“-And turnips, and… Onions?”
Ander cringed as he read aloud the words written by Thaddeus’ hand. It was for a week's worth of groceries, and to say the archer had a poor hand for writing was an understatement. Many common folk were illiterate, save those educated in the sanctuaries and the formals. His older brother-in-arms had the fortune to know how to read and write, but perhaps he didn’t deserve such privilege. Bella’s lists were a far cry from the archer’s. He could actually read hers.
“A pale a’ oats, two bags a’ flour, a bag a’ turnips, and a bag of onions. Is that all, my friend?” The shopkeep leaned over his station. Although Ander was veiled in cloak and hood, the food merchant never failed to address him in a friendly manner.
There was no soul in Vimbaultir who knew his face, nor the faces of his kin—the grand work of their pensive leader, Sylas Lone. But walking around with a purse full of silver will catch the eye of dangerous men. If he were to jaunt around in plain view with no mantle to hide beneath, he could be robbed for his coin, or questioned by guardsmen in search of a fuller wallet. Either way, the cloak was a safe and easy measure.
“And a half a stone of mutton,” Ander added in short order. “Do you have any mutton?”
“Only beef, I’m afraid,” the shopkeeper shook his head. “Beef, pork, and venison. Oh, and we have tallow to go with it. Unless I’m mistaken, it may not have set yet, my niece had prepared it the day prior..”
Ander took a respite for thought. From what he learned under Bella’s hand in the kitchen, mutton was a softer meat than beef. But when it came to stews, meat softened in a broth, and a harder boil would render the two indistinguishable. It was a better choice than going without real food, and so the veiled thief spoke, “So I shall take the beef.”
“Very well then, my friend,” the shopkeeper nodded with vigor as he took off around his shopfront. His weak hands and crooked back made him not a nimble old thing. “It’ll take me only a moment, I have the meats on-hook in the back. I’ll return shortly.”
“You do that,” Ander replied as the man left the room. He turned around to look at Raynar through a clouded window. His mount was waiting patiently outside, but before the horse, there stood a mother - a girl young for her office - and a lad that looked no older than six. He was holding up half an apple to his horse, and Rayner, the gentle beast he was, took small nibbles from the fruit. It was a pleasant sight, and Ander’s heart was all the warmer.
Of all the shops in Vimbaultir, he found this one the best for his tastes. It was clean and manned by an honest elder. And it was small, attracting no large amount of ire, or peering eyes that could stab beyond his cloak. But most of all, it reminded him of Mr. Alchov’s shop, planted in the heart of Southern Sylrel. There was once a time when Ander thought himself distant from the past, but that time was gone, and the burns were now one with his flesh. He knew what drove his blades, and what pushed his feet. His past forged his will, and his memories were made to guide him. Mr. Alchov was dead, and for that reason, as well as a hundred others, he would take the life of his killer. There was never a moment where his vow was lost to him.
“Here you are, agh,” The man returned from the back with a roll of wrap over his shoulder. He placed it on the front station with a thud and then pointed around the front. “You’re young, you can take up the rest, I presume. It’ll be a silver and three copper. Or just thirteen copper, whatever you may have on hand.”
“A silver and three copper?” Ander found his coin purse in his sash. His style had molded of late to match both his master’s. The cost of coin meant nothing to him, but the uptick did not go unnoticed. “Last week it was a silver and one.”
“Oh, yes, pardon. The port had a problem a few nights ago. There was a set of thieves that, and you may not believe this, a set of thieves robbed a brig of the Midnight Crows. Yes, indeed. I’ve heard the city guard has imposed some greater measures on the port, and getting supplies into the city has grown quite a fair share harder, I’m afraid. It is a price that many struggle with, yes, how unfortunate.”
The blonde man’s tongue quaked behind his teeth, but as the elder’s gaze grew sharper, Ander yielded his coins. “It’s none the matter; here is your due.”
Ander placed the four coins - a silver and three copper - in the man’s wrinkled palm and the two bid their farewells. The whole of his purchase was at least three stone in weight, but when strung over his shoulder, the mass was light enough for him to walk without trouble. His profession kept him in perfect shape, without exception. It was a trade of life and death - often, literally. As he walked through the open half-door of the shop, he came across the young mother and her child. His mount noticed him, whinnying with a small *clop* of his plated hoof. The woman, slender with pale white skin, addressed the hooded thief. Her eyes never rose to meet his. “Is this your horse, my lord?”
