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“Snow shrouded the longhouse, a wooden home with an arched roof that made it look like a capsized ship. Inside, Leif crouched beside the hearth. He savoured a final kiss of warmth before his trek north to the hunters’ outpost.
Before closing his sack, he resisted the temptation to take food his sister and two brothers would need. Blight had ruined their garden. Wolves had devoured their last goat. Little remained: shriveled berries, unsown seeds, a roasted rat.
He knew how to save his family from this. If he survived even one kraki hunt, he should earn enough coin to feed them through winter.
“You fool,” said Freyja, his older sister.
He ignored her and kept packing.
“We need you here. All we have left is each other.”
She had tried this argument before. Not even the Gods could change his mind.
He had one last item to pack, his most valuable possession. He scanned the floor. He peered inside the sack. Where was it? Then he realized, his eyes narrowing.
He saw her familiar sneer, a tooth missing from a childhood fall from an oak tree. In her hand she clutched his bone flute.
“Give it back,” he said.
He walked over and yanked it away.
“I have to go. I can’t let us starve,” he said, hanging the flute around his neck by its hide cord and then tucking it into his tunic.
Freyja shoved past him.
“Or you just want to finally try your magic,” she said. “Go fight your monsters. But don’t come back.”
She retreated to the far end of the longhouse.
It was time to leave. At the door, he hugged his brothers and promised to return soon while Freyja sulked on her cot. Walking down the path, away from the longhouse, he glanced back and caught her peeking from the door.
Snow began to fall. He crossed the frozen creek, turned at the hill where their parents were buried and started along the road to the island’s north coast.
––––––––
To reach the outpost Leif had to walk across a vast wasteland. Generations ago, elders said, the rocky expanse had been fertile farmland. A black ribbon of road twisted toward the horizon. Each step took him farther from home than ever.
He had only heard rumours about the outpost and little more about the kraki. From his parents, he knew they were ancient and vicious. Hunters got rich plundering their corpses. It wasn’t much to go on but it was enough for him.
He was eager to get answers and return to his village with tales and gold.
––––––––
Two days later, he reached the outpost, a warren of shacks perched beside a cliff. A jagged wall of timber ringed the settlement. He trudged mud streets that stank of dog waste, seeking information about the hunt.
In the central square he found a line of waiting men. These are kraki hunters? He had expected young heroes in warriors’ gear. Instead, the men were weaponless and wore tattered clothing. Leif was shorter than all of them. He marched up to the man at the front.
“I’m here to join today’s hunt.”
The man laughed and waved him away.
“Back of the line, runt!”
Seeing sneers from others, Leif stifled protest and shuffled to the rear. Nervous, he reached for the bone flute. The texture of the delicate tube, with its five finger holes, was familiar and comforting. Ancient slender runes were etched all over.
“What’s that, boy?” a voice growled.
Sunken eyes stared from under a hood. Leif tucked the flute back into his tunic.
“Nothing. A family heirloom. For good luck.”
The sunken eyes narrowed.
“Strange old markings like that, maybe you got a charmed relic there. Worth good coin to folk who believe in such things. Give me a fair cut and I’ll hook us a buyer.”
The man grinned, revealing rotten teeth.
“No, thanks,” Leif said. He had made a mistake by revealing the flute. He changed the subject.
“You’ve done a hunt before?”
“Survived my share. Quick way to buy the next round of drinks, if you don’t mind wagering your life.”
“How much do we get paid?”
“Got to get picked first, boy. Once she gets a look at you... Well, that’s when you’ll know if you’re in or not.”
There was a commotion as a group in armour arrived in the square pulling a wagon stacked with iron lances. The man turned away from Leif. The selection was starting.
––––––––
One by one, each man presented himself to the group in armour. The leader was taller and more muscular than everyone, with a chipped battle axe strapped to her back.
After sizing up each man, she either nodded for him to grab a lance from the wagon or shook her head and sent him away. She never spoke. Each man silently accepted her decision.
Leif knew he would be selected. They need an eager young hunter in their aging ranks. He approached the woman with the axe.
“My name is–”
“Shut it! Don’t speak to Lady Hilde of the Eastlands until spoken to,” a man in armour said.
As Leif hesitated, Hilde pulled a lance from the wagon. Without warning, she lofted the metal bar through the air for him to catch. The heavy lance slipped from his hands. He lost his balance and splashed into the mud. Men laughed.
“Never drop your lance,” Hilde said, loud so everyone heard.
Coated in muck, Leif rose and retrieved the lance.
