The Song of the Young Wolf (fragment ENG)

GHOSTBRINGER

(FRAGMENT)

2 | T H E S O N G O F T H E Y O U N G W O L F

‘Whosoever shall read these words shall prove worthy of being shown the way. This, however, always brings forth misfortune and unforeseen paths to travel by. Becoming aware, is but the first step out of a long string of events that occur within the soul of man unto his death; but awareness without sympathy, courage or a resolute heart can only reward those seeking the mysteries of the unseen world with the madness of cowardice and nothingness of fear.

For the world has allowed Evil to be born. But human beings have never held themselves responsible for this; for many centuries they’d rather blame the Twilight, the sinful wraiths from another world, the all too powerful demons sowing grim curses. And why should it be otherwise so long as each man’s pride is held above one’s own heart? So it was that Evil grew in this world, spreading it’s branches everywhere, reaching to every corner of the world’s soul, seeding terror in every heart to reap it’s nourishment from the very bosom of mankind.


Twisted by fear, for the first time since the dawn of man, men bore their offspring touched by this demon even from birth. Where man was once unafraid of the darkness within him, he now wore the mark of fear from his most tender age. He began to flee from the Darkness, sick with doubt and unfathomable thoughts. He then started to flee from the Light as well, for without comprehending Darkness, Light also became just another hidden demon – a demon which brought blindness, set fire to the soul and purged entrails, a punisher of those that escaped Darkness.

When one attempts to bind Darkness in chains, it only results in bestowing more power onto it; moreover, being emboldened by retribution, darkness will become even harsher. For it was Fear that concealed these things from Man: that hid the fact that Light can only be seen when Darkness is set loose. But who would dare let Darkness loose? Is there anyone possessed of such daring? For only he who knows himself can become his own friend – moreover, knowledge is unreachable unless you set the Darkness free. Darkness will seek destruction, hastening the Light within Man to burst outward and protect him. Darkness will crave all of earth’s belongings for itself and, one way or another it will get them, whilst Light will share them with others, bringing itself up. For night brings with it the death-scented dream, whereas dawn – the wisdom of knowledge and the acceptance of life.


Thus, neither can be whole without the other. But to reach the Light, one must traverse the Darkness. And men are gutless and vain; they yearn only to obtain the easy profits of the Light, not to serve it. And as time went by, the so-called Light-seekers turned into mere leeches living on the World’s Light. In such times, Darkness began enshrouding the hearts of men, deceiving them with shadowy speeches. In such times, some warriors, and even some mages, lent their ears to these twisted words of the Darkness from within.

Thus Darkness streamed into this world through their hands and their eyes, being nothing more than the blackness within Man himself. But it sufficed. Because the blackness within Man could smother the Sun itself, and that is something that even a thoughtless child knows.

Thus rose the Dark Warrios.

Thus rose the Ghostbringers.’

*from Wharkong, Argholt Long Beard’s Ancient Book of Mysteries


Chapter I

lcast was heading home at a brisk pace, returning from Grwndill, the village across the hill. Sent by his parents, he had delivered a flagon of mead to

his uncle Brenest, who was delighted beyond measure and wouldn‟t stop chatting, asking him about this and that.

Father had always said his brother talked a horse‟s hind leg off since the day he‟d opened his eyes. But he was very lively and a jester, so his tireless chatter was always easily forgiven. And so, after making a considerable effort to cut off his uncle‟s stupendous rants, Alcast promised to visit more often than before and rushed back home.

He had just arrived at Wolf‟s Corner, a narrow pass meandering between moss covered rocks, when the sun started to set and he figured he‟d reach the village shortly after dusk. He didn‟t want to be late, since he had promised his mother he‟d be home for dinner. He was as hungry as a wolf after the hour-long journey. His thoughts drifted ravenously to the steamy cornstarch pies and the delicious rabbit stew only his mother could prepare. She was definitely waiting on him for them all to eat together, although the Quent must have already started to lose his patience. Quent was his younger brother, a six years old toddler, always peckish and extremely puckish and loud at the slightest sign that his meals would suffer any delay.

Mother would often say that he reminded her of Grandfather Morgan, her father. A fierce warrior of the

A


Wullkraht clan, he had died a few years before Quent was born, in a battle with the barbarian tribes from the East. But Alcast had known him and mother was right indeed – the little one shared an awful lot of habits with the old man – especially that of being cranky when famished.

He raced out of the pass and cheerfully went up the hill, gazing at the purple streaked evening sky. The outline of the mountain peaks looked so sharp you would‟ve sworn they were painted by a master. Only at dusk, the ashen cliffs met the blistering horizon, which always made Alcast imagine a temporary truce between two rival sides. Warm and cold, the boy thought and smiled; he had always sensed a strange reflection of this contrast within him. He didn‟t know how, but he‟d somehow find himself in this hillside dusk, as if glancing through a mysterious mirror of the soul. A tiny riddle of the heart: warm and cold alike.

From the hilltop, the village loomed in the valley, beyond the forest which was wrapping it up like a green belt, from north to west; a natural barrier against the harsh gales of winter. The cold season had just passed, leaving in its wake small snow piles here and there. A few isolated fires were flickering warmly on distant alleyways. The boy caught a final glimpse of the setting sun and treaded on the forest path. The road was intentionally made broader for the village cattle and, last but not least, for the carts the traders used for transport. The settlement was renowned for a lot of things: exquisite furs, mead, ale and whatnot, but especially for ironwork, because Aarg, the master blacksmith, was well-known in his county.

The evening‟s chill had slinked in amongst the towering trees, weaving with the scent of mushrooms and resin, ushering the boy along the forest trail. He tightened his sheepskin and made haste. Hearing his sure footing, a skittish squirrel rushed up an oak tree trunk and froze there, peering at the surroundings.


The boy caught a glimpse of it through the nigh-twilight of the forest and smiled at it, amused. He quickened his step a bit, as he didn‟t have tinder to make himself a torch with resin and, undoubtedly, the falling darkness would soon find him in the middle of the woods if he didn‟t pick up the pace. Not that it would have mattered, but he didn‟t want to fumble through the trees, risking to trip on a root or twist a hand.

Therefore, moving swiftly, in less than a quarter-hour of trudging about, he reached the outskirts of the forest, shortly after the night had fully engulfed the valley. At a stone‟s throw, houses with side-tilted rooftops stretched in front of him, arrayed in increasingly larger circles, like elders at a counsel. The way they were disposed of made it seem like they were taking care of each other.

Nearing the village‟s edge, he went past his usual detour by Helga‟s house and chose the straightforward route, urged by his growing hunger.

Although the night had set, a certain bustle echoed through the village, voices laughing and bickering alike, farther away, near the inn; most likely it was another one of those nights when the lads challenged one another to an axe throwing contest. The flying axes, as they called them, Vynger, and they were famed all across the land – light, finely crafted by Aarg the weapon smith, perfectly balanced, and with a carved handle that prevented the grip from slipping. In the hands of a skilled thrower they were formidable weapons, hurtling through the air with such might that even if you had tried to block with a stout shield, they could have easily knocked you off the horse.

Alcast would have dearly gone to see them, and especially Thylbant, the eldest son of Fungrah, the village chieftain. Albeit his twenty one winters, Thylbant was by far the most accomplished hunter in the settlement, his mastery praised even by the elders – not once had he felled wild beasts with a single throw of a


flying axe and he had never failed to hit the creatures‟ head. Fungrah often grumbled about this, scolding him sullenly, because he couldn‟t make trophies out of as many heads as he‟d desired, so he could vaunt his son‟s prowess even more, since the flying axe rendered the beasts‟ heads completely useless to such purpose.

But the lad wasn‟t doing it to annoy his father, yet simply to increase his safety, as he said; he favored the flying axe for the first blow to have time for a second one, with spear or axe, in case the beast didn‟t die on spot. And to enforce his argument, he sometimes recalled Hoth‟s fate, the previous hunter of the village, who had perished in a clash with a bear, in the heart of last winter, because he had ignored the fact that he was carrying a flying axe and had chosen the spear and close combat instead. This had cost him his life since the monster bear proved to be more resilient to the spear blows than Hoth had presumed and, before he could realize what was happening, the bear swiftly pawed him to his death. Afterwards, the beast had tried to take shelter somewhere, in some burrow, but he didn‟t make it, being fatally wounded itself. So, when they found the hunter‟s lifeless body, they followed the blood trail left by the beast, and shortly after they stumbled upon it, collapsed in the red snow, with its life breath snuffed out, crushed by death‟s clasp like a giant fury rock.

Alas, as tempting as it was to watch the lads‟ contest, hunger proved to be a much stronger incentive for Alcast. And not the least of all, the boy knew his father didn‟t approve of him dawdling and mingling with the elder boys who, as his father so often had huffily put it, didn‟t have much to teach him unless he desired to learn the craft of fiddling around, drinking, dice gambling and, of course, the shrewdness of telling walloping lies, surpassed only by their knack to start a brawl.

“When you grow up,” he used to tease him, “you‟ll see that a man‟s life is not child‟s play. You must try to


get everyone‟s best traits, but try to go passed‟em as well. Besides, you‟re one year away from your first hunt, next spring, when you turn fourteen. Then you will earn the right to join the lads, but, remember this, only if you don‟t make a fool of yourself in the woods, in front of your pray.”

He smiled, unwillingly, remembering his father‟s guidance, because he had heard those lines a thousand times. But he was certain, even though his father would sometimes nag him beyond measure, that he was often right in his words. Their skills aside, the village‟s lads were mostly like his father had described them.

Grandfather Morgan would tell him, as he was sitting on his lap as a tiny tot, that the mastery of weapons means nothing without an ounce of mind, just like the mind is not worth a rap when the heart doesn‟t follow. Back then, he didn‟t fathom the old man‟s words, but he committed them to memory, probably because they seemed puzzling and, as likely as not, for they sounded extremely odd. But, as the years went by, he couldn‟t help but admitting that the old man most likely knew a thing or two about this, and often, after he had died, Alcast remembered what had been said to him when he was just an infant, as if he had been let into a great mystery, which, should he be able to unravel, would guard him and mold him into a strong man.

Caught up in these thoughts, he swiftly passed the well at the end of the village, walking by the side of the shed to shorten his path. In the half-light he spotted a few men gathered by the fence, with their backs to him. Distracted, he tried to figure out who they were and what they were doing there, crowded into one another since they seemed to be sneaking about hiding behind the pillars of the fence.

Closing in, he noticed that their clothes were rather shabby and, curious as he was, not to mention that the road was passing them by, he decided to throw an eye, because he would surely know them from around the


village. However, moving forth, he started to doubt it. Their clothes were the kind only a person who travelled for months would wear – rather ragged beggars than wanderers. He could hear them grumbling at each other. Listening to their voices, his ears sharpened and focused detecting their strange accent, and he instantly realized that none of them was from his village; or from those lands, for that matter.

