Chapter Three of "The North"

Chapter Three – The Hunters
‘Careful now, don’t want to scare it off’ whispered Broderick to Duncan. ‘Nice and easy…’ The deer was twenty metres away. ‘Relax your bow-arm’. Duncan did so. ‘Aim’. Duncan did so, ‘pull and loose. Don’t think, just fire’ Duncan did so and the deer fell. Broderick smiled, Peter patted his little brother on the back. ‘Nicely done, son’.
‘Almost as good as I’ boasted Peter jokingly.
‘Since when did you handle a bow?’ asked Duncan, ‘and at my age’ he added adjusting his quiver.
‘We should probably head back, lads’ said Broderick ‘Don’t want to scare your mother’. It was then a rustle in the bushes was heard to their left on the embankment. They smiled and Broderick tapped Peter’s shoulder, standing up. ‘You’re up, Peter’ said his father, ‘show us what you got’
Peter crept forward slowly but before he had a chance to bring up his spear James bust through the bushes. It was dark in the forest, and the boys and their father could not see James very well.
‘James?’ asked Broderick standing up slowly. There was no reply. The boys stood up as well. ‘James?’ he repeated more sharply. Still no reply. Peter and Duncan exchanged an uneasy glance. Then suddenly, without notice James toppled down the slope and lay face down in the mud in front of the three, a dark and bent arrow in his back with blood seeping all around. Broderick instantly through his spear to the side and, from his back sheath drew his great sword. Two handed, long and sharp at all edges it glowed even in the dim of the forest. Peter drew his sword from his side and took a silent step by his father as he bent down to check.
‘Dead’ whispered Broderick standing up. Duncan looked at his brother nervously, drawing an arrow and fixing it to his bow. Slowly and anxiously Broderick crept forward, up the hill, gesturing to the boys to stay. He knelt low but continued steadily up the embankment. He the, at the top, parted the ferns and peered through the bushes. There, in the far distance spread about thirty, perhaps forty men. It was difficult to make them out but they appeared lightly armoured. Nothing but fur tunics and rags. Makeshift weapons, spears it seemed. They were advancing in their direction. Fast. Peter and Duncan appeared beside their father, on either side. They too noticed the threat.
‘What do we do?’ asked Duncan quietly under his breath. Peter slowly began to rise up with his sword steady, eyes fixed. Broderick pulled his heir back down.
‘No’ he instructed. ‘Too many’
‘They are Clansmen’ said Peter, countering his protective father.
‘Maybe so, but there are too many still. It’s not worth it’ He thought for a moment before continuing to beckon his sons to follow him back down the hill. Broderick rolled James’s body into the bushes to the side, underneath some ferns and he drew from his own back his cloak, and placed it over him. Broderick then whispered in some old language that neither Duncan nor his brother understood.
‘Diota Turis’ he said quietly, his eyes closed, bowed by his friend, his left hand on his friend’s heart. His right on his own. He rose and ordered the boys to follow, now with sudden urgency. They traced their steps back until they came to a larger, wood shaving path, lined with thin logs. There they dived right again, then left until the gate out of the grounds was in sight. It was then Broderick, who lead the boys, stopped and turned suddenly. His sons ran forward and turned to stand by his side. Peter was about to ask what the matter was, yet before long it was evident. From atop a heavily vegetated hill, guarded by various trees appeared many of the clansmen, walking menacingly and barbaric-like towards them, all sneering and holding out their shoddy weapons. Their hair was long, messy and dirty – as was their faces. And Broderick had seen finer looking things than their teeth in the waste gutters of lower Curtelen. They crept towards the three, silently – as if they still didn’t think they had seen them, who slowly backed up although they were aware the gate was too far away to run for. In particular walked a larger man, a great ale-filled belly swung as he walked. Holding some kind of staff for support of his gullet.
