Dinner Time
Having not eaten in two days, the prospect of warm blood in his mouth made Thorn lick his lips, followed by his triangular nose, which stood in darker contrast to the grey skin of his face. Long knotted black fur hung partially over his orange, almond-shaped eyes as they followed every movement of the buck-hare.
You will not escape me. Before this day is through, I shall feast on your flesh and drink your blood to the very dregs.
He moved with measured steps, silenced by the cloth wrapped around his clawed feet and curved shins. He eased his breath in.
Although the last of the snows had long melted, the early morning was as cold as any winter’s day, made colder by a stiff icy breeze in which the long, yellow blades of grass around him reeled and danced. Thorn eased the straps of his satchel and waterskin over his head, bending his neck low and placing them on the ground.
His quarry’s head twitched, freezing Thorn in place. He was crouched several feet from his target, and soon felt a strain on his poised leg muscles. He drew a breath and exhaled slowly. His heart quickened.
When the moment was right, he drew in one long breath through his pointed teeth, then pounced. Thorn’s grey-skinned hands engulfed the hapless hare as he tumbled through the grass and rolled out onto the dirt. He held the distressed animal by its ears as it kicked at the air.
“This was not your lucky day, my tasty friend,” he said as he brought the animal’s face level with his own.
Pulling the hare close to his chest, he readied to snap its neck, but the senses of the former Wraith battle-slave caught a familiar sound rising in the air, giving him pause. His right ear perked up at the heavy thudding of hoof on dirt. It was somewhere past the tall grass, in the distance along the dusty road. As he stood, he saw a human child upon a pony in full gallop. He could hear the child’s high-pitched screams as it struggled to hang on to the reins. Through the cloud of kicked-up dirt and wind-swirled dust, Thorn could see the monstrous charging hulks of two large creatures. They bore no fur except upon their heads and occasional small wiry tufts around the body, which did nothing to hide the mass of muscles and grey leathery skin.
Night-bears.
Thorn cursed and dashed towards the child. Realising he was still holding the struggling hare, he let it fall to the ground, hoping his stomach would forgive him. He leaned forward, stretching his hands out in front of him, and following a loud grunt, moved onto all fours. Then he ran.
The leading night-bear swiped at the pony’s hindquarters with immense, black claws, rending flesh and knocking the pony off balance. The animal tripped over its own legs, throwing the rider to the ground in a cloud of dust. Its neck bent backwards as its body toppled over itself. The night-bear bellowed a roar of triumph. It reared to full height before descending on the injured rear leg of the horse. In an onslaught of claw and teeth, the beast tugged at the leg until it tore from the pony, leaving trailing sinews and spurting arteries.
The cacophony of dying animals, monstrous roars, and bones cracking was all too familiar to Thorn. He had heard it on many different battlefields for as long as he could remember. As he drew close to the carnage, he caught the familiar pungent stench of the pony’s torn intestines mixed with the coppery tang of blood.
The beasts had not yet noticed the second morsel lying unconscious in the dust – they had bounded past her rapidly, preoccupied with their kill. The second night-bear brought its jaws down hard on the top of the horse’s head, cleaving the animal’s skull in two, with a crack and sickening squelch. This prompted a savage snap of the other creature’s jaws and a half-hearted lunge as an empty threat. Thorn dashed as close as he dared before slowing to a crawl and lowering himself as near to the ground as possible.
As he passed the frenzied scene, the pony’s remaining hind leg was kicking the air, its final flicker of life depleted. He continued towards the small, sand-coloured mound of cloth in the middle of the road, a few feet from the gorging night-bears. A trail of blood snaked its way towards the human child as he watched.
Not wanting the scent of horse blood jeopardising an escape attempt, he had to move the bundle fast.
Roslind winced in her saddle.
This cursed shoulder, she thought. Three weeks, and it still hurts like Hel-spears.
She passed the reins to her left hand and dropped her spasming right arm to her side to ease the pain – it didn’t work.
Her handsome steed, Solstice, clopped along the windswept road to the port city of Aksson. Roslind wore her gambeson hood and a dark woollen scarf across her face against the cold.