“My lord?” Ander repeated.
“Pardon, I am only a commoner. I know not how to address you, my lord,” the girl held her boy close. The two seemed disturbed by his presence. “My son only meant to admire the horse, nothing more. He is a good child, I assure you, we meant you no wrong, my lord.”
The woman’s words stirred the blonde man. He paused to look them both up and down, his gaze sharp beneath his hood. The boy was still clutching his half-eaten apple, now sporting bites rendered from the teeth of his horse. Ander began to smile, and then he spoke. “You must not pardon, young woman, for I am no lord. As for your boy-”
He lowered himself to a knee. Ander thought to pull down his mantle, but he stayed his hand. “-The lad has done no wrong. In fact, I say it is a grand thing for him to take interest. Perhaps he will have a mount of his own one day, isn’t that right, young man?”
“You think so, my lord?”
“I am no lord,” he repeated. “But in your eyes, I see the seed of an Ironvaud, tall and proud.
“Me, and Ironvaurd, mister? With a horsie like your own? That’s wonderful!”
“You will have all that I have and more,” Ander rose, now standing tall in shadow. The boy smiled ear to ear, and the woman wore a pleasant look. But beyond the pleasantness, there stirred a haze of distrust. Ander could feel its cold reach.
“You are a courteous man,” she said. “But if you are no lord, how is it you own such a great horse?”
“Fortune befalls folks of all walks of life,” he said in a stern reply. “I am one of such fortunate folks.
He could see it beyond her eyes. She knew he was a thief, that amount he was certain of. Her smile was as fair as ever, but beneath it, he could see her squirm in his presence. For her own sake, Ander gave the two his regards, only after roughing up the young man’s hair. The two bled into the sea of common folk, and while the mother pulled on her son’s hand, the boy called out? “What is your horsie’s name?”
“Raynar!” Ander called back. The silver steed jerked its head to face him, alerted by the sound of his name. The thief laughed, stroking his horse’s mane with affection. It was clean and gleaming as ever, majestic atop the strong beast. While Raynar was his steed alone, it was Nallia who took the most care of all their mounts. She found the work amusing, and the horses were all the healthier for it. The Nyx found great interest in Raynar’s pelt, and never once has the beast gone muddied or unbrushed.
“Hah hah, sorry about that one,” Ander reassured the horse as he tied his groceries to his saddle. When the cargo was snug, he took Raynar by the lead to walk through the crowded street. But the moment Ander had fit his foot to a stirrup, a small scrap of white parchment caught his eye. When he paced to face the page, he saw it hung to a wooden beam by a tack of iron. The wind had rolled it up. When Ander’s hand pulled it down, it read the following message.
“A request for civilian hunting. The Inagnivorr beast of sect Astari. Wanted dead for public safety. A reward of thirty-five hundred silver mints is to be expected. Rally with the brazen of Vimbaultir. Gods save King Faerthor the Sixth.”
“The Inagnivorr… of sect Astari?”
His grip on the paper tightened. The echoes of his foes' pantheon burned daggers into his skin. His eyes caught flame beneath his black mantle, and his teeth became grit to the point of shattering. Even with what little the paper told, his eyes read all that needed to be known. Aranos of the Astari. The beast of a beast was amongst him.
The next step in the way of his vengeance was at hand, and he was eager for it. Ander had prayed in formal every night since the port heist for a sign from The Righteous One himself. A sign that his journey was to start. And in his hand, tied down by a metal tack, was that very sign. It was a divine message incarnate. This Inagnivorr of the Astari - wanted dead for public safety - would be the first to fall. His eyes never stopped reading that single line, and in the back of his mind, there echoed words born of flames. The embers glowed with light.
“This is. The. Way.”
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
In the center plaza of Vimabultir, mounted on the hang of a stone belfry, a large metal dome struck out half a dozen long tolls. The ring of six o’clock woke the time-tellers of the valley and the early folk of the twin rivers. Those lost in slumber were left ignorant, but those who kept vigil late into the night knew that dawn was soon to come. Ander knew this, and in his stronghold beneath The Vernwood, the young man was busy organizing his kit. Steel and cloth and grip and mantle, all would be a life lifeline on this path.
