Jarris peered into the woods surrounding the farm. A few deer munched on dead grass, the greenery poking through white, half-frozen slush. No other queer shapes moved underneath the shadows of the dead branches.
No sign of an ambush.
Jarris turned his attention away for half a moment to observe the state of his men. The others appeared anxious and had remained so ever since word of the report had come to Round Mountain, one of the Border Protectorate’s old hillforts, some several leagues from civilization.
They’d ridden from Tourmaline that morning, questioning folk on their way inland, mostly travelers on the road.
While the old farmer spoke, Jarris’s three companions scanned the woods for themselves. Something was amiss. Deep down… they could all feel it, gnawing at their weary minds as they clutched thin cloaks against their freezing bodies. Winter was unrelenting this season.
Jarris didn’t want to believe the man. The word of farmers and countryfolk this far into Patraea came with superstition and half-truths. But this many dead? It hardly seemed a quarter-truth, and yet… Jarris felt the cold chill of fear seep down into his bones.
“Aye, they’re dead all right. Seen it m’self I did sir.”
Jarris nodded at the villager, or farmer, or whomever he was. Just some old soul in ragged clothes, wisps of gray hair atop a wrinkled skull, shivering in the wind. But he wasn’t complaining. Jarris was thankful someone was talking. Not one man, woman, or child had anything to say as they’d ridden past nearly a dozen homesteads since leaving Tourmaline that morning. Silent as the grave. It was their eyes that spoke. Their eyes would open wide at the mere mention of folk disappearing, shaking their head violently in response before slamming the door. The more polite folk had said something akin to, “We know nothing,” and then, they too would slam the door.
Hakkob, half-blind but still one of the finest trackers Jarris knew, spat onto the white ground as he dumped the contents of his pipe to the wind. The two younger recruits Jarris had taken along sat atop their mounts quietly, one plump with a thick, connecting eyebrow, and the other tall and strong, a fifth son of some southern lord. They listened and they watched, as Jarris had instructed. “Listen and learn,” he’d told them. “Keep your wits about you.”
Jarris turned his attention back to the old man. “How many would you say?”
The old man thought for a moment. “Mmm, I’d say twenty, but then mother never taught me much past that!” And he laughed, allowing a horrid stink of rotten breath to escape the handful of teeth he had left.
Even sitting tall on his horse, Jarris felt the urge to turn his head in disgust, but he was far too polite to insult the only man willing to talk.
“Why do the other nearby farms say nothing?” the plump lad, the one called Ham asked.
Jarris glared at the boy. Apparently, listen and learn was easier said than done.
“Silly folk around these parts. Some say they see the Anukai lurking through the woods from time to time. But too cold for their scaly hides if you ask me. Some say other things. Heh! But I wouldn’t let their words stick in your ears too long if I was you lot.”
The chilling wind then blew gusts icy enough to freeze dripping snot. Jarris clutched his cloak tighter to the black chainmail of his hauberk and looked to the woods once more. The grazing deer no longer showed themselves.
Spooked by our rabble. But he wasn’t so sure.
Jarris assessed the situation. Twenty dead, possibly more, or maybe less based on the old man’s math skills, lying somewhere in the nearby forests. The report of folk missing around the area, some forty kilometers in total, detailed the missing to be predominately hunters, trappers, those who went into the forest to forage, farmers wandering too far from the fields and such. A rabid bear or pack of wolves maybe, but not much chance of that, not in midwinter. More than likely, it was a small group of bandits, starving and desperate. But twenty dead this close together in the thick woodlands of Patraea? That was a massacre, if it indeed be true.
“If you’d like, I can take you there. Like I said, it’s not far. Through there.” Then, slowly, the old man held up a shaky hand and pointed where the deer had been. The dead branches swayed in the wind as snow blew off their bark. “The blood of the girl that got snatched up went through there. Followed a game trail to the spot I did, sir.”
Jarris looked back at Hakkob who stared back, giving no sign of an objection. The tall recruit, Borren, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, prepared to do battle against the world so it seemed. Ham sat looking at the booger he was pinching between his fingers and then flicked it away.
So, it was settled.
“We’ll follow. But if he says stop,” Jarris gestured to the tracker, “we stop.”