Hilde turned to the crowd.
“Our work is not for children.”
She beckoned for Leif to pass back the lance. Instead, he tightened his grip.
“I’m almost seventeen. I’m ready.”
“No one who’s almost seventeen has killed monsters.”
Leif hesitated.
“There was a wolf once. Stalking our goats. I killed it.”
Hilde stepped forward, looming over Leif.
“I spoke of monsters.”
She lowered her voice.
“Monsters that tear warriors apart.”
Without waiting for a reply, she snatched the lance and turned to the crowd.
“The selection is complete. Those with lances, onwards to the cliff. May the Gods bring us glory or bring us death!”
Leif was stunned. This wasn’t right. He was ready for the hunt. Had he abandoned his family for nothing?
“Please. My family is starving.”
“Go home, boy!” someone shouted.
The spectacle was over. The square emptied. He didn’t know what to do. He instinctively clasped the flute dangling from his neck.
He could reveal how the flute was more powerful than all of their lances combined. He could tell of the years his parents devoted to passing on their secret skills. If they knew, they would beg him to join the hunt.
But he could say nothing. During the ritual when he alone was blood-bonded to his flute, he had solemnly pledged to never reveal its power unless in danger. For now, he wasn’t.
Slouching in the square, filthy and alone, he ached from rejection. In the distance, the men with lances sang as they marched along a path to the cliff.
He decided to follow.
––––––––
Tucked behind a pile of rocks, Leif peeked out. The hunting party had assembled beneath rippling black flags. Sea mist chilled the air and waves clapped against the cliffs far below.
One by one, the men descended over the edge along a fraying rope ladder, their lances fastened behind by their belts.
Should he follow further? Doubt churned Leif’s guts. This was his last chance to accept defeat and retreat home. The hunters would forget him. Freyja might forgive him.
Then he spotted Hilde, smirking as she stepped onto the rungs. She was the cruellest person he had met.
Why had she humiliated him? Yes, he was smaller than the aging drunks she selected. But he was ready for the hunt. He was tough and smart.
He would show them. If they wouldn’t give him an opportunity, he would create one. He would force them to realize how foolishly they misjudged him.
When the final man dipped from sight, Leif emerged. A bent, rusted lance lay abandoned in the snow. He snatched it, lingered a few minutes and then crept down the ladder.
––––––––
After the descent, Leif stepped onto a ledge barely wide enough for one person. The sea pulsated a dizzying distance below. He took a deep breath to settle himself and then looked for signs of the men.
Twenty feet away was a gash in the stone large enough to fit a person. He shuffled over. Cold water flowing down the cliff face veiled the cave’s entrance. As he entered, the water drenched his head and back, chilling him instantly.
As he snuck into the dark chamber, the ocean sounds receded. He strained to see in the blackness. Ahead he heard clattering lances and shuffling boots, echoing off the hard walls. The sounds lured him deeper.
A burst of yellow light spread through the chamber. Hilde held a torch, creating silhouettes of the hunters who followed her. The glow revealed a large cave cluttered with rock growths of all shape and size.
Leif stayed back, hoping to remain hidden. At Hilde’s signal, the men raised their lances and quietly fanned out. The hunt was on.
After several minutes of searching, an urgent hiss broke the silence.
“Passageway here!”
“That’s where the beast’ll be,” another said.
The men rushed over and crowded the entrance to the newly discovered tunnel. Then a hunk of wall above them came loose. The dark mass crashed to the floor, scattering the panicked men.
“The cave is collapsing!”
“Run for it!”
As Leif watched, the full horror of the situation sank in. They were all going to be crushed or buried alive.
But the cave wasn’t collapsing. The huge, dislodged section rose menacingly and lunged at the men. Black tentacles, as thick as tree trunks, swept the chamber.
They coiled around several torsos, raised the wriggling bodies aloft and squeezed with primeval force. Leif winced as he heard the muffled crack of bone shattering beneath skin. Howls of agony bounced from the walls and then abruptly stopped.
This wasn’t a cave in. This was a kraki that had been camouflaged and awaiting its prey. He joined the men scrambling for cover.
Hilde hurled the torch toward their opponent. It landed in front of the creature, illuminating its scaled, obsidian body. At the base of its bulbous head were two furious, roving eyeballs, each the size of a wagon wheel.
The tentacles hungrily caressed every surface and nook in search of the trespassers. The beast seized some poorly hidden limbs and swiftly smacked the bodies against the stone, leaving behind motionless heaps.
