On that beautiful mid-summer day in the eastern Cragwood, Stenhelt sat on the sandy bank of a wide lake. Stripped down to thin leather trousers under the warm sun, he cast his baited line out into the water and leaned back contentedly. His goals had been met. His parents' and Tull's homes were in good form, their cellars were full, and wood had been hoarded. The family was well-stocked for at least as long as Sten planned to be away.
While waiting for a pull on the line, Sten thought back to when he'd passed through Doveen village. He'd seen a young woman there, and their eyes had met. He remembered her light brown hair and healthy figure, but it was her shy smile that remained vivid in his mind. He began to daydream of crossing paths with her again one day.
Sten was brought out of his reverie when his powerful sense of smell caught a scent. Smoke, he was sure, and not from the twigs of a simple campfire. A large blaze, but not near enough to be a danger. He didn't see or hear any signs of a forest fire; no birds or other wildlife were fleeing. Curious, he grabbed his gear and walked out to a nearby clearing for a better view.
Far to the north, in contrast to the blue sky and wispy white clouds, was a widening cone of dark smoke over the trees. 'A large fire, without doubt,' he thought. 'But what . . .' Then a dreadful realization struck him. The Oma-Krin estate was burning.
Stenhelt rushed toward Lady Tovira's home with wild abandon, hurtling over the rugged forest terrain and through its lush underbrush with reckless speed. Barefoot, he leapt fallen trees and ducked low branches. He sped past a deer before it had a chance to react. A desperate goal and fear filled his mind. His teacher - his friend - was in danger.
A dull roar of flames in the distance came to Sten's ears as he ran north. He ignored his aching lungs and pushed himself faster. Only moments later, he heard an entirely different sound over the mounting background noise and his own labored breathing - a scream.
Sten ran on at a mad pace. The scent of smoke intensified. There was another scream, remote but piercing. And then another. In pockets of the dense foliage, he caught glimpses of distant flame. He came out of the trees and jumped over the back property fence without effort.
Winded, he paused to make sense of the scene. Standing at the back of Tovira's orchard, Sten was within his bow's accurate strike range - or roughly one hundred and fifty paces - of the manor house. Through and over the foliage of cherry trees, he saw that the Lady's home was engulfed in flames. Dark smoke poured up into the sky, and crackles of failing wood sounded within the fire's dull roar.
To Sten's right was one of the estates expansive vineyards. Two boys were running along one of the work paths, escaping the scene. Another scream came from Sten's left; he whipped his head around to the worker's cabins. The modest log and earthen-brick homes had been built to form a U-shape at the south end of Tovira's back lawn, creating a grassy courtyard with a well in the middle. Between the cabins, Sten saw blurs of movement.
Short-hafted spear in hand, he raced over. Emerging between two of the cabins, Sten came upon a view of bloody chaos. A handful of men in chainmail and dark leather were attacking Tovira's relatives, swinging either with swords or heavy shields. More bodies were on the ground; some blood-stained, some clearly dead. Men or women, young or old - the armored men didn't seem to care.
Stenhelt knew those people. While not claiming any as close friends, he'd been around them for half of his life. They'd shared their knowledge of farming and simple skills; he'd shared fresh kills made on the way to the estate and his own knowledge of hunting. Food and stories had been passed around Tovira's huge outdoor table on many occasions.
Sten saw those good people helpless, stricken with fear, dead or dying… His heart sunk, only to suddenly be filled with rage.
After hastily throwing off his pack and bow, Sten took a step forward and launched his spear with all the strength he could muster. Powered by a wrathful need, the weapon drove into an unsuspecting enemy's chest and took him off his feet. The other armored men were busy putting down the workers, or corralling any trying to flee; they didn't immediately notice one of their own violently pinned by a spear to a cabin wall.
Bow and knife ignored, Sten unleashed his boiling anger. Ancestral blood burned through his body; nails grew into thick claws, and his form stretched and swelled with muscle. Raging with energy, he charged out and pounced on the nearest armored man.
Ripped into with wild abandon, the man screamed in surprise and pain being dealt out by the beast on top of him. A slash to his neck silenced him.
The other enemies came to that one's aid. Eagerly, Sten stood and turned to face them. They hesitated at seeing the creature he'd become; he took advantage of the men's fear and hurled himself at them. A short melee ensued; claws gauged, swords swung, teeth tore, blood gushed, and broken links of chain armor flew into the air.
The remaining workers hurried to gather their wounded loved ones and then scattered, seemingly as afraid of their savior as they were of the armored men. Sten paid no mind; they were alive, and that was what mattered.
Beginning to feel the burn of sword wounds, he leaned back against the well wall to inspect the severity of each. There was blood everywhere, although only some was his. Sten found many gashes and cuts, but surprised that most of them were relatively shallow.
He unexpectedly heard his mother's voice and looked up. Walking through the huge garden that bordered the courtyard, she came toward him with a look of concern. Six more of the armored men were spread out around her. "Stenhelt," she called again, "all is well now, son. Calm down. You're hurt. I've brought these guards to help you."
Sten let out a deep breath, but questions immediately sprang to mind. 'Why was his mother at the estate? And why was she with more of the men who'd attacked Tovira's family? Why is she acting strangely? Who were these armored men?'