Every trinket of his was at that day’s disposal - for what little he owned. The journey he was to go upon was one of peril, and his enemy was great. He had heard stories of the immortal beasts of the gods, made in the image of the ancient creations. There were the Wyvrons, the mounts of the immortals, both Astari and Aeon. And the Myridals who bored beneath the earth, and the Brimralls, born of ash and flame in the depths of Anosverg, the Mountain Of Fire. But none were feared as deeply as the Inagnivorrs.
They were scaled beasts like the Razorins, but their size surpassed even the mystical horned monsters of the Tunndron. The beasts were born blind and without eyes, living by their nose, and their connection to the strings. All divine beings were born with ties to the ethereal, and the Inagnivorr used its might to blow fire and ice from behind its rows of many teeth. A master of destruction at heart, forged by the malice of the gods to tear their kin to shreds. There was no honor or pride in the creatures, only stalking, death, and meals of sleet and ash.
Their bodies beneath the scales were soft, or so he had read in Lord Scholar’s tomes. Inagnivorrs did not need a body to survive, and whenever they were to part from a limb, it would sprout anew. Their life force resided in a small core, that when breached, would slay the beast, letting it fall as stone to shatter into shards. But that core was behind layers of mass, muscle, scales, and slithering growths, armed with claws like Nyxian daggers, and a gullet of flames and frost. But fear did not know Ander. There were greater foes than an overgrown lizard.
He had packed what little he had into a leather sack. There was, of course, his falchion and punch shield. His coinpurse was accounted for - not that he planned to use it - and so did he prepare previsions of food and drink. A stash of tea leaves and a small iron to boil water would accompany him as well. Staying alert would keep him from death. In all, he had enough to subsist for a night if not two.
When he strung the bag across his back, he turned to look through his window. The ground was coated in a dying layer of snow barely a hair width thick. The days had been cool enough in recent times to keep the snow solid, but in a week, all memories of winter would wane. And in a month, spring would be upon them. Perhaps even sooner. The candle lit on his desk was near death. And with the lick of his fingers, he snubbed it out. There his bedchamber fell quiet and dark, save for the light shone from the moon, painted in a waxing crescent. Wearing a steeled determination, he was out of his cell into the spiraling stone halls of the stronghold.
None were awake to see his departing, all as he had planned. If they were to know the prize he sought, he would be surely held down and forced to hear sane words to dissuade him. Not that there existed any words that held the strength to change his mind. His heart was hardened for what would come. If he could not kill a pawn of the gods, then Aranos was surely out of view. He would not let that be the truth.
When he came upon the front door, he checked about the den for what could have been his last time. All men were sure to die someday, and his final moments mayhaps be creeping close. In a corner blacked by shadow, his eyes caught a phantom in the night. There was a creak and a swift blur but beyond that, nothing more. Silence returned, and the swift shadow was gone.
“The dark does not grant me terrors,” he murmured in the den before hoisting the door open. It was a line his mother had taught him some decade ago. The bulkhead shut softly behind him, and with not two dozen steps, he had Raynar’s lead in his hands. The horses were awake by some odd means, and at the sight of him, they stirred.
“Be still, my friends,” the boy found the stable depot to produce a carrot. Raynar looked it over before swiping it with buck teeth. Ander shoved down a chuckle as he mounted his silver friend.
“Let us be off.”
The pair began into the nightshade of the Vernwood, trimmed in veil and black with garbs and saddle. Raynar’s feet were light as his silver mane and Ander rode him bent low. Every strike of the mount’s hoof was a memory in Ander’s mind. He was not there during the ride. He was in some far-off land, where lands flowed with milk and honey, and all vows were made whole. A place like Sylrel. For as low as they were, the Idrises loved life. And every time Ander glanced at the world around, he felt disgust flow in him.
The world had fallen in every way imaginable. Men met their deaths at the hands of their brothers, and mothers died upon the birth of their daughters. Such a horrific thing to befall such good people. This world was not the Ethereal’s will. And yet, here it was, as clear as all those who cried in it. Perhaps, when his work was done, the world could move past such wickedness. Past the sorrow, and the evil in all men’s hearts. The past was a dangerous thing when dwelt on, but Ander could not resist its cold embrace.