Stunned, Leif was watching the carnage when something grabbed him from behind. It was Hilde. She yanked him to the ground, saving them both from a tentacle that sailed past a moment later. Their eyes locked.
“You,” she said, shoving him away.
Leif’s heart beat frantically but he didn’t care that he had been discovered. He only cared about survival. He had to act or they would all die.
He gripped his flute. While the massacre continued, Leif pressed the instrument to his lips. He feared his untested magic would have no effect and he would soon become the beast’s next victim. At the same time, he trusted what his parents had told him about their family’s extremely rare gift.
He inhaled and recalled the delicate, sixteen-note melody, the only one he knew. Shrill whistling pierced the air. As he played the first notes, a strange vibration tickled his lips. The sensation radiated through his body and expanded outwards until its energy reached all parts of the chamber.
The effect on the kraki was instantaneous. Its tentacles went limp and its body shuddered. It couldn’t move. Still playing, Leif nodded to Hilde. Time to strike.
Hilde dashed toward the kraki, scooping up a dead man’s lance along the way. She raised the weapon and aimed it at the beast’s eye, which darted around in frustration as if trying to escape its socket. Its body did not move.
Hilde plunged the lance into the watery orb, thrusting with her entire weight until the metal point must have pierced brain. When she let go, only a hand’s width of shaft was left jutting from the socket.
The kraki shuddered a final time and then softened peacefully.
––––––––
The survivors huddled in the cave around a large fire they had created. A few held rags over their mouths and noses to block the sour stench of kraki corpse. The injured moaned. The dead lay to the side in an even row.
Leif slumped against a rock, separate from the group and too far away to feel the flames’ warmth. Shivering in wet clothing, even his bones felt the chill.
No one had approached him since the battle. Instead, they glared and whispered. He had saved them yet there was no trust. He wondered what they would do with him.
Exhausted, he closed his eyes, laid his head against the damp stone and yearned for the toasty hearth back home.
Footsteps approached.
“Wake up.”
Leif peeked from one eye.
Hilde towered over him.
“You aren’t one of us. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. I’m sorry snuck along but I had to,” he said, rising to his feet.
He braced for another round of humiliation. Hopefully, she would only yell and send him away.
Hilde grabbed his shoulders firmly.
“Looks like kraki-charmers aren’t myth. Join us. I can use you.”
Leif was surprised.
“I... Thank you. But I must return home soon.”
She grinned.
“This isn’t an offer.”
In a burst of strength, she twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him face down, pinning him with her knee on his spine. He couldn’t breathe. She reached into his tunic for the flute. With a jerk, she snapped the strap from his neck.
“This stays with me. Until it’s needed again.”
Leif wriggled.
“Let me go. I need to go home.”
Hilde ignored him and continued, speaking loud enough for the others to hear.
“You will be paid for each hunt. When your service is no longer needed, you and your coins will be free to go. Until then, follow orders and don’t die.”
She released him. As she walked back to the fire, she addressed two nearby men.
“Keep him close. The harvest will start soon.”
––––––––
The men shoved armfuls of logs into the fire until it blazed higher than their heads. Beside the flames, a bulky man with thick leather gloves held blacksmith tongs as long as his arms. He cooked the iron tool in the inferno until its pincers glowed orange.
Hilde shoved Leif forward.
“Watch and learn why we hunt kraki,” she said.
At a nod from the man wielding tongs, four others used their lances to pry back the dead kraki’s tentacles. The beast’s mouth area blossomed open, revealing a golden beak in its centre.
The bulky man walked over and jammed a boot next to the beak. Bracing himself, he plunged the red-hot tongs into the slimy flesh at the base of the beak. The skin crackled from the heat as he yanked and twisted sinew.
He leaned far back and pulled, grunting, until the beak ripped free. A torrent of black blood spewed from the gaping wound. The dark liquid arced through the air and splashed across the cave floor, staining the men’s feet.
The bulky man held the beak aloft in the tongs. It glittered in the firelight like a giant jewel. The others cheered.
Leif turned to Hilde.
“You only take its beak?”
“The magistrate pays a fortune for them,” she said. “A shaman once promised him that the essence of the beak can transform any man into a champion in battle – and in bed. So his servants grind them into powder to season his food.”
Hilde sneered.
“He can shove them up his ass, if he wishes, as long as he pays up.”
––––––––
Leif lay awake in darkness on the straw floor of the drafty shed. He stared at the ceiling. The thin gaps in the roof taunted him. Wide enough to admit shafts of moonlight. Too narrow for a boy to squeeze through and escape.
