Tadhgán tossed a log onto the embers, “Last one.”

Sparks sprayed into the air. They hovered amid the rising heat, then faded. They’d found shelter on the leeward side of a small hillock, topped with trees. The sky was clear and the first few stars of the night were showing.

Arnwald had removed his wide leather belt and the attached cloth quiver, so he could lean against his pack without skewering himself. His short, curly brown hair gave his head the silhouette of bundled wool. A five-foot, yew bow, tucked in a waxed-canvas wrap, rested in the grass beside him. The bow was plain compared to Tadhgán’s four-foot horn laminate recurve he’d bought from a Síðian herdsman, Gods’ knew how many years ago.

Arnwald was scratching patterns into a holed stone with a tiny steel scriber he’d found that afternoon while collecting water from a stream. He kept his eyes on his work as he spoke, “We can’t stay up all night. It’s a long walk back to Éabrycg.”

“I suppose,” said Tadhgán. “You going to finish your charm tonight?”

“I’m trying.”

“Don’t know why you bother. Where’d you learn those squiggles anyway?”

“The doors of an old church in Ambidstów,” said Arnwald

“The canal town at the edge of the Héahhliþ foothills?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why there?” said Tadhgán.

“You know they’re the foothills for the Isenbeorg, right?”

“Sure.” Faint growling floated from within the dark, along with a chorus of other nighttime croaks and squeals.

“All sorts live in those mountains,” said Arnwald. “Dracan, Etenas, Cargástas, Nihtgengan, and many other creatures. Some come down to the foothills when they get hungry. These ‘squiggles’ are supposed to discourage them, that way everyone can hide in the church if a monster comes knocking.”

“I know what the last two are, but what are Dracan and Etenas?”

“A Draca is a fifteen foot lizard. Dracan live underground in caves. There are smaller breeds with wings too.”

Tadhgán chuckled, “You’ll be telling me they breathe fire next.”

“Fire? Where’d you get that idea from, it’s plain stupid! Have you ever heard of a monster which engraves Drýlic symbols on its own teeth, or is smart enough to carve the aether with its mind?”

Tadhgán held up his open palms, “Fine, fine. I don’t understand what you mean, but if you say it’s impossible, I’ll believe you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say impossible, but it’s unlikely.”

Arnwald appeared sufficiently mollified, but Tadhgán knew he’d have to keep him on track if he wanted to avoid a lecture on monster physiology.

“And Etenas?” said Tadhgán.

“An Eten is a humanoid creature, between seven and eight feet tall. Etenas live in the middle of the Isenbeorg between the Rícewelig, Burnehálig, and Dúnlic borders. They have a few mud huts in the Tayfenn too.”

Tadhgán yawned and stretched towards the fire, “Does Ambidstów ever get attacked by any of these creatures?”

“Not anymore. I heard Marchioness Quillinane tames and feeds the Dracan, and trades with the Etenas at a loss. Traders who stray off the Dúnstíg, the road between Earn Tor and Dúnlic, or slip a boat through the Tayfenn, end up in a Draca’s stomach if they don’t know the right commands, or give a bribe to the Etenas that’s bigger than the import tax.

“The Nihtgengan fight the Etenas, and the Cargastas don’t make much fuss. Unquiet spirits only bother people they have a grudge with, and that’s someone else’s problem.

“Seems a bit elaborate,” said Tadhgán. “What’s the point?”

“It’s more effective than paying mercenaries to patrol the borders and allows only ‘official’ smugglers to pass, all without the Marchioness having to do a thing.”

“So the Quillinane family doesn’t pay their own import tax, but makes everyone else pay it, while doing their duty to protect the borders so King Técynn overlooks her illicit trading?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s…ruthless.”

“I think the horror of the scheme encourages people to give up before they try.”

“Which is why you know so much about it.”

“Exactly.”

“She’s like the incarnation of Ficolu,” said Tadhgán.

“And as beautiful, apparently.”

“Quillinane is twice your age!”

“Age before beauty.”

“I will never let you meet my grandma,” said Tadhgán.

“Why, is she pretty?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Tadhgán rolled his eyes, “So how do you know your squiggles do anything if the old church hasn’t tested them?”

“They have records of them working. Better yet, I’m still alive aren’t I?”

“Have you ever been attacked by a Draca or Cargást?”

“No, means they’re working, right?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” said Tadhgán.

“I bloody well hope there isn’t.”

“Why all the effort then?”

“Can’t a man be afraid of the dark?” said Arnwald. “I can’t hit anything with my bow at night.” Something heavy snuffled nearby, outside the sphere of their feeble fire. Perhaps a lost cow, or wild pig.

Tadhgán refocused his attention on the conversation, “But last time you said you drew the symbols because you hated Wóddréamas and spirit spawn.”

“Even if I could hit a spirit,” said Arnwald. “I couldn’t hurt it, but they could hurt me. I draw the symbols so they can’t come close enough to do so.” He returned his scriber to its pouch.