I should have rolled with the strike faster, Roslind thought, irritated. What does it matter? I won. Millicent fell. Cranky old cow deserved it.
Roslind immediately regretted her thoughts, born as they were of anger and irritation. Millicent, after all, had been the first female Knight of Gaelgara. The first permitted by the king after he declared noble women capable of sufficient bravery and strength to fight for him as knights. Women like Millicent had suffered more than she ever would and had forged the path upon which Roslind now tread.
A twinge of discomfort darted along her shoulder again as she moved her injured arm. Even through her scarf, she could smell the familiar scents of apple blossom mixed with thyme and heather, bringing with it dormant memories.
Nearly home, Roslind thought.
She could just about make out the towers of Aksson ahead of her. The city of Aksson, nestled on the northeastern coast of the nation of Gaelgara, had stood for over three hundred years. Known as the ‘City of Coral’, the once fishing town of Jarak Sonton – ‘the shattered land’ in the tongue of its original inhabitants – enjoyed the great bounties of the huge Sonton Bay and the many islands which attracted countless species of marine life.
Jarak Sonton had been invaded by the conquering Gaelgaran king of the time, Harald Skarrwund, on the discovery of the plentiful salt deposits near the town, and the inhabitants were driven out or slaughtered. Thus grew the prosperous and strategically important port of Aksson, drawing traders, sailors, and scholars from the farthest reaches of the world.
However, Roslind had noticed fewer farms along the route home than she remembered, a sure sign of poverty in the territory and the numerous raids she had heard about. She had even seen fields where withered and black stalks of corn remained unharvested.
The thought of finishing the three-week ride home was a welcome one. The merchants she had left with from Drottenheim had been more than appreciative of a knight as an escort, but they were not travelling further north than the lake city of Ilakis and had bid her farewell over a week ago.
A break from the almost uniformly dry and uniformly light-brown road drew the knight’s attention. Drawing closer, she could see dark and drying blood covering most of the road in large pools, and grooves torn into the ground. Roslind closed her eyes and focused on the sounds. There were birds flying and singing in the trees, the chilled wind had died to a light breeze, and the sound of long grass rustling along the road. Solstice was still, except for the occasional swishing of his tail at flies or the intentional quiver of his muscles. Her horse was calm.
There is no danger here.
Roslind manoeuvred Solstice around the blood with care and continued along the road, keeping a wary eye on the darkness between the trees. Before long the rhythmic clopping of the horse’s hooves and the slow and steady pace was soothing. Roslind knew she did not need to steer her horse for the animal to remain on the road.
She thought again of her family. The last time she had come home, a little less than two years ago, was for her mother’s funeral. Roslind’s memories of her were fond and always full of joy. Noemi Radsvinn had been a woman of remarkable beauty, both refined and elegant. Her charm was matched by her quick mind, her wit and humour. Roslind had the same shade of golden-copper hair and startling emerald eyes as her mother; she thanked her every time a young nobleman or one of the older initiates at the academy commented on them. Roslind’s mother was the eldest daughter of the previous Lord Holt of Sonnerton. She had taken on her role as baroness with the grace and dedication befitting her upbringing and tutelage among the ladies of the King’s court in Drottenheim, as Roslind remembered being told by her father. He had also said her mother could have been a knight herself had her father permitted it when the king made his declaration; but he had not.
When she died of a sudden illness, it had fuelled rumours in shadowy corners: she may have been killed as a warning to unnerve the baron into decommissioning parts of the city’s fleet; or to cease the near-fanatical hunting of pirates around the dozens of islands off the coast. Some claimed it was someone in the household who was to blame; perhaps a servant had poisoned her or given an assassin access to the house.
Most had relayed to the family they believed it to be the will of Oln to call upon her, as he wished for her company, her grace, wit, and beauty.
Roslind had realised this idea may have had more than a hint of wishful thinking about it, but she could not help but smile at the idea of her mother discussing the plight of the impoverished with Oln. At her mother’s funeral, Roslind saw Feylan as something other than the shrewd lord and proud warrior he was known to be. For the entirety of her visit home, Roslind had the impression something had crawled inside her father and corroded his great strength and sharp mind.
