CHAPTER THREE
Holis Lode was beginning to cramp up. His legs were tightening and the pain was insistent and sharp. With practised ease he slowly straightened his legs out and flexed the foot so that his calf muscles could be fully stretched out. He nonetheless had to grit his teeth and keep his body as still and silent as possible. This was nothing new; he had grown up learning the skills of the hunter and trapper. He had been born to it and lived it day and night. Besides he had damned well waited longer and in less comfort when waiting to catch an unwary deer or bear. He could normally wait a hell of a lot longer too, if it weren't for the fact he was so dog-tired. They had been laying in wait on either side of a well-travelled forest path, one of a number that made up the unofficial highways of these parts. And they had been waiting for three hours now. Lode finally felt the muscle contractions lessen and allowed him a small inward sigh of relief. He gazed over to his right where, almost hidden amidst the brush, lay Old Hoarty. Hoarty had been watching him, assessing with shrewd yet playful eyes how Lode had dealt with his cramp. Hoarty gave his one-tooth grin and nodded his approval. Holis often wondered just how aged Hoarty was. The “Old” in his name certainly suited his look. A wild frizz of grey hair and an equally unkempt beard disguised the man beneath. You'd still have to get through the dirt as well. Lode felt it was probably too ingrained anyway. It was his second skin. Old Hoarty was a legend amongst the trapping community. There weren't many who didn't remember Hoarty from their own childhoods. A half-crazy old man who knew more about hunting, trapping, surviving the wilds and understanding its inhabitants than most of the older hands would care to admit. And here he was still going strong. Some of the more superstitious village folk said he must have magic in him. On hearing this, Hoarty would cackle for a while and round it off with spit of his foul-smelling chewing tobacco. Any trapper who knew his business also knew the truth. Hoarty was good, bloody good. That's why he stayed alive pure and simple.
Lode couldn't decide if he quite wanted to see himself in Hoarty's position in years to come. He was kind of hoping to retire and set himself up in a nice cottage that he had built himself. A wife and kids would be a quite welcome addition to the mix as well. In trapping terms Lode was still young. He thought he was in his late twenties and when he bothered to clean himself up, most reckoned he had quite a rugged and handsome face. Blue-eyed and long blonde hair tied at the back with a simple piece of leather, it certainly hadn't done him any harm with the local girls at any rate. Lithe and muscular he had learned to live off the land and how to read its signs. Older guys had been impressed with his cool head. He was patient and he was thoughtful. Lode wasn’t into making rash decisions. He would rather bide his time and wait for the moment. A good hunting instinct is what he had. So he made a decent living and the others of his kind treated him with respect despite his youth. That was probably why he had been elected leader of this motley crew.
There were six of them, three on either side of the path: Old Hoarty, Sleeps, Juggs, Arald, Fuzz and Lode himself. All that was left of their community, the town of Noel's Gap. Nothing special really, one tavern, a few tradesmen and some local farmers and goat herders. What it did mark was a hub for all the fur traffic coming in from the northern mountains and the forest wilderness that spread east to west. The trapping fraternity used Noel's Gap as their home base and their marketplace. After weeks on end in the wilds, they would come into the town to sell their wares to the few local export businesses. In turn, once every four months they would ship out the furs and other ornaments of death on the backs of mules and packhorses. They would follow these very same trails that led to Shifter and to Graves. The goods would then find their way to every market stall, house and business. This trade would even cross the gulf and would adorn the wealthy classes of the coastal city states and beyond. Even Ashkent's army had fur cloaks from Noel's Gap, worn when the winter drew in and the men were mighty glad of them then. So all in all it was a happy arrangement. The trappers got their cash and a place to drink, girls to play with and a soft bed, all courtesy of Jim's Tavern. Not the classiest of joints and not the loveliest of women, but it knew how to cater to its clientele.
