In the long field, the herd spread itself out across the slope, grazing peacefully on the thick yellow-green grass. The inclined strip of land was one of Jaxton’s favorite pastures for the sheep to forage on. It was bordered on one side by the babbling Segar River. The waterway was wide as it ran past the field. The current there was fast enough the ewes did not try to cross the water but it was rarely strong enough to drag one of the wooly dames off their feet. On the other side of the field was the tangled, dark forest known as the Briarwode. Thick undergrowth and thorns deterred the flock from wandering among the trees. To block travel downstream Jax had encouraged a massive pricker patch to grow from the treeline to the river’s edge. In the summer, the thorn-wall proffered pails of berries for snacking or to bring back to High Henge for pies. In the spring it could be raided, if one was very careful, for eggs.
At the crest of the hill, the shepherd leaned against one of the sun-warmed boulders that broke out of the turf. Physically the young man seemed to be a study of the ordinary. He was neither tall nor short. He was not stocky or slight. He had the brown hair and brown eyes common to most Eastlanders and fell squarely between homely and handsome. He had wormed his bare feet into the cool sod enjoying the feel of the rich earth. Summer was passing, but thankfully there were still months before Jaxton would be forced back into boots again. From his belt, a pair of leather sandals were hung in case he had to venture into the Briarwode. The footgear had a thick covering on the toes to protect him from the wicked thorns growing among the trees. His brown pants were made from heavy wool with leather patches shielding his shins and knees for the same reason. The grazing ladies did not usually give Jax trouble but, if one did decide to be adventurous, it was better to be prepared than bramble-mauled.
From his perch at the top of the incline, the shepherd could easily see the whole field. Jax had settled into a comfortable pose, letting the rock take his weight but he was still upright enough that he could react quickly should anything untoward happen to his fleecy charges below. His gaze every now and then left the sheep and wandered back to the hooked stave in his hands. It was far too short to really be called a shepherd’s crook, being a bit over three feet long. It was more of a cane or shillelagh but ever since he found it months ago it had become his favorite possession. Even when he was not watching the herds, the crook was invariably in his hand or hanging from his belt. It fit his grip perfectly. It was hefty enough he did not have to worry about it breaking yet not so weighty as to be cumbersome. Just having it in his grasp made Jaxton feel more confident and aware. When he held the smooth wood, the shepherd had the impression he was somehow more connected to the world around him. He could practically feel the lazy contentment of the ewes as well as the proud vigilance of the ram. The ghost of a breeze spoke volumes as it ruffled the grass in undulating patterns. The heavy sigh of his best friend felt like the rumble of a storm gathering on the horizon.
“This is boooooring, Jax.” Ned had draped himself over an adjacent boulder. In opposition to Jaxton’s plainness, the younger Ned was stunning. Ned had jet-black hair and fair skin. His eyes were so dark it was hard to tell where his pupils ended and the irises began. His features were sharp and striking giving him a dashing appearance. The wiry sixteen year old’s most distinctive aspect was how he moved. Ned seemed to skate through the world with an innate grace that was impossible to ignore. The young man perpetually gave off the impression of a spring, ready to launch into motion at any second. Even now, laying on his back across the stone, he was spinning a spatha in each of his hands. The blocky-hilted swords had three feet long blades and yet the teen looped them through the air without any apparent strain. When the old imperial barracks were emptied out last year, the villagers of High Henge were free to claim whatever remaining weaponry they wanted. Most people chose a simple infantry gladius since the blades were short, sturdy, and easy to wield. When Ned went looking for swords all he found left were the longer, heavier spathas. Ned had wanted a pair of the short swords, thinking to wield both at once. Lacking even one gladius did not discourage him. Instead, he took two spathas and began practicing with a long blade in each hand. Anyone else would have cut themselves to ribbons but, even from day one, Ned somehow made it look easy. With an unconscious agility, the young man sprawled across the rock, weaving one blade after the other through intricate patterns in the air above himself. It was beautiful to watch but Jax could tell by the ever increasing pace that Ned was rapidly reaching his “sit-still” threshold.
“I told you it was going to be boring, Ned. I’m watching sheep, for goodness sake. What did you expect? A hoard of rustlers to appear out of the Wode?”