When in thought of those before him, a reminder came into his mind. Soon enough, be it by death or triumph, the clan was soon to join his past as well. He would leave for his great journey, and they would stay here, the same thieves as they had always been. A year and change, from beggar to fighter, and he would leave them as swiftly as he had met them. The thought tugged on what little tears he had left. But Ander Idris was beyond tears now. The wicked of the world had seen to that.
As the two rode further on, the eyes behind the forest walls watched in intrigue, caught with red starlight and armed with hungry teeth. The blond thief dared for one to try and move on him. He yearned for a warmup. But there was no time for such folly. The Brazen of men garrisoned in Vimbaultir - some five hundred strong - were the masters of that day’s hunt. And the royal army was an uncompromising force. They held the will of the Tzaren in their pommels, and so forth, the will of the lords and the kings. Even a private officer was free to be a judge, jury, and executioner. And there was no provocation too small for such soldiers. Equal justice for all acts was a truly frightening thing. And the justice was the loss of a head.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Soon enough, some hour later, the pair of travelers - man and horse - came upon a hill. The sun was now mounted in the eastern sky. There they stopped, and below them in a dell, some sixty tents were pitched. Cloths of black and green were hung from raised posts, slanted for shelter, and bolts bearing the crest of house Greatwood whipped in the morning wind. The sigil of the king’s house, a dormant oak of deep roots and wide branches, written with the words ‘Fear the Old Growth’, was backed by the crest of house Seroxs. The smaller house held an emblem of three spears - the spears of the sea, the spears of the center, and the spears of the south - with a camel ripe with gold. Beneath which read ‘All Bear Gold’. From what Ander could recall, the Seroxs nobles were of the Tzaren of King Faerthor the Sixth. The Tzaren were the councils for the highest mortal lords, who welded kingly power in their master’s stead. The chief amongst those powers was that of the sword and shield. They were the tips of the spears, and in full right, led the kingdoms.
The blonde rider was cross, unsure about taking Raynar into the camp, but by the urging of his mount, he did just that. When the hill he rode bottomed out, so did the layer of snow fully die. The ground was wet with bootprints and runoff, stirring mud a half-foot deep. Soldiers trounced through the sludge, wearing the black and brown of it on their pantaloons and shining mail. Fires were lit all over, with at least one burning for every two tents. To stave off the clay, the gravel had been run across the grounds of the camp, but the mud ate through it nonetheless. The smoke blended into the air, and with the horrid smell of five hundred men, it was a downright awful place.
There was constant yelling in the encampment. The orders of private officers and Lieutenants, and even the booming calls of the camp’s only Flagmaster. The Brazen was pitched a mile or so southeast of Vimbaultir, downstream from the greater of the city. They were not on the shore of the Brux, but rather on the bank of Cohorts Run, a tributary of the twin rivers.
Ander found a spot to dismount. His eyes never left the soldiers around him, who all wore looks of astonishment at such a majestic horse. The common soldier was dressed in nothing more than boiled leather, dyed green and black for house Greatwood and yellow and black for house Seroxs. Some wore plates made in poor forgery of the armor of an Ironvaurd, but only the well-off wore mail. Only they could afford such man-hours of skilled work.
But the soldiers did not try and move on Raynar, and when Ander had undone his belongings from his saddle, the thief addressed his mount. “Now is the time you go back home, Raynar.
“*Huff*”
“I will not take sass,” Ander scowled. “You are to go home, and in two days I will be right back. Perhaps even sooner.”
“*Neigh!*”
“That is enough!” Ander’s voice rose, but his temper never brewed. “You have done me well this morning, my friend. You know the way home, and you will take it.”
Raynar’s long face was stained with a frown, and his eyes were glistening with emotion. But when he saw his master’s resolution, the silver steed bowed its head to rub against Ander’s side. The blonde man patted his mane, and a minute later, Ander watched as the streak of silver passed behind the veil of the dark woods. The sun was still low in the sky, and not all was light.
Ander had not a notion of where the hunt was to take shape. He knew only that it would be hosted in the garrison. And so through the rows of mud, he walked, running against tides of soldiers, and markmen and oathbound and sell mounts, all scrambling for gear and grub before the camp would depart that noon.
“Bring him down!”
A sharp disturbance came about the camp. Through the leagues of men, a cry was sounded, and a group of onlookers were cheering calls of depravity. Ander took notice, and he joined them.