Lode thought back to the evening, two days earlier. Back to Jim’s where Lode and his companions were spending their leisure. Everyone knew everyone else and people would greet new arrivals warmly as they stamped through the front doors. Good-natured abuse was hurled, questions asked about good hunting grounds and much discussion given to migration patterns. The life of a trapper was often solitary and hunting trips could mean many weeks, if not months, away. Messages were passed to others encountered on the trail, an unusual mail system of sorts, so that friends could stay in touch over many miles and days. The export crews provided news of the outside world and much attention was given to the war between Graves and Shifter. Stuff like that was bad for business as many a trapper was heard to mutter, others would nod sagely as they supped their beer or pulled on their pipes. Lode was never too bothered at the end of the day, people still needed fur. Still needed the clothes on their back and the warm pile on their beds. It would blow over in the end. Someone would win or lose and then they could get back to business. It wasn't the most glamorous of lives they led, but none of them would ever care to give it up. Let the idiots in the big cities screw their own lives up. Hoarty always said "Simple don't always mean stupid. Too many make that mistake and pay for it the hard way." Hoarty often came out with these little nuggets which left Lode under no illusions that the crafty old bugger had yet to lose his marbles.
So it was that many of the usual crowd were gathered in Jim's for one more night before they headed out for the last big hunt of the season ahead of the weather getting nasty. All wanted to get a good haul in before the snows came and game became scarce. Not that they couldn't still hunt, but what crazy bugger wanted to be out in the freezing cold? As always many of the guys were drunk to their eyeballs and carousing with the lasses that served the bar and serviced their other needs as well. Lode was staying off the strong stuff. He always did before heading out. He felt it was bad luck to start the trip on a low note of puking and stomach aches. And he’d done enough of that when he was younger. He had left early and had traipsed up the stairs to his room. His was one of the attic beds on the fourth floor, furthest away from the noise, if not particularly large. He didn't mind. It wasn't as if he had much stuff and that was all packed ready for the off tomorrow. His mules were ready to go downstairs in the large stables and he could look forward to one more night of sleep on something other than hard, cold earth. As he started to undress he gazed absently out of the small window hatch. It looked out to the north and afforded him a clear view across the town, whose scattered buildings were mostly black as their occupants had long gone to sleep or were to be found in the tavern. He looked away and carried on undressing. But something stopped him. Something nagged and told him that things were not right. He looked up again and studied the view before him. There it was, right on the edge of the forest where it made way for the cleared area of small fields and farm houses. Movement. But not localised, not the solitary shape of another trapper coming in from the hunt. This was bigger. Much bigger. A whole great mass of movement as shapes began to detach from the darkness and edged towards the unsuspecting town. Instinctively Lode knew what this meant. Death had come to Noel's Gap and none would be spared. Noel’s Gap was finished.
They were not prepared and why should they be? He didn’t know who they were or why the town was coming under attack. There was nothing worth having. He grabbed his crossbow and his long hunting dagger. He dimly registered his luck at already having much of his gear stowed in his pack. Throwing it over his shoulders he charged down the stars imagining as he did that the first of those dark forms would now be reaching the outlying homes. Those within wouldn’t know what had hit them. Probably a mercy.
As he entered the bar few noticed his crashing en
trance and most were too interested in drinking to care. And he was damned if he knew what he was going to say. He leapt onto the bar and the owner, Jim, all hair and muscle shouted at him to get down. He ignored the irate barkeep and gazed over the crowd. He suddenly felt very small and foolish, but nonetheless he roared, “Shut the hell up!”
That gained everyone’s attention.
“You have about two minutes left. There is a large bunch of men moving into the town. I saw them from my window. They are on the outskirts, and they definitely aren’t friendly. I’m getting out. Now. What you do is up to you.”
