Mage Hunter: 4

4

Captain Saven shifted in his saddle, legs sore from the long day’s ride.

The hounds bayed, crashing through the wet underbrush. He couldn't see them through the fog. The clouds hung low, almost grazing the top of the trees, drizzling the woods.  The air stunk with the bitter scent of soaked pines. Saven never had been one for forest expeditions, but what choice did he have. Lord Rorth had dragged them out here to search for the runaway mages.

Their column contained a dozen armored horsemen, Saven's own men from Lord Rorth's Personal Guard. Each man wore the same uniform as Saven, long gray cloaks, shiny steel caps, and chainmail. Over the chainmail they wore blue surcoats. The sigil of House Ovaird, an owl on a checkered field, was sewn to their breasts.

Lord Rorth Ovaird, being the immense man he was, sat atop a tall black charger—the biggest horse they found. He didn’t wear a uniform, just a long brown hunting coat with a double-bladed axe slung over his back. He held onto the reigns of the beast with broad hands and thick muscled forearms. With a square jaw and perfect blond hair, he looked some ancient demigod, like the sort of men chiseled into marble statues in the Xervian Empire.

Rorth’s own father had accused his mother of sleeping with a giant, a jest of course, but one that had been often said with a hint of fear.  Many thought Lord Rorth was a half-giant picked up in the mountains, or some sort of demon-spawn, ready to cast aside his human disguise.

Saven couldn't blame the masses for all the rumors, because looking at him was intimidating, and standing next to him terrifying. Many would say he didn't need a house guard.  The truth of it was, he was just a really big man, just as mortal as the next.

The hounds’ baying turned into a frenzied barking. Saven held a hand up flat, the column stopping at his command. The forest shifted and sloped down into a deep bog loaded thick with ferns. He could see the hounds’ pointed tails flickering through the ferns.

They definitely found someone.

Pulling his foot from the stirrup, he swung his leg over and dismounted with practiced grace. He freed his crossbow from its leather saddle case and checked it. The bow was already cocked, he only had to slide a quarrel into the divot. As he descended into the ferns, drawn steel sang behind him, along with the cranking of other crossbows.

The mud sucked at his boots and he splashed into a puddle, his leg sinking up to the knee. Cold water filled his boots, stinging his toes, and he cursed, mud squelching as he pulled his leg out. A few of his men passed him, circling their quarry, stumbling through the wet vegetation with little more grace than he did. The hounds continued with low growls and snapping barks, muffling the sound of someone whimpering.

Saven inched across the muddy ground, slow and deliberate. The ferns blocked the view, their catch lying on the ground. The hounds were barrel chested beasts with brindled fur, sharp ears, and huge jowls dripping with saliva. They looked hungry, all caught in the frenzy of the hunt. No doubt if Saven gave the command, they would have torn their prey to bloody ribbons.

Two young mages were in the mud. One sat forward, hovering over the other, a dagger pointed towards the dogs. The one in mud laid on his side, clutching his knee, eyes closed tight and leaking tears.  They both had brown skin, light brown like wheat flour, and long mops of greasy black hair. They were clearly not from Elenglade. Saven had seen few foreigners, but from the tales he heard he would guess that they hailed from the desert lands of Damaskia.

The threadbare robes they were torn, tattered, splattered with mud, and stained with dried black blotches of blood.  The dagger wielder snarled as he saw Saven and whipped the blade around, pointing it towards him.

Saven leveled his crossbow, the point of the quarrel aimed at the dagger wielding mage's face.  The other guards converged, their weapons at the ready. Saven made a clicking sound in the corner of his mouth. The hounds broke their circling and ran over to him, sitting down in a neat disciplined row. He loved hounds, they were so often even more loyal than soldiers. Their thick tails beat happily at the mud, spewing flecks into the air. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and tossed them some scraps of chicken fat. They converged, growling and snapping at each other for the prize. 

“Bring them to me!” Lord Rorth said.

Saven nodded to the other guardsmen. “You heard the man.”

The mage's arm was grabbed and twisted, the dagger falling from his grip. He grunted and hissed through his teeth as the guards pulled him to his feet, tying a length of rope around his wrists. The other didn't fight back, but they were forced to carry him, his leg stiff with pain. No doubt he twisted it charging through the deceptive vegetation.

Lord Rorth was off his horse. “Let me have a look at them.”

