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Kalas crouched to examine the tracks, his knees cracking in protest, and ran his fingers along the edges of the paw imprints. He groaned as he straightened up, then kneaded his lower spine with his fists, arching his back to stretch stiff muscles, as they threatened to spasm and lock up.
Well into his sixtieth year, and his once keen eyes failing, Kalas had given up tracking a few years earlier. When a younger man, he had been feted for saving the lives of two children. The twin daughters of Klara, the city elder, had gone missing one cold winter’s day. Heavy snowfall had covered their tracks, making it almost impossible to determine which direction they had gone. After searching for most of the day, most had given up, but Kalas however, refused to. Night was falling when he eventually found them. They had fallen down a ravine, and were huddled together – cold, miserable, and frightened, on a precarious ledge.
Klara was eternally grateful, and Kalas didn't have to pay for his drink for the next few years.
His legend grew, and as was usual with such matters, his prowess exaggerated, some claiming he had been blessed by the gods. He apparently could hear a sparrow fart in the forest, and find its nest by following the smell.
Kalas had smiled at the absurdities, but secretly loved the praise, and did little to dissuade the adulation.
The Council had insisted he help track the beast that had taken the child, and it was a request he couldn't refuse. He mouthed an obscenity as a tingling pain ran down his lower back into his buttocks and rear of his legs. He looked up at the dozen members of the city guard sitting their horses, silently awaiting his findings.
“Well?” Baldrec, the captain of the guard grunted, running a hand over his sweat-sheened face. Like Kalas, Baldrec had seen better days. A bear of a man with close-cropped grey hair, he sat uncomfortably on his horse.
“I have never seen tracks like this before,” Kalas told him as he looked up at his old friend. “Looks like a wild dog or wolf, but the depths of the imprints suggest something far bigger.”
“I told you it was no pigging wolf,” one of the guard said.
“Shut up, Riskon.” Baldrec snarled, glancing over his shoulder.
“He is right, Cap'n” came another voice. “The child is likely dead by now, and they don't pay me enough to track no demon beasts.”
“They don't pay none of us enough to tackle demon beasts, Malron,” Baldrec responded. “But we've got a job to do. And no more pigging talk about demon beasts. We don't know for sure what it is we are tracking.”
A few of the men grumbled, but none raised their voices. Baldrec wasn't a man to be trifled with. The last man who dared challenge their captain's authority had ended up with a broken jaw.
Grunting with the effort, Kalas mounted his grey mare, and the men moved out. Kalas and Baldrec rode ahead of the rest. Baldrec looked at the old tracker, his eyes uncertain. “What do you think my friend?”
Kalas took his time before answering, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the others were out of earshot. “I didn't want to say too much in front of the men. It is no wolf or wild dog we track, Baldrec. Both leave an imprint of four toes. Those tracks had six, and the front tracks are deeper than the rear. That suggests the beast is carrying something heavy in its jaws.”
“The boy?” Baldrec asked, his brow furrowed in a frown.
“Aye, the boy. But since when did a wolf carry its prey this far, or for that matter carry prey at all? Wolves normally hunt in packs and devour their prey where it is brought down. If they have young 'uns to feed, they carry the food in their stomach, and puke it out for the youngsters when they reach their den.”
Baldrec grunted and nodded as he took in the information.
“And the tracks lead west toward Arnath,” Kalas added.
“Sayler's tits,” Baldrec cursed. “That devil-haunted pile of stones. This gets better and better. Swinging around in his saddle, he regarded the bedraggled line of men following them. “Stay alert and keep your wits about you, you sorry bunch of bastards.”
The sun was dipping in the sky, and lowering clouds suggested the onset of rain when they reached the outskirts of Tor-Arnath. Kalas and Baldrec reined in their horses, waiting for the others to ride up.
Horses abreast, the thirteen men stopped by a low wall, looking at the jumble of rocks and green-hued blocks that were the remnants of the feared city. Each man was familiar with the dark history of the place.
Baldrec licked his lips nervously, and called out. “Come on, we can't stay here all day getting sore backsides.” Pointing beyond the wall, he added, “the tracks lead there, so let’s get to it.”
As he and Kalas moved to go around the wall, their mounts baulked, stubbornly refusing to go any further.
