Author's note: This story is set in a fictional world, specifically in the land of Kaldevarr. In many respects, this world is similar to Earth. One of the exceptions, however, is time. For the sake of detail, let's just say that this fictional world has a slightly slower orbital speed and rotation. Days and seasons are a bit longer, and so a person's aging pattern is affected as well. Basically, multiply any given number of a Kaldevarran's age by 1.3 to find the human equivalent. For example, a Kalde who is ten years (or "cycles") old would be equal to a human thirteen-year-old (10 x 1.3 = 13). As this simple formula affects all units of time, this fictional world's full days and solar years are obviously longer than ours. Feel free to do your own math.
The only significant role this alteration plays in the story is simply to remind the reader that "You're not in Kansas anymore."
The Way of the Beast
(Book one)
By Gavin Green
Copyright 2016 Gavin Green
"We enter solitude, in which also we lose loneliness. True solitude is found in the wild places, where one is without human obligation. One’s inner voices become audible. One feels the attraction of one’s most intimate sources. In consequence, one responds more clearly to other lives. The more coherent one becomes within oneself as a creature, the more fully one enters into the communion of all creatures." - Wendell Berry
"If you hold a cat by the tail, you learn things you cannot learn any other way." - Mark Twain
No prologue in service. Please proceed directly to the story. Thank you.
***
Unexpected howls of nearby predators echoed through the sparsely wooded dell, shattering the hushed serenity of the foggy autumn dawn.
Startled, Halivik scanned the morning mist with sharp eyes, looking for any movement. He remained crouched next to his hauling sled, tensed in a wary stance with nervous expectation on the damp, colorful leaves that carpeted the ground.
Gripping a short-hafted spear in his left hand, he glanced over to his right where his young son had frozen in his movement of pushing dirt back into a dug hole. Their dark eyes locked. Halivik saw in young Stenhelt's gaze only a touch of fear; the boy was otherwise alert, waiting to follow his father's orders.
Halivik felt the quick surge of pride in his second son, an unspoken feeling he'd had on many small occasions. There was no time to muse over the emotion, however; unforeseen danger was upon them.
Another short howl, followed by a harsh bark, came from somewhere nearer and to the left of Halivik's position in the temporary camp. He spotted silhouetted movements then - five, maybe six sleek shapes weaving through the low fog. If he could see them, Stenhelt was sure to.
Even at only eight summers old, the boy was as aware as any seasoned hunter. And with eyes as sharp as a hawk's, almost nothing escaped his attention. Other village children sometimes played a game of trying to sneak up on little Sten; he was yet to be bested.
The pack of beasts continued to issue growls and low yips as they prowled slowly into view, apparently assessing the danger of their prey. Knee-high or so to a man, they were lean with long snouts and large ears. Wood curs, Halivik was sure.
The animals were so called for the brown and grey stripes that ran from below their ribs up into the short mane that ran from neck to hip. The coloring was good for forest camouflage, but ruined by the fact that they were vocal beasts. Wood curs were smaller than their cousins, Kaldevarran wolves, although more tenacious and rarely gave up on a potential meal.
The pack may have been drawn by the scent of the fresh kill, namely the boar that Halivik and his son had slain just before the dreary dawn. The gutted carcass currently hung from a branch to drain while its scraped hide dangled next to it in a stretching frame.
Stenhelt had just finished burying most of the innards, along with the remaining corn mash that had initially lured the bachelor boar. They had planned to travel the half-day's journey back home once the sun had burnt the morning fog off. If Halivik had any luck, he could make light of this new encounter to Baraide while she served a late meal.
He had only a moment to wonder why a pack of wood curs would be trekking so far north into the Cragwood. He'd never known them to venture much beyond the heavily forested lower slopes of the Skean Peaks, days to the south and east. Something possibly drove them out.
All that Halivik was sure of just then was that Baraide would drive him out if he let anything happen to Sten. It was only the boy's third time out on a gathering trip, and the first this far from their property. Had it been known that wood curs were roaming this close to the village, then his son would currently be safe near home checking the small game traps and helping his mother and siblings with chores.
The pack of curs paused, milling and nipping at each other while keeping malevolent glares on the camp. Halivik had seen the tactic before; they were strengthening their resolve to charge. There was no time to retrieve the bow and string it.
Keeping low, Halivik quickly scrambled over to the trunk of the tree that held their kill. Stenhelt met him there, anxious and alert. The boy's breath came out in panting, foggy plumes from the chilly morning air. Fear was having its effect on him, but he denied panic to set in. Again, a father's pride welled.
Halivik looked his son in the eyes and then glanced up at the tree. Stenhelt understood the silent order instantly, if reluctantly. The boy reached up as his father lifted him to the nearest branch. It was not a time for words; neither of them spoke more than necessary to begin with.
Both father and son hesitated when they sensed movement behind them. The wood curs had just launched into a growling charge. Hastily shoving Stenhelt up into the branches with his free hand, Halivik had to trust in his son's agility to reach a safe perch. Without sparing a moment to look up, he spun with his spear to face the pack.
The snarling wood curs were faster than expected. By the time Halivik had turned to face them, two of the animals were in mid-leap and slammed into him. He was knocked back and to his left, missing the tree that his son watched from. Strong jaws locked onto the hunter's boot at the ankle. Another set of sharp teeth snapped at the forearm that held it back.
The first cur to attack had leapt again, a few of its sharp nails finding purchase in Halivik's fur coat and flesh underneath as it strove for his neck. He pried that vicious animal off him with the spear shaft. The wrenching action set him off-balance. Slipping on wet leaves, he stumbled toward the sled and fell.
At least three of the ferocious animals pounced on Halivik before he could even sit up. His ears were filled with snarling, dark intent. His eyes saw only dull fur and flashing teeth. He kicked his legs to avoid a clenching bite. He kept the spear shaft in front of him, swinging frantically when he could, hoping the stone spearhead would rip flesh.
As one of the curs pulled back to renew its attack, Halivik made a desperate backhand swing at it. The flat of the spearhead clouted the animal behind the ear, but the momentum of the strike came to an immediate stop and caused the spear to fly out of his grip. Another cur had caught his wrist in a vice grip of piercing teeth.
More teeth stabbed into Halivik's leg just below his left knee, causing him to cry out in pain. With his other leg, he kicked blindly at the cur that was trying to rip his calf apart. His numbing left hand was at the mercy of the teeth that held it, twisting and tugging. His right arm was barely fending off two large, hungry mouths filled with long teeth. His fur sleeve was quickly in tatters, dripping with blood and slaver.
Halivik's body was being yanked and pulled. His left leg and arm were in screaming pain, and his free limbs were heavy and slow. He wouldn't go without a fight, but there wasn't much fight left in him. At that moment, he feared only for little Sten.