The baron had never been afraid to show his feelings, be they of anger, joy or sorrow; but the ‘Stone Bear’ had neither shed a tear nor engaged with anyone in conversation at the funeral banquet. Most passed it off as deep heartache at the sudden loss, but Roslind knew her father was being unusually cold. Even Ulrik, her older brother, a politician with a heart as cold as iron, was caught weeping in the quiet hours of the morning. All approaches Roslind made to discuss these feelings with her father were met with rebukes and swift changes of subject:
“A girl talks of feelings, a knight does not. Which are you to be?” her father had said before storming off, muttering to himself.
Her sister, Kitsvanna, had been inconsolable; she had not been eating or sleeping, and Roslind had regretted having to leave so soon to return south to the academy in Drottenheim. She considered herself fortunate Millicent had even granted her the time away from her squiring duties for three days, while Millicent awaited the completion of her order of shields from Galen.
She began writing to her sister after her mother’s passing. These days, her sister’s letters were less frequent and increasingly brief, her studies or sword training the focus of her writing. Kitsvanna spoke of becoming a knight like Roslind someday, but her father had refused to send her to Drottenheim, which caused many arguments between the two.
Roslind mulled over this, listening to the rhythmic clattering of Solstice’s ironshod hooves on the road before hauling herself back from her dark thoughts. This homecoming was expected to be a happy affair. She was to receive her father’s blessing on entering the knighthood and take her place as a Protector of Aksson. If Oln willed it, she would find someone honourable and caring, as her mother had; and if blessed by Oln, she would have children of her own someday.
The human child had not roused by the time the sun began its descent. The beasts had not followed, and Thorn imagined they had finished their feast and returned to their lair with the remainder of the carcass. Thorn’s stomach growled in discontent.
At least someone has eaten today, he thought.
He had taken the human child from the road into the tall grass with good cover. He was glad of it, as occasional riders from Aksson would speed pass. The small creature’s skin had been cold to the touch, so he built a small fire with dried grass, covered the human with his cloak and began making a healing concoction he was familiar with.
Judging from her dress, Thorn guessed she was a peasant child no more than thirteen or fourteen years old and should not have owned the horse she rode. This led him to believe that on stealing the horse, she must have been pursued by the horse’s owners, and the sound of the galloping hooves must have been enough to bring the night-bears so close to the city.
What did not support his theory, however, was her blonde hair, long and clean, and her fragrant scent, unlike other humans of similar rank. Her claws were tight to the fingers and also clean, not right for a beggar, fieldhand, or street stray; and a house girl would be dressed in better attire.
Something of an anomaly, he thought. I wonder what sort of trouble you are in.
Thorn crushed ragwort, stone root, and coltsfoot with the seed of a flame-plume tree into his waterskin to create the curative potion for the girl to drink. In the past, this mixture had helped him recover fast from injuries sustained in battle, and he had taken to carrying the ingredients in his satchel after too many harsh experiences without them. He pressed the human’s cheeks together, opening her mouth to pour the sweet-smelling liquid. She swallowed it down reflexively.
That is a good sign.
Soon her skin became warmer. Even though the child’s cheeks gushed an unhealthy pink colour, he knew this was what happened when humans recovered from illness or injury.
He heard hooves on the road, and as he gazed over the grass, he noticed shining armour.
Warrior!
Thorn had fought both with and against humans over the years, and he found their reputation for brutality and viciousness well deserved. He had seen, first-hand, the wanton destruction in the wake of human warriors. Villages and crops decimated, herds of livestock destroyed, and whole families slaughtered or enslaved as protection against future vengeance.
As he watched the road, he could see from the dark blue and white surcoat and livery of the rider that it was a knight. A thought occurred to him to hail the knight, who may be better suited to look after the human girl – and he could then be on his way – but the only thing he knew for certain about the child was she had been running from something. If it had been the authorities, then Thorn was not about to hand the girl over to a knight sworn to uphold the king’s laws.
He also observed the horse was more alert than the rider. He looked back towards the small fire, its unmistakable white smoke rising. Dousing it now would be of no advantage.