This wooden box had been his home for weeks. Hilde’s men kept him locked inside unless they needed him on another hunt. In recognition of his role helping to slaughter kraki with less loss of life, they had also started parading him like a shackled pet at their celebratory feasts.
Resigned to imprisonment, he spent his time ruminating about how he should have stayed home. And what he wished the kraki would do to Hilde.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, hoping the frigid air would keep away the critters that scuttled around him and nibbled his fingers at night.
“By the Gods. What a smell!” a familiar voice said.
He looked towards the sound and saw a smiling face through a gap in the wall planks. A tooth was missing, lost during a childhood fall from an oak tree.
“Freyja? You’re here,” he said, standing up.
“Of course. This is where they keep the missing brothers.”
She crammed a key into the lock on the door, explaining she took it off a guard who was passed out and reeked of mead.
The door opened and Freyja squeezed Leif in a hug.
He pulled away.
“You’d rather stay in this outhouse?”
“I deserve to. I lost my flute. They took it and only give it back when we hunt kraki.”
“That’s a problem. You need to get it back.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Freyja, I’m sorry I left. That I created this mess. I thought I could fix everything on my own but I know we need to be there for each other. Will you–”
“Yes, I’ll help get it back. You know these villains best. What’s the plan?”
He looked up at her and spotted the cord resting around her neck. Her flute. An idea struck him. A plan fit for a fool. He ushered her out of the shed and pulled the door shut, sealing himself inside.
He smiled.
“You won’t like this one...”
––––––––
The next night, clanking flagons, laughing and belching filled the great hall. Crammed at long tables, the men were celebrating a big hunt. The magistrate, too august to attend, provided the feast: spit-roasted pigs, mounds of spiced potatoes and kegs of mead.
The flowing alcohol had already left men sprawled beneath the tables. Hilde reigned over all from a high table at the end of the hall, flanked by her lieutenants. Leif sat to their side, a token guest bound at his wrists and closely watched.
A servant dropped a plate in front of him. While it was more lavish than any meal he had seen, he had no appetite. He was fixated on the plan that was now underway, the chaos they were about to unleash. Still, he forced himself to eat to avoid arousing suspicion.
He glanced at his flute dangling from Hilde’s neck. He would soon have it back.
Leif hoped Freyja would complete her task swiftly and unharmed. She must have reached the edge of the cliff by now. Would her summoning song work? How many menacing silhouettes would clamber up the rocks toward the enchanting sound? He feared for her and for himself.
He gazed across the hall. If the plan worked, the place would soon erupt into a violent hell. Just then, a faint melody drifted through the air. Freyja was outside the hall. It was happening.
Leif looked at Hilde. She was conferring with one of her lieutenants then she froze. She turned her head, straining to perceive something over the din in the hall.
“That sound,” she said. “Is it...music?”
Hilde shot from her chair, grabbing her axe.
“Men!” she shouted. “Take up your arms—”
The crack of splintering wood drew everyone’s attention.
Scaly black tentacles tore planks from the walls and reached through the openings.
Even though Leif had seen kraki many times over the past weeks, he was still terrified to see them invade a hall of men.
Through the gaps in the wall, he counted three at first. Then five. Then eight. All frantic to breach the hall and destroy the men.
Slaughter was moments away. They must fight to survive. Hilde took command.
“Take arms! Form up!” she shouted.
The men, many holding mugs or chewing food, snapped out of their daze and scrambled for any lances they could find. Many were stuck brandishing stools.
Even with fierce resistance, Leif knew the massacre would be over in minutes. The time to retrieve his flute had arrived. Freyja would be waiting for him on the road outside the outpost.
Hilde leaped onto a table, ready to command her final battle. She barked at the men, ordering them to spread into small groups and ready their weapons.
The kraki had ripped much of the wall away. Their bulging eyeballs glared at their prey.
Leif took a deep breath.
“Hilde!” he yelled, drawing her bewildered gaze. “I can stop this.”
He extended his bound hands, motioning toward the flute hanging from her neck.
She turned toward him and scowled.
Leif stood firm and held eye contact.
“It’s the only way.”
She raised her axe, as if preparing to hurl it into his torso. The plan had failed. He braced himself for the death blow.
Instead, Hilde lowered the weapon, cursed and ripped the flute from her neck.
She tossed it and Leif caught it with his bound hands.
“You’re behind this. I’ll kill you after,” she said.
He had expected she would blame him, the kraki charmer, for the attack.
It was time for the final, awkward step in the plan. As the first kraki slithered fully into the hall, Leif just stood there.