He took the feisty one face into his grip, squeezing his cheeks hard. The mage tried to spit, but Rorth squeezed harder, strands of spittle flopping down onto the mage’s own chest. “Two thousand gold standards, for these two?”  He released his grip and looked at the other one, who was wincing in pain, like a farmer might look at a sickly cow.  “The Scarlet Enclave’s killers. Two foreign boys, lost in the woods. Where’s your deathly magic now, eh?”

“Let me go and I’ll show you,” the feisty mage said, fighting with the grip of the guard. Saven's gut leaped in panic for a moment, hoping his man really didn't let the mage go.  Mages were unpredictable and from what he heard, their powers could be disastrous.

Lord Rorth laughed. “Killed your teacher, didn’t you? Fled into the woods, without a parcel or a notion of where to go and what to do. A moment of passion, or opportunity, perhaps?”

“He was an old fool. Killing him was easy.” the mage said.


Saven wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt sick as he remembered the corpse of the instructor they had killed. His gut had been torn open, innards unraveled, made to look like butterfly wings.  They had made large circles of blood, the inner rims all etched with strange runes and markings. In the heat of the day, the smell had been worse. It was an odd thing to think about, these two boys. They looked more like store clerks than murderers.

Mage Hunter: 3

3

The morning sun rose, yellow light flickering through the gaps in the cabin's timbers. But, it wasn't the light, rather the sound that woke him. Birds chirped and tweeted, a rooster crowed, and his new guest snored from his pallet on the floor. 

Thorben lay beside the fire, blanket pulled up to his chin. Fenris rolled to his feet, studying him. He kept thinking about how vulnerable he was, how easy it would be to slide a knife into his heart. He shook his head and started lacing up his boots. Those were the kinds of thoughts that men like him had, men who had killed so many. 

Fenris found the key underneath a clay urn filled with herbs. It had been hidden there on purpose, out of sight and out of mind. It fit into the trunk's lock easy and he turned it, the top opening up.  He took out his sword and belt, strapping it to his hip. His bow was wrapped in oiled cloth and his quiver full of arrows, fletched with black goose feathers. He unrolled the cloth and began to string the bow, his hands moving with practiced skill.

The bow drew in a smooth motion, the wood creaking. He held it there for a moment, testing the string. The tendons in his forearm burned. But, it was good, he wouldn't have to replace it. 

Thorben woke with a grunt, turning toward him, his groggy expression shifting to one of worry. Fenris loosed the string and the bow thrummed. Carefully, he rolled it back up and strapped it to his travel bag, along with the quiver. Moving across the shelves, he began to fill the bag with provisions for the journey.

"So, you're going after all?" Thorben said.

"Aye."

"Excellent!" 

Fenris winced. The enthusiasm was a bit too much, made him flinch. Maybe going was a bad idea. Regardless, it was a lot of money, a sum he could put to good use. He didn't have to kill anyone. All he had to do was make sure Thorben and whoever he brought wouldn't make stupid choices. In a way, he was saving their lives. Blood mages weren't the type to be trifled with, especially not for someone who seemed as green as Thorben. 

Thorben watered and fed his horse while Fenris got to work tying a rope. He made a collar and leash for the pig. The pig wrenched away, squealing and grunting stubbornly as Fenris tugged. The beast eventually yielded, allowing himself to be lead out of the pen. 

Thorben pointed at the leashed beast. "You're bringing a pig?"

Fenris shrugged. "He'll be mountain cat food if I leave him here. Either that or starve to death. I'll sell him for a few silvers in the village." 

The trail away from his cabin led through thick forest. The High Danes jutted up behind the forest, slopes of naked granite topped with white peaks, like rigid spines on back of some great beast. Foothills and valleys rolled below them, shimmering rivers and streams snaking their way through the forests. 

The Expansion was a tough land, rugged and untamed by man, until recent years. The King's victory against the Valhonians had brought the lands into the Kingdom of Elenglade. They were a gift of peace, to end a hundred years of brutal killing and raiding by both sides. The great noble families of Elenglade eagerly bought up swaths of the land from the King, but there was just so much of it. They turned around and parceled it up among those who could work it and earn a tax.  

Various opportunists fled to the Expansion, packing up their homes and their families. Some sought the freedom of the wilds, while others were lured by the prospect of fortune. 

To Fenris, the Expansion seemed to be the perfect place to escape his old life. Out here, a man was on his own.

Thorben led his horse by the reigns and Fenris his pig by the leash. Little was said as the morning passed into afternoon. 