He gazed around the room to gauge the reaction. There was a moment of silence and then a ripple of nervous laughter started. And there were lewd and crude comments made about his questionable sanity. He locked eyes with Old Hoarty. The older man made a thoughtful face and then nodded. Inwardly Lode was pleased. At least there was one old dog that wouldn’t roll over and die. He leapt off the bar and ran out of the door. Behind him voices were suddenly raised, some in fear, some in anger. There wasn’t time to get the mules. They would only slow him down. He heard the door open and the sound of the voices grow louder. He didn’t look back. As he raced through the doomed town the dull tones of the church bell began to toll. So someone else had seen them. All too late, he thought. He swiftly covered the quarter mile to the edge of the forests to the south of Noel’s Gap. He swerved left off the main track out of town and cut across a field and into a depression that led straight into the trees. He wanted cover from view. There was no telling if those bastards had surrounded the village. As he neared the forest he forced himself to slow down. Now was not the time to start making like a startled boar. Softly and silent, that was his trade. He climbed out of the depression and moved into the tree line. He could not make out anyone nearby and his senses, usually reliable, were not tingling. So Holis quietly merged into the undergrowth and watched the scene before him. He took the time to string and load his crossbow as he watched. The church bell had stopped at some point but he hadn’t noticed. He expected the town to be put to flame but there was nothing. No sign of the undoubted carnage that was occurring in Noel’s Gap. It was like some demonic pestilence had struck. Soon, though, he began to hear plaintive screams and wails and the occasional snapping sound of wood. Then all was quiet again. He began scanning the foreground, seeing if any had gotten out. Using his peripheral vision he spotted a number of dark forms wending their way along the path at speed. One or two were moving across the field and seemed to be heading directly for the trees. They were the clever ones. As the larger group of fugitives on the path reached the entrance to the forest another mass of figures detached themselves from the shadows. This time the sounds of murder were much clearer. Shouts and screams mingled as men, women and children were cut down. Lode hated himself for being right. He hated that he had just up and left. Of course the practical side of him said he had done exactly the right thing. It was now telling him that there was no point in hanging around. But Gods did he want to make someone bleed. Even now though, the dark assailants were moving back into the forest. No doubt to mop up those just like himself. Well, bugger them! He picked up his kit and moved off into the night. Ain’t no way those bastards could out hunt him on his own turf. He knew exactly where to go.
Two hours later and several miles further south, he knelt beside the main trail and studied the old woodsman’s shack set off in a small clearing on the far side. It was used only occasionally these days and certainly not at this time of year. It seemed quiet. There were no signs of life. Exactly what he was hoping for. He made a soft ululating whistle. A few moments later he heard a vibrant chirping sound. That was the cue. Bent low, he ran across the path and into the trees behind the shack. Gathered there were Sleeps and Juggs, the only female member of their hunting fraternity. The pair both had their bows pointed at him as he moved into view. Satisfied they lowered their weapons. They were two of the older trappers and had been partners for years, though strangely not lovers. At least no-one could ever remember a time when the two of them had ever displayed any behaviour to suggest it. Not in public at any rate. Lode always thought of them as brother and sister, though he knew that not to be the case. Juggs came from a long line of woodsmen and by an accident of birth had come out the wrong sex. Though she always claimed that nature had got it right in its selection for once. She certainly knew how to skin a rabbit.
“Thanks for the advice, Holis,” Juggs whispered.
“Yeah,” agreed Sleeps. A man of brevity that one.
“You’re the first,” continued Juggs, “no-one else has come this way.”
“Reckon we’re safe for a while yet. Those guys will want to do a proper clean-up,” said Lode.
“Looks like it.” said Sleeps.
Over the next thirty minutes Fuzz, who sported a gash to his arm that he had hastily bound, joined them. He settled down to stitch the wound himself. “Not letting you butchers at it. Man’s not a man if he can’t perform basic surgery,” he commented. Soon after they were joined by Old Hoarty and Arald. Lode suddenly felt a lot better. He was with his own kind. Each one of these men were trappers and hunters. Tough and resourceful.
“Don’t reckon there’ll be anyone else,” said Old Hoarty as he spat into the undergrowth. “Me n’ Arald here took our time ‘bout leavin’. Not like you bloody whippersnappers. Charging off into the wild like boars wantin’ to rut. Everyone else is dead. Did a good job, them fellas. Smart.”