“That would be amazing.”
“Only you would think that. You should have stayed in town and found someone there to amuse yourself with.”
“Like who?’ Ned huffed. “Everyone there is either a kid, old or is trying to settle down and get married … or is one of Brek’s cutting crew.”
“And Sheriff Harwick warned you that the next time you tussled with one of the loggers he’d toss you in the cell, right?”
“It’s not my fault,” Ned bleated. “Those guys are bullies. What am I supposed to do when they are bothering folks, pushing people around? Besides, there were three of them. All of them twice my size. The sheriff should have made me a deputy, not bawled me out in front of everyone.”
“Then you need to win in a far less spectacular manner, Ned. The loggers have a tough job and you made them look like idiots … especially since it was three to one. Also, keep in mind, they may have been the ones hassling people in the inn, but you are the one who did all the property damage. Bottles of thirty year old spirits should not be used as impromptu weapons. Especially since you have no way to pay for them.”
“I would have if I had the deputy job”, the young man muttered almost under his breath.
Jax chuckled and opened his mouth to predict the likelihood of flying pigs. His retort faltered when he saw the sheep on the right side of the field dashed away from the wooded boundary and gathered behind the big ram. Rookeon lowered his huge curled horns and braced himself to charge whatever emerged from the trees. In an instant, the shepherd was on his feet, moving down the hill, only to have Ned fly past him as if he was standing still. “Ned! Wait!” Even as he shouted them, Jax knew that those were the most useless combination of words ever spoken. He watched the younger man race down the slope at a speed that he had no hope of matching. Worse yet he was heading straight toward the stamping ram. Rookeon did not like any human, with the exception of Jaxton. Jax had a way with animals, which was why High Hedge put him in charge of the flocks. The big ram had come to tolerate Ned, after many afternoons working with Jax, but those were calm afternoons, taking things slowly. The shepherd was pretty sure Rookeon would not be so lenient when his dander was up and a sword-flailing maniac charged right up to him. There was a good chance the ram would crush Ned or Ned would have to fight him off … and then, with blood in the air, whatever was in the Briarwode was going to go into a frenzy. Jax groaned in frustration. If only Ned would stop trying to be a hero for just one minute and think things through. Jaxton pushed himself to cross the distance as quickly as possible but he knew he would never get to Ned and the herd in time.
Sure enough, as soon as Ned came alongside the ram, Rookeon swung his armored head at the sprinting daredevil. The tip of either of those horns could easily punch through a man. Jax winced in dreaded anticipation but Ned dipped into a tumbling roll and flowed below the curling spike. He rose beyond Rookeon, still bearing the two long naked blades, and planted himself between the woods and the herd. The swordsman also completely ignored the hundred and fifty pounds of hooved rage that charged at his back. In that moment, a pack of wolf-like creatures emerged from the trees, diverting the ram from running over the teenager. They were stockier than the wolves that typically frequented these forests, with broader muzzles and a strange violet tint to their coats. Rookeon swerved just enough to plow into two of the beasts instead of Ned. The nimble swordsman swung and stabbed at two others. The remaining half dozen beasts fanned out, stalking towards the ewes. The flock was torn between fleeing and staying within the protection of Rookeon. One of the hunters lay broken at the ram’s feet but the other kept the herd’s protector occupied, harrying the buck so closely it could not get enough room to charge. Ned had been more successful. Both of his wolfish foes were down, one was unmoving and the other seemed unable to pull itself back to its feet. The swordsman was already moving to intercept the trio of beasts on the far side of the herd, instinctively leaving those closest to the hill for the slower Jax to deal with.
The shepherd bellowed as he swung the short heavy crook towards the nearest brute. The swipe was still too far away from reaching one of the targets, but the shaft hummed loudly through the air. Surprisingly loudly. It was not the swish of a swung branch. The crook loosed a deep sonorous note that seemed to grow instead of diminish as it moved through the air. As the sound rolled across the battle, all the animals, both sheep, and predator, stopped, turned, and stared at Jax. Hackles rose up along the lupine spines. The only movement came from the cur that danced away from Ned, but even that hunter had his attention more on the stunned shepherd than on its bladed assailant. The largest of the pack snapped out a sharp bark and the creatures began to back off, their eyes locked on the baffled Jaxton.