“I tell ya, it wasn’t me!” A thin man with pale skin was being handled by a pair of soldiers. A private lieutenant hovered over him, with the bronze duel-cross and blade of office worn on his shoulder. The mud had consumed half of the restrained man, and he looked sickly to death. “I wasn’t the man who robbed Monrose! I tell ya, honest!”
“Lord Monrose was robbed one year and one month ago,” the lieutenant boomed in a stern voice. “And you have been sent here to answer for your crimes.”
“It wasn’t me, I tell ya. Bolocks to it all!”
The thin man had little fight in him, but he thrashed in the soldiers’ arms all the same. The Lieutenant stood firm and did not react to the motion. When the soldiers managed to pin the man in the mud, Ander watched as the officer drew a saber from his hip. It was thick and wide for a one-handed weapon, and Ander knew just how deadly it would be. Such a piece may have been mighty enough to cleave a tree, a small one to be specific. The officer began to speak.
“As an officer of the Tzaren pledged to the lord of Ironoak and King of Sylvee, his grace Faerthor the sixth, I hold in my hand the laws of man. For committing larceny against a lawful merchant, you are sentenced to lose your hands. But for refusal to admit fault, you are sentenced-”
“-It wasn’t me, I TELL YOU-”
“-To death.”
“IT WASN’T M-”
*Cleave*
The cut was clean, and what little blood the thin man had was swallowed by the culling mud. The onlookers cheered at the show of justice, and the thin man’s corpse was free for looting. His clothes were stripped by the Markmen while the soldiers and oathbound looked on with stoic faces. When he was in the nude, made modest by the embrace of sludge, two soldiers took the body by the legs to drag off. The head was sealed in a burlap sack, likely to decorate some wall walk or bailey on a wooden spike. A message to all would-be rats and parasites, we are the lords, and we are the justice. Pure contempt crossed Ander’s mind. Has a man been ever more right? This is a world for the wicked.
But that thought was second to a much more paramount concern. The name Monrose was all too familiar to Ander, and he was swift to know the truth of the execution. Not only had he witnessed the death of a man, but he had watched the murder of an innocent one. Moreover, Ander was the one who led the life the thin man died for. Perhaps, if he were a more honorable man, Ander could have saved the thin corpse from death. But then he would be subject to such ‘justice’ for the crimes of his kin. Justice was supposed to be a pure and fair thing. How is life a fair payment for blood gold? What is the point of justice if it strikes the wrong neck?
A cruel thought did occur to him. His vow was forged to be made whole, and he favored the beheading of a half-dead husk rather than the death of vengeance. Trading lives was a practice familiar to Ander. His own life had been traded one year and one month ago. But his will forbade him to die. Maybe if the deadman had more will, he would have remained whole.
“Who amongst you are present for the Inagnivorr hunt?” The lieutenant shucked the blood off his blade before holstering it in a leather and wood scabbard trimmed in detailed steel. “I would be forlorn to have private folk disrupting the work of my men. I shall lead you all to attendance. Come!”
All of the hunters took up the heel behind the stern lieutenant, as did Ander. It appeared as though some soldiers had opted to raise arms for the holy beast, as many joined in to follow their pact officer. When the stretched of tents came to an end, the group laid eyes on a larger whole, some ten dozen strong. Maybe even larger. Where the soldiers and oathbound were dressed in like kit, the hunters wore all forms of armor and gear. They looked exactly how one would expect them to be. Mismatched and marred with terrible scowls and hearty eyes.
“Feed into the lot,” the lieutenant ordered, his hands crossed behind his back. The mud had stopped along with the tents, and the ground was a mess of brown grass and crops of stone and snow. A layer of frosted breath hung over the men, born from their mouths to float lazily into the sky to warm. There were lit fires, just like the ones manned by the soldiers. Some men had spits with small game strung over the small flames, and others eyed the food with hunger calling in their bellies.
There was not a noble among them, nor wealthy warrior, nor Ironvaurd or ranger. They were all poor men, here for coin, not honor or vow. Ander had assumed that most men would join only for the hunter’s purse. Thirty-five hundred silver mint was a fortune fit to fill a lesser lord’s coffers. The young Idris would be lying if he claimed to have no eye for the silver. But that is not what he came there for. This was a test, and were he to pass, much more than silver awaited for him.
“Pardon.”