Stunned, he stood still, freezing in place for a second. There were three of them, and now he could see them clearer, because he was only a few paces away. A fatty, another one, a little shorter, and a mountain of a man who made him shudder in fear. The tall one was truly dreadful – his dark tresses, running down to his shoulders, wearing a dirty jacket that couldn‟t wrap his broad and hairy chest, with a hatchet in one hand (which the boy saw only now) and with a grisly black moustache as thick as a broom, he was truly a bloodcurdling sight, a real „thurse‟. It was dark, he couldn‟t see very well, but what he had observed was enough. His heart started racing. „Thieves!“ he anxiously thought and he held his breath. Three armed men turning up to loot. Or maybe they had a score to settle with someone from the village?

He was petrified. Still, he had no time to lose, he needed to snap out of the panic that had ensnared him. Even though he was frightened, Alcast tried to get a grip on himself and backed away unsteady, slowly, aiming to reach the shed he had just passed earlier. Just a few more steps and from there would run by the left side of Vraalk‟s stable and sounded the alarm. His heart was pounding as he was looking at the three men muttering to one another and throwing prying glances at the alleyways.

Silently, just a few more steps, he softly said to himself, though not taking his sight of the robbers that went on mumbling and surveying the roads of the village. The twig brutally snapped under his foot, and he


froze.

The sound made all of them quickly turn towards him, fearing they had been exposed, but right at that instant a greasy hand covered his mouth, almost ripping his jaw apart and someone clenched him firmly, preventing him from running away. When he saw the brigands‟ frowning mugs and read on their faces that he was one step away from losing his life, he figured it wouldn‟t be smart at all to struggle, and he only let out a few muffled stammers, trying to make himself clear. Albeit nearly scared stiff, part of him suggested that there was nothing he could do against that vise-like grip.

“What‟s with this brat?” the tall thief hissed, at the same time coming closer. The hatchet throbbed briefly in his fist. The fat one anxiously crossed his fingers.

“Blimey, he spooked me,” he muttered spitefully. “Silly kid...”

The one-eyed old man came forth and grabbed him angrily by the collar.

“What on earth are you doing here, you idiot?” the fat one yapped at Alcast, but the old man interrupted him with a gesture, without taking his sight off the kid‟s startled face. His one eye putting dread in the boy for good.

“Shake or nod, imp,” he said. “Are you alone?”

His voice was coarse, grating on the ear. Alcast nodded gawking in fear. The fat thug sighed loudly. Irked by his whine, the thurse jabbed him between the ribs. The fatty tried to say something but stopped abruptly, seeing the other one pointing his forefinger at his mouth, calling for silence. The fatty scowled in reply but the tall burglar then passed his finger across his neck as if he slit someone‟s throat. His dreary eyes gleamed eerily in the night.

“Are you kidding me?” the fat one murmured, instinctively covering his neck with his palm. As much of a neck as he had anyway.

With a dismal guise, the other one shook his head.


Vexed, the old man turned slightly towards them, without letting go of the boy‟s collar.

“Settle down, you god damn morons!” he grumbled with a shrilling undertone.

Alcast realized that he was their leader. But he didn‟t get to dwell on this, because the one-eyed man prodded deeply into his eyes with his intrusive gaze.

“Did somone else see us besides you? Speak up, you!” he rumbled staunchly and roughed him up a few times.

Alcast shook his head once more and tried to utter something but he failed, for the palm of the man who was clasping him firmly was so big that it covered his mouth and the better part of his face, up to the eyes, nearly choking him. The old man did not seem content with his maundering answer and started to squint around. Then he shook him once more, mutely, making him feel like his brains swirled in his skull. His sole eye scared him to death.

“Lie to me and I‟ll put you deep in the ground, boy...” he said and turned towards the other two.

“Take him to the cart and tie him up good.”

The boy felt his legs go numb. He yelped “Please, no!“ a few times but, maybe because his words were not intelligible or maybe because the scoundrels couldn‟t care less about what he was saying, no one minded him. Anyhow, both reasons were probably valid. Yet the tall one seemed puzzled. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and, almost submissively, he opened his mouth slowly to add something.

“No,” the old chief snapped at him nervously and the maypole immediately shut his flap. “We won‟t kill him.”

He had underlined the words, giving them a certain meaning, as if he had intended to stir the giant‟s memory. You could tell that this wasn‟t the first time he had this kind of talk with the hatchet-bearing slick, for his inflection revealed the particular annoyance of someone who had said something one thousand times


over and still hadn‟t made himself understood.

Alcast‟s heart stopped. He didn‟t want to die like a fool just because he had caught some thieves in the act. Were they being serious? Looking at the big fellow, he noticed that he resigned disgruntled and realized that he wasn‟t just rambling mad. Ten to one it wouldn‟t have been the first time that hatched had spilled blood. He felt himself being grabbed by the feet and lifted up like a deer cub – he could make out the fatty‟s face, grinning at him whilst squeezing his knees under his arm.

“Gag him so he won‟t squeal and you come back in a jiffy, understood?” said the one-eyed thief with a harsh glare. “I didn‟t come looting on my own, now have I, you lowlifes...”

They all scolded and went into the forest, carrying him like a sack. Alcast begged to be released but the berserker gave him a scornful look, the kind you‟d give a rat.

“You make a sound and you‟re done for, squirt, regardless of what Fregan said,” snarled the giant, and ominously stroked the edge of the hatchet with his thumb. Alcast lost his tongue.

“Much better, eh?” mouthed the one who was holding his back. His was a hoarse, rattled voice, crinkled by booze and seemingly intended for swearing and cursing.

“You keep an eye out,” he lashed out at the tall one.

“Alright, hold your horses!” muddled the „thurse‟. ”Don‟t you worry about it...” They snuck among the bare trees, listening for every sound. Alcast was altogether terrified. There was no asking for help, no escape, and the brigands didn‟t seem the kind you bargain with, especially when their own skin was at stake. Without meaning to, it occurred to him he‟d been quite fortunate because of the older man – if it hadn‟t been for him the other ones would have slit his throat in no time at all. They all stopped without any notice. Nodding to one


another and pointing in one direction, carefully scouting everything around. In spite of the deep night, the kid‟s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness so he could still make out enough; probably, because of the fear. The tall fellow with an axe started going ahead cautiously, and then all of a sudden made two owl sounds. Although Alcast was terrified and nigh suffocated, he couldn‟t help but notice that the thug wasn‟t half as good an imitator of calls as himself, even though he wasn‟t half bad. Immediately, someone answered in the same way about thirty paces ahead: this reply, a somewhat craftier imitation. The brigands stealthily hurried in that direction. From behind a tall brush, another one of their comrades came up, younger and somewhat better dressed. He was thin, long haired and surprisingly had a tamer look in his eyes. If he hadn‟t known better, Alcast could have sworn this one was simply out for a walk about the place, certainly not out pillaging villages. When the younger brigand saw them holding the kid he froze. “What‟s this?“ he mumbled. His gaze was troubled all of a sudden. The „thurse‟ waived it away with disgust while the fat one, all sweaty despite the cold night, puffed with contempt. “We ran into him while lurking about,” said the one holding Alcast by the armpits. “Luckily he never had the chance to yell. Is everything alright here, Morsk? “ The youth he had named thus nodded his head almost imperceptibly all the while keeping his eye on the captive boy. “How on earth…?“ he muttered with spite while the others carried Alcast behind some bushes, which although leafless, had dense enough branches that you still couldn‟t see through them. Only then did could the young one spot the wagon shielded behind some taller brushes. An old wagon, with battered wheels, all covered with a filthy prairie


schooner roof, lined with 2 old horses tied to the pole pin. They looked more worn than the wagon if that were even possible. The „thurse‟ quickly lifted the torn rag preventing the rain and wind from getting into the back of the wagon. “Come on, get him up,“ he grunted harshly. The others came together and lifted Alcast in the wagon like a sack; his silencer gestured again that there‟ll be no shouting. Only then did the kid see his look. The rasped voice fit entirely with his visage – he was an older man, short haired, un-groomed chestnut beard that went as far up as his eyes and although he was short he seemed strong. “You make one sound, tyke, and I‟ll gut you in no time at all. Got it?” His low voice seemed tailored to terrify people. Fully afraid, Alcast nodded several times. “Don‟t you think I give two bits on what Fregan said. You yell, you die!“ said he and motioned the fat man to tie the boy‟s hands. While the fat man rummaged through a sack to get some hemp rope, the „thurse‟ ripped a filthy piece of cloth and grabbed the boy by the chin. “Open your mouth.“ “Please…“ Alcast started to say but the tall one was in no mood to chat. His huge moustache bristled with annoyance. He squeezed his face and quickly stuffed the rag in his mouth. “Don‟t you dare bite or I‟ll smack you,“ he growled threateningly. Alcast had no intention of doing that anyway since the thug more than made his blood curdle. The rest of the rag was used as a gag so tight that the boy almost felt his jaw snap. At the same time, the fat man started tying his hands behind his back, both around and between the wrists, making escape impossible. The bearded one was pacing about anxiously, muttering angrily while Morsk, the slender


young man that had been guarding the wagon until their arrival, kicked a rock out into the brush with spite. “That‟s torn it!“ said he, “a drooling kid with no other business than to snoop around…“ Alcast tried to lift himself on one elbow with some degree of desperation but seeing the stares the thieves turned on him he quit and stayed on his back, motionless. Out of spite a few tears found their way out. Why did he ever have to go behind Kroll‟s shed to enter the village? He always used to take the other side, by Helga‟s. Today he had done otherwise than usual and it had cost him. Who knew what the thieves meant to do to him? “Guard him at all costs! Do you understand?“ the tall fellow said to Morsk. The latter‟s reply: a contemptuous look. “I should think so, I‟m not a suckling. Go on now, the old man is waiting.“ They all went ahead swiftly, disappearing into the night. Morsk kept looking at the kid as if he were a bug that he didn‟t know what to do with. He tilted his head a little forward as if looking to make himself very well understood, and held the pose for a few moments. “If I hear some much as a peep…“ And he stopped there, leaving the torn rag to fall as a curtain. He made himself very well understood. Alcast grilled himself for half an hour trying to force his mind to find a way out of this. Of course, he avoided all noise as much as possible since Morsk had spooked him. His carelessness seemed to get him in even more trouble than the dark temper of the „thurse‟ or the gruffness of the hirsute, so now he reserved moving one leg or the other only as they went numb, trying to stretch his bones. Although he felt hopeless with his situation, he knew that if they had not done him in yet there was a good chance they wouldn‟t by the end of it.


