The Wild Hunt

It was well before dawn; the sun’s furnaces were still cold as the last of the stars twinkled into the murky darkness, fading into the gloom. Jsard woke up from his bed, in truth a makeshift pallet on the floor with a couple of pelts and a sheepskin blanket. He was the first to do so, though Hergeirr who was huddled in a corner of the billet was shifting and muttering darkly in his sleep, a sure sign that he would be soon awake. His limbs were stiff from the numbing cold that permeated into the still air in sinuous tendrils, not to mention sore from the fresh bruises that intertwined with older scars; some nearly faded, others ridges of hardened skin, adorning his callused back akin to a tangled snare. Yet the rugged warrior was so accustomed that he barely noticed what to others would have passed for agony, the throbbing ache was fading away into embers of dying pain.

His armour lay neatly arrayed in a corner, his battle gear propped up against the wall. Walking over to where his weapons lay, Jsard stooped, grasping the immense horse-bow firmly and propping it a little behind his left leg. Leaning himself onto the upper curve, he shifted his body as he pulled the bow slowly but inexorably with one hand while fitting a bowstring strung from corded gut to the other end. Drawing the taut cord he pulled it deftly to his ear, then gave it a few tentative pulls to ensure the bow’s flexibility. Grunting in approval, he set the bow down and made to get ready.

The omens at the casting of the bones were auspicious, though Jsard knew only too well not to put blind trust in such fickle practices. As he shrugged himself into a woollen shirt, a grunt behind him told him that Hergeirr had woken.

“You awake already? It’s time then,” the hard-bitten warrior said as he turned and began kicking the others awake growling their names. “Get up Skjöldr! You Thàrn, still asleep? And…” Asmother was only pretending to be asleep and when Hergeirr’s foot came his way, he seized his leg and lifted him in the air as if he weighed nothing more than a bundle of straw, the latter managing to twist himself out of Asmother’s grip, landing on both hands and legs. By then the commotion had woken all the others as Hergeirr lifted himself up, charging headlong into the younger warrior who, caught by surprise, was slammed against the wall. Asmother brought one of his knees into Hergeirr’s chest, managing to shake him off. Dropping low, using both of his hands to twist himself in an arc, the Wolf kicked the Ironspear’s knees hard, the latter buckling but managing to hold himself. Although Jsard found it hard to believe the rumours claiming that Asmother had been tutored by the Elves in the arts of war, now he found it hard not to as he saw the young Wolf fending off Hergeirr’s blistering attacks with dexterous ease.

“Give it up Hergeirr,” Skjöldr chuckled, a wide grin creasing his face as he shrugged on his tunic, Thàrn roaring with laughter as the Ironspear swore a particularly florid oath as he got kicked squarely in the crotch, “give it up.”

“What are you so pleased about?” Úlfkellhjálm suddenly spoke out.

“South wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning,” the Hunter replied as he peered out of the window; Cynric nodding sagely at the other’s words. Both were huntsmen, two of the best Jsard ever met, as their second names aptly implied.

“Aye, the casting of the bones; they were good enough,” Jols called out.

“You put trust in sorcery?” Jsard asked disdainfully, raising one eyebrow, “I’ve seen them at their practices, never made sense to me anyway, am I to tread blindly on the words of some crone?”

Even though he sensed the Warmonger’s disapproval, Jols nevertheless asked in return, “In what do you place your trust then?”

“Little beyond that of my sword.”

Dragonheart looked his commander straight in the eye, “Your words are true, but there are times when the sword doesn’t reach. Even if the words of our shamans may not bear the truth we wish to hear; as do the words of all seers, it would be pure folly to put down the words of the eldarin from which the humans learnt the mystic arts.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right. But it is loath for me to walk blindfolded in darkness,” Jsard replied stubbornly.

“What use would your eyes be in the dark?”

Jsard shrugged absentmindedly, knowing he would not get the better of Jols, saying aloud, “Get ready, we’ve got a long journey before us.”

