Snow was falling on the nine outlaws. Likely the last snowfall of the season before the spring rains. Garth the Great Bow and his band wrapped their cloaks tight about themselves and marched through the hidden ways through hill and dale, seen by no one.

Garth, a Ranger who had held on to his people’s traditions, knew how to read the old signs. A curious mark cut into a tree. Stones arranged in an odd pattern. Secret codes once used by all Rangers to mark places of safety or danger. Garth knew them all, trodding the quiet paths and taking refuge in ancient caves, unseen by Thane and Paladin.

It was only fitting, Garth thought, to use the secret places in such a way. His people had left those signs for times of need. And though his kinsmen might not realise, the darkest hour for the Rangers was at hand. Garth had taken it upon himself to war against his people’s oppressors. To wreak his vengeance, and slip away into the wilderness, guided by the signs of his ancestors. Such was how Garth had fought this war. Fought it for seven years.

And he was tired of it.

The sun was setting when the band reached the hidden cave, grateful to finally unburden themselves of their loot. It had been an spectacularly good haul. Though the Rowan estate had proved less wealthy than the family would have boasted, the appearance of the Paladins had been like a blessing. Once the outlaws had killed the men guarding the longboat, they had found a small treasure trove in silverware and gold ornaments stashed onboard. Where the Paladins had taken it from remained a mystery, but that mattered little to the outlaws.

Safe within their hidden cave, the band lit a fire and divided the loot. It went without saying that the strange sword, the most magnificent prize, went to Garth. Warmed by the fire and their small fortune, the band opened a cask of wine, and raised a toast.

“To your health, my friends!” Garth said. “Slàinte mhath!”

“Slàinte mhath!” replied Finn, a Ranger, like Garth.

“To the King of the Forest!” Myra cried out. “The King of Wolves!”

“Fortuna smile on him!” roared Small Roody.

Garth’s band, outcasts from all corners of Morn, drank to their chieftain’s health. The year’s campaign had been a smashing success, and had not seen the outlaws suffer more than a scratch. Indeed, Garth seemed to have been blessed with outrageous fortune. The band talked animatedly about what victories the new year would bring. Warrick One-eye put bow to fiddle-string and played a merry sailor’s jig. Finn matched the tune with his flute. Derby, the youngest of the group, emptied his cup and leapt to his feet, dancing around the fire and waving his feathered hat. Soon, the cave was full of music and laughter.

“I told you already, old man,” grumbled Small Roody. “Don’t drink from that.”

“And why not?” asked Kemp, inspecting the gilded bowl in his hands.

“Because that’s a bloody chamber pot!”

“What? This?” the old man raised a bushy eyebrow. “All covered in gold? Surely not.”

“It’s a chamber pot, you old fool. For pissing in!”

“And who would piss in such a fine thing?”

“A Paladin would. Some Paladin kept that in his chamber, and pissed in it!”

“You lie. A Paladin would never do that.”

“And why not?”

“Because a trained dog always pisses outside!”

Small Roody howled with laughter. Myra had nearly choked on the apple she was eating. Emptying another cup of wine, her eyes wandered around the cave, until her gaze met Garth’s. He was puffing on his pipe and staring at her through the smoke. Myra smiled knowingly at that familiar, smouldering gaze. She stood up and sauntered to the cave’s entrance, glancing back at Garth. He followed, and the two of them walked hand in hand into the cold night.

Chasing each other through the melting snow, Garth and Myra found a dry patch, some five minutes walk away from the cave. Laying down their cloaks, they made love beneath the stars, neither feeling the cold. They lay together in silence for some time, content in each other’s arms. The sound of Garth’s breathing, and the warmth of his chest, lulled Myra in a dreamless sleep.

After some time, she awoke, and saw that Garth was staring up into the night sky above, and the great sea of stars which arched over all of earth’s creatures.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered.

“Sorry, what was that?” Garth asked.

Myra shook her head, smiling softly. “Stargazing again?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you see our future in them?”

Garth breathed in deeply. “Sometimes, I wish I could.”

“Oh well,” Myra said, resting her head on Garth’s chest. “A story is more exciting if you don’t know what happens next.”

“Aye. But stories of outlaws? We know how they all end…”

Myra said nothing. She only turned her gaze up to the stars. She looked for the Wanderers, those stars that soared freely through the Heavens, while the others remained fixed in their glittering seats. There, almost directly above, shone the Red Hunter.