Ned watched them retreat, grinning with smug zeal. After the beasts vanished back into the trees, he shrugged. “Neat trick, Jax. How did you do it?”
Jaxton waved the crook back and forth but the thrumming tone did not repeat itself. Feeling a bit foolish at the pale whiffing sounds the cane was making, Jax stopped. “I have no idea. I must have had the crook at just the right angle for it to have made that sound. Lucky thing too. That was on the verge of becoming very unpleasant.”
“What are you talking about? Heroes don’t get killed by a pack of wild dogs. I took out two of them and Rook got another one … or at least I thought he did … I only see two corpses.”
“Those were not dogs. They aren’t wolves either. I’ve never seen creatures like them. I wonder where they came from.” Jax mused as he moved up to the two still creatures his friend had killed.
“You know what they remind me of? They are just like the wargs Atmos the bard described to us in that tale last winter. You know the one where the dryad fled the Faelands and fell in love with the woodsman.”
“Those are stories, Ned. These are real.” As he approached the carcasses, the hairs on his arms rose. There was something very wrong with these beasts. Jaxton’s skill with animals was a widely accepted fact in High Henge. Whenever an animal was in need, the villagers inevitably sought out Jax’s help. He trained all the horses and dogs, treated the ill creatures, watched over the stock and had an uncanny ability to find lost strays. Even though he just passed his twentieth birthday a few weeks ago, Jax had an unusually high standing in the community. When it came to the farm animals of High Henge, his word was given more credence than even the Mayor’s. If Jax told people to bring their livestock in on a mild, clear evening, they all would shelter their animals and not bat an eye. When the night held storms, ice or the howls of predators, none were surprised. During harvests when everyone mustered to bring in the crops, Jaxton’s absence was accepted without question. All knew he would be working just as hard to tend the flocks and stock for everyone while they cleared the fields. When it was time for lambing, foaling or shearing, whomever could spare a day would show up at his home, usually with a meal for the overworked herder, and wait to see what help he needed. Even Brek’s cocky crew of loggers never hassled Jax. Without draft horses, they would have to muscle the timbers to the river on their own backs.
Stolen story; please report.
When Jaxton felt that there was something wrong with an animal, it was not an idle fancy. The creatures seemed to be rotting even though they had only died moments ago. The wounds from Ned’s blades had peeled back revealing oozing blackened skin and muscle. The eyes and mouths looked as they should for a creature that had just perished but the cuts looked as if they belonged on a body weeks dead. Even as Jax watched he could see the accelerated pace of the rot spreading from the sword cuts. Adding to the strangeness was the lack of smell. The carcass was visibly deteriorating and yet there was no smell of putrefaction. He looked for the predator that Rookeon killed but it was gone. He could clearly picture the wolves, or whatever they were, backing away. None of them had been dragging a body but Jax had seen the ram-slain corpse. The Rook had crushed the creature’s skull. It clearly had been dead. Jaxton looked again and found neither blood nor body.
“Something very unnatural is going on here, Ned.”
“Wargs are unnatural.”
“Yes they are, Ned but that is a pretty tough bite to swallow. I can wrap my head around people seeing the wee folk again, but fairie predators as big as these would be pretty hard to miss. We would have heard if legendary monsters were somehow back in the world.”
“Not if no one ever survived the attacks.”
“Wait a minute. You just said we couldn’t lose but now you are suggesting that no-one else has ever survived these things. Are you saying the two of us were about to defeat an unbeatable warg pack?”
“Of course. We’re heroes.”
“You have got to stop lumping me into your heroic delusions, Ned,” Jaxton exclaimed.
“I’m serious Jax. There is nobody better in High Henge with a sword than I am. And you are .. well ... you. You are the guy everyone in High Henge looks for whenever there is a problem that needs to be fixed. If we aren’t heroes, then who else would be?”
‘Besides Vander, of course.”
“Well, yeah. He doesn’t count. Everyone knows he is a hero. Still, he’s old now, so we have to step up for him.”