Baldrec cursed, pulled on the reins and tried to heel his horse forward. That was a mistake. The aggrieved animal bucked furiously, unseating its rider. The big man landed on the ground hard, all breath knocked out of him. Some of the men laughed, but their mirth turned into curses and cries of alarm as their horses also refused to move forward, some rearing to deposit their riders on the rocky ground.
Confusion ensued as the men tried to control panicked mounts, then Kalas yelled, pointing over the wall. “What in the seven hells are they?”
Five figures stood by a slab of rock watching the melee of men and horses. Two were ridiculously tall and the others as wide and thickly set as two strong men melded together. Their eyes glowed yellow in the failing light.
“Demons from the seven hells,” Malron croaked, eyes bulging and face white with fear.
A sudden chill hit, making them shiver. “Beleth's balls,” Kalas whispered, glancing at Baldrec. “My grandfather always spoke about the cold that announces the presence of demons. What shall we do?”
One of the figures raised an arm, and a dozen or so of the huge hounds appeared alongside. The figure pointed at the men, and the beasts bounded forward, tongues lolling and jaws agape.
“Malron, Ilos, Kalas, tend to the horses, the rest of you get your bows!” Baldrec gave swift orders. The men grabbed powerful recurve bows and quivers from their saddles. Lining up behind the low wall, they notched arrows and let fly.
The shafts hammered into the onrushing beasts...and bounced off sorcery-hardened hides. Two fell, pierced through the throat, their bodies decomposing rapidly into fat writhing maggots.
“Aim for their pigging throats!” Kalas yelled. “That seems to be their weak spot!” Another beast fell, maggots writhed, and a nauseating stench enveloped the besieged men.
The devil-hounds were closing rapidly, their huge strides eating up the ground. Baldrec realized the beasts would soon be upon them. “To horses!” he screamed, close to panic. “Let's ride!”
Kalas had no intention of ending up in the belly of a devil-hound. Displaying an agility that belied his advancing years, he vaulted onto his skittish mare and dug his heels in. The mare, needing no further invitation, took off like all the demons in the seven hells were prodding its rump with flaming brands.
Baldrec and the others were not far behind. Malron, unable to control his terrified mount, was left behind as the animal bolted. He barely had time to shout for help before huge jaws closed over his head, crushing his skull.
His companions didn’t look back to see what had happened to him.
A Chance Meeting
The sun shone down from a clear blue sky, and birdsong filled the air. Moon had divested himself of his bearskin robe – draping it across his saddle a couple of days earlier, as the weather got warmer. Clad in a sleeveless leather jerkin and buckskin trews he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his skin.
Occasionally, he walked alongside the stallion, holding the reins, as they made their way down the foothills. They hadn't seen any snow for days, and the landscape around them was green and verdant and teeming with life.
The previous day, Moon had almost jum
ped out of his skin, as a large green snake, moving through the branches of a tree brushed by his shoulder. The reptile was thicker than his thigh. His first inclination had been to reach for Widowmaker and lope the creature's head off. But something had stilled his hand. The reptile hadn't offered him any harm after all, and there was a certain beauty and grace about it – the sun glinting on its iridescent scales as it coiled its way through the branches.
Glancing back, he could see the snow-capped peaks of the Northir Mountains in the distance. Summers in the Nordir lands were short, and daylight hours, shorter. The mountains had a cold majestic beauty, and bred men of iron, but these southern lands had a different kind of allure. Warm, vibrant, welcoming. A man could easily live out the span of his life here, take a wife, raise strong children, and watch them grow.
Briefly forgetting why he was here – he hadn't had any headaches for a while, Moon was glad he made the journey. Then his belly began to grumble. He had some oats left, but a man needed more than that to survive. He had managed to snare a couple of rabbits earlier, but the meat had been stringy and unsatisfying.
He had seen signs of human habitation – small settlements and villages, and the occasional lone cabin, but had skirted these. Never the most sociable of men, he also knew the sight of a huge one-eyed Northman appearing out of the wilds would likely cause fear and alarm. Fearful people were quick resort to violence, and he had no desire to spend his first days in this beautiful green land spilling the blood of its inhabitants.
But he was getting awfully hungry, and hunger usually made him bad-tempered. The enticing aroma of roasting meat hit him before he saw the thin spiral of a camp fire smoke a short distance away.
Leading the stallion by the reins, he walked toward the smoke, ensuring he made enough noise so those in the camp wouldn't be startled by his sudden appearance. He called out as he neared. “Hello the camp!”