A soldier brushed his side, armed with a leather cap and a padded breastplate made of what seemed to be horse hide. The push was a hard one, but the young warrior was prompt to offer his apology. Yet when the two locked eyes, they found themselves frozen in place. Ander’s mouth became ajar in astonishment as both men eyed their counterparts up and down.
The warrior, a pale boy of strong stature with green eyes and shaped brows, and a mane golden mane that stretched down to his neck, was perfectly identical to Ander. It was astonishing. Their details were so alike that the young Idris failed to believe his eyes. How could such a thing be? The two willed their hands to rub their eyes, and yet the image never faded. Neither spoke as their observations were made, but when a barking order came from a private officer, both were pulled back to reality. They raised their hands in unison to shake out a greeting.
The stranger’s grip was strong and proud.
“It’s like looking into a mirror,” Ander mouthed. The stranger smiled.
“Never had truer words been spoken,” replied the stranger.
“Would it be a both to ask for your name?” Ander released the warrior’s hands. The young man looked no older than eighteen. Such youth in the arts of war was sadly a common sight. Ander himself was only sixteen, bordering seventeen.
“My name is Calvan,” Calvan, the boy with the blonde hair and green eyes spoke. “And yours?”
“Ander. Have you a surname, Calvan?”
“Herros, the name of my father and uncle, and all the men before them. Farmers, we are.”
“And who are you? What name do you wear above your own?”
“...Lone,” Ander lied. It was the name he had worn ever since he was tossed from the Ver Del poorhouse. Only the clan knew of his Idris blood. Any connection to Sylrel was a danger. If others were to know he was from the cursed city, he would be viewed as an omen, and likely would not escape a camp of armed folk and cruel justice.
“An orphan,” Calvan shook his head. His eyes did not meet Ander’s, “you have my sympathies.”
“Keep them. All have their trials, all have their fortunes,” refused Ander. “I am no worse off than any other man.”
“Is that a falchion?” Calvan pointed a gloved finger at his scabbard. His sheath was shaped to his blade, so it was curved on his belt and was clear to all those familiar with shaped steel.
“That it is,” he replied. “What steel do you carry?”
“Nothing special,” Calvan flashed an inch of steel closest to his pommel. By the looks of it, he wielded a thin shortsword, something a ranger would wield. It was a cheap armament and was kept by most soldiers of Sylvee and the northern half more broadly. As was the falchion, and blades just like it.
“A blade’s make is no matter,” whispered the burned blonde. Ander wore no hood upon his head, and the winding black beneath his hair was visible to all eyes. “It is its master who makes it more than steel and grip.”
“Wise words for a young fellow,” Calvan laughed. “Would you walk with me, Ander Lone? I have not a group for this hunt, though I shall tell you, it is far from my first. Four times have we tried to cut down this beast, and four times have we failed.”
“And this be the fifth?” Ander asked. The two began to walk, with Calvan leading the way through the tribe of hunters. The young Idris knew not where they were headed, and placing faith in one so strange was a fool’s choice. Sylas had taught him that. Along with a million other tenets.
“That it will be. And win or lose, I’ll be here to plan for what folly is next,” Calvan turned his chin to look back at Ander. “But there are men who have come before who have no power to say the same. In some hunts, we find nothing but footprints. And in others, there lay only…”
“Corpses?”
“Yes, corpses and blood and cries and deadmen,” spoke Calvan. The two had shot around a group fire, and a minute into the march, the blonde soldier planted his feet in a halt. He turned fully to face Ander. “This is a risky business, my oddly familiar friend.”
“All men were made to die,” Ander said, his voice cold and pointed like the tip of his sword. “The world beyond our own shall have me when it deserves me. And until that day, I will hold steadfast to my vow.”
“And what vow may that be, Ander Lone?”
Ander stirred in thought. A slip of the tongue was all it was. There was no soul, save for the lord scholar, who knew his vow to spike Aranos’ head. He had slipped by the clan for nearly half a year, but now bolster had caught him in the blind. If I have already been so privy to the truth, he thought in what little time he had to respond, then why stop now?
“To live for all those who have been lost,” he said, his voice booming above the coughs and moans of the shivering men, and the crackles of the fires, and the calls of iron-crested officers. “I am to live even when all the world's power wishes me not to.”