‘Going somewhere?’ he sneered slimily. ‘Why, Broderick, we have hardly met? Go on!’ He shouted ‘Run! But where may I ask, my king’ A laugh of cackles erupted from the wild folk. From there Peter could take no more of the fool’s blabbering, fifteen clansmen he counted. They could take them. He lunged forward his sword flaring at the nearest enemy just mere metres away, his sword was high and came down sharply on the target’s shoulder. Slice, and the enemy fell in a scream. Broderick pushed Duncan behind him and held his sword high, horizontally and close to his face. Staring and eyeing each of the wild men as they began to charge at him. The first, hit to his right with a swing of his sword and another stroke sent him bloodied to the ground. The second came at him thrusting his spear at his face. Broderick recovered smoothly and grabbed the shaft of the spear firmly ducking to the side and with a roar flung the attacker over his shoulder finishing with a lunge down on him with his sword piercing flesh. The third was on him before long, yet a point blank arrow-head from Duncan set him down as Broderick stood up firmly awaiting his next challenge. He looked to his left, Peter was several metres away; bringing his steel across the enemy’s stomach. A gurgling cry was heard as he hit the ground clutching himself. Peter drew his sword back and reconfigured his stance, left foot in front and right behind facing slanted at the enemy with his sword steady, dripping red. The next two came together at the young man. Both lunged their spears at his knees, his sword fell down to his left knocking it out the way allowing his left foot to swing forward and crack a kick to the man’s face who fell back, yet still arose again. He drew his sword up from his left and connected with the man’s neck before turning, stone faced, to his next opponent. The Wildman stood still, shivering in fear. He turned to look at the fat man behind him, still leaning on his staff unfazed. He nodded at the scared man.
‘What are you waiting for, man?’ he barked, ‘Kill the boy!’ The man lunged forward, and without effort Peter left the man falling to the ground headless with a single stroke of his blade. He sheathed it and locked eyes with the wild man, who stood alone in the centre of the path. All of his men dead around him.
‘Go on then, kill me’ he taunted ‘But you saw how many of us there are here. You won’t get back to your stone house alive. If I had half a mind I’d stick you rig’ he shouted, being cut short by an iron spear being plunged through his neck thrown from far away. The fat clanman coughed blood before losing light and collapsing. From afar the three saw riders come around the corner. At the head rode Alavor. Cleaning his sword he stopped by his brother and nephews. He dismounted quickly. Broderick turned to look at Duncan, then at Peter. Unhurt. The riders all dismounted and began checking the dead, a few needing a few final steel points.
‘Are you okay, my king?’ he asked looking at his older brother. ‘And my lords?’ he said inspecting the boys. He let out a long sigh of relief.
‘Yes, we’re alright, brother’ said Broderick ‘but there are others, somewhere in the grounds’ Darator approached on horseback. He spoke proudly.
‘Not anymore’ he said, holding up his bloodied blade. He patted his horse as he dismounted. ‘It’s not been an era since the clansmen attacked us on home ground’ he remarked amazed looking at the dead by the king’s feet. Broderick stepped over them.
‘Yes, dire news’ he said bleakly. He approached his heir and spoke.
‘Get Duncan back to Curtelen’ he said, he turned to Alavor and nodded for his company. ‘Brother, take my sons home’
‘Yes, my king’ he said and the three began towards the gate. ‘You two with me’ he said to two of the riders who followed suit.
‘How is this possible?’ asked Broderick soon after they had gone. Darator looked confused as well.
‘I’m not sure, my king’ he began ‘simple enough to say they are getting bolder. But this was too close’ Broderick looked sick.
‘Too close I daresay if you had not turned up my house would have failed’ he walked over and looked down at the dead, fat clansman. He bent and picked up the wooden stick he used for support. He inspected it, closely. ‘It can’t be’ he said, quietly. ‘Silver god, it is!’ he said amazed.
‘What is it?’ asked Darator curiously from behind.
‘Look’ said Broderick handing him the staff. Darator’s eyes widened and he broke into a grin.
‘We got him!’ he beamed, and the two men laughed, hugging.
‘Pardon, my king’ spoke a rider, ‘got who?’ Broderick took the staff back from Darator and turned to the rider. Broderick ordered the company to move on, back to the city before explaining.
‘In the west, in the Clanlands ‘he said’ there are four different clans. Barbarians they are, the lot of them but among each clan is a leader. And each leader holds a staff’ the rider beamed.
‘Goodness, my king!’ he said ‘only three more to go then?’ he laughed, urging his horse forward. Darator brought a spare horse from behind and helped his king up. They began their ride back home.