His mother stepped forward with arms out to embrace him. Trying to ignore the gathering pain of his numerous wounds, Sten wanted her comfort. He hesitated, though, not wanting any of the fresh blood to ruin her dress.
He took a deep, calming breath through his nose as she approached… And that was when he noticed it - her scent. Sten's mother always carried the faint aromas of rich earth and goat's milk and fresh herbs. The woman before him smelt of horses and sweat and lavender oil. Also, she wasn't favoring her right ankle, and showed oddly calm behavior. In Sten's mind, those details led to one conclusion: whoever the person was, she was not his mother.
Angered at the ruse of someone using a very clever impersonation to fool him, a growl began from deep in Sten's chest. Just as the fraud was about to touch him, he lashed out at her face with regrown claws. He felt flesh being met and torn, although no wounds appeared. Swatted as well as slashed, the woman was knocked away. She tumbled into the garden with a scream.
Just as the illusion around the woman began to disperse like smoke, Sten was rushed by the guards. He only caught a glimpse of a black and yellow robe before the six men tackled him to the ground. They were trying to pin him, subdue him; he took their tactics to mean that they wanted him alive. He had no such restrictions of his own.
Sten had initial success throwing men off him, and managed to gouge or bite through hard leather. The guards continued to swarm, however, and soon had nearly pinned him. His father's words came to him then; stern words given on the subject of brawling when he and Tull were boys: "Fight with all your heart, flee if you must, but never - ever - submit."
A deafening bellow of rage blasted from Sten's throat. The two men on top of him were blown violently backwards from the concussive sound; the other four were likewise sent sprawling.
Consumed with fury, Sten sat up and let the need of his ancestral blood flow. Tingling energy collected in his fingertips, a sensation he remembered from once before. Near-invisible coils struck at each of the guards like whips, draining them of life. He cried out from the thrilling intensity of siphoning in so much vitality. Sten's wounds closed and scabbed over in mere moments, and his body bristled with raw
potency.
He leapt to his feet and looked around him. There were nearly as many guards down on the ground as there were of their victims. Then Sten saw the illusion-woman not far away. She was laying on her side, holding her bloody face with both hands, and moaning out her agony. Her robe had the intricate stitch work of a Maker's, not that he cared at that moment.
Needing to expel some of his intoxicating energy, Sten stayed focused on the female Maker. He took one step toward her, and then stomped with all of his inhuman might. A thunderous wave of seismic force sped out at the groaning woman, flinging her body into the air. She landed further out into the garden with a grunt, and lay there stunned.
"Well done, you amazing creature!" yelled a voice from further up into the garden. "Simply the most primal and phenomenal thing I've ever seen!"
Sten looked toward the inferno that used to be Lady Tovira's home. Between him and the house was her extensive garden, stretching to within thirty paces of the back porch. The unfenced vegetable plot ended at a spigot and water trough. In front of the trough stood two more guards and another Maker in a black and red robe. With them was Tovira Krin, bound and gagged.
Two other people were standing roughly one hundred paces away along the grassy path to Sten's left side of the garden. One was another guard with a crossbow. A few paces apart from him was a yet third Maker wearing black and grey colors. It was he who called out again.
"Truly, that was a fantastic showcase of your exceptional abilities, wolf-slayer! And look at you now; half man, half beast… So full of uncanny surprises! I'd ask of you one more display of skill. Fletch an arrow to your bow, if you have them." The Maker held his arms out wide. "I am your target; show me how true your aim is!"
Sten glanced around, thinking the Maker was trying to cause a distraction so more guards could spring out and ambush him. Trusting his strong senses, he didn't detect anyone lurking nearby. He was too far away to charge the Maker without being wounded or killed. These men had misjudged his abilities once before; perhaps they would again. His father had amazing aim with a bow; Sten modestly knew he was better. He hurried back the handful of paces to where he'd dropped his gear, not wanting to miss the chance to bring down another foul Maker.
"Hurry, wolf-slayer!" the fearless Maker yelled encouragingly while Sten strung his bow and notched an arrow. "How accurate are you from this far? Come now, test your skill and let fly!"
Slowly drawing the arrow back to his cheek, Sten was momentarily distracted. Lady Tovira had begun struggling in a guard's grip, kicking and writhing. The Maker in black and red next to her made some swishing movements with his hand, and then touched Tovira on her head. She stopped resisting and began to slump to the ground. There was nothing to be done for her, not until after one more enemy was removed.
"You obviously have no qualms about killing, Stenhelt. That's easy to see," the Maker in black and grey shouted, "but what about now? Here I am, unarmed and causing no threat. Can you kill a man in cold blood?"
'Yes I can,' Sten said to himself, 'but my blood isn't cold'. Refocusing on the target, he took a deep breath. Letting it out, he released. The speeding arrow gracefully arced out over the garden. Sten's aim was true, striking the Maker in the chest.
It was a shot that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Immediately after the arrow struck, smoky hazes of mystic disguises drifted off the Maker and the guard near him. When the illusion of armor wafted away a moment later, the guard revealed himself to actually be the Maker in black and grey. He was laughing.
The other illusion, the one that Sten had just put an arrow into, was his mother.
Shorter than the amused Maker next to her, the arrow did not land in Baraide's chest; it struck off-center just below her chin and drove deep into her neck. Gagged, bound, and with wide eyes focused on her son, she'd already begun collapsing to the ground.
***