“Use your power! Stop this madness!” Hilde shouted. “Or die now.”
He struggled to remain stone faced. This part of the plan was Freyja’s idea. Leif summoned his courage.
“First toss me that sack of coins.”
––––––––
As Hilde and her men slaughtered the paralyzed beasts, Leif slipped away to meet Freyja. He had feared his song couldn’t subdue that many kraki, but to his great relief it had. The risk was rewarded. This time.
Anxious about Hilde pursuing them, Leif and Freyja walked through the night. They stayed out of sight of the road. He silently commended himself for lying, while captive, about which village he was from.
By dawn, the outpost was far behind and the wasteland lay ahead. Two days of travel would get them home. Leif looked behind and scanned the horizon. Still no sign of pursuit.
Freyja had the sack of coins slung over her shoulder. She turned to Leif and smiled.
“Don’t worry about them. They won’t bother with nobodies like us. It’s over.”
As they trudged across the hard landscape, Leif recalled the look in Hilde’s eyes. Pure hatred and resolve. He knew it was not over.
CONTRIBUTORS
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Robert Helfst earned his MFA in fiction writing from Butler University in 2017. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Come October: An Anthology of Autumnal Horror, The Sandy River Review, BULL: Men’s Fiction, and elsewhere. Robert lives in Indianapolis with his wife, children, dogs, and cats. You can find him at www.roberthelfst.com and on Blue Sky robert helfst.bsky.social.
Richard Flores IV is a writer and publisher living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three boys. He is the author of several novels and numerous short stories. He is also the publisher and lead editor for Factor Four Magazine. Richard is an advocate for the unique craft of writing flash fiction, which he believes deserves its own award categories in all awards. While he would like to think he fits his life around writing, it’s often the opposite. You can find Richard watching Hockey, playing video games, and reading. For more about Richard visit flores factor.com
John Andrew Karr is a speculative fiction writer who dwells near the southern coast of North Carolina. One of his recent short stories can be found at Amazing Stories. He has had several novels published via independent publishers and self-publishing. Other stories have been published in Dark Horses Magazine, Flame Tree Press, Allegory, Danse Macabre, and others. https://johnandrewkarr.com/
Mack W. Mani & C. Clark Coslor are a PNW-based writing team. Their work has collectively been published in magazines and scientific journals such as NewMyths, Crop Protection, The Rhysling Anthology, and Pest Management Science. They currently live in Portland, OR and Bow, WA respectively.
Wayne Kyle Spitzer is an American writer, illustrator, and filmmaker. He is the author of countless books, stories and other works, including a film (Shadows in the Garden), a screenplay (Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows), and a memoir (X-Ray Rider). His work has appeared in MetaStellar—Speculative fiction and beyond, subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, among others. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from Eastern Washington University, a B.A. from Gonzaga University, and an A.A.S. from Spokane Falls Community College. His recent fiction includes The Man/Woman War cycle of stories as well as the Dinosaur Apocalypse Saga. He lives with his sweetheart Ngoc Trinh Ho in the Spokane Valley.
David Lewis’ writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Weird Fiction Review, 21st Century Ghost Stories Volume II, Wicked Horror, Joyland, Barrelhouse, Chelsea Station, The Fish Anthology, Liars’ League London, Willesden Herald: New Short Stories 9, Fairlight Books, Paris Lit Up, Compulsive Reader and others. Originally from Oklahoma, he currently lives in France with his husband and dog.
Forest King-Wilds is a 25-year-old writer who was born in Silver City, New Mexico but now lives close to the Las Cruces area. He writes in a variety of genres many times blurring the line between them. As a man fascinated by the weird he likes to use strange and surreal scenarios to explore our reality.
Austrian writer Thomas Kodnar, born in 1992, has a thing for horror. He has published short stories and a collection of novellas (Poison Boy), and written for the stage. He studied philosophy at the University of Vienna. He enjoys black coffee and vegan cake.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has over 60 short story credits, podcasts, and reprints as well as non-fiction work, and two collections of short stories published by Adelaide Books, Whistling Past the Veil and Postcards From Waupaca, available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
Stephen Thomson writes fantasy fiction. He grew up and lives on Canada’s West Coast where he finds inspiration for stories while exploring gloomy forest paths and lonely mountain trails. While he prefers writing material that is entirely made up, he was originally a newspaper reporter. Along the way, he covered political scandals, interviewed a celebrity or two and even survived a riot. He always strives to delight, surprise and entertain readers.
[1] Punishment involving whipping with a branch.