“Open the gates! Open the gates, in the name of knez!”

The old innkeeper shudder, as if he heard thunder. It was a troublesome evening for him. Canny Bear drinking house was always a place popular with warriors. The reason was the man himself, who used to be a militiaman before he got his knee hurt. Using the fortune that he acquired in battle, he bought a house and turned it into an inn. His comrades in arms often came to tell of their exploits. There were no comrades today.

Ostrovyani began arriving at the dusk. They came and came, until the main hall was filled with crewmen. There were some militia in the beginning, but as the night moved closer, they left, feeling the crowd to be alien. Islanders, on the other hand, enjoyed themselves. They drank, laughed, sung songs, discussed something loudly. They were shouting and waving hands at the innkeeper brazenly, when they made their orders. They threw payment in golden coins, so that it rung and rolled on the table. They were joking with the owner and not everything they said could be swallowed easily.

They were acting as if they were at home. They were acting as masters. Innkeeper’s composure was falling to pieces as a decrepit timber. He was beginning to jump at every noise, snap at every jest. It was no surprise that when the shouting outside came, he started to shake nervously, as if some fever struck him.

“Open the damn gates!” voice from the street demanded, “Open it, already!” agreed the crowd inside.

A man came through the doors, a rich ostrovyani warrior, judging by his clothes.

“Open the gates,” said he to the innkeeper, “Boys got tired of your sweet, slow flowing spirit. We brought something better.”

Mumbling curses quietly, the owner of the drinking house limped forth and opened the gates to the street. They were placed beside the regular entrance in case something massive was to be brought in or out. Something massive was there indeed, at the beginning of the wooden ramp that led to the gates. The wealthy warrior hurried to help other men who were awaiting him outside and together they rolled in an immense barrel.

With some effort they raised it in the middle of the hall. It was too tall to reach its top from the floor, so they moved one of the tables closer. The rich warrior climbed it with a wooden ladle in hands. He opened the barrel and started pouring the beverage into mugs of crewmen, who crowded around the table. It was a strong wine of deep red color.

“All hail Ahyq, the boozebringer!” yelled someone from the crowd, raising his mug. Warriors apparently liked the saying and proceeded to chant it. The wealthy warrior gave a courtly bow to the public and then saluted with his mug.

“Now tell us, how comes that you are in the city,” asked someone, “Sumiaton never stayed a full day here, since the war started. He is always somewhere in the forest, bringing wrath upon heads of land dwellers. But here you are, his most trusty supporter.”

“He is quite busy, that’s true,” told Ahyq, “He is not present today and I bet he would like to tell you of his, ours exploits. Fortunately, I got myself few days of a leave, so I can narrate instead.”

“You’ve got a leave to see your forester girl, you are not fooling anyone,” laughed someone.

“Do not speak nonsense, would I leave battlefield for a woman? I, Ahyq, the dealer of death!

Anyway, here is one story for you.

This moon the Venator’s mission was to slow advancing forces of Ovrajin. They were numerous and I wondered, how did he plan to hinder them with barely more than a crew. He led us by the road to Ovrajin and that was when his decisions became weird. He did not intend to face the enemy directly. We turned and left the road, entering the forest. It was looking like Sumiaton planned an ambush. He did not stop though and we walked quite deep into the green, as far as an arrow flight and even further.

This was when warriors started asking questions. You see, when you fight alongside the monster hunter for a long time, you get used to his unconventional methods. His ideas soar high, he never ceases to surprise a simple warrior like me. But it was still weird. We submerged into the woods where at every step you was watched by spirits. Whatever his idea was, it invoked a lot of risk.

Finally, he ordered a halt. There we waited for an explanation. Instead of talking, Sumiaton examined the trees around. Some he passed by, shaking his head, but some he marked. He drew lines in the soil with his sword, which pointed away from the trunk. Three dozens of trees were branded this way.

His instructions were even weirder. Using ropes, we bent one of the trees in the carved direction. When it touched the ground, we secured it in place with more ropes and wooden wedges. He told us to do it to all trees that he marked, and then we would see the result. And so we did.

There was no result though. We bent all trees in appointed directions, but instead he gave more orders. He told us how to bend and weave together branches around the tops of lying trees. When it was done, weaved branches resembled a pocket or a sack. He told us to do it to every tree and then we would see the result. And so we did.