At his words, Calvan’s eyes sought out the ground, and his teeth bit hard on his lip. When the soldier’s gaze met Ander’s once more, a thin memory of emotion shined through his eyes. Ander’s reflection was bright in the green irises, but with the blink of his counterpart’s eyes, it was gone.
“It takes a mighty man,” Calvan lifted a hand to rest on Ander’s shoulder, “to keep that vow.”
“And yet, here I stand.”
The soldier smirked, gripping the thief’s shoulder before releasing it entirely. When he spoke, there was a lightness to his voice. Glee, even.
“Then I am in good company.”
“Rise, hunters! All in attendance to taste the flesh of man-murdering beast: rise, and make yourself known!”
The call of an officer mounted on horseback thundered over the waiting men. Every warrior, seated on the thin layer of white found a place on their feet, and there was a right commotion for a moment. But that moment was short, and when silence met the men, the officer trotted into the lot, the mass of men moving to form a part in the sea. The officer, dressed in a white head of hair and a skin of iron scales, was a Greatwood officer by his garbs. Black and green draped his form beneath the hardened metal of his armor, and the Svartari runes engraved on his helm showed well the passions of his smith. When his mount bid to a stop, he called once more.
“My name is lord Therron Redvark of house Redvark. Many of you know me for my office, as I am in command of this Brazen, and its league beyond it as Bannard of lord Jannes Seroxs. Sixty-four hundred men live their lives by my command, and it is by my word that I sanction this hunt.”
“For those of you who not of the Inagnivorr - do not fear. Your ignorance will soon be resolved, and you will know terror incarnate. This beast is of the blood used on the fields where gods brawl, and by some stroke of The Wicked One, we mortals find ourselves having to deal with such beasts. But I am an aged man, and foolishness is a trait of the youth and dumb. I would not be standing before you if I were either,” Lord Redvark said from his black horse. “I would not waste the lives at my command on impossible stars, someday, this beast will die. As will some of you. Look to your left. Now look to your right. All of you will march into the Vernwood. Only some of you will return.”
A worried hush broke out among the men. The lord officer silenced it with a raised fist. “But you are men, and you fear not death, for it only takes the weak. Many of you have families. I would wish for you to imagine all the families who lie dead at the hands of this beast. Villages have been turned to ash, and towns frozen in sudden blizzards. The make of man is simple. You are to live and fight so that your wives, daughters, and young sons must not. And come time, you will die so that they may live.”
“So when you march beneath that canopy - be it in company or solo - your every step will be pushed by the hearts of those behind you. Silver is one thing, power is another, yet no prize is as sweat or as rich as the prize of life. When that beast is dead, and its core is shattered, you will have that prize. In this world, or the one beyond!”
The horde of men cried with their arms raised, iron blades and wooden shields alike. Hollars deafened the ears, and the rumbling of feet shook the ground. Lord Redvark had to reel back his horse to be safe from the sudden flurry, but no danger would come upon their lord. The heat of the field came not from the fires, but from the forges of the men’s hearts. And when Ander looked to his right, he saw his mirror image more than ever.
Calvan donned a hardened look. His eyes were lit with cold flame, and the frost that bellowed from his nose ran fast into the air. The blonde hair upon his brow was wrinkled, and the sides of his lips were torn in what could only be called a snare. But when he caught Ander’s stare, his visage lightened.
He rapped a hand into Ander’s shoulder. “I often go about these solo,” he said, nodding as he spoke. “Care to make us a company? I’ve known you for no longer than, what’s it been, ten minutes? But I see in you a trustworthy ally. Ander Lone, the man who fears not death.”
“Only a fool does not fear death,” Ander said in a low tone, “I respect it, all the same as I may respect the mirror I talk to now.”
“Strong words, but I am no mirror,” Calvan laughed, “You wish you looked as good as me.”
“We’ll see how good you look after the hunt,” the young Idris knocked his shoulder into his friend’s chest as he walked by. The horde of men had grown beyond rabid, and groups were now darting off beneath the veil of the Vernwood. They called with weapons raised, and the sun was now high enough to see them all.
“Is that a threat?”
“...Yes…” Ander contained his laughter as he stopped to look over his shoulder. Calvan shook his blonde mane, and with hurried steps, the two youths made their way into the wall of oak and forest. Whistles blared in the camp, signaling to all those not in attendance that the men were off. The hunt was afoot-
-And the way was clear.