Investigate the missing peasants and report back, Captain Thorne had ordered. As was his sworn duty, Jarris was compelled to inspect the situation further. Perhaps it was the old farmer, the cold, the dark woods looming nearby, or perhaps all three, but Jarris found his courage being tested.
The old man grinned wide, showing the few remaining black teeth that hung from his gums. “It would be my life’s honor to assist the Border Protectorate. Garen is my name.” With that, he walked in front of them all, leading them to the edge of the woods.
Hooves crunched through soft snow. If there was blood from the missing girl, it had since been caked in the flurries of snow that came and went. At the moment, a fine mist rained down upon them, and somehow that was worse. They hadn’t warmed themselves by a fire in two days and counting. For the past two, they’d eaten nothing but cold jerky. Spring couldn’t arrive sooner, in Jarris’s opinion. The others might agree too. Too many cold nights they and the others at the hillfort had been on patrol or took watch on top of those old walls. Too many.
It would be dark soon enough. Jarris could see the dimming world through the cracks of dense branches. An hour left of sunlight, maybe a little more. Hakkob searched the ground with his good eye as they rode along. When the game trail became too narrow for them to ride, Jarris ordered Borren to stay behind with the horses and wait for their return. Disappointed, the lad said nothing but gave a gentle, “Aye.”
“This may yet turn into a hopeless quest. But in case it is not … I’d have these horses cared for and ready to ride as quickly away from this place as we can.” Jarris hoped his words would provide Borren with some understanding, but the lad was young, full of spit and vinegar, his hand always too close to the hilt of his sword. Despite all the boy’s strength or skill with arms his noble father had no doubt seen to, what Jarris needed was collectedness, something the passive Ham might contribute.
It wasn’t a far walk. The game trail opened to a clearing with few oaks, but still enough to spread one’s arms about. The trench was the first thing Jarris noticed. Dug deep into the hard ground, with large lumps of snow spaced out against its edges. The trench ran until it reached the stone. White in color, the stone was massive. If he were standing on Hakkob’s giant head, the stone might’ve still been taller. They could all see where two large holes had been carved out of the rock.
Like eyes, Jarris thought, and he could see where blood had trickled down from the sockets, looking as though the stone were weeping red, frozen tears.
Unnerved, Jarris jerked the sword from his side free of its sheath as Hakkob unslung the bow from his back. Ham stood dumb in place, mouth agape, staring at the strange lumps covered in snow beside the trench.
Not only lumps, Jarris realized.
The bodies.
“Gods,” Ham whispered.
“What is this?” asked Hakkob, looking around the clearing. Then, kneeling down by the nearest corpse, he examined it more closely, and then another.
“What do you see?” asked Jarris.
“Their throats are slit. All of ’m,” Hakkob said. Standing, Hakkob then took an arrow from his quiver and notched it. Turning himself around, he drew back the bowstring and aimed at Garen.
“You,” Hakkob snarled. “You said nothing of some fucking sacrifice. Their blood is frozen down in that trench.”
“Heh! And their organs are in the God-Stone! Truly only half-blind. Heh!”
His black teeth and bad breath had been a sign of his heart. Rotten to the core. Jarris held the hilt of his sword tight, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to hurt this man. “Ham!” he called out.
The boy, mouth still gaped at the grisly scene, only turned to see who was yelling.
“Ham, walk back to Borren, tell him to leave the horses and come here. Bring rope.”
“I... Back that way?” he whined.
Hakkob kept his bow trained on Garen. “What you afraid of lad? They’re all dead, and the only thing this one can harm is your nostrils.”
“Heh!” Garen laughed. “I’ve no quarrel with them. I’ll be rewarded I will. Always am. I’ll have more coin than there be hearts in the God-Stone! Gold!” And the old man bit down on his thumb as if he were testing the validity of a gold coin.
Them. So, someone had put him up to this.
Jarris surveyed the scene as well as the woods behind the clearing. It was silent. But the woods were thick enough for someone to be watching. He wanted to flee. When he’d started his commission as a part of the Border Protectorate, he hadn’t imagined there would ever be any real danger. Hunt a lone fugitive perhaps. Chase off some outlaws back into the sands of the Barrens. He decided then and there that blood sacrifice is where his loyalty to the Border Protectorate crossed the line. But the recruits and Hakkob were there.