All he had to do, was sit quiet and give them no headaches and let things happen on their own. Even if the initial fright shook his senses up quite a bit, he managed by degrees to calm himself, somewhat. The fear was letting up and his heart was calmer. Through instinct he had felt something about each of them even though they were mindless characters just up to pillaging. Outside of the darker maypole, none of them gave the impression they were inclined to get rid of a kid; or maybe Morsk too since the hirsute one seemed he was only attempting to frighten the boy with his careless words. But maybe that was only an impression he had of them, and it was wrong. After all, he had heard a good deal of eerie stories about the manner of thieves and their law-breaking. He had not met any so far. Now, he had run into 5, not just one. He tried to be a little calmer, telling himself that he‟d probably be released once the brigands would be far away, so as not to be in danger of being given away by him. Yes, they will surely let him go after a few hours. Or, at least, that‟s what hope told him would happen. A night owl was heard. He stretched his hearing but couldn‟t tell whether it was real or rather one of the thieves that was letting out his reconnaissance signal. Certainly if it was any of them, it wasn‟t the tall one that made the sound. That would have been easily recognizable. Morsk replied in turn, the same way from somewhere to his right, only a few paces away from the wagon. It startled him since he hadn‟t imagined Morsk sitting there, so close to him. A few hurried and rustled steps warned him that the brigands were back. Heart racing again, he tried to control himself. There were sounds of a horse‟s snuffle and a hoof stomping the ground gently. The blanket was removed suddenly and he caught sight of Morsk‟s silhouette. “Go on,“ he said while motioning to the others, get them up. The fat man was dragging a horse behind him,


stroking the mane to keep it calm. It was Ida, Lars‟s the miller‟s mare. With the axe around his waist, the tall one stepped through inside and dropped in the wagon two sacks tied up around the neck, probably filled with wool from Harvoth‟s shed. He darted his eyes towards Alcast. “Was he a problem?“ he growled towards Morsk. Morsk shook his head to say no. Alcast tried to hide his fear, although he was all sweaty what with tensing up. The bearded one threw a couple of sacks in the wagon and „one eye‟ tossed turkey hen whose neck he snapped. Morsk was looking at them judgmentally. “Is that it?“ The old man thrust himself up in the wagon and then turned to him. “They were dirt poor,“ he muttered ill-humouredly. “Outside of the raggedy horse, there wasn‟t anything much.“ “That‟ll do,“ the fat man mumbled while moving the horse to the care of the giant and climbing in the wagon as well followed by the hirsute with large hands. The fat man of course had some difficulty lifting his girth. “Grundt, you‟re coming up behind us, on horse,” said the half blinded burglar to the brute. He agreed. “And keep your eyes open!“ “Grundt”, Alcast said to himself without meaning to. The name was a perfect fit – “it sounds just like a thump”, Alcast thought while hearing Morsk climbing at the head of the wagon. Morsk lapped to the horses and they were in quiet motion. The horses may have been old but they were well trained. Alcast flinched and directed gaze and the pleas in it towards the head of the brigands. The old man gave him a grumpy look. “Listen kid,“ said the old man calmly, “be still and we‟ll be good. If you listen to me, in a few hours maybe we‟ll let you go.“ Alcast stared deeply, full of hope. The master seemed to be speaking the truth.


They travelled a good couple of hours, rocked by the old wagon, rickety at every hinge. The pale moon had gone up for some time, making it‟s way through the clouds, tossing threads of dim light everywhere. Strange rays would come in through the holes in the hood barely setting light to the wagon. Alcast kept cursing himself for not going his usual route coming into the village; if only he‟d have done so, he‟d be sleeping like a bear this very moment, belly fully stocked and clear of any any danger. This way though, he was neatly tied up, with a stomach harassed by hunger, abducted and taken who knows where by a band of thieves. Surely his folks were worried sick since he didn‟t turn up with the setting sun. Maybe they were looking for him. Then again, even though the wagon left huge tracks, he knew it wasn‟t easy at all to track someone at night. Not to mention that the thieves had a considerable head start of a couple of hours. He let out a grieved sigh, realizing that even if his father might have started after the wagon and assuming he would have found the signs of their passing, darkness would have slowed him down beyond measure. Even if he tracked them proper, unless the bandits stopped somewhere for a few hours there were slim chances of catching up with them. In the meantime, the three thieves in the wagon started telling stories. They put out a pouch of mead and after a few mouthfuls their tongues untied altogether; somehow seeming less grizzly than in the beginning thereby putting Alcast at some ease. From time to time, telling of some amusing adventure, they would speak with the ones outside, with Morsk, who was driving the wagon and with Grundt, who was coming up behind them astride, laughing merrily together at the yarns they were spinning. The flask was


also making trips to the outside of course, to the other two and as it got empty their laughing would get richer. Morsk warned them each time they would pass by some settlement to keep their traps shut and so they would start muffling their mirth; especially the fat man and the big beard, since the old man was content to smile under his chin. He seemed the sort of man that wouldn‟t hold back on laughing but who didn‟t enjoy half baked things. But Alcast was in no mood for tall tales. The hours were passing by the thieves, without their notice; they didn‟t care to stop anywhere. Meantime, the atmosphere relaxed when naturally the contents of the flask ran out so they went to sleep. Not before telling the ones outside that on the next stop they will be switching places to allow them to rest for a few hours. Because of the fatigue, being still and in the dark for a long time even the boy fell asleep a few times. But he would wake up startled every time mostly only after a few moments, the gag irritating him something awful. On the other hand the wagon hosted a three snore contest, each one inside trying to surpass his neighbor. After a few hours (hours that seemed endlessly for the boy), Morsk stopped the wagon and started growling at the ones snoring inside interrupting them brutally. “Wakey, wakey you drunkards,“ he hissed and jumped from the head of the wagon. Alcast heard the giant dismounting. The old man opened his eyes first, better said, one eye, since that‟s all he had. After him the big bearded fellow rose and mumbled displeased. The tall one pulled the blanket from the back of the wagon – his massive profile silhouette appeared before the boy on the starry back light. “Is this one still sleeping?“ he asked in grumpy voice pointing towards the fat thief still snoring undisturbed. The hirsute nudged him in the ribs. The fat man then wheezed in a most unexpectedly musical way, let


out a huge snore, and then jumped out of his sleep. “Ha?...“ he mumbled in a daze. “We‟re stopping, fatso. Get up!“ the hirsute thief gave him another nudge. The fatso got up on his rear, dazed, eyes mostly closed, as if trying to steal away a few more seconds of sleep. To no avail though. “Are you deaf?“ the tall one raised his voice. This really woke him up. You could see he had no intention of crossing this giant Grundt. “Alright, alright. I‟m up.“ Looking lively the one eyed thief jumped in the grass. “Come on, we‟ve got business,“ he spurred his comrades on. In a few moments, Alcast was left alone in the wagon. His heart was racing again, thinking this was the time when they‟d let him go. It was too dark so there was nothing he could discover on the face of the old chief as he got down from the wagon. But maybe he was just sleepy and not altogether up. Of a sudden a thought took over him giving him chills. Hadn‟t they in fact stopped because they meant to kill him? His heart froze as he caught himself thinking of this. No, he said to himself after reflecting for a few long seconds. It wouldn‟t make any sense. They didn‟t need to come to a halt to do him in. They could have gutted him while ridding the wagon; without slowing down the horses and dumped him out on the trail. So he let go of the macabre thinking possessing him and tried to cool off, persuading himself he was safe. The blanket was moved aside making Alcast flinch again. It was Morsk. He threw a quick look and stretched an arm grabbing the turkey hen from the floor. Thereafter he looked through the sacks, found the skewers somewhere under them and went away. Alcast was relieved. So, they were making a stop to eat. Sure enough a fire could be seen and the grumpy


brigand voices were heard. They were having a muffled argument – something to do with cooking the hen, but it was hard to make out what they were saying exactly. Actually, he wasn‟t really paying attention because his mind was all crowded with too many thoughts. Gathering some courage he tried to force the bonds as much as he could. No success, of course. Again and again, and again. He cursed in a whisper something you couldn‟t quite make out – the damned fatso had been responsible about the bondage. Realizing that he never stood a chance to loosen the rope, he stood still trying to quell his fear. And his rancor on top of that. After a bit of time a sweet roasted meat aroma came in from outside. He felt sick with hunger. He‟d been famished since the evening and now it was well past midnight – by a couple of good hours. The brigands were chatting incessantly, keeping up with the tale telling about all sorts of things. Alcast however, was in no mood to listen to them. Not one story put a shadow over any of them. “They‟re all singing their praise” muttered he spitefully, trying to ignore the rapture of the smell which was becoming maddening for that matter. After less than half an hour the chicken was wholly fried and the thieves were gulping it down. Tortured with the hunger, Alcast made his stoic defense against the chewing assault outside, trying mightily to ignore them. At one point after a few interminable minutes Grundt‟s grumpy voice was heard in astonishment… “What are you doing?“ A moment of silence ensued. “I‟m taking a piece to him, he must be famished.“ It was the fat man‟s voice. “Well if that don‟t beat all,“ Grundt objected and the sound of him spitting bitterly was heard. The spittle sizzled heavy. “So now we‟re wasting good food on his worthless hide…“ “Leave him be,“ said Morsk chewing further. “He‟s just a kid anyhow.“


“Some waste, anyway,“ added the half blind robber. “Look at the size of it. How much can he spoil? You‟d better open the flask and take a swig too, so it‟ll sit well with you.“ He heard footsteps coming closer and in the background Grundt‟s muttering, appeased somewhat by the chief‟s proposal. The blanket was moved aside and the fat man appeared holding a flat bowl in his hand. “I brought you something too kid,“ he said with a smile on his face. Alcast was cringing from the hunger. While stretching the other hand the fat man pulled the gag under the kid‟s chin who in turn coughed a few times. “Well, how am I going to eat this way?” he could barely say it what with a dry mouth, turning a bit so that the fatso could remember he‟d tied his hands behind him; and well. “Oh,“ and the fatso lifted his shoulders bemused. “You‟ve got your point.“ He put the bowl down next to the boy and barely shoved himself inside the wagon. “Oy, pot belly, need any help?“ Grundt made himself heard; everyone else chuckled. Heavily perspiring, the fatso managed to hoist himself up in the wagon, almost rolling on his belly. “To hell with y‟all,” he grunted with spite and neared the boy. “Give me your hands.” He untied the kid quickly and with an unsuspected dexterity. Alcast measured him with his eyes, rubbing his numb wrists trying to get his blood flowing again. Thousands of stingers started running under his skin without control. “Water?...“ The fat man held the waterskin out to him. The boy took a couple of mouthfuls of the cold water and set it beside him. “Thanks,” he said in a low voice. But he was still sore over the fatso positioning


himself between the entrance and him blocking his way with his girth. If it hadn‟t been that way, he‟d have given the meat up and ran straight out. If it would have been anyone else but him sitting in the entrance, there would have been room to run; but not past this one. He kept swallowing and stuck with the meat which seemed safer than escape – so rather than make his attempt and lose the meat he decided he would at least get something. So he leaned forward, took the chicken and sunk his teeth in it without further contemplation. The fatso was staring at him endeared, seeing him rip through the meat, as famished as he was. “Well now, was I right about you?!“ he said satisfied and slapping his knee with his hand. “What‟s your name, kid?“ “Alcast,“ the boy mumbled in-between gulps. “Is he eating?“ the half-blind one was heard from without. “He‟s eating, he isn‟t any kind of fool,“ said the fat man amused. “Quit joking around! Keep your eyes on him!“ That of course was Grundt. “Nag,” the fat man said, and winked at Alcast, to be heard and seen by the kid alone. “Big and stupid…“ He could not but agree with him but he hid his approval. The maypole wasn‟t to his. As for a possible escape, he decided to try only after his stomach was full. Maybe the fatso would go out, or at least budge a little out of the way. Or maybe he‟d get called out by his brothers for a drink of the hard stuff. The food was barely over when the crowd outside started making noises to the end of their departure; rising and gathering the skewers. “Come on boys, no more snoozing,“ the voice of the one-eyed thug sounded among the camp. The regular assenting growls ensued though lacking any enthusiasm. Alcast could barely swallow at this point. The fatso wouldn‟t let up from staring at him.