There was no result still. When all the branches were weaved, he told us to cut down two iron trees which stood nearby. When they fell, he marked the trunks and told us to saw them by the marks. And so trunks were divided equally. Then we were told to put the produced pieces into branch pockets. And then we waited.

The day passed, then the night, and on the next day the sentry reported that the enemy was coming. It was then that Sumiaton commanded a man to come to each tree and cut ropes simultaneously. All the three dozen creaked and straightened at the same time, not being held by anything. Pockets of branches were swung up and pieces of heavy wood inside them were hurled far away.

Sumiaton then led us to the road and when we stepped upon it, we saw the result. Bodies of men and bakhmats lied everywhere, crashed by the wooden hail. Pieces of iron wood that we launched came with such force, that they dug deep into the soil. Enemy ranks were in disarray, shocked and thinned by unexpected attack from above. We charged those who still stood immediately and delivered a great punishment upon them. I’ve met an immense warrior there, whose helmet was adorned with a skull of a wild boar. He should have been a famous one.”

“I’ve heard about him. Yaroglyad, champion of Ovrajin. It is said that he got the skull by killing the beast with his bare hands,” said Hasdruhy.

“Anyway, he died there and then by my blade,” continued Ahyq.

“So you simply threw timber at them and then gutted survivors. What a deed! I’d rather hear what Azandahy has to tell,” shouted someone from the crowd.

“There is not much to talk about in my latest battle,” said pigeon face who was sitting in the corner.

“Common, I’ve heard that you slaughtered thirty five foes by yourself,” a drunk voice came from the crowd.

“It was twenty,” Azandahy smiled coldly.

“It was twenty nine, I was there and counted corpses that bore marks of your famous spiked mace,” laughed a crewman beside him.

“It was twenty eight. Twenty ninths one was only finished by me, someone already slashed him before. Anyway, “ his mood seemed to become a bit warmer, “If you want to hear a story that much, I’ll tell you something. It is not the glorious tale of battle, like the previous one. Yet it is memorable to me.

I was leading a mixed party to ambush forces of Velmytop. There were some crewmen with me, but mostly it consisted of militia. We were moving through the forest proper, avoiding roads. It was a necessary measure, for my plan required us to arrive unseen. It made my men quite nervous, especially locals. They did not disobey, no. But they were ever anxious, jumping at every sound, advancing slowly.

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One day when we were about to leave our camp and move on, I noticed that six land crawlers were missing. I asked everyone of their whereabouts. No one answered me. I asked again, still in vain. Then I told that we would leave regardless, with or without them. Finally one of militiamen approached me and promised to show me where missing ones were.

He led me some distance away from the camp and there, in the bushes, we found all six warriors. They were sitting, all holding their hands in their mouths. I asked them to explain themselves. No one answered. Some turned their gazes away ashamedly, some did ignore me totally. I approached one of them and ordered him to take his hand out and tell me what was happening. He shook his head, disagreeing. I told him that I have every right to cut him right there for disobeying orders.

Slowly, he put his hand down. He sat there silently for some time and then began choking. The man who guided me yelled something about the tongue. I took a guess and forced open his mouth. He swallowed his own tongue, indeed. I grabbed it and dragged it back to its proper place. The man thrashed at me in shock but I would not let him go. I held him for quite some time and when I felt that he was through, released him.

The man now could talk. He thanked me and finally explained that those six friends tasted the syrup which is produced by boiling leafs of a certain plant. They probably consumed too much of it and faced the deadly haze that engulfed their minds and bodies.

That was when I decided that those men had no place in my party. You dared to compromise plans of great knez with your debauchery, I told them. Now their survival was to be compromised by it. I told them that they are dismissed and are to reach back to Khladnetz on their own. And then we left them. I saw disapproval in eyes of other militia, yet no one dared to object.”

“Did they reach the city?” asked a man from the crowd.

“No, and nothing was heard of them since then.”

Silence fell over the hall.

“Anyway,” continued Azandahy, trying to switch the subject, after he saw the reaction, “I’d like you to hear the tale of Abimnupal. His is truly the epic story, unlike those you heard this far.”

“Give me a moment,” grinned Abimnupal and emptied his mug in one gulp, “It is a weird one.