“I am no coward,” Jarris said under his breath. His only motivation to stay. Pathetic, and he knew it.
Hakkob didn’t hear the silent outburst, but Garen must’ve.
“Many cowards live, you know? Many cowards … obey.” He used the thumb he’d bit to jam himself on the chest. “Me? A coward, I might be. But I’m a coward who gets rewarded. What’d they get?” Garen looked to the dead. “Nothing now. Heh! Meat for the Tribe!”
Tribe? Only the Hooved Folk regarded themselves as such. But there’d been no valid report of a centaur for years, not in these parts anyhow. If they were, Jarris imagined with wide eyes, then this was a sign they were on the warpath. Folks turning up missing during the day, at night a blood sacrifice, burned farms?
“Hooved Folk,” said Hakkob, who’d apparently drawn up the same conclusion. “Gods. We go back. Now, Jarris. There’s nothing else to be done here.”
Jarris could hardly speak. “But … the bodies, Hakkob. We must burn them. It’d be proper.”
Hakkob walked sideways to Jarris, his gaze and his bow still trained on Garen. “Pox on that. If there’s some encampment of them out there ... this’s got to be reported back.”
Jarris shook his head. “These people deserve to at least be burned. After what happened to them, they deserve to be with the gods at the very least.”
Hakkob might’ve objected, but just then, Borren arrived with rope in one hand, his sword in the other. Ham waddled behind him, his own sword drawn, and in the other clutching a map.
“I got a map, in case we get turned around,” Ham said, and proudly at that, like he’d solved some riddle.
They all ignored him. Then, Borren grabbed the old man who immediately began to chuckle and babble silently to himself as Borren tied him to a tree. Borren, annoyed by Garen’s jabber, tightened the rope enough around his chest to make him fight for air. His chuckling ceased, but his babbling kept going on and on and on.
“Now, burn them,” Jarris said, his tone quiet and solemn.
They all piled the corpses into the very trench the victim’s life blood had flowed into. Their pale faces bore up at the men of the Border Protectorate. Jarris thought he saw pity in a girl’s face. Probably the same girl who’d gone missing last, whose blood they could no longer follow. Her lifeless eyes stared wide into the frozen ground, and her mouth was cracked open, as if to whisper a final thought or prayer. Yet that moment had long passed. And when he found the strength to look again, Jarris decided her look was of pain and terror. A fair mixture of both as her throat had been opened wide. And he knew that if he gazed upon the other faces of the dead that they would tell the same story. Pain and terror. Mostly, it’s all there was at the end, and Jarris found himself wishing death in his sleep, old and gray, in his bed next to a warm fire. If only these poor bastards had been so lucky. But then, who is? Who decides one’s fate? It was a question for another day though, one for the mystics.
The fire consumed those who’d been sacrificed. The smell of cooking meat was a sickening enticement to Jarris, but it wasn’t that which bothered him. No, it was the warmth. He was so cold. They’d all been so cold. The fur mantles around their shoulders, their cloaks, and other garb had become heavy from the snow and light rain that followed. So, Jarris ordered they dry themselves near the embers of the dead as they said prayers to their gods.
Not long after, as the last flame sizzled and all that remained were blackened corpses ready to crumble to ash, Jarris picked himself up from his knees which had dug themselves hard into the now melting slush at the edge of the trench. It wasn’t inconceivable to imagine it had been the same position in which all those men and women had perished. On their knees, awaiting to die, waiting for cold steel to open their neck.
“Achtrachen zen-rauk mierdur.”
The hushed voice brought with it a darkness Jarris had only been familiar with a few times before. Bringing their attention to the old man, all four of them knew what they’d heard. Garen had spoken the tongue of the Hooved Folk.
“Insolent bastard,” cursed Hakkob. “We should slit his throat and be done with it! Burn him next!”
Borren glared knives at the old man. “I’ll come to peace with that.” Then his sword was back in hand. But before he could take a step further, Jarris chimed in.
“He could harbor information. We take him with us.”
Releasing a deep sigh of frustration, Hakkob then replied, “With all due respect, sir, we need to dispose of this evil. He commits himself to death with his own tongue.”
“Then we cut it out,” Borren suggested.