“Good, isn‟t it?“ It certainly was good, being burnt proper but after eating it he didn‟t care about that at all. These were not your mediocre thieves. The rest stop had been very short and only allowed for food and the shift in position so they can keep the advantage of their head start against any possible pursuers. Even if he‟d have found the tracks, his father had no way of gaining up on them, taking into account the rate these brigands were moving at. The blanket was suddenly pulled away. “Well, how‟s our prisoner?“ It was the big beard; satisfied smile showing big on his face, shoving the fat one aside and tossing the skewers inside the wagon. Then followed the bread sack which landed near the skewer. “He was famished,“ said the fatso. “What, haven‟t they been kind to you where you come from, boy?“ There was no way to try and run now that there were two of them there. And they hadn‟t even sat around chatting long enough to get drunk. With the amount of sobriety going around he could see no way for escape. He swallowed and that was it. “You said you‟ll let me go,” he barely managed to get it together and put the bowl down. “Get a load of this, he speaks,“ Grundt‟ voice suddenly came on the scene. The one eyed thief also came closer after a few moments. The fatso tossed the kid a look. “We‟ll let you go, don‟t you worry, just not now. Right boss?“ he ventured turning towards their chieftain. Grundt felt the need to retaliate but „one eye‟ stopped him with a silent gesture. “Why would you want to ruin your mood with a bad temper?” the old man mildly scolded him. “Wasn‟t the hen good?” The hirsute smiled at Morsk who had come by the wagon while Grundt said nothing further and busied


himself trying to squeeze the drink in a corner. The chief turned toward Alcast. “Boy, we‟ve got nothing against you, except for your bad luck to run into us. That‟s it. If it‟s any comfort, you‟re likeable enough to me – but were not letting you go. Not yet, at least.“ The boy felt as if desperation gripped him again. “You lied to me,“ Alcast said with a trembling voice looking each of the brigands in the eyes. Morsk smiled bemused. “Yes, so?“ he replied gaving a laugh. “We‟re thieves; what do you expect?“ “We‟ll keep you a while longer,“ said the fatso trying to man him up. “Not long, be at ease.“ “Maybe a few days, so we can get good and clear of your village,“ Morsk carried on carelessly. “A few days?... But you promised…“ Grundt spat to the side to make a point. “Must you take the gag off his mouth?“ he snapped at the fatso. “So we can hear him whine like a wench asking for it?“ “How did you expect I feed him, smart ass?“ fatso stood up to him. “Come on, leave the boy in peace.“ The one eyed chief was amused and smiling. “At least one of us likes you,” he said to Alcast. “He may be thick but he‟s got a big heart.“ The big beard laughed. “If that don‟t beat all,” he said. “Fatso‟s taking an apprentice!“ The boy was stomped. “Apprentice?“ he mumbled. Morsk nodded. “Well, he‟s always nagging us about getting himself an apprentice. Maybe it‟s time, no?“ “You‟re wondering what I could teach you?“ the fatso said to the kid, full of himself. “Heh heh,” he said tapping his belly looking wise, “thieving is not for everyone, kid. It‟s a tough trade…”


Morsk contemptuously snorted and swung himself past the wagon. “Come on now, we‟ve no time for fables here. Let‟s shift so we can go!“ “I‟ll move the horses,“ the fatso offered. Suspiciously quick. The one eyed chief grinned. “Oh, no you don‟t; you‟ll fall asleep like a bear again and drive us into some ravine. You go in the back.“ “Oh come on; it happened only once and you‟re not letting me off the hook. Ufff…“ But he ceased to argue. The big beard made a gesture of dismissal towards him and made a spritely jump at the head of the wagon, pleased that he‟d lead the horses this time. “Off we go,“ said the one eyed thief. “The sun‟s up in a few hours.” Grundt climbed on the wagon as well. He bent over grabbing a bit of the rope from the ground and tossing the kid one of his customer looks. Alcast shuddered without meaning to. “Give me your hands boy,“ the big one grumbled and the kid did so obediently and silently. “Don‟t you get any ideas…“ And he started fastening the binds, this time hands front. The half blind one also got in the front and gave the ruffian leading a critical look. “You don‟t have to break his wrists,“ he said while sitting on the sack. Grundt tightened his lips. You could hear the fatso breathing heavily while trying mightily to saddle up. The mare was moving about, irritated by his lack of command. “Don‟t you worry,“ the big guy mumbled towards their chief. So he tightened the knot further; awfully hard, jolting another shudder into Alcast. With a snap, the wagon started along the road. The night was going to be long.


Chapter II

hey had been travelling for a full day and the thieves had not endured to release him yet. Alcast began to really be concerned, fearing more and

more for his safety. He tried to entreat them to let him go, but his pleas were unsuccessful. Moreover, Grundt threatened to stick that cloth in his mouth again and the boy was pacified. All he had left was to wait, but he was so thoroughly consumed by the tension, more than the fatigue or sleep deprivation.

He was still afraid that this story was just another one of their lies and actually the thieves would have an entirely different plan so far as he was concerned. Maybe they wanted him to be their shield in case they were caught up with, or maybe they sought to sell him as a slave to some tribe that was in the habit of holding captives, who knew? Anyhow, none of the options was worth much consideration, since he had no further intention to wait. He was hoping a moment would show itself sooner rather than later, in which by profiting from the thieves‟ carelessness he could untie himself and make scarce. This ought to be done while still close enough to the village so as not to run the risk of getting lost, starve or even be attacked by some wild beast. Shivering, he was stalking for such a moment with baited breath hoping he wasn‟t far from it. Night though, came swiftly, making the boy taste hopelessness again. Moreover, hunger was really grilling him something fierce since the thieves themselves were running out of anything to eat. He‟d gnawed on a stale

T


piece of bread through the day and this only because the fatso couldn‟t bare eating without breaking some of his own bread away for the kid. Late in the night, he barely fell asleep, tortured by fear and hunger, lulled by the wagon on the bumpy road. After another day of trudging this way, without any gain for the thieves; nothing coming to anything, they stopped in the afternoon by the side of a river. As the water wasn‟t too deep and the hunger was pulling at their wits end, a few of them tried to catch fish with their bare hands. You‟d have thought they were entirely loony. However the decision was not taken on account of the drinking but on account of their being much very sober – this made the kid wonder. Even greater was his amazement when he saw the thieves weren‟t joking with their attempts and as it turned out, they were hellishly good at it. The fish would hide under the rocks, sleeping and if you paid attention you could make them out through the crystalline water. The brethren were careful not to put their backs to the sun quite a long way from setting, not to scare them with their shadows on the trembling waives and were carefully closing in, putting their hands gently under the water. Because the rocks were chosen for hiding places, their undersides were enclosures protected from all sides but one; the fish had no escape, except through the front, which was very much to the fishermen‟s delight. As a result, in a short time, one by one they started to throw their prey on the shore – either a spotted trout or a small chub. No two ways about it, after an hour they had really brought in quite the impressive catch which astonished the boy even further. Meantime, they got a fire going and began to peal the scales, all of them being very hungry. The sun still had an hour before coming up by the time they were stuffing themselves full with the skewer fried fish. Not being as a good a fisher as the others, while his brothers were doing the catching, the fatso went out into


the forest looking for some birds nests and emptied them of eggs. While the fish was being fried he arranged the eggs in the ash – more than twenty of them – after he let them bake enough time, he cooled them off in the river to make the pealing easier. All in all they had done terrific. The fish smelled damn well and the eggs, though small, were given a good reception. While protecting his bowl with great care to his chest, fatso brought a big fish, two eggs and a snag of old bread, all on some bark for the kid to eat. Upon arrival they had taken him down from the wagon and had tied him to the wheel with a bit of a longer robe, so he could stretch his legs. His hands however, were fastened tight as usual; so the fat one untied him for the time being so the kid could eat but quickly fastened the rope around his leg not letting him out of his eye. Although Alcast had staked it on the fat one being the same to bring him food, he hoped to catch a moment‟s lack of attention on his behalf; as it turned out the bulge wasn‟t stupid at all and would not take any chances, following his smallest move like a copper. He kept his eyes on him all the while they had been eating, telling stories about all sorts, until Alcast had spitefully licked the last bone; then the fat one tied his hands back the way they were and turned quickly to the fire and his comrades. After catering to their bellies, they proceeded to go after the drink and the fatso was not the kind going to fall short of the occasion. And so it was: they all got drunk that evening and told stories of their own fabling while the boy was roasting, thinking continuously of his direly unpleasant state. Because of his fatigue and more surely, because of his satisfied belly, he fell asleep with his back to the wheel and his head on his chest. The big beard awoke him, soaked with booze and barely keeping it together half of him inside the back of the wagon and half outside, looking hastily for something and muttering


meanly. Seeing him up close, Alcast woke up entirely. “It‟s been two days…” he dared to say. The other one didn‟t even bother to look at him. “Yeah, so?“ he snapped all woozy while audibly turning things upside down in the wagon. Likely he had not had enough of the liquor (booze) and was looking for more. His rasp voice was becoming deeper being greased with the drink, really showing how little he felt like talking. Despite this, the boy summoned himself. “I want to go home,” he said trying to hide his fear. “Don‟t you think I‟ve gone enough with you? Two days…” The thief smacked his lips contemptuously and went on rummaging through the wagon. “Two days and two nights,” he said mocking him, amused at his poor attempt at humor. Alcast pursed his lips out of spite. He was utterly irritated by the other one‟s carelessness. “Why won‟t you let me go?” he said huffily. The hirsute suddenly stopped and put his head out in the open full of bewilderment, staring at the boy for a few seconds as if he was a bug. He was as drunk as they come and it seemed this line of questioning would spoil his good spirits. “We‟ll let you go… tomorrow,” he said wobbly. Suddenly he remembered something and frowned: ”Where the hell is that flask?” He kept going through the wagon muttering irritated indistinguishable words. No one is greedier than a drunkard who can hold his booze. “Why tomorrow?” the boy dared again. “Why not today? You don‟t need me anyway.” He controlled his voice to sound even more convincing. “You are already far from my village.” The thief turned his loaf from under the blanket and stared for a few moments caught unawares. Then he winked at him with complicity.