“But what the hell were they after?” asked Sleeps. “Sweet load of nothin’ in that town.”
“Me n’ Arald were thinking ‘bout that,” responded Old Hoarty as he scratched his beard. “Now yer normal raidin’ party would just burn the place down for the hell of it. Slay the men, rape the women.”
“Not these guys though. Quiet as you like. Just did the killin’ part,” added Arald.
“Northmen,” muttered Fuzz as he continued to stitch.
“What?” asked Lode. Far too quickly, he realised. The tremor in his voice was obvious. But only Old Hoarty looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
“I was the last to get away from the town I reckon,” continued Fuzz. “Saw Jim just standing at his bar holding onto that bloody great club of his. He wasn’t runnin’. Always liked Jim.”
“All right, what about the bloody northmen?” Lode pressed.
“Oh yeah. Well that’s how I got this. One of ‘em took a swipe at me. So I left a knife in his belly. Good knife that. Anyway he was a northman, them that call themselves Harradan. Seen enough of ‘em huntin’ north and east of the mountains, dressed up in their clan tartans. All blonde haired, bearded and full of bloody attitude. Not very hospitable, if you get my drift. Actually, always reckoned you for one of ‘em, Holis.”
“You’re not wrong Fuzz,” said Juggs.
“But that lot are always at war with each other or the Goblin tribes,” said Arald. “Makes no sense to go beating up the Gap like that.”
“It was planned lads. These fellas were very definite ‘bout their business,” said Old Hoarty
Lode bit his lip. Something didn’t seem right.
“They attacked in silence. They wanted complete surprise,” he whispered to himself. “They didn’t want anyone to know.... They didn’t want anyone to know,” he repeated to himself.
Old Hoarty stared hard at the younger man
“Well, someone got pissed about something and it’s time we found a new patch, lads,” announced Sleeps.
“No, wait!” said Lode as realisation dawned. “They didn’t want anyone to know. Nobody. That is why they surrounded the town. That was why they didn’t burn anything. Too much attention. No one was supposed to know.”
“Go on, lad,” said Old Hoarty.
“They weren’t there to nick stuff. They just wanted to make sure no-one knows about them.”
“Hah. Didn’t reckon on some folk b
eing cleverer than them though, eh?” said Fuzz.
Old Hoarty took out a plug of tobacco, went to chew on it, stopped himself and put it back in the pouch. “Which means, young Holis, that they aren’t done with us, don’t it?”
Lode nodded. “They don’t know if anyone got out but they ain’t gonna take a chance. They destroyed Noel’s Gap for a reason. I reckon they ain’t stopping.”
“So?” asked Juggs.
“So, they’ll be comin’ down this way pretty soon,” said Old Hoarty. “And I lost a good packhorse back there.”
“What are we gonna do then?” asked Sleeps.
“Not as if we’re the bloody militia,” agreed Arald.
As he listened to the others debate what to do, Lode found himself imagining the slaughter that had happened in the town. He had left many friends back there. It just wasn’t right. He had never killed a man before but he had faced death many times. He felt he had a pretty good sense of his own mortality. He couldn’t let it lie. Otherwise what was the point of anything?
“What we are is the only survivors of Noel’s Gap,” said Lode. “Survivors ‘cos we just all happen to be bloody good woodsmen who can out-think any clever arse northman. I just ran out on the only home I’ve known and left it to die. I ran because I couldn’t do any good there. Well, I can out here. We know this land like the back of our hands. Between us we know every dirty trick and trap known to man and some that only the dirty mind of Juggs could dream up.” Juggs gave him a thumbs up and a grin. “I don’t know if I can kill an army. But I’m gonna make them pay. Really painfully.”
“And how long do we keep that up for then? I’m not a young man you know,” asked Sleeps.
“I don’t know. Till they stop comin’ and learn to fear these woods,” Lode looked over at Old Hoarty. “What do you think old-timer. Fancy hunting something different for a change? For Jim’s sake?”