“No,” said Jarris. “He stays alive until our superiors decide his fa…”
The first noise caught them off guard. It was unfamiliar, especially in the woods in near darkness. But as a drum sounded for the second time, it became clearer. Then the drumming was dealt in a constant beat, and it sounded all around them. The blowing horn is what sent them into a frenzy.
“To arms!” cried Borren.
“To the horses!” Ham said as he began running.
“Stay together, damn you!” Jarris called after the lad, but it was far too late. The arrow was already poking through Ham’s chest as the second one came whooshing in. It came in like a spear from a bow near Jarris’s own height. The second arrow buried itself into Ham’s face, crunching through lip and teeth before coming out where his neck met spine. As he fell, the lad brought a plump hand just long enough to feel the hard wood of the arrow. Then he went limp. In his other hand, the useless map unrolled itself from Ham’s grasp.
Two of the Hooved Folk came crashing from the game trail, heavy legs pounding against the icy ground. Drums still sounded. Jarris had no idea how many there were as he charged forth.
The largest of the two wielded a spear. Its flat face and giant teeth snarled something in its ancient language. Garen was chuckling insanely now, and he slapped his thighs in celebration. Then the spear came hurling closer.
Jarris fell flat, and he could feel the air pass by his scalp as the spear flew overhead before thudding into a tree. Snow fell from its branches at impact, and the spear vibrated back and forth.
Its huge legs came stampeding forward to crush Jarris’s body. The centaur’s mangy braids flung around as it came closer, and it spewed white foam from its mouth in an attempt to hurl a final word before the kill.
The arrow caught the creature in its neck; from Hakkob more than likely. Then Jarris dove forward before he could catch a glance at his savior. With a savage grunt, he brought his sword down somewhere on the middle of the centaur’s back. It croaked some of its language as it quivered on the ground, but it lay still a moment later, and Jarris had to use both arms to pull his sword from its bloody hide. He almost slipped on intestines as the second creature encroached. Its bow twanged, the enormous arrow zoomed forward, but the loose intestines of the other centaur saved his life as he slipped forward.
Hakkob’s second arrow missed as well, and he cursed the names of several gods as he frantically made the effort to pull another arrow from his quiver. Then as he fit the arrow to his bow, the tracker watched as the centaur staggered back. A glint of metal poked through its torso before disappearing, leaving a leaking hole in its wake.
Borren didn’t wait for his sword to finish the job, which had suddenly slipped from his hand. So, he pulled the dagger hung through his belt from a sheath wrapped in rabbit’s fur and jumped atop the creature’s back. They both went tumbling, and the snap of a bone echoed across the clearing. The centaur’s own weight had snapped its left hind leg nearly in two, but it didn’t have enough time to scream. All that came out was a wet gurgle as Borren’s dagger opened the thing’s throat. Blood sprayed across the snowy ground.
“They’ll skin you alive for that!” Garen yelled. “They’ll serve up your balls on a golden platter for tonight’s meal! Heh! They…”
Jarris swung his sword at an awkward angle, severing the old man’s head from his jawline. Not a perfect swing, but good enough to get the job done. He’d let emotion and duty get ahead of his senses. He should’ve killed that old bastard the moment he’d confessed. But he was dead now, that’s what mattered.
More hooves stamping nearby got his attention, and Jarris ran from the headless corpse, following close behind Borren and Hakkob. He took a last glance at the God-Stone, the terrible, white, weeping rock. At that moment, Jarris vowed to return and topple the thing over. If he lived, he swore he’d do it. He’d come back and wipe out the whole godsforsaken encampment.
The drums continued. If they’d ceased during the fight, Jarris hadn’t paid enough attention to realize it. He picked up the pace then despite the burning in his legs; he was at risk of falling behind. Hakkob and Borren were some fifty yards ahead of him. His sweat defied the cold as it ran down his face, and hooves pounded louder as the sound of drums became a distant thing. But he could see the horses now, down the trail, he could see them! So close to their salvation. They’d escape, and revenge would be so sweet.
The other two screamed as they reached the horses. Jarris froze in his tracks and jumped to the side of the trail. He watched through the dense shrubbery as at least six of the Hooved Folk burst from behind their nags. Jarris watched in horror as they tore his men apart without weapons, only brute strength. Two held up Hakkob by an arm each and pulled, removing both limbs from their sockets. Dropping his body to the ground, a stockier creature danced upon his bleeding body, smushing his skull to pulp.