“Sure. pal. We can have this conversation, again, on the way back to town. Grazing is getting cut short today. Help me round the herd up. We’re going to load the remains of the wolves into my rain tarp and bring them back with us. Maybe Deirdre can tell us what type of wolf they are.”
“Just wait and see, Jax. When the town gets a look at these brutes and hears how we drove off that pack, they’ll tell you I’m right. We are heroes, for sure.”
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Ned and Jaxton split up at the tall North Gate. The gates were left over from the days when High Henge was an Imperial outpost. In those elder days, tall living walls of enchanted hedges and thorn had surrounded the community. When the Two Empires fell and magic was taken from the world, the spells woven into the hedgewall unraveled. Many years later, during the long years of drought, the green barricade finally died. The town built a log stockade but the timbers only reached about three quarters of the way up the towering gates, making the perimeter seem oddly mismatched. Ned took the tarp while Jax led the herd to the east corral near where his and Deirdre’s home stood.
High Henge was an odd mix of solid old stone imperial structures mixed with newer wooden homes and shops. Jax’s house was a comfortable two-story log cabin. The town had helped him build it when Jaxton’s husbandry talents were revealed. His next door neighbor was the village wise woman. No one still living could remember a time before Deirdre was the herbwife and lorekeeper of High Henge. The short elder woman was the only one in High Henge who could still read the old empire script. She also knew more cures and herblore than all the women of High Hedge combined. Though she always kept her hair tightly braided in elaborate coils, most folks believed that if she were to let her coiffure loose, her great white mane would reach the ground and trail many feet behind her. Jaxton knocked politely at her door, hoping she was not too busy to look at the odd predators Ned had slain.
“Hello, who is it?” asked a small voice from inside. A pixie of a girl peeked around the doorway and looked up at Jax with clover-shaded eyes. Saoirse, Deirdre’s young apprentice, gave her neighbor a beaming smile. The child was one of the few people Jax ever truly felt comfortable with. Unlike most of the people of High Henge, Saoirse did not treat Jax as anything special. She did live with the wise woman after all. The shepherd had gifts but there was no one who was more worthy of veneration than Deirdre. Jax was welcome in any home in High Henge but only with Ned and Saoirse did he feel like he could be himself. “Morning Jax. Why are you back so soon? You said you were taking the sheep over to Long Field. What happened? Did Ned …”
“Ned saved my hide, Sia. Something like wolves tried to attack the sheep but they weren’t wolves. I was hoping Deirdre could tell me what they are.”
“I have time,” the elder woman replied, stepping up behind the young girl. Jax couldn’t help but smile when he noticed how much the ten year old girl had grown recently. Deirdre’s tiny stature now stood only a few inches taller than the red-headed braids on her apprentice. “Give me your arm, young man and we will go and see these beasts of yours.”
As the trio reached the town square, Jax could clearly hear Ned’s indignant declarations. “No really! They were huge. Bigger than any wolf you’ve ever seen.” Jax knew the bodies had continued to fester on the trip back but he had hoped they would not be too far gone for Deirdre to recognize what they were. It sounded like that might not be the case. “See there is Jax. Jax, tell them! They don’t believe me.”
“And just how are we supposed to believe your latest tall tale, Nedwin Ward?” chided Mayor Barbarrow. “It is obvious these rotten husks have been dead for weeks. We have better things to do than get wrapped up in another one of your bouts of tomfoolery, boy.” Dorian Barbarrow was, as usual, dressed in a long dapper coat. This one was dark gray. He also had on a burgundy vest with the gold chain bearing the seal of his office looped through the frogs. No one in High Henge dressed sharper than the Mayor. Everyone knew his spectacular wardrobe was designed to impress, a vain hope to overshadow his very short stature which put him only half a head taller than the little wise woman. The logging chief, Brek, often grumbled about how the two highest ranking members of the community did not even add up to one of his loggers. Ironically Dorian’s overcompensating wardrobe was unnecessary. Mayor Barbarrow was a skillful mediator and dedicated leader. The majority of High Henge barely noticed his height, being grateful instead for a magister who ruled with foresight and fairness.