“If you‟d tell me where the drink was I‟d let you go right now,” he cracked wise and started grinning bemused. All of a sudden Alcast felt desperation grab a hold on him. The last days had been simply a living hell, and the uncertainty, hunger and tormenting fear made him feel even more hopeless. He didn‟t even know if he could find he way back home as easily as that, since he had no idea which direction they had taken let alone which area they were in right now; having been tied up inside the covered wagon all the while. Besides this, the brigands‟ drinking bouts and the care free manner with which they treated the question of his release, was almost enough to drive him mad. The bonds on his hands and legs did nothing to improve his state of mind. Not to mention that his hands were stiff again and his ankles had swollen. He wasn‟t even sure he could run anymore in case he managed through some miracle, to escape. “Please,” he pleaded, “it‟s been two days now. I won‟t get anyone on your tracks, I swear. I only care about getting home…” “Shut your trap already,” the thief muttered and started going through the wagon again. ”You‟re really annoying boy! Aha!” He‟d found the flask at long last. He‟d come out entirely from under the tilt‟s blanket and took two steps into a puddle. He lifted it for a few moments and as if it were a glorious banner and looked at it greedily. “Untie me, please,” said Alcast as if trying to bend his will to that of his own – his tone had changed, perhaps relying on the thief being pretty drunk. “The others won‟t know a thing. You can tell them I escaped. Or… better yet, don‟t say anything to them,” he said hurriedly. “You‟ll just go back to the fire with the drink and… by the time their back at the wagon, I‟ll be long gone. No one will suspect you of anything.” This time the big beard turned to him with a dumbstruck look.


“What did you say maggot?” he said sorely, maiming words being as drunk as he was. “Let you go?... What? With nothing in it for me?” “Well,” Alcast was at odds with this. “I‟ve got nothing with me.” “WELL,… you don‟t,” the hirsute was now mocking him. “So then? What‟s in it for me?” The look he gave him made Alcast feel powerless. You could see he didn‟t give two pennies on him, on the fact that he was just a kid, that they‟d kidnapped him from his village away from his family. He simply didn‟t care for anything but his booze. The expression on his face belonged to a dumb drunkard, it irritated him all the while during this stupid discussion – all of a sudden Alcast got angry. He felt rage taking hold of him recklessly, so strongly that he if it hadn‟t been for the ropes he‟d have jumped straight for the throat. For a moment, the feeling amazed even him, but it seemed to come from the deepest recesses as if trying to take over him. No, not trying actually, as he was soon to realize, simply taking over him. His blood started to race through his veins and his face become very hot. As did his chest. Instead His forehead, seemed to get very cold, very quick as if he had a cold piece of metal placed there after it had sat in the snow for a time. Still, rather chilly than cold. “If you keep pestering me, I‟ll gag you again, you mongrel,” the hirsute threatened him with his flask hand, waving it before his nose. The boy felt his heart swell in his chest as if ready to break through it. His temples were throbbing something mighty and his eyes were all aflame. He had no idea what was going on but his mind was refusing to ask that question again. He stopped fighting this odd state that enveloped him and to which he surrendered in a split second. A strong sharp noise settled in his right ear, growing and with it the immense throbbing in his temples. For a second he felt he was going mad.


All of a sudden everything froze. The sharp noise was deafened by a heavy death like silence; his heart stopped still in his chest, his gaze dove towards the inside of the thief‟s eyes turning them to stone as a snake would. Even the surounding noises seemed to have been muted completely. They could only hear one another‟s breathing as if the world wasn‟t there anymore, as if it had suddenly ceased to exist, melting every sound from it in a blink of an eye. Or, if this seemed to be only an impression, it was as if the world was locked in an invisible bubble, protecting them from any trace of noise around – as if they were both trapped in a strange arena. As Alcast opened his mouth, every word he tried to utter was burning his conscience inside out – transforming everything, as if his speeches would make things again, from their origin, after his own liking. “Untie me, now,” he hissed. “Let me go home.” The big beard tried shaking the chills caused by the deep voice that was piercing his head – he was staggering on his feet as he was staring at his eyes. He began to breath intermittently. “Take the knife and cut my bonds,” Alcast ordered with a low, quaking voice. The thief was staring, terrified and dropped the bottle. It fell down without a sound into the thick grass. “By the Gods…” he whispered devoid of any will. The boy‟s gaze was burning his brains, as if making him forget who he was. His hand went all on its own towards the knife on his hip, all together moved by some other will than his own, a will that he could not oppose. He couldn‟t move his legs from the ground; nor could he unlatch his eyes from Alcast‟s gaze which held him captive. His thoughts were being crushed, one by one as if they were nuts; his mind being shredded to pieces, weak as it was already, on account of the liquor. “Cut my bonds,” Alcast said again, this time with growing wrath in his voice.


All of a sudden the hirsute saw his eyes get as red as a beast of the abyss, of Darkness and the smooth child‟s cheeks turned into terrifying wrinkles bursting into myriad of flashes. He let out a horrified gasp. The little of his mind that had remained was struggling like a bird caught in a chain, tormented by the doom of a horrible death. Of a sudden the last shred of his will, found in some unknown and numb recess painfully broke off the entire net that was holding him prisoner – setting him free. Among the fumes of the drink and the angst of the moment, his hand no longer went for the knife to cut the boy‟s bonds. Instead, he went for the bat leaning against the wagon‟s wheel; it was closer, longer and more certain than the dagger – and so he thought, with the last ounce of reason left in him: that he could hit from afar, without coming close to the beast in front of him. He yelled menacingly and desperately while he was swirling it above his head with a swift motion and let it crumble on the boy‟s skull. Alcast collapsed without a sound. “Hey!” the voice of the one eyed thief pitched in. “What‟s going on there?” The bearded fellow staggered a few steps back almost running, and froze, gawking at the fainted boy. He was shivering from all his joints as if he was jittery. The others hurried towards the wagon, not knowing what had happened on the other side since the big beard‟s horror shriek and the silence that followed weren‟t a good omen at all. “The little snot was trying to escape! I told you!” Grundt was bellowing. They all came along, barely standing, trying to seem as menacing as possible although it was plain to see that their anger was mixed with the alcohol which made it seem all quite hilarious).When they saw the kid laying down breathless beyond the wagon with a cracked skull and their mate holding the bat, they were stupefied, not


knowing what to think. „One eye‟ was the first to come to. “What‟s wrong you, nut?” By now he was shouting: “You cracked his head!” So he bent over to check if he had died. Fatso raised his hands to his head. “He‟s done him in?” he mumbled. After quickly feeling the boy‟s neck for a pulse, the one eyed brigand shook his head to say no. “Narg, what the hell is wrong with you?” Morsk said seeing his constricted face. He drank as well but wasn‟t was drunk as the others. Narg‟s expression really frightened him so he stepped closer to him. Once close, he grabbed his arm trying to calm him down. As soon as he did that the hirsute fellow seemed to come back from an ugly dream and he started howling with horror jumping back clutching at the bat as if ready to whack someone. “Oy, what‟s wrong with you? Have you gone mad?” Grundt shouted angrily and raised his hands to his chest ready to defend or attack as required. The one eyed old man got up from Alcast as fast as he could, staggered being drunk and leaned against Morsk‟s shoulder. The others instinctively clustered together, not knowing what was coming next. Terrified, with his hair a mess and a crooked mouth, Nark really looked frightening. “It‟s us brother,” „One eye‟ uttered, very much impressed by what occurred. He took a step closer, paying attention to the club in his hands. It seemed that the more he advanced, the more he woke up. “Narg, drop the club,” Morsk stepped in motioning to the others to take it slow. Hearing Morsk, he blinked a few times only now giving sings that he would recognize them. He took a few deep breaths as if shaken by a spasm and let the air come out of his lungs with a loud howling noise. The next moment had him let go of the club.


“His fa… his face changed,” he stuttered with hoarse voice and no meaning – but he never go to finish. „One eye‟ quickly stepped up to him and thrust a mighty fist swiftly under his jaw which threw him away. “Maybe that will change your face, you idiot!” he shouted, enraged. Dazed, Narg was trying to get up from the grass. “That sure sobered him up!” Morsk said and pulled his chin suggestively. Grundt spat to his side full of spite. “No, no,” the big beard shook his head with desperation, “you don‟t understand! The boy!... The boy is cursed!” The others were looking at him confounded. “You‟re not getting any more booze to my dying day,” Grundt mumbled it as a conclusion. Meantime, the fatso kneeled down next to Alcast, trying to bring him back to his senses. “He cracked his head, this crazy fool!” he said noticing blood flowing from the top of his head. “The idiot lost his mind!” the one-eyed thief said fiercely and came forward towards Narg. He managed to lift himself from the ground, trembling on his feet, partly because of the liquor, partly because of the heavy punch from his boss, partly because of the terror that had settled in his bones eating away at him from the inside. “Fregann, listen to me,” he said horrified, still trembling wholly. “I mean it: his face changed, his eyes… Ghost eyes… Red...” “The hell are you mumbling there, loon?” He took him by the collar shaking him something fierce. Still, the big beard seemed to be more afraid of the fainted boy than the fists of their leader, because he kept looking over Fregann‟s shoulder, trying to get sight of the place where Alcast lay – as if he was afraid the boy would rise from the ground at any moment. “You drank your mind away like a goon!” „One eye‟


was shouting in his face and he came close to him, so close that their noses touched. “If you ever raise your hand at me” – he was shouting and spitting at the same time – “I‟ll tear it right out of your shoulder you son of a bitch…” “Listen to me,” Narg was now whispering, full of horror. “I heard his voice in my head, Fregann, and I swear it wasn‟t human…” “If you say one more word I‟ll wring your neck!” the one eyed brigand shouted at him shaking him so much he lost his own balance. “Spare us your drunkard crap!” “Fregann…” the bearded one made another shy attempt. “Shut it!!!” the old man howled and tossed him a few steps back. Narg tripped on his own feet but leaned against a tree somehow managing not to fall over. “Not another word out of you, do you understand me?” Fatso threw Narg a look full of contempt. “I didn‟t think you were so idiotic, Narg”, he said full of resentment. “To actually hit a kid this way…” “And one who is tied up tightly,” Morsk added contemptuously picking the club up. “Some man…” Still in shock, Narg stopped trying to defend himself. Disoriented, he forced his mind to comprehend what had occurred, what he felt, what had terrified him half mad. The fact that none of his mates believed him only sowed in his soul a peculiar kind of doubt. The fumes left from the liquor weren‟t helping any. He stood still beside the tree, carried away by his thoughts, turned to stone by the fact that he couldn‟t find any explanation for what had happened. “Let‟s take the boy in the wagon,” he heard the fatso speak to Fregann. “Let‟s tend to his wound somehow.” Pressed with worry, he began to untie the bonds on the kid. The old man came closer looking to help him carry Alcast; Morsk however swiftly put a hand on his back. “Let me,” he said bluntly.