Garth had told her the story at that star, who had once lived on earth as a prince of giants. A warrior and slayer of dragons, he had been the strongest man to have ever lived. But the fury of his gaze withered the forests, and the passing of his arrows tore up the very earth. Fearing his power, his own children had cut out his heart, and sent the Raven to carry it up into the Heavens, where it still beat and showered the earth with his blood. Or so the story said. Myra had often looked up at that star, and thought of Garth as that same, mighty hunter. But now the red star only filled her with dread.

“Did I ever tell you about my brother?” Garth asked suddenly.

“I think you mentioned him before,” said Myra. “You said that he was no longer with us.”

“Aye. His name was Gwyn. He died before I met you, and the lads.”

“What was he like?”

“He was a good man,” Garth paused, and took a long sigh. “A better man than me. He was a healing man. Don’t think my older brother ever so much as hurt a fly. Terrible shot with a bow anyhow. But he could work miracles. I once fell from a tree and cracked my own skull on a rock. Would have died if not for Gwyn. What little gold he had, he melted and turned into a plate to go over the crack.” Garth tapped the top of his head. “It’s still there, under my scalp.”

Myra nodded. “I noticed the scar. It’s a wonder. Didn’t think anyone could walk away from a broken skull without losing their wits.”

“I’m sure I knocked loose whatever good sense I had,” said Garth. “We shared that at least, me and Gwyn. Everyone called us fools at one point or another. Whenever he got the wanderlust in him, he would travel down into the low countries together. Could have made a fortune as a doctor, but he settled for bread and board before moving on.”

“The man sounds like a saint,” said Myra. “What happened to him?”

Garth paused for a while. “Not much to say. He was robbed, murdered, and left in some ditch beside the road. A friend of Gwyn’s tried to find who did it. Went to Palsgrave to seek justice. They hung him for a thief and a spy.”

Myra gripped Garth tighter in her arms. “That’s why you took up your bow?” she asked. “To get your revenge?”

Garth nodded. “I called myself a hero, a freedom fighter. My kin, they call me a bloody troublemaker.”

“That’s no matter,” said Myra, stroking Garth’s chin. “I like trouble.”

Garth smiled her. “You’re my family now. You and the boys.” He looked back up at the sky, a smile on his face. “They say that their are as many lands in the world as there are stars up there. Follow the stars, and you can find any place.

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“I’ve had my fill of this country. Had my fill of fighting. We’ve got money. And soon I reckon we’ll have enough to buy a ship, with a proper crew and a navigator. We’ll take to the sea, and find a island where we don’t have to lurk in holes and bogs. The lads can find wives and grow fat, and we’ll own land, and live happy and free. Does that sound good to you?”

“We’re you go,” said Myra. “I’ll follow. Even were it into the mouth of Hell.”

“Into Hell? Myra, you already have,” Garth leaned in and kissed her. “And I promise, I’ll take you out again.”

After some time, the two lovers finally began to feel the chill night air. Shivering in the cold, they hurriedly dressed themselves and began the short trek back to the hideout. Entering the valley of where a mighty river once flowed, they at last approach the hidden cave.

“Those drunken numpties,” Garth muttered, straining his eyes in the dark. “They’ve gone and let the fire go out.”

“We’d better hurry,” Myra pulled her cloak tighter about herself. “Sleeping drunks freeze to death on warmer nights than this.”

Carefully navigating their way through the dark, they entered the cave, met by only the faint glow of the dying embers in the fire. The still air in the cave was stilled filled with smoke, and though her nose was numb from the cold, Myra caught a strange scent that made her freeze on the spot. She glanced around anxiously, but she could make out nothing in the dark.

Garth, teeth beginning to chatter, only shuffled to the fire pit and bent over it. But Myra felt a different kind of chill creep up her spine. The wind was beginning to howl outside, its voice echoing through the cave. She strained her ears, hoping to hear the sound of the men snoring in their sleep. But she heard nothing, while the familiar, iron-like stench of blood began to fill her nostrils. The fire finally roared back to life.

And the man with the scarred face greeted them, a naked sword in his hand.

Garth leapt back, his dagger drawn. Myra looked around in horror as the darkness shrank back from the firelight. The outlaws were lying in pools of blood, their cloudy eyes staring into nothingness. At her feet, the severed head of Derby stared up at her, the young face twisted in pain and horror.