“Pray we don’t run into the wær-loga,” Úlfkellhjálm muttered darkly, his single eye blazing with murderous hatred, before continuing in a softer tone, “Pray we don’t.” At the mention of their estranged kin a hush fell on the men, their former boisterousness evaporating like morning mist. They packed their gear and put on their battle garb in utter silence as if the name of their vile kindred carried a curse which steeped from the arid steppes of the North.

They continued thus, in this foreboding manner, suffused in brooding silence even as they saddled their steeds and wound their way out of the city, off into the arid wilderness until Cynric Boarfang and Asmother the Wolf began to sing a war-song, commencing with a low and mournful tune, then slowly picking up speed, their voices rising and falling in time to the beating of the galloping hooves. Somewhere within their hearts a fire was kindled as one by one they joined in; even dour Úlfkellhjálm began to sing, his sorrow and grief assuaged for a while. The grim shadow which had settled upon them was dispersed as dust in a breeze as their steeds carried them onwards, akin to fiery gods of war. Thus they rode, as befitted brothers-in-arms, forged and tempered in the fires of battle. They were to go boar-hunting, a rite of passage which each and every one of the Khun horsemen was to perform ere the coming of winter. It was a test of manliness and courage, for the giant boar was one of the many forms into which Balthore changed shape, and to face the ire of a giant boar was to face the wrath of one of the Elder Gods.

After a while they slowed the pace of their war-horses to a canter then to a slow trot, for there was no need to ride their mounts hard. The powerful limbs of the steeds were coated with a fine sheen of sweat, a misty steam rising from their muzzles.

“Where is it that you saw the herd?” Jols called out.

“Just a little more,” Cynric replied, “no more than a couple of miles.”

The sun, a resplendent orb which had just risen from behind the ends of the earth as the fires of its furnaces were stoked up, cast its luminous rays upon the desolate landscape, bathing the arid wilderness in warm light. They all fell silent as they passed through a truly desolate moor, the sight of which hushed the rugged warriors. Úlfkellhjálm clenched the hilt of his sword so tight that his knuckles went pale, an old pain flaring where his other eye had been before its light was put out by one of the waer-loga’s crude weapons upon the very ground on which they trod. Bones gleamed brightly amidst rusted weapons and broken shields upon which crows and ravens were perched. The place reeked with the septic breath of death; an unearthly chill permeated into the still air which sent cold shivers running down Jsard’s spine. It had been a bloodbath. A very long time ago his father had described it to him. A time when Úlfkellhjálm was a less grim man, though still a stern warrior, when his eyes had gleamed with warmth and pride instead of sorrow and hate. Now that its twin had been put out, the remaining eye shone with a cold light, the erstwhile warmth snuffed out. The empty socket was like a cold fireplace, a barren hearth behind the grate.

They rode on, afraid to linger more in that place which brought so many unpleasant memories. Stopping only once by a rushing brook, they refilled their skins with water and let their steeds rest for a while and drink. It was then that Cynric became suddenly observant and, kneeling, he traced his fingers upon a part of the ground were the grass was flattened and crushed. The others made their way to where Boarfang was, and to their incredulous delight the mark was the unmistakable print of a boar’s hoof.

All of a sudden, Cynric was pitched forwards, blood blossoming down his chest as a charging boar took him full in the chest, his tusks rending the Khun’s breastplate. The snorting beast’s ire was all too evident as it rounded upon Cynric again, but this time Jsard and the others had nocked their bows and sent a volley of steel-tipped death, which nonetheless did not stop the giant beast’s impetuous charge as it thundered into the wounded warrior, knocking the wind out of him. With supreme effort Cynric rose to his feet and, grasping a spear, hurled it at the blood-crazed swine. But despite his heroic effort to remain standing his aim was poor and the spear fell well short of its intended target. The boar disappeared into the thickets, only to turn and attempt to charge the wounded Khun again. Seemingly out of nowhere, an unusually long arrow of exceptional craftsmanship hit the snorting beast straight between the eyes. Its charge faltered, before it finally collapsed onto the ground in a crash, blood flowing copiously from its wounds.

“We are being watched,” Skjöldr said suddenly and quietly, his keen eyes going wary.

“I know. Where?” Jsard asked through gritted teeth.

“Yonder.”

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