I was leading my squad to perform an attack in the dead of night. We sneaked to the enemy camp just well and were about to commence slaughter, when I noticed a strange thing. It was completely silent and scarcely lit. Bonfires were mostly extinguished, out of fuel. Every single enemy soldier slept, even those on watch. I would have been happy to meet the lack of discipline among foes, yet the situation was suspicious. We walked into the camp freely, no one being awake to stop us. That was when the thing attacked.

It wounded two men and killed three more before we could even see what was our enemy. It came for me not before long and I saw glimpses of its image. Greyish hunched human-like figure, it possessed three pairs of legs: two regular limbs, two were growing out of its belly, and to more out of its lower back. It did not as much walk or run, as it rolled around, switching the pairs of legs on which it stood. Its hands below elbows were covered in multicolored fur. Men whose skin was touched by those hairs fell down and convulsed. It did not have head. Upon its shoulders was a stump out of which grew several tentacles and two jagged bony spurs, resembling antlers. When the tentacles touched something, these antlers snapped together, like shears, cutting off limbs and heads.

It came so fast that I barely managed to keep it away with my axe. It was gone just as quickly. It did not run through our ranks, no, it appeared here, took a life, and disappeared, only to show up again in the other place. Although I wounded it slightly, I was not successful at catching the thing again, its chaotic movement kept me on defensive. We were losing men, one after another. Soon it became apparent that I would be left alone and then the freak would make a short work of me.

A chance helped us. One of crewmen struck a sleeping sentry when the monster dodged his blow. The man woke only to understand that his chest was carved open and die immediately. The moment sleep left him, the thing which tried to attack me at the same time staggered for a heartbeat. It was enough for me to make a wide swing, severing its left arm clean off. It ran off to the shadows again.

I looked around and saw what happened to the sleeping sentry. An idea came to my mind that moment. Wake up the enemies, or kill them, I don’t care which, yelled I. And my men did as it was commanded. The beast panicked, it tried to protect sleepers, yet I was ever after it. Warriors cut and stabbed foes in sleep and with each one who was gone, the monster was becoming weaker.

I dealt few more wounds to it and then tricked it into catching my axe with its antler-jaws. When it locked upon the weapon, hoping to get my arm, I dragged it towards me and gutted it with my dagger. It let go of the blade, but, too late. It bled and barely moved, so I kicked it down and finished it with the axe.

When it died we saw enemy soldiers waking up all around, but there was only a handful of them left and we slaughtered sleepy survivors as well. This way the forest spirit helped us to destroy the formation which outnumbered us five to one.”

Crewmen cheered and took a round. Some chanted Abimnupal’s name.

“Now why would not Ymdaton tell us a story?” someone proposed.

Crewslayer felt as if he just woke upon hearing his name. He was sitting there in the inn for the whole evening, yet everything felt so distant. He saw crewmen drinking and celebrating, telling stories and jokes, without really thinking of it. He looked at them as one can look at the sea, observing the waves, listening to its noise, submerged in his own thoughts. Abimnupal dragged him to the drinking house almost by force. His friend told he needed some unwinding. If anything, the place full of loudmouthed warriors only plunged him deeper into brooding. And now they wanted him to talk.

“You all know pretty well that I was banned from action for the whole war,” mumbled he.

“Yes, it is so, but you saw some splendid things in the very beginning of it. You came face to face with the city protector, they say,” addressed him Hasdruhy, “What it was like?”

Ymdaton did not say a word, yet the crowd insisted, pressing him with encouraging shouts. He stood up suddenly.

“I’ll tell what it was like,” spat he angrily, “I looked it in the eyes. I saw something I can not defeat, you can not defeat, we together can not defeat. Something that is so far above and beyond a man, that if it choose to fight us personally, we would be done for. Be thankful that it is not interested enough.”

Everyone was silent.

“Do I hear fear in your voice?” asked a drunken crewman from the other side of the hall, “I do not believe that the man that I heard so many stories about is a coward.”

Crewslayer inhaled violently. He prepared a most vicious retort, yet stopped before his first word could come. His eyes suddenly glimmered with assurance, for the first time in several moons. Instead of an answer he made a slow peaceful exhale.

“Perhaps, I am a coward,” spoke he calmly after a moment, “But you know, who is more of a coward than me? The one who fears to accept his limits.”

After saying this, Ymdaton walked out of the inn with sure determined gait, leaving the crowd to ponder upon his words.