"What's your plan?" Fenris asked.

"My plan?" Thorben replied, his voice rising with confusion. 

"If you're going after two mages, a plan is needed. So, what is your plan so far?"

"Well, I suppose I am starting off recruiting experienced men, like yourself. Then I will go to the Scarlet Enclave in Enersen and see what information they have on the mage's last whereabouts."

 "A rogue mage is free to exercise their power. That means that they're intimidating. Men will flock to that power, typically other outlaws and deviants. We'll have to face a small army to get their heads. How will you handle that?" Fenris said.

"Oh," Thorben said, looking down at the dusty trail. "I guess I'll hire more men."

"It's likely to get bloody, fast. Are you prepared for that?"

Thorben furrowed his eyebrows and puffed his chest. "I'm not a coward."

"Never said you were. Judging from how you had to defend yourself there, you've got something to prove. A man with something to prove isn't the kind of man that men will follow. You have to be a man that knows himself, knows his own fears. If you're afraid, be afraid. But, don't be the sort of fuck that gets himself killed because he thinks bravery is important. Fear is what keeps you alive."

The sun hovered over the western tree line by the time the village came into sight. Great columns of clouds were stained deep violets and fiery oranges. To Fenris they looked smashed fingers set on fire. The village itself sat where two streams met. It was little more than a granary and a lumber mill with a scattering of other various buildings all around it. He wasn't even sure what they were calling it now, as the name and lordship had changed hands two or three times since he had come to settle in the Expansion.

Fenris sold his pig to the butcher for two silver pieces and a handful of coppers. He stuffed them into his leather coin pouch and headed to the inn where Thorben would be. The people of the village were finishing their days work. The villagers were hard folk, the dirt under their fingernails type. People in the towns and cities of Elenglade were filled with false smiles and warm hospitality, because they wanted you to buy something, usually. The people here didn't have any money, nor did they expect any one else to have money. So, they were full of scowls and bad attitudes. But, Fenris liked those sort of folk better, as they tended to come with less bullshit.

Inside the inn, some sweaty fat guy was playing a wood harp. He wobbled in his chair, half drunk and couldn't carry a tune. Men and women gathered around the tables, drinking ale and talking. Their voices rose and fell as a low murmur over the horrible tune. The room smelled of stale beer and piss, the sort of smell any kind of drinking room ought to have. Thorben sat the counter on a tall stool, sipping at frothy mug. Fenris pulled a stool up beside him.

"I purchased you a horse," Thorben said from the rim of his mug.

"How generous of you. Where we going next?" Fenris asked.

"Back south into Elenglade. I mean to find another experienced slayer like yourself."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"I hope to recruit Rorik Omalik," Thorben said and smiled.

Fenris snorted. "That ought to go over well." 

"Why do you say?"

Fenris flagged down the barkeep and ordered a mug of his won. "Because, Rorik Omalik hates my fucking guts."

Mage Hunter: 2

2

He waited--two more knocks.

His hand fell instinctively to his side, to where his sword handle would have been. But, it wasn't there. Maybe he should have gotten it out of the trunk. He opened it a crack, peering through. The man standing there was wreathed in shadows, he couldn't make out his appearance. 

"What do you want?"

"Hello there! This is the home of Fenris Odare, is it not?"

"Might be, might not. What's it to you?" 

"My name is Thorben Ocalcin. I've come here with a proposition for Fenris."

His voice sounded eager. Fenris opened the door, orange light flooding the outside and revealing him. Thorben stood a tall man, young with an angled jaw, and short-cut blond hair. He wore a long coat of deep red, tall well-polished riding boots, and a sword belt, although his sword was not with him. 

Fenris had a good notion that he knew what kind of man Thorben was. A nobleman's son most likely, setting out on some adventure to prove his worth. No doubt, he had come seeking the world's most infamous killer.

He invited Thorben in and went back to his chair. Thorben took a few steps inside and closed the door behind him. 

"You look tired," Fenris said. "Must have traveled far to find me way out here in the Expansion." 

"I admit, it wasn't an easy task. You are an elusive man Mister Odare." 

"I'm not the best cook, but want some soup?"

Thorben nodded and sat down at the table. Fenris always made more than he could eat anyways. He fetched two wooden bowls and took the pot's handle with a folded cloth, spooning out some portions for each of them. He plopped down a loaf of bread and cut some slices, then filled his drinking horn and one for the visitor.