Thorn judged the knight not to have seen too many battles – he seemed young and lacking observational skills or battle-hardened paranoia. A veteran warrior would have already picked up the wisps of smoke. A clever arrow could have picked off this human.
Thorn heard the horse’s steps breaking their rhythm, which seemed to alert the rider. Thorn watched the warrior scanning the grass and spotting the smoke. The knight stopped the horse and steered it off the road and up the earthen bank. Thorn lay on his back and let out an audible yawn, feigning stretching movements and easing himself into a standing position. He knew how easy it was to startle human warriors. This was a futile effort. The human stared in confusion. With a slight effort, Thorn thought in the Gaelgaran tongue and exaggerated his cougari accent.
“A fine day, traveller,” he remarked, trying to disarm the natural human prejudice against his kind, but still moving in a deliberate and defensive manner. Thorn’s gaze lingered on the human’s covered face and as he spoke, he managed to block the sleeping bundle behind him.
“Is there something I can help you with, Sir Knight?” asked Thorn, taking another cautious step towards the road; but only one.
Born without provenance, Thorn ignored rank and class the best he could; although today, he had a human girl to protect.
For a moment, the warrior said nothing and just stared at him. As Thorn examined the eyes of the human, the barest flicker of memory and recognition surfaced, but he admitted to himself he still had difficulty distinguishing humans from each other when most of the face was obscured.
The human was sizing him up, halting only on the dagger attached to his belt. Thorn hoped the fact he had volunteered his position and was eager to approach, rather than hide or flee his armoured and mounted opponent, would temper the human’s paranoia.
The knight’s eyes scanned the earthen bank as though trying to peer through the tall grass.
“I am quite alone. Come down from your horse and join me if you will, Sir, and share a drink on this dusty and windy road,” Thorn bluffed, gesturing to the ground beside the small fire.
The grass near the fire rustled as the child stirred behind Thorn. His instinct was to turn to the sound, but he dared not. It was too late. The rider noticed the movement of the grass against the wind. Thorn could see the human’s eyes drawn to it before returning the gaze to him. He repeated his gesture silently. A moment passed in uncertainty. Thorn tensed, ready to react. His hands eased to his hips; his left was close enough for a quick draw of the dagger.
“You are generous, but I must decline,” answered the knight, trying to sound larger and more masculine than they were. “I cannot delay any longer.”
Steering the horse back to the road, the human urged it to a canter, raising enough dust to obscure rider and mount from Thorn’s view.
A woman? he thought. The sound of a whimper from the child caused Thorn to turn back to the human child. He could see she was conscious and getting up.
“Easy,” he said, in the Gaelgaran tongue. “You had a bad fall. You might not have fully recovered.”
The child looked at him with a quizzical expression before she winced in pain, clutching her head with both hands. Thorn offered her another draught of the healing concoction.
“This will help with the pain,” he said.
She sat up and looked into the distance and then back at Thorn. Rather than wait for a barrage of inevitable questions, Thorn introduced himself by giving the alias he used these days – Nektan Djak – and explained what had happened. The girl attempted to speak several times, but Thorn stopped her with a gesture each time.
“Rest a while. When you feel up to it and despite my better judgement, I will take you back to Aksson, or at least close enough so you cannot get into any more trouble with night-bears,” said the cougari.
Thorn saw the child’s expression change drastically. Her face whitened again, and agitation heightened behind her large blue eyes.
“I am not going back there,” the girl stated.
The child buried her head in her hands and when she removed them, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“I…I…I…” she started to say, the words catching in her throat.
“Quiet. Calm yourself. There is no danger here,” Thorn half-purred. “What happened? Who has harmed you?”
As expected, Thorn could feel the child affected by his proximity, an effect cougari had on humans. Some called it magic, but Thorn did not take to such nonsense. Humans had described the feeling to him as a strange scent followed by an easing of concerns, along with a loss of desire to do anything at all. The child’s breathing became normal. She sniffed back her snot and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“What is wrong?” Thorn asked.
There was a long pause, the silence punctuated by her sniffing before the girl whispered, “M-my father, the baron, he…he tried to kill me.”