Fregann stared at him for a moment. “You‟re right,” he mumbled. “I‟m a little of balance with the booze” – he concluded and took a step back. Morsk seemed steadier, indeed. He was just a little dazed, not so liquored up as the others, so he could carry the boy better than all the others. With fatso‟s help he lifted the boy on his shoulder – the kid seemed like a rag doll, his arms falling lifelessly to the side. Fatso was really touched so he let out a deep sigh. “I didn‟t think you were such a bastard Narg,” he said resentfully giving him a really nasty look over his shoulder. “Oh quit giving yourself bad blood,” Morsk said sick to death. Unmoving, caught up with the whirl of events Narg let his eyes fall to the ground – despairing over the fact that he was no longer sure of what he‟d seen, what he‟d heard, everything getting mixed up in his mind. Looking at him with contempt Grundt spat to the side. … He was traveling above the mountain peaks at amazing an speed, like he was carried by the midnight winds, as if he was a night wraith. The sky went dark, trapped lightning was bursting captive in the massive clouds. Strange visions went swiftly before the boy’s eyes, dizzying and waking him at the same time, lashing out at all his numb senses. …He saw huge unknown settlements filled with tall warriors, about two heads above normal men in height… … He saw war machines that his mind couldn’t understand, fire and lava spitting machines just like those from the fire mountain found in the distant island of Krewstya; weapons that could kill with cold light just like the death bringing spells of a black mage… …He saw maimed men and scorched earth full of


smoldering ash everywhere… …He saw huge soulless birds, vengeful spirits, taking flight towards the summits while valleys burned away… …He saw forests being destroyed wholly by a fierce fire curse, with charred stumps, dying trunks and smoking animal carcasses… …He saw spirits roaming the air, ghosts and dark wraiths howling and yelling in search of prey… … He saw a world of nightmares, a nameless war, giant warriors and men of the Midnight clenched in a conflict never before known… … And beyond all his visions, he saw a world of flying and crawling creatures; running and slithering, all shapes and all sizes, all kind of faces, each more hideous than the other; howling, cursing, cruelly laughing and all of them brought in by some great nether whirlwind that was sweeping everything in its path swallowing all of these creations with fantastic speed… …He saw this huge whirlwind following its own root, hungrily carrying all of these captive spirits and ghosts, getting smaller and smaller in its flight... … Over the burned mountains and the rivers of boiling water he would fly after the whirlwind, desirous to find its root… …He saw it coming closer to the earth, saw it hasten to feed its matrix… he was flying behind it… … He saw a faceless man, he saw the whirlwind disappearing behind his eye sockets, and the man stretched his hand towards the boy menacingly… …He’d seen everything and then for a time he ceased to see anything, as if his eyes were taken from him,… his sight stolen… …He was falling screaming into a bottomless pit, in a horrifying world which he hadn’t been able to comprehend at all…


Alcast barely opened his eyes. A searing pain nested on the top of his head and his temples were pounding with a vengeance. Half knocked out, he was unable to get a grip on what had happened. He realized only that he was in a wagon, bumping down a road full of potholes, surrounded by some men that he couldn‟t recognize, and… that was it. It was like a foggy dream full of bits of thoughts that were racing through his mind at great speeds, dazing him more than the bumps on the road. The fat guy in front of him was the first to notice that he‟d opened his eyes and he greeted the boy by generously unveiling his crooked teeth. “He‟s up brothers,” fatso was all cheered up of a sudden and he rose from the sack that was giving him a rest, coming a little closer. “You‟ back to life, kid?“ The giant that spoke was a dark, strong guy with a deep and powerful voice. Although he was frowning Alcast could feel he was making attempts to look friendly. He wanted to say something but it was hard to find the words – he was confused, dazed and his head was humming. He noticed an older but sinewy fellow, with a sharp chin and blind of one eye, that was sitting next to the thurse. He kept staring at him without a word. In the meantime that fat one got near him and crouched, looking him over very carefully. “Well, how is it?“ he asked. “Where am I?“ the boy managed to say running his hand through his hair. He suddenly stopped. He ran into the place where his head was broken – even though the thieves had washed him his hair was still clogged and sticky with dry blood. “Where the hell would you be?“ the big fellow mocked him. “On the roads, always on the roads…“ Alcast was stunned. “But how…“ He stopped and looked at each one at a time as if he was trying to remember them. Nothing. Only a muted


pain in his head and a feeling of emptiness. “The chief patched you up,“ fatso said. “He‟s good at that.“ Alcast blinked slightly. “Who are you all?” he said confused. Fatso was staring bewildered. “Oh come on, quit joking kid,“ the „one eye‟ retorted. “We‟re not youngens to fall for that.“ The boy tried to get up but quit right off – his head had a strong hum and his knees weren‟t any support. “What do you mean who are we? What‟s with the joke?” the fat one was trying to seem amused. He couldn‟t make it though since he saw the eyes of the boy really seemed not to recognize them. “I am serious,“ the kid said making a face due to the pain. “I‟ve no clue who you are.“ Outside of this, their raggedy clothes made him wonder, noticing that he was otherwise dressed rather tidily compared with their lot. He couldn‟t figure what he was doing there with these people; what bothered him most was the fact that he couldn‟t remember anything, not even the moment he woke up existed.). This thought particularly gave him chills, creating a big empty space in his stomach. “I can‟t believe it,“ the „thurse‟ was astonished. “Are you trying to pull one over us, bug?“ The old man nudged him in the ribs interrupting his cynicism. The thurse quickly turned to him not understanding the hint, but Fregan man just threw him a suggestive look of his own and quickly brought his eyelids closer together to turn him into an accomplice suggesting that he ought to keep his mouth shut. Surprised, the big guy began to frown and he pretended to arrange the sack behind him to make it fit better on his back just to give himself something to do. “Well all right brother,” the one eyed brigand suddenly said towards Alcast, “why on earth did I expect gratitude from you, I don‟t know? Beats me!”


Surprised, the fatso turned to him trying to say something but the old man made a small decisive hand gesture. Although taken by surprise, the plump one could quickly read a man by looking at him and understood on the spot what his boss meant. Alcast kept blinking, rapidly, confused. “I mean we pick you up from the roads, half starved to death, we take you with us, to protect you from being mauled by wild beasts, and now you‟re playing coy?” the half-blind comrade was acting upset. “That‟s good of you, what can I say?” The boy was giving everyone in his view a big look over as if trying to remember. He couldn‟t do it at all and the old man‟s tirade had dazed him even further. “Don‟t you understand I can‟t remember anything?“ he said scared. “Not even,… not even my name.“ The realization really bewildered him. “What has happened to me?” he said while taking his hand to his head again. “Why is my head broken?” “Because you tripped like a hair brain, that‟s why!” Grundt offered stepping into their chief‟s game. “You ought to have learned to stay on your own two feet by now!” The boy looked at his fingers for a while whereon there were a few dried up crimson smudges of blood. “What‟s my name?” he suddenly asked the fatso. He, in turn, hesitated for a moment but quickly came back hiding his embarrassment: “Al… Alcast,“ he said. The boy said the name in his head for a few times moving his lips silently over every letter but to no avail. The name meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. Taking advantage of the kid‟s self absorption, the old man waived an angry hand at the fatso for giving out the boy‟s name. Surprised, the fat one lifted his shoulders helplessly – he knew his mouth had been rambling but there was no mending it now. With contempt, Grundt knocked his


finger against his temple, suggesting in no uncertain terms his assessment of the fat one‟s witlessness. „One eye‟ directed his attention again towards the kid. “Come now, no more kidding around,” he said. “You really don‟t remember anything? Anything at all?” Alcast looked at him in desperation. He shook his head mildly. “That‟s just rich,“ Grundt said looking at his boss with a double meaning. “Isn‟t it?“ “Yeah“, he mumbled so slowly that only the big guy could hear him. “That beats all.“ “How did you find me?“ the kid asked sorely. Fatso tossed an eye to his boss, quickly cleared his voice and took charge, eager to make amends for his previous gaffe. “You were wondering distressed on the road,“ he lied without a shame – which actually got a smile out of the one eyed man knowing how good a liar the pursy one really was. “You just had a small satchel with you. Dying of hunger, lost, working where ever you could for a meal; either cutting wood or knitting baskets, all that nonsense. So we thought a while and figured we‟d take you with us. You can definitely live off of thieving, certainly a lot better than from other things…“ “You‟re thieves?“ Alcast became alarmed. Grundt snorted huffily and the one eyed thief began to laugh. The fat one started to pretend he was offended and propped his hands on his hips to show it. “You know what? You weren‟t complaining before, while looting those villages. Not to mention, you actually liked it.” “I‟ve been stealing?“ the kid was mumbling confused. “O-ho!“ „One eye‟ was roaring with laughter pretending he‟s amused. “Oh boy, you‟ve got class, trust me. You squeeze through places where none of us could ever fit through!” Alcast couldn‟t understand anything at this point. He was completely dazed by what he was hearing. It wasn‟t


bad enough that he was confused over the terrible memory loss now he‟d found that he wasn‟t anything else but a petty thief living his life one day to the next in a pretty shabby company. He was so preoccupied with the stunning piece of news that he didn‟t see the one eyed moocher congratulating the fat one stealthily for his performance; neither did he see him in turn let a big grin bloom on his face, fishing for some praise. “How long have I been with you guys?“ the boy asked with a withered voice. Grundt deemed it the appropriate moment to start speaking as well. “Well, it‟s about two, maybe three months, right, chief?“ „One eye‟ seemed to consider it a second. “More. Almost four.“ Alcast sighed. “Come on, don‟t worry so much,“ fatso comforted him moved by the boy‟s dilemma and especially because Narg had hit him so damn‟ hard. “Your memory will come back to you, you‟ll see. I‟ve seen this sort of thing before and it doesn‟t usually last long to get it back. A few weeks, maybe months…“ Alcast shuddered. It seemed awful to spend so much time without knowing anything about himself. “Come on, let me clean your blood and patch you up a little,” said the one eyed thief in friendship, coming closer to him. “It‟s no big thing, trust me.“ Alcast looked him over questioningly. “Will I be fine?...“ “Certainly you will, don‟t worry about it. You‟ll see, in a few weeks everything will snap back into place, right here in your head,“ and he smiled tapping with his index on the temple of the boy‟s head. “Yeah,” the fatso approved persuasively. “Boss is a real penny dog when it comes to healing. Trust me, he knows what he‟s saying.” Confused, Alcast looked at each of them again, trying


to get accustomed to his situation), hoping that there‟d by some detail that could recall to him who he was. It seemed like a good idea to start with their names. “Remind me again, what are your names?“ he said with a saggy, defeated voice. And so, Alcast became a highwayman in an instant, without suspecting even for a moment that this was all the hair brained scheme of some lying vagabond muggers.


Chapter III

e travelled with them for a few good weeks. The new state of his memory left him feeling a little more than strange – unfulfilled, unknowing,

without a grip. He was like a thirteen year old newly born, a lad without a past.

The images he faced on the road, the thieves he shared his life with, the states of mind he confronted every day, all of it sunk oddly inside of him much like a story begun somewhere in the middle of things, all of it coming together around an unsuspecting feeling buried so deep that it remained both faceless and nameless. It was as if he felt his own life was locked deep down and entirely out of reach. He seemed to weave new memories as a result, since he was unable to recall the old ones. But the new ones were so few, so pale, that the feeling of not knowing who he was became overwhelming. Meantime his new life had its own rhythm to flow by, carrying him with it in a way that seemed completely unknown, however much his helpmates kept telling him every day that he‟d led that life for many months. Hearing them, he would try to force his mind, rummaging for those memories, looking to reveal what he thought was his own. But he was entirely unable to do so, and because of this he was overwhelmed by a strange feeling of guilt, feeling that failure deep into his bones. The fat one, to whom he seemed to have come closest, kept encouraging him as friendly as possible, telling him that things will eventually settle and he will surely heal.

