen insects scuttling, old wood twisting and moaning under impossible pressure. He turned to where the air was coldest and saw darkness within the swirls of white. "Look out!"

  Ainur spun towards the great thumping sound with his shield raised. In a sweep of something black he was thrown off his feet against the bole of the ash tree; the wood-and-leather shield shattered over his lap with a sickening crack where he slumped, his head striking the wood.

  Rurik had no memory of drawing his bow and only became aware when the arrow flew into the dark mass. He heard the arrow strike with a dull, wet impact. There was a noise, a low, rasping crackle, but the dark shape continued to advance. Now Torvin screamed and ran, his light pack quickly swallowed by the trees. Rurik knew he should do the same yet instead he was moving forward to where Ainur lay, trails of white breath around his mouth proving he should not be abandoned.

  Somehow he found the strength to loose another arrow and then flung the bow aside, the heavy cuirass chafing his shoulders, and grabbed hold of Ainur, hauling, dragging, yanking him across the flattening bracken where he slid.

  The dark thing moved, extending one unnatural arm that seemed part blackened bark, part splintered bone, and part matted fur, as if the very detritus of the forest had been fused together in its formation, and pulled the deer free from the branch in a sickening, wet torrent of gore. The blood poured onto the chilling mist.

  Stay focussed on that. Stay focussed on that. The mantra hammered against his roaring effort.

  Rurik lifted Ainur onto his shoulders with a roar of effort and moved with strength he didn't know he had. His thighs burned and locked against the weight of the armour and his Clan brother, and he pressed forward to nowhere, anywhere, anywhere but here.

  He strode forward taking a downhill direction. Behind him he heard the ground thud ominously, the sound duller and heavier than any natural falling tree.

  The horror was not ignoring them after all. Teetering with the combined weight of the leather cuirass, the heavy gear, and the limp body of Ainur on his shoulders, he heaved himself forward towards the ravine.

  Wet twigs and brittle branches shattered loudly in his ears as he burst through the brush, the cold mist coiling like pale snakes at his feet.

  The ravine came before them, there was a sound like hissing serpents, the confined water's roar suddenly mimicked by a dry, woody sound of vines whipping through the air, and Rurik was hit. The force was not sharp but broad and crushing, driven by something that had wrapped around his legs and yanked. It sent him and Ainur tumbling down the slick, jagged rocks towards the water.

  Desperately, he grabbed hold of his friend, his gauntlet grinding against the granite. The icy currents hit them with a physical force, a shocking blow of freezing water that pushed the air from their lungs.

  The ceiling of leaves spun wildly above them. They bounced from rock to slick rock, the heavy armour groaning and scraping, taken by the frantic flow of the rapids until suddenly the ground beneath them disappeared. They were sailing through the air for a moment of terrifying weightlessness and then splashing down into a deep, shocking pool below. The noise of the waterfalls was suddenly deafening, and the cold was absolute.

  Rurik kicked downwards and hit the gravelly bottom of the pool. His head burst above the water, the sudden, shocking air burning his frozen lungs. He caught hold of Ainur, who was merely shocked to semi-consciousness by the cold and water, limp and heavy.

  Still hauling him, Rurik clawed his way toward the shore, the frigid current trying to pull them back, his waterlogged leather armour doubling its weight. He reached the bank and slumped down, collapsing onto the yielding, cold mud.

  Somewhere back there, high above them now, the thing still trampled around with deep, resonant thuds. But it was not here. Rurik coughed out a ragged breath, a cloud of steam in the supernatural cold, and collapsed fully to the mud. The cold air felt like a weight pressing him down, but the relief was absolute. It was not here.

  The Shadowfox, awaits.

  In a multi-pov story, what's your ideal number of povs?