"Your hospitality is most appreciated," Thorben said. 

Fenris motioned to the food. "Then eat."

They ate in silence. The young traveler fought with his manners, but Fenris could see the ferocity in his eyes as he gulped the ale, munched the bread, and slurped the soup. He knew that feeling all too well, from his own years on the road. Nibbling on hard bread and leathery meat didn't make for a satisfying meal. 

Fenris would admit that the stew tasted a bit bland. Then again, he had been spoiled during his killing days, eating at the table of nobles and their cooks. The stew had mostly onions in a broth, with smoked pork and chopped potatoes. The ale helped wash it down, the nutty taste complimenting the savory stew well. When he reached the bottom of the bowl, he used the bread to soak up the rest, shoveling soggy pieces into his mouth. 

Meal finished, Fenris leaned back and sucked on his teeth. "What do you have for me?"

Thorben clapped his hands together and then reached inside his coat, producing a crumpled scroll of thin paper. He unrolled it, but it kept curling back up. Blocks of neat organized text were scrawled with perfect curly penmanship. At the bottom two charcoal drawings, crude faces, showed the targets. Aggravated by the paper moving, Fenris grabbed the bread knife and jammed it into the top corner. Thorben jumped back, his eyes wide.

Fenris scanned the words and then wrenched the knife free of the table, letting the scroll roll itself back up. "A fat purse, but I am a farmer now. That's no longer my line of work."

"Two rogue mages have murdered their instructor and escaped the Scarlet Enclave. They use blood magic. The Scarlet Enclave is offering two thousand gold standards for their heads. This is quite the opportunity. Unequaled, if you ask me," Thorben replied. 

"I've seen purses this fat before, they're never easy. Lots of death. You'd need a posse."

"Surely, the Great Slayer himself could capture these two. All he needs is a benefactor to help him get started. The profit will be more than worth it."

"No," Fenris said, he slammed his palms down on the table. Thorben jumped back. "I'm done with the killing."

Thorben raised a finger. "I thought you might say that. Why else would you come way out here to live, all by yourself? I didn't come out here to ask you to kill anyone. I want to take you on as an advisor."

Fenris stared at him through the flickering hearth light, for a long moment. Thorben shifted in his seat and rubbed his hands together. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

"The man who points the finger is just as responsible as the man who swings the sword," Fenris said.

"I will give you one third, just for pointing that finger. The blood won't be on your hands and you'll help end the lives of two dangerous men that no doubt will kill again to satisfy their hunger for blood magic. That would be more than enough to expand your little farm, and even hire on a few hands before winter."

Fenris clenched his jaw. To have experienced men helping out, that would make his life a great deal easier. But, that would mean going back to his old life. The thought of more killing made him wince. 

"You can sleep here, it's too far back to the village and the roads are too rough. Hitch your horse inside the pig pen, we've got problems with mountain cats," Fenris said and stood.

"So you'll consider?"

"I didn't say that. It's been a long day, I'm getting some sleep."

"Yes, please let's sleep on it. It's in your best interest."

Mage Hunter: 1

1

Fenris couldn't escape death.

It followed him, even when he was trying to live a peaceful life.

Slick blood speckled the tall grass and soaked the ground. The pig lay on its side, feet aimed at the sky. Most of its underbelly had ripped apart, revealing rows of recently cleaned rib bones. Bits of flesh and stringy innards hung from the bramble around the corpse, glistening wet in the dusk light. Lacerations that looked like deep trenches covered its back and hindquarters. That left salvaging a ham shank or two out of the question.  

Paw prints in the mud led away from the pig carcass, disappearing into the trees. No doubt the mountain cat still lingered nearby, in the murky shadows. Fenris had come unarmed. His sword and bow were back in the cabin, locked up, where they belonged. They did him little good anyway. It seemed every time he touched them, something bad happened. It would be better to leave the cat alone, to swallow his loss. 

Fenris kicked the pig's head, his boot thudding against its skull. “I hope you ate good, fucker!”

The pig would have fed him for weeks, perhaps a few months. If he made it stretch. The mountain cat had gobbled most of it down in one gluttonous meal. It was a shame. He should have hunted the mountain cat down when he found tracks a few days ago. There was no point in lingering around, staring at death. His boots crashed through the underbrush on his way back. 

The loss would set his winter stores back a great deal. Normal farmers prepared for that sort of stuff. Blind optimism was for children. Grown men went out and made things happenIf he could swing a sword, he could plant seeds and tend a few pigs. Those were supposed to be the easy things in life, that's why the lowborn did them.

