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.