“Your embroidery didn’t work on the Nihtgengan,” said Tadhgán.

“Ever a Déofol’s advocate, aren’t you?” said Arnwald. He threaded a strip of leather through the small stone, “Here, you have this one. Never know when you might need it.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt.” Tadhgán accepted the charm and slipped it over his neck, “Look good?”

“Not as good as your elderly relatives.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” said Tadhgán.

Is that a pair of eyes out there? There were teeth too. Big ones. Tadhgán snatched his bow, and clipped his cloth quiver onto his belt. He put a finger to his lips.

Arnwald’s eyes widened.

Thump. Crack.

It was big, and it was close. The soldiers scrambled upright.

A great claw lashed out. Arnwald’s spinning body swept over the fire, smothering it. He slid across the clearing, his body twisting and breaking with each bounce.

Tadhgán unleashed three rapid shots and ran. A deafening yowl tore through Tadhgán’s trembling frame.

Arnwald’s dead.

Tadhgán couldn’t believe it, but there’d been no mistaking those snaps, or Arnwald’s total silence and flopping limbs.

Tadhgán had gazed at the fire far too long; its sudden absence had reduced his world to featureless black lumps. One collision, a single stumble, and he’d be dead.

The creature snorted. There was a slurp and a meaty crunch. Arnwald had become food. What animal could be so big, and so hungry, it would hunt a man? A bear? Wolves?

A monster?

Tadhgán ran head first into a tree, “Shit!”

He stumbled along, his head clutched in one hand and his bow in the other. Can I kill it? Can I even hurt it? One of my shots must have done something to make it howl. He skidded to a halt and fired back the way he’d run.

Thunk. He’d hit a tree.

“Shit!”

Wait, a tree? I can climb to safety.

Tadhgán cast his arms about, desperate to hit another one. He back-handed a trunk. He clenched his teeth to stop himself from crying out. He wrapped his hands about the smooth trunk. Too small.

Tadhgán ran on. He was beginning to see better and his head was less woozy, but every step shot needles through his bruised forehead.

Thud. Thud.

The monster was closing on him. Finally Tadhgán found a large enough tree. He gripped his bow in his teeth and jumped. His fingers brushed the branch’s knobbly bark, but he couldn’t reach high enough to grasp it.

Tadhgán felt the trunk, feeling the thick ridged surface. He tried to grip the protrusions, hoping to haul himself up, but the gaps between the ridges were too small for him to gain a hold. He’d need a run up.

He backed up and glanced over his shoulder. Large yellow eyes with vertical slit pupils hovered in the darkness. The monster screamed. Tadhgán sprinted, then leapt. His right foot touched the trunk. He kicked off hard, his hands outstretched. Tadhgán’s foot slipped as he pushed. His foot left the trunk, the monster snapping at his heels. He brought his hands together at the apex of his leap. Will I make it?

Tadhgán’s fingers clasped the lowest bough.

He clung to the branch; his body swayed back and forth, toes tapping the trunk with every swing. A little further and I’ll be safe.

Tadhgán kept swinging until he could wrap his feet around the trunk of the tree then used the backs of his heels to shimmy up the trunk until he was suspended beneath the first branch, his back facing the ground.

The hot, soggy breath of the creature passed right through his hauberk and gambeson and caressed his skin. The smell was awful, like rotting meat. He didn’t dare look. Tadhgán pivoted onto the top of the branch. He hugged it, pressing his cheek into its coarse surface.

The monster licked his hands. Its tongue was rough and delicate, like a feline, and left his skin dry and itchy.

He snatched his hands upwards. The creature knocked its muzzle against the branch. It lurched sideways. Tadhgán scrabbled trunk-wards on his hands and knees. His bow caught against an unseen twig and was wrenched from his teeth.

“Fuck!” Tadhgán climbed several feet.

A huge black mass twice the size of a plough horse pressed against his refuge and hissed.

The tree wobbled.

Tadhgán caught a metallic flash on the branch below. The copper inlay on my bow grip! He hooked his bow with both feet and lifted. He snatched the teetering bow and caressed it. A crazed grin split his face. I might actually survive.

Tadhgán sat upright. He pressed his back to the trunk, drew an arrow, and fired. There was a satisfying snap and a quiet thump. The monster yelped. It smacked its shoulder against the tree. The wood groaned and creaked. Roots ripped and the tree jerked sideways. Tadhgán flailed as he tried to keep his balance.

The tree settled and Tadhgán fired three more arrows in as many seconds. His attack did little to dissuade the monster. The tree shook again and again as the creature bashed against it. Tadhgán kept firing. His target cried out with each set of impacts, each shout more pained than the last.

Would it ever leave?

Tadhgán had six of his thirty arrows remaining when the monster gave up and limped away. Tadhgán slumped against the tree and closed his eyes.

I don’t think I’ll be sleeping.