H


But when? After how long? A month? A year? This perspective did not thrill him at all. But he was unable to change anything – it was what it was and there was nothing more to it. So, once in a while, in the evening, as they‟d stop for rest, he would interrogate the fatso to find out more about himself, unbeknownst to him forcing the fat one to manufacture events that he would take for real. Obviously the ruddy one was lying his boots off making his comrades turn their heads more than once trying to mask their smiles and chuckles so as not to let Alcast perceive their ruse. All of them, except the bearded one. He was unable to smile around the boy at all, no matter what the fat one concocted for him. From that day on, even though he had been drunk when the boy terrified him, and even though all of them had said that he‟d been seeing things on account of the drinking, there was a powerful sensation left in his soul making him fear the boy in the strangest way, avoiding him entirely, sometimes refusing to speak to him, sometimes not being clear about why for his own understanding. It has been as an ugly dream, an unbelievable nightmare which had clung to him deeply, and the sensation that everything had really occurred was giving him no respite, making him distant and morose. Alcast had noticed the way he carried himself and of a sudden when they were stopping for rest, he took advantage that the bearded one had left through the forest with Morsk to pick mushrooms for dinner, and he proceeded to question the others why Narg behaved in that way towards him. “Well how do you expect hi not to bear a grudge?“ said the one-eyed grinning bemused while Grundt spat contemptuously to the side as was his habit in such circumstances. “It‟s only because of you that we had to cut his drinking share. He once gorged himself so much that his brains melted and he started seeing things. You really terrified him, kid“ – and he continued to chuckle


mildly, spurned by the fact that the boy understood nothing of his story – “so much so that he yelped like a dumb wench. He swore you had turned into some kind of demon, into a wraith. Can you imagine how soaked he was? He said you had red beast like eyes and spoke in a different tongue!“ He burst into a roar of laughter when he reached this detail. Unlike him, the fat one was keeping busy next to the fire trying to mask his contempt for what had really happened to Alcast and his smashed head. “Anyhow, he can‟t remember much,” the leader went on after a few moments, somewhat milder. “Tho‟ he can‟t let go of it – it‟s because of you we had to halve his mead ration. He‟s not a bad mutt but he can lose his sense when he‟s barreled. So don‟t take it to heart, kid. He‟ll get over it.” Bewildered by what he had just found out especially since he couldn‟t remember anything about the incident spoken of, Alcast tried later on to ask the ruddy one about that episode hoping to winkle out new details. All he could get out of him however was: “Don‟t bother with all the drunkards, he‟s a rattle-head”. This of course was not a statement capable of clarifying things. So, as with many things in his new life, this information also became one of those memories that he was unable to recover at all even though he had learned of it. Just like the scar on the top of his head that he had no clue how it came to be there. He only knew that to be the cause of forgetting all those past years, which was something that kept him unsettled. The portly thief had told him he tripped on the wagon‟s wheel, then cracked his head on a rock. That was it. As for Narg, he once tried talking to him but was rejected glumly and Alcast gave up, leaving him alone without trying to bring up anything that had happened. For the rest, days passed unexpectedly quickly and living with his new companions wasn‟t so bad. However, being always on the road, living off thieving, beyond the


illusory aspect adventure this life had, there was a certain feeling of routine that came with being a thief. They stole what they could, and what came handy: from cattle to horses to small stuff and then they would get back on the road leaving, „as if from a deserted house‟ – like one eyed Fregan used to say. They‟d leave nothing behind of what could be sold however small and insignificant it was. For example, the fat one had once stolen an old sickle, even though he had never intended to work a day in his life mowing the grass. It was so dented and rusty that it wouldn‟t have done the job anyway, even if the fat one had any skill. Which he did not. “Maybe it will come in handy for something,” he made his case. But after two-three weeks of carrying it along with them without managing to trade it even for a mug of ale, One fine day, Grundt got really sore over it and threw it as far as he could cursing his name up and down the place. Eventually, it turned out he‟d stolen it for nothing and the „one eye‟ scolded the fat one for it. “Quit being such a hoarder, Tole,” he made fun of him. “Try to grab only what you can sell you bleedin‟ glutton. We can‟t keep filling the wagon with all your crap until we can‟t fit our behinds!” This was because everything they stole they bartered at markets and never stuck around. Only if, who knows, they would go to some woman for a good time. But they didn‟t often get lucky that way, all of them being horribly greasy which meant that most times they left on the day they finished trading. The markets were usually filled with local peasants which is why the thieves walked for a few days before selling what they had stolen; doing so only as soon as they had come far enough from the places they‟d pillaged. That wasn‟t a sure thing either since they had to hurry and keep moving all the time to avoid the risk of getting caught. Just like he‟d promised, Tole had taken the boy


under his wing and was trying to each him the tricks of the trade. That of course, was how he called it: „the trade‟. Conversely, Alcast found it all very different though. It was down right thieving, no matter what you called it. He seemed to be bothered by it too. Even though he didn‟t know who he was until that night when Narg had whacked him on the head with that bat, he was clearly aware that being a thief wasn‟t who he was. He didn‟t feel any pleasure doing it, and what was more, he thought constantly of the poor folks whose load they had once in a while lightened. When he brought it up with his comrades, one evening when all of them were sitting around the fire, the thieves mocked and bit their fingers at him. “A thief with a conscience,“ Morsk burst out contemptuously while separating juicy meat from a huge bone. “That‟a first!” “You‟re a sap, kid,“ Grundt made his bemused reply. “Then again, why am I surprised? No better student than a teacher,“ and he ended his assessment by tossing Tole a contemptuous look. The fat one made a face at him and tilted his head mocking the thurse silently. The one eyed man was eyeing the kid carefully, while cleaning his grease filled hands on his coat for a couple of moments, as if trying to find his words. “Lad,“ he said, “you have to pay for your school somehow, right?“ And he pointed to Tole ironically. Grundt and Morsk gave it a hearty laughter. “What‟s more,“ (and he started counting the fingers on his hand after the laughter died down) “you have to ransom your transport, shelter, warmth, grub… all of this costs…“ “Not to mention the select comradeship you have access to here,“ said Tole proudly picking his teeth with a splinter. This time the laugther tumbled continuously. Even the one eyed old man was laughing and he didn‟t often laugh, and never otherwise than heartily. Stubbornly,


Narg was sitting back and to the side, quiet, looking askance at everyone. No one bothered with him though, so as not to ruin their mood. After their meal fatso started giving voice to a brigand song, praising their way of life. Better free as a bird than a beast of burden, the lyrics went. That‟s what people were to them: yoked cattle deserving to be relieved of their goods. Morsk stood up and started keeping rhythm, and all of a sudden the others joined in loud singing to the night. Also out of tune, as Alcast noticed. At least giant Grundt had a voice that put shivers in you – not to mention he was unmusical and he could wake the dead with it. Their ruckus, trying to sound like song, was as usual, the prelude of an awful drinking bout. Most always dinner ended with a sizeable feast doused in mead or ale depending on what they managed to steal the previous day and usually that ended when everyone dropped dead drunk. Except for Morsk, who, even though he tasted the drink, never got drunk like his mates. “Someone has to keep an ear out you rummies!“ he used to yell, scolding them more than once. “All because you didn‟t want to get a dog!“ They must have had an unpleasant episode once with one, because they would hear nothing of it every time it was brought up. Later on he found out – from Tole – that they‟d found a big hound once on the roads and they‟d tried to teach it how to keep guard but the dog killed and ate one of their horses while they were sleeping off their crapulence. As they woke up in the morning hung over and saw the half eaten carcass „One eye‟ drove the hound away with a club, angry something fierce. Because the horse had belonged to him and they‟d stuck together for many seasons. So after the incident they started drawing lots to decide who‟ll stand watch. Morsk drew the short stick and everyone felt relieved including the one eyed old man because Morsk didn‟t like drinking and he was the


one to get drunk least of all of them. What was more, everyone else was in full support of it. They surely knew something about this. In a nutshell, he‟d accepted the task making no bones about, saying that a hangover far outweighed the benefits of being drunk and the only thing he was missing out on was a shattering headache the next day. Except that he felt sorry for the horse as well; „cause it had been a hell of a good one. That night, seeing clearly that there was no one to talk to, the kid gave up trying to tell them what was troubling him and minded his business. He realized however that the one eyed thief was right in a way – he had to make up somehow for all these things, it‟s only he‟d have rather worked for them no stealing from villages. It‟s just that he didn‟t know how. As luck would have the fat man‟s proverbial gluttony offered him an opportunity one day. One afternoon they stopped near a hamlet and, while Morsk was guarding the wagon as usual and he was on the lookout at the top of a hill where you could see the surroundings the others went on to heisting. After about an hour, during which time nothing happened on his watch and he got terribly bored, half-blind Fregan, Narg, Grundt and Tole showed up. They hadn‟t been so lucky, but as the fat one used to say haughtily “in times of a draught even the hail is welcome”; meaning something was better than nothing. Narg was holding a few strangled chicken in one hand and a smithy‟s hammer in another – likely he thought of fixing the wagon wheel and make it stop it‟s horrible wracking. By the look of the chicken they would have a good meal in store that evening when once they stopped, even if the chickens were a little scrawny. Behind him, one eyed Fregan was carrying a few animal skins – ferret most likely – and Grundt had a sack on his back but wasn‟t so much pleased with what it contained. As for the fat one, he couldn‟t really see what he was carrying under his arm since he was the last in line. He did notice that the


others were cursing his name up and down under their breath so as not to make too much noise, he saw Tole frantically waiving his arm around as if trying to keep some flies away. The kid got up from the brush and greeted them quickly although without too much heart. “You‟re an idiot,“ he heard Narg scolding the fat one. “What the hell will you do with it?“ “Brothers, this is bad luck by my word,“ said „One eye‟ chewed-up. “Why do you keep picking on me? Did you want me to leave it there, for nothing?“ “Damned hoarder, you want to grab everything!“ Grundt grumbled and spat to his side as was his habit when firing up. “And why on earth did you make me pick up this cabbage?” he turned full of anger towards his boss. “I ain‟t eating this kind of stuff!” “We‟ll give it to the small one, he‟s done nothing today anyhow.“ “Well, I‟ve been guarding against anyone coming,” Alcast quickly defended himself. “What did you expect I do?“ The one eyed old man just shrugged his shoulders. “Better that you‟d have come with us and we‟d have left this numb skull here to guard. He‟s fat as a pig as it is, you can‟t fit him anywhere anymore… Hold these,” and he handed the skins to Alcast. The fat one stepped out of line going two paces to the side to see his old chieftain better. “Although I feel offended,” he began on an academic tone, “it wouldn‟t be so bad to send my apprentice instead of me. He can show what he‟s learned, no?” Only then did the boy see what he was carrying – an old lute wrapped in a brown rag. He jumped. “Give us a break,“ Grundt growled towards the fat man who in turn made another bitter face. “Quit your yapping and let‟s go already,” „One eye‟ began to chide them. “We must get out of here and find