The cabin stood out among the long grass, a long hanging thatched roof over walls of interlinked timbers. Beside it the thick foliage gave way to a well tilled field of black dirt. Green bushels sprouted up in long rows. He grew onions. They were perfect in dark soil. 

A wooden pen opposite of the field contained the lone survivor pig. Its big fat body was covered in dried mud, it grunted and shoveled at the dirt with its flat nose. The pig didn't seem to care that its mate had been carried away by a set of jaws and claws. Fenris watched the creature for a long minute, resting both hands on the fence post. Was it happy to have lost its mate, or just pragmatic?

He puffed his cheeks and blew air out of his lips.  Life went on, even for pigs. So why did he struggle so much with little setbacks? A few chickens fluttered past him, nearly tripping him.

Fenris found his shovel leaning against the side of the cabin and took hold. His fingers curled around the familiar haft. The wood was smooth, polished by long hours of work. 

Weeds sprouted up around the crops, little tendrils of evil. As an enemy of the harvest, he fought them ceaselessly. More death in a way, but at least their death served a purpose. It allowed his crop to grow big. That meant more coin for him and more food on his plate.

The clouds were one big smear of orange and yellow, hiding the sun. It wouldn't be long before it vanished behind the horizon and brought night.

The spade bit into the dirt, cutting the roots of the weeds. He pulled them out, flinging them into the brush behind him. The damn things grew so fast and there always seemed to be more. His shovel worked the dirt, beads of sweat gathering at his brow. As the light faded, the crickets buzzed their night chorus. 

The bushes behind him rustled. Fenris turned, swinging his spade around like a battle axe. The mountain cat leaped from the gorse. It had a massive head, claws as big as his head, and a gray coat with rings of brown.  Fenris sucked back his breath--it was beautiful, brave, and deadly predator. But, he was deadlier yet, a trained fighter and a honed killer.  

The spade caved the top of its head. The beast let out a low grunt, falling sideways into the tilled soil. Fenris huffed and used his foot to pry the spade free from its skull. 

He hurled the tool behind him. His jaw tightened and he took the dead mountain cat by the tail, dragging it towards the pig pen. Its body was surprisingly heavy and it took a good deal of effort to lift it over the top board.  

The mountain cat plopped into the pen, right next to the feeding troth. The pig snorted and sauntered over.

"Dinner," Fenris said and walked away. 

With the sun down, he returned to his cabin. Drinking horn in hand, he filled it with ale and sat back in his chair. The ale had a nutty taste. Fenris savored every pull. An old man at the village had made the batch and Fenris had traded a few chickens for a small keg, which he kept in the corner. A pot of stew bubbled in hearth beside him. Dull orange light filled the room, casting long shadows off of all his furniture. 

He didn't have much, a few shelves, a bed, a trunk and a table. All of it was crudely made, his shallow attempts at carpentry. He didn't need much though. Half a lifetime ago, such basic quarters would have been below him, an insult. But, he felt proud that he'd built it all himself. It was a part of his new life, away from it all. 

The quiet of the forest made for little entertainment. He closed his eyes, listening to the blub, blub of the stew and the popping of the fire. His ears caught another sound, a dull thudding. There were heavy footsteps, coming from outside. He pulled a final drink from his horn and rose, heading to the door with soft, deliberate, steps. 

Fenris pressed his shoulder against the wall beside the door and waited. Someone said something, the words were muffled through the thick timbers. A long moment of silence followed, and then two heavy knocks at the door. 

Web Serial: Intro

Introduction

The first serial that I'll be posting is a story known as Mage Hunter (tentative title.) Each post I make will be a scene for the story. I'm going to try and keep each one at 1,000 words. That's enough to get things done, but not too much as to overwhelm readers who might come to follow this.

The story will be a dark fantasy tale. It's about a retired Mage Hunter who goes back for one last job, and finds himself up against a nobleman that would see him dead, and justice not served.

It will be a first draft.

Now, that doesn't mean that it will lack quality (at least I hope not.) The idea is that I will make sure I use proper spelling and grammar. I'll also try to keep the story as cohesive as possible. I do have it outlined, so that will help. This is an experiment of the writing process for me. I want to see if I can keep myself going.

You will be exploring Aeylisia as I do. I hope you enjoy my world and the stories I tell in it.