“Actually Mayor, Ned is not exaggerating,” Jaxton interjected. “They were wolf-like a few hours ago. I’ve never seen anything molder so quickly before. That is why I asked Deirdre to look at the bodies.”
As he reached Ned’s side, he saw the remains were as he feared. The bodies were completely unrecognizable any longer. The black oozy cadavers could have once been just about any big four-legged creatures. The wise woman crouched over the withered forms and began muttering her observations to no one in particular. Jax smiled when she whispered the same thought that had struck him “No smell of rot …”. She reached up into her coff and pulled out four long pins. Each six inch stick was made from a different type of wood and pointed with a different metal and tipped with a different stone. It seemed that the lorekeeper was most interested in the metals. She scratched one of the hides first with the black iron pin. The reaction was immediate. The mark split and began to fester even more quickly than Ned’s sword cuts. The gold and copper pins elicited no discernable reaction. The silver tipped stalk had an even more severe response than the iron pin. The black tissue touched by the pure silver dissolved instantly into dust and smoke. The reaction spread quickly through the carcass. In seconds the body completely unraveled and vanished into a gritty cloud that was carried off by the mild breeze. The courtyard was silent and still for an astonished moment. It was such an utterly unnatural occurrence that no one knew how to react.
Dorian was the first to respond. “Clearly that was no natural creature. I cannot believe I am asking this but was it some sort of demon … or a creature from the Faeland?”
“If demons do still exist then I doubt they are so easily destroyed. This was no demon. It burned at the touch of cold iron and was freed by moonsilver. It was a being from Faerie. Never in my life did I think the beasts of the Gossamer Lands would cross so freely into our own. We live in interesting days, Mayor Barbarrow.”
As the villagers all began to speak at once, Ned remarked, “And you didn’t believe me. I told ...”
“Drop it Ned,” whispered Jax. “It’s not worth rubbing the Mayor’s nose in it and getting on his bad side again. Just take the win silently and maybe he will forget about last month’s disaster at the grainery.”
“That wasn’t my ….” the swordsmen began before a glare from Jaxton dried up his protest. “Fine.”
The hubbub went on for quite some time. Soon virtually the entirety of the village had gathered in the square. Deirdre repeated the effect of her moonsilver pin on the remaining corpse for those who had not witnessed it. The discorporation still amazed even those who had already seen it once. The people of High Hedge had not seen anything so spectacularly magical for generations. There were a couple of old items that had lingering enchantments from the days of old, like Gemery’s plow that could split rocks and never needed to be sharpened or Vander’s sword that would jump into your hand if you called it. The rune-carved gates were centuries old and yet remained completely devoid of rot and wear. People knew a few hedge cures and every now and then someone was born with a bit of a knack or gift, like how Jax was with animals. Real magic had been absent from Alban for hundreds of years, ever since the faeries left and the Empires of the Man and Elves were broken.
The gathering moved to the Village Hall and lasted into the dark hours of the night. Everyone wanted to know what this event meant. Would trolls and other such monsters from legend come wandering out of the woods? Would the spirits of the land wake back up? People had been saying they had seen signs of Little Folk again; dishes washed or broken when the whole house was asleep, tiny footprints of ashes leading out of hearths, whispers when no one was in sight. Accepting that brownies and phooka was one thing but massive fay wolves changed what everyone thought they knew about the world. There were facts and there were legends. Having something as tangible as the wargs cross those lines blurred that line into confusion.
For weeks afterward, the fight on Long Field shaded every conversation the people of High Henge had. If these legends of the Fae were true, what other tales were not just fictions of the past? Were demons real too? Did dragons really once roam the skies? Could they do so again? Were there really such a thing as Gods? Would the Elves come back? Would Magic return to the world? Would the great Empires return and reconnect the broken world? For years the world of Alban had teetered on the brink of extinction. The folks of High Henge had stayed strong and toughed it out. Now folks were filled with both dread and hope. The powers the bards spoke of in the legends were beyond the whatever grit and resourcefulness the High Hengers possessed. Would order and wonder reach this lost corner of the land first or would it be some unstoppable titan of old?
Either way, most folks agreed, the simple hard life of High Henge was about to change, though no-one knew if it was for better or worse.