Old Hoarty looked at him thoughtfully. Lode felt as if he was having his soul examined. Old Hoarty broke out into a smile. But in the dark, there was fire in his eyes.
Later, as the trappers lay waiting for their human prey, Old Hoarty crawled up next to Lode. He looked around and checked that the others were out of earshot.
“You got somethin’ on your mind, Holis? Somethin’ got you riled up?” asked the old man in a whisper.
“What apart from the fact all our friends have just been slaughtered?” Lode whispered back.
“Ain’t that now is it, youngster,” replied Old Hoarty. “I was watching you when you heard about the Harradan. It shook you up.”
Lode did not respond immediately. He lay still and gazed out onto the trail.
“I’m one of them, Hoarty. I’m a Harradan,” he said quietly.
Grunting Old Hoarty shook his head.
“Well, that ain’t much of a surprise Holis. As Fuzz said, we always had you pegged for one. Not that it bothers us. So what did you do? Kill someone you shouldn’t have?”
“Something like that. Call it a difference of opinion. I was a young man and in love with a woman. A woman that our clan chief had claimed for himself. I could have fought him for her, but he was older and tougher than me and I wouldn’t have lasted two seconds. When he found out he kicked my butt, but she begged me not to fight back. So instead he called me a coward, made me an outcast and hounded me out of my clan. The word went out to all the clans. Any man made an outcast is shunned by the Harradan, a man not to be trusted. So I came south.”
“That was a good few years ago. Never thought about going back?”
“Thought about going and killing that guy? Yeah. But I got settled, what was the point in going back to a people I don’t belong to? Noel’s Gap was my home and the Harradan have taken that from me as well.”
“I can see why you’re takin’ this so personally,” observed Old Hoarty. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention this to the others. We all got past history.”
Lode nodded his head in thanks.
A short time later a party of ten northmen moved quietly down the path. Moments later they were dead. It was hard to see an arrow in the dark of night. As the group had recovered their arrows, Lode took a moment to examine the body of the man who had tried to run as the others had died. Lode himself had taken him in the back. He took out his hunting knife and prized out the embedded projectile. Years in the wilderness doing the same thing to a dozen different animals lent confidence to his hand. He just thought of the body as another carcass. Once this was done, he reached over, got both hands underneath the body and hauled it over. He took a moment to study the bearded, pock-marked face. His eyes wandered down to the garments and he traced the lines of the man’s clan tartan. Yes, these were Harradan, his people. This one though was not his clan, he looked like...a Broken Tooth, if his memory served him right. It was hard to tell in the limited light. A slight breeze touched him upon his neck and it made his skin prickle. Jerking his head up looked around him. It was a still night. Yet he had clearly felt it - cold, gentle but definitely a force. He felt spooked. A nagging fear bid him to linger no longer on the trail. He didn’t know where that feeling had come from but he had learned to trust his senses. He stood and ran to the others, bidding them to follow him into the night.
Lode finished replaying those events and was pleased to feel his cramps had gone away. Now he and the others waited to spring yet another ambush. They had taken to laying all sorts of surprises for their pursuers. Mantraps, spikes and stakes. They had led their hunters a merry dance through the forests and still the Harradan came. Slowly now, more cautious, but relentless. Somehow, they had kept one step ahead of the larger force, Lode always knowing when to strike and when to run. Lode had talked to Old Hoarty. He didn’t quite know how he kept getting it right. Old Hoarty just smiled, clapped him on the back and suggested he keep up the good work. But something was bothering the old man, and when he shared his thoughts Lode quickly agreed. This wasn’t just about catching the six of them. There was a large force of men out there. The woodsmen had to rely more on their ingenuity than firepower and it was getting harder to come up with effective ideas. The northerners were learning lessons and sent their scouts out in larger numbers. It told Holis they had a lot of swords and they had purpose. The trappers were being pushed southwest to the River Rooke. Still a long way off and with no point to cross the river for many miles north or south. He just didn’t get it. But there was plenty of time for more Harradan to die. Like the scout party of eight, who were moving - oh so carefully - into view.