“It’s been a while,” the man said drily. He rose to his feet, his grey eyes glimmering from the patchwork of scars on his long face.

“Pike,” Garth hissed, his dagger still poised. He fought desperately to calm his shaking limbs. ‘You… you’re the one… the bounty hunter they call the Bloody Cap.”

“Oh good, you know why I’m here then,” said the wiry swordsman. He seemed almost bored, tugging off his dark red hat and scratching at the grey hair beneath. “Your friends here, they had to learn the hard way.”

“You bastard… you killed my men. You’re working for the Paladins!”

“I’ve changed jobs, is all,” Pike sneered.

“Tying up loose ends, more like,” Garth had started edging backwards. “You’re the most wanted man in the country. The meanest, nastiest thug in the land, turned bog trotting bandit snatcher. What a bloody joke!”

“You were happy being a thug,” Pike took a step forward, “when you were thieving under me.”

“Times change, Pike. People change.”

“Aye, they do,” Pike hefted his sword. “So no hard feelings, eh?”

“Of course not,” Garth said flatly.

In an instant, the Ranger twisted his wrist and sent his dagger flying towards Pike. The spinning blade smacked Pike square on the face, leaving a bloody gash across his nose and cheek. Pike swore and stumbled backwards a little. Garth made a dive for his bronze sword, the glittering handle peeking out of his belongings. Taking up the sword, Garth turned to face Pike, but the bounty hunter had a pistol in one hand. The pistol spewed thunder and smoke, the bullet catching Garth in his belly and hurling him backwards with a gasp.

Myra screamed, reached for her own dagger, but at the same time, a great roar sounded through the cave.

“NO!” Small Roody rose up suddenly, a cudgel in his hand. He as caked in blood, his face torn open by a sword cut. But the towering man had some strength left. He hurled himself at the stranger, swinging his cudgel wildly. Pike managed to clumsily dodge the blow, only to be caught in Roody’s arms. Pike’s sword flashed up, stabbing into the giant, but Roody kept shoving him backwards. Pike snarled and stabbed again, and again.

“Garth! Myra!” Roody yelled through a blood filled mouth. “Run! Get away!”

Myra, her instincts taking over, darted for Garth as he struggled to his feet, the ancient sword still in his hands. Gripping his arm, she hauled him towards the cave mouth. The two ran on into the night. Myra dared not look back, as Roody’s battle cries went suddenly quiet. On they ran in headlong flight, stumbling through the dark and heedless of their direction. Their breath misted in the air behind them, though neither felt the cold. Their blood ran hot, pounding in their ears as they ran.

But their flight was brought to an end. Garth stumbled on a rock and fell forward, dropping his sword. Myra stooped to help him, but he struggled to rise. Garth touched a hand to his belly and raised it to his face, wet and black in the silver moonlight.

“Shit,” muttered Garth. “Forgot about that.”

Myra stooped to inspect the wound. “We can patch you up,” she said. “But not here. We’ve got to go. Find a place to hide…”

Garth shook his head. “It’s too late. He’s here already.”

Myra glanced up, and sure enough, the one called Red Cap, his clothes dark with blood, was staring at them from the edge of the wood they had just run through. His eyes, and the edge of his sword, gleamed like icy crystals. His cloak flowed behind him as he strode forward. Garth leaned on his own sword and stood up on shaky legs.

“You’re a tough bastard,” said Pike, wiping blood from his face. “It’s damn annoying…”

Garth stood as straight as he could, urging Myra to get behind him. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “But I’ve still got one reason to live.”

“And I’ve got none,” Pike slashed the air with his sword, “save for battle.”

“Will you not spare a woman?” asked Garth.

“I’m not in the mood for charity.”

“And… if I hand myself in peaceful like. Will you let her go?”

“Garth!” Myra clutched his arm, wishing she had her bow or a pistol. “You can’t…”

Pike shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll have your head. One way or the other.”

Garth looked up into the night sky, looked up at the Red Hunter spilling its bloody light. Myra stared into his face anxiously. The cold hand of fear clutched her heart as she looked into his eyes.

He was smiling. Garth no longer felt the pain of the bullet in his gut. No longer had any fear.

“I love you,” he said in a whisper.

The wind roared above. Heavy clouds were gathering above, the moon peeking through like a great eye. Garth unhooked his cloak, and let the wind carry it away.

“Sky above. Sea below.” Garth intoned the ancient song. His voice clear above the sound of the wind. He strode forward, the bronze sword clenched in his fist.