Borren screeched, flashing his dagger around without any rhyme or reason. He was shot full of arrows the next instant, like a hound’s muzzle Jarris had seen get too close to a porcupine, the arrows jutting from his body. They shot him still, whooping and yelping a mixture of primal blather Jarris couldn’t pretend to comprehend.
The farm.
It was his only chance. There, he could commandeer a horse and ride until it dropped. Of course, he’d do his best to evacuate any unsuspecting villagers, but hadn’t that been where Garen had come from? There was no way of telling. But he’d chance it. He’d try for all his guts were worth.
Backing away, Jarris kept low, so much so his knees nearly skidded against the cold, wet ground. His scabbard dragged, making enough racket to make him feel uncomfortable. No noise was good. No noise meant living. No noise meant having arms and legs remain intact. Then as gently as he could, Jarris undid the scabbard, laying it down like a newborn babe. He’d never wanted children before, but Jarris was thankful he still breathed to make that choice.
Continuing his path through the dark, he tripped over logs, branches that punctured his face, and thorns that tore at his hands and the fabric of his cloak when he ran into a bush. He kept going. Almost there, he guessed. Though he’d taken the long way around, judging by their trek to the God-Stone he had to be getting close. It was the only positive feeling since seeing his friend be ripped to shreds. Hakkob, a man he’d known for nearly a decade. The end he’d met would be answered with epic retribution, for him, for the lads, and for those massacred. He swore a vow on top of the one he’d previously sworn to the gods.
Lights.
He could see the dim glow of the firelight.
“Gods save me… The farm.” He muttered, breathing heavy, even shedding a tear or two. Growing up the son of a merchant, he’d never experienced living in the rat’s nests his father had mentioned these farmers call home. In that moment, that light might as well have been the lights of a palace, and the people inside it, royalty. He already wanted to thank them for the hospitality they would offer.
He emerged from the forest. Tattered, beat down from constantly moving, from the cold, from what his eyes had seen. He ran then. Ran through fields where wheat would be planted after this terrible winter. Now he truly was sobbing. For all he was worth, he was ashamed, but for the sake of the gods he was alive.
The door to the shack was strong and solid. The owner of this farm was a real carpenter, judging by his fine work. Jarris banged against the door, and again and again, until an elderly woman opened it slow and gently.
“Horse!” Jarris managed. He then hit his chest, as if that’d force more air into his lungs. “The Hooved Folk! We must … must go,” he got out, and then he coughed until he spit up phlegm.
“Blasting horse fuckers,” the old woman said, her voice shaking with age. “They’re a pestering bunch of bastards, aren’t they?”
A peasant though she was, Jarris was fairly surprised to hear this woman curse, as old as she appeared.
“Aye,” he finally managed. “Please, a horse if you can. My men…” he began, but as soon as he did, the tearing of limbs entered his vision. Swallowing his fear, he continued, “My men were butchered by the Hooved Folk in these accursed woods. I need a horse, citizen. On behalf of the Border Protectorate, I must insist, with most haste if you please.”
“You’re near to an icicle than human my dear boy. You must sit, warm yourself and then drink something to warm your belly.”
Twisting his head back to make sure nothing had followed him, he looked back at the old woman. “No time,” he shook his head, “No time. We must make haste.”
“Ahhh.” She winked at him. “You’ll follow me then. Come along.” And she nudged past him.
Jarris followed the old woman’s slow gait, her bowels passing flatulence with each step. As they walked towards the stables, the old woman asked, “Is my Garen dead?”
Jarris froze.
“Ohhh, that’s a yes then. Pity. The old bastard had more eyes for their gold than he ever did me. Heh! But then, so did I!” And she laughed, a familiar, almost toothless cackle.
The sound of hooves drew closer, causing Jarris to breathe heavily as he began to panic. Resigned to his fate, he felt no shame as tears began to slide down half-frozen cheeks. He just wanted to keep breathing, if only for a little longer.
They approached slowly from behind the stables, their big eyes glowing white against the firelight from the shack. Moving slowly, almost seductively, their massive shapes came into the light.
Dead in his tracks, Jarris stood there, waiting for what he feared to come.