Pike’s mouth split into a grin.

“The thunder breaks. A tempest blows.” Garth touched his hand to his bleeding side. He raised his bloody hand up to eyes. The wind grew fiercer, until Myra could barely stay on her feet.

“The horn is sounding. The spirit soars.” Garth’s hair was pulled in all directions by the wind, like red tongues of flame. His eyes glared bright from their blood smeared sockets.

“The door is open. The wayward son… is coming home!” Lightning rent the sky. Garth raised his sword at Pike and howled his defiance. The limping Ranger who had fled from his enemy was gone. Pike recognised the strange look in those eyes. The look of a man standing at the threshold of death, and filled with a strange, fey power.

Pike could hardly suppress his mad grin.

“Now that’s more like it!” he cackled, hefting his own sword. Myra did not see who moved first. The two men rushed at each other like lovers. Red sparks flashed as the blades met, parted, and met again in the mad dance of death, the combatants filled with wild laughter all the while. Both men had now gone beyond the mortal realm.

And only one of them would return.

In that maelstrom, Garth was gaining the advantage, pressing Pike with the fury of his attacks, heedless of the many wounds cut into his flesh. The bronze sword was possessed of an unnatural strength that tore shards out of Pike’s steel blade. Pike parried one blow, sidestepped another, blocked a heavy downwards slash that bit deep into his blade. Pike tried to yank Garth’s sword out of his hand, but the Ranger tore his blade free from Pike’s in a shower of sparks and struck again.

Lightning flashed again. Pike was blinded for a moment, did not see the thrust that gouged into his left cheek and tore up through his eye. He lashed out desperately, scoring a deep cut along Garth’s sword-hand. The two men staggered back, Garth with his pinkie finger dangling by a sliver of flesh, Pike with blood streaming from the ruin of one eye. Though the wind and the storm still raged about them, they were fast losing their battle-frenzy.

And yet, even as he felt his strength slip out of him from his many wounds, Garth felt a burning sensation course up his arms. His vision suddenly pierced through the gloom, see his enemy clear against the night. Pike was struggling to hold his sword straight, fighting the pain and the urge to clutch at his gored eye.

Seeing his chance, Garth lunged forward. Pike twisted his feet and struck out, putting all his strength into the blow. At the last possible moment, Garth spun the bronze sword to catch Pike’s blade. There was a crack of thunder, and the steel blade shattered against Garth’s sword, the broken remnant in Pike’s hand free to lance straight into Garth’s chest.

Garth leapt away and slashed clumsily, which only made Pike stumble and fall back. But the hilt of the broken sword still jutted from the Ranger’s chest. He grunted in pain, and seeing Pike on the ground, swung it over his head and brought it down. The tip of the bronze sword buried itself in the ground beside Pike’s head. Pike grabbed the blade and lashed out with his leg, slamming his foot into the pommel of the broken sword and driving it deeper into Garth’s chest.

Garth wretched up blood. His hands slipped from his own sword as he struggled to stay upright. But at last, his strength failed him, he turned away from Pike, and fell to his knees. Blood was flowing freely from his mouth now. No air could reach his lungs. He looked up, and his eyes met Myra’s.

She did not know when she had gone to her own knees. Her mind had shut off all thoughts during the fight. Now, she fought against the numbness of fear that weighed her down, looked for anything at hand she might use as a weapon. Garth smiled at her, sadly.

And was still smiling, even as the bronze sword in Pike’s hand fell.

And Myra’s world died in front of her. The wind began to pass, and the world was quiet once again.

Pike stooped over the body, lifted the severed up by the hair. He rose again, and with his one eye glanced at the woman, suddenly remembering her existence. She hardly seemed to notice him at all, still staring ahead blankly, her mouth opening and shutting dumbly.

His eye narrowed as he continued to watch her, feeling the weight of his new sword in his hand. He made a step towards her, the woman thin and fragile as a willow-reed. He scowled, and then turned away abruptly, the bloody head dangling in his fist. He stopped, and looked back at the woman, his ghoulish face breaking into a smile.

“He should have given up the outlaw life,” Pike called back, “while he was ahead.” He gave a half-hearted chuckle, and disappeared into the night.

Myra, the spell of fear broken on her, returned to her waking nightmare. Facing the Heavens, she began to cry. Garth the Great Bow and his band, they might have been wolves, but the hunter had come, and made prey of them all.