a place to set camp for the night.“ Almost fascinated, the boy came by Tole‟s side. “What‟s this?“ The fat one seemed very please with himself all of a sudden. “Let‟s see you making such a fuss when I learn to play it. Who‟ll be content then?“ Although irritated, Grundt roared into a laughter. “No one will be content you old ground hog, because you‟ll play it horribly.“ Everyone laughed as much as they could. At least they weren‟t upset, which was still something. “You tell him brother,“ Morsk said. Upset, the fat man snapped at them: “This really is offensive,” he grumbled. “Me, unlike y‟all… I have a voice.“ “Fine, fine, keep telling yourself that…” The dispute might have taken longer but they reached the wagon and had no further reason to wait. Moreover, they actually had to go away quickly to avoid any incidents that evening in case one of the villagers became aware of their damages. Which actually were not small. “Hey, enough chatting,“ Morsk muttered. “Let‟s get going.“ „One eye‟ and Grundt each saddled their horses and picked up the pace opening the way. Alcast climbed on the wagon with the fatso who although had been scolded it was obvious he still retained his pride over the stolen lute while Morsk and the bearded one quickly climbed in front of the wagon, got the horses moving and picked off. All evening Alcast couldn‟t take his eyes away from the lute. While in the wagon, the fat one tried without any degree of success to strum something on it but he gave it up depressed after Grundt cursed him horribly a couple of times, solemnly promising to wrap it around his neck if he hears so much as another sound. The ruddy one knew Grundt for far too long to strike a


chord; not with the lute of course, since he had no abilities there, but with Grundt. Not to mention that the brute was pretty high strung so Tole gave up without adding more hay to the fire. He left the lute aside carefully but couldn‟t help bending over to the boy and whispering with contempt: “He has no ear, I‟ll tell you.” That much Alcast knew as well of course, but he couldn‟t out right say it. Grundt was Grundt, and there was no sense at all in confronting him. He preferred not to make any comment whatsoever, though he kept smiling with complicity, offering Tole some satisfaction. The lute, leaned by the cabbage sack had captured his attention. For just a moment the kid was tempted to reach out his hand toward it but he quickly changed his mind. He preferred retiring to his thoughts trying to rummage through his memories. It was already night time when they found a good place to stop over. They had entered a forest at the base of the mountain and when they found a small brook they all decided it were better to spend the night there. Tole and his apprentice gathered the fire wood, as usual, while the others catered to the horses. Sometimes it surprised them how those old rips could carry so much and to show their gratitude every evening they were groomed and strapped with longer ropes so they can graze in peace. Now, having the brook nearby they were tied right next to the water, so they can drink as much as they needed. As soon as the muggers were rid of worrying for them they commenced the preparation of the food since all of them being famished. All in one breath the bearded one dug a hole for the fire and set flat river stones around it. The one eyed old man set some fire wood quickly and after chopping a good deal of splinters with his hunting blade he lit the fire in no time at all. Once the fire was set up, they took


what they needed for dinner out of the wagon: the cauldron, rusty skewers, some old pots, the chicken and even the cabbage that Grundt had huffily cursed. They started boiling the water and after a short while Morsk, rated as the cook of the party started to pluck the chicken. Tole helped him all the while mumbling, as was his way, this time thorough the feathers while Alcast was mincing the cabbage. Morsk had promised a hearty feast even since they were on the road and after a day and a half of walking on an empty stomach, while everyone was working to speed up time, you could hear the desperate growling of their stomachs just like a pitiful paupers choir. They started to boil the cabbage in a cauldron and the three chicken were roasted on the skewers. From their remains, skulls, necks, claws and giblets, Morsk (who never wasted anything) made a smashing cabbage stew, a dish that enjoyed everyone‟s appreciation. Even Grundt had a little taste – after everyone insisted – and admited as well: “this cabbage ain‟t half bad”. So, all in all, they had settled the issue of their bellies even better than expected especially since they had them glued to their spines for the entire day. Life seemed beautiful again. And to end the evening proper, Tole took out the last bottle of mead from the wagon. He sighed while bringing it to his brothers by the fire because he realized that it wouldn‟t be enough for a full bout. But just like his „hail‟ saying went it was still something. So he quit sighing and went on being happy for having found at least one – he couldn‟t bear not having anything to wet those delicious courses. Alcast however, had one unrelenting thought, once he settled his stomach. Having eaten though, he was pestered by something, turning it on all sides in his mind, trying as hard as he could to understand it. But he couldn‟t in the least. He had to try and that was that. So at one point he stood up, left his comrades around the fire and went to the wagon. He felt his heart beating


as it seemed to him, different; a new kind of rhythm, thrilled by the meeting which was about to occur. He couldn‟t explain why he felt this way, why his feet were leading the way; why that most strange craving. He set the blanket aside with a soft gesture and stood motionless for a few moment looking deeply at the lute as if it were a living person, a living creature, an old friend that he‟d almost forgotten and with which now, he was reunited. He took a deep breath, summoned his courage and slowly stretched his hand toward it. A slight tremor began to take hold of him and one of his ears began buzzing. He grew dizzy immediately, but shook his head and the sensation went away almost entirely; he was left with a kind of nameless memory state, without a train of events but one that he couldn‟t escape from at all. Although his hand had been stopped for a moment by this feeling, he still continued to stretch it towards the lute as if driven by a will of its own, a will that he could not resist. Once he touched the wood, he felt shivers, odd and unknown shivers that felt like being found again. He gazed at the crooked instrument in his hand, feeling a strange feeling of being home. Impressed, he sat near the wagon wheel slowly and stood there for a few good moments with the lute in his arms, still, as if he didn‟t know what to do with it. He touched the cords gently, one by one while his left hand started to rotate the keys on its own(,) tuning the instrument swiftly. An odd sensation. Then he stopped still for a moment. Took a deep breath until he could inspire no more, shut his eyes and all of a sudden he let his hands strum for the notes on their own. “Hey, what‟s that?” Morsk‟s amazed voice sounded in. The brigands all became silent upon hearing the lute, swallowing one by one their unsalted jokes and stories, being wholly bewildered by what their ears were hearing.


The lute seemed to tell its own story loosing deep stories from its own soul, containing sweet dirges that would have set stones in motion. Befuddled, one by one rose from beside the fire except Narg who remained grumpy on the log he‟d sat on to begin with; the rest came quickly to the wagon attracted by the song like moths to the light. Grundt was coming at a slower pace, since he couldn‟t believe the kid was strumming the instrument so skillfully. The one eyed old man rose with the bottle in his hand forgetting to leave it in the grass, Tole still had a chunk of meat in his fist and a full mouth, but the amazement left him with his food un-chewed as if being embarrassed to chew and make noise at a time like this. Morsk had his whole face lit up, being thrilled beyond any measure that the boy could sing so beautifully, since that would also mean more merriment during their travels. Even dark and ominous Grundt seemed moved. From beyond the wagon, leaning against the wheel with his eyes closed and lute in his hands, Alcast was giving life to a song without words that was irresistible and sending a spell to the hearts of anyone around. Even Narg the big beard who‟d refused to get up when he heard the song, Alcast bewitched entirely scaring him somewhere deep inside, making his heart tremble in his chest. It was the second time when he lost it with respect to the child and he felt small and meaningless, fearing him greatly, hating him somewhat because of it. The others though, got close to the boy and stayed still enjoying every note and caressing of those chords, every sound outpoured into the clear night. Alcast was far away, traveling with the music in hidden places letting his heart know itself, reflecting itself within the mirror of the song as if in a crystal clear surface of water. He didn‟t even know he was being watched by several pairs of still eyes, so possessed by the wordless stanza of the lute, by his own soul coming


into visible being. He ended on a slow and sad chord, and after a few seconds of silence he opened his eyes. He flinched powerfully watching the thieves around him, still, goggle-eyed. Tole had his jaw dropped letting his un-chewed food show while the old man‟s bottle was dripping precious drops of mead since he wasn‟t paying attention to what he was holding in his hand. “You startled me, damn it! “Alcast broke the silence quickly, taking his hand to his chest and rising up holding the lute tightly with his other hand. The „One eye‟ came back to his senses and after making sure no more was spilled of the mead that was left, he came stepped up to the boy. He grabbed his shoulder and looked straight into the boy‟s eyes with pathos. “Boy,“ he said quite moved, “without a doubt, the gods love you greatly since you can play this way.“ Confused, both from the song as well as the fact that he‟d never heard anyone of them come around him while playing, Alcast grew shy. But what he was seeing now in everyone‟s gazes made him feel warm inside and for the first time it was as if all of them felt dear to him, strangely; be they the aimless thieves they were. His heart was whispering a new rhythm to him, shaking it‟s old skin just as a snake does when it moults. Everyone burst into praise for him, one louder than the other, excited they would continue to have such a comrade for the road to make their life more beautiful. Tapping his shoulder, stroking his head, each after their own way showed by turns how they cherished him (Grundt even slapped his hand over the boy‟s back making him a little wobbly). “We need to drink, brothers!” the one eyed old man yelled raising his bottle in the air making a few more precious drops spill much to Tole‟s dismay. “This lad is a wonder!” Alcast let himself be carried to the fire, pleased by


their reactions, at the same time being extremely joyous about what he‟d found and seen inside himself while singing that unknown song. Especially since he didn‟t even know he could sing. His heart had shown itself in an instant revealed through the song of an old lute. That moment lasted until the morning stretching lavishly until they all fell asleep like kids around the fire, tired with the celebration and feast. All except the bearded one who had sat quietly away and declined to be a part of their merriment without yielding. Starting with the next day, even from the morning, Alcast began to search for new songs that lent themselves to him; songs which, he now was certain, he knew even before he‟d been struck on the head and forgot himself. At least one of his old desires had come true – he started to earn his bread by strumming the lute, not by thieving. He‟d asked as much from his mates and they granted it swiftly, especially since he‟d never been much good going out stealing. What‟s more, Tole added very proud of his apprentice, his masterful hands needed protection. Morsk emphasized that they were better anyway for strumming the strings of a lute than for heisting from people‟s yards; and everyone laughed at that remark, even Alcast smiled. So, from that day on, every time he touched the strings, an odd feeling timidly possessed him as if he was recollecting who he was somewhat. It was a nameless, history-less thoughtless recollection, all emotion though. It was better than before. So he sang to the brigands for a full week, evening after evening, to their loud-mouthed binges, or during the day on the road to make the time pass; in turn, without being stingy they gave him a cut of anything they managed to snatch. Those were the most beautiful days spent


together. Almost a full week. Until that day. That day started bad from dawn. From that moment on Tole was convinced that things would only get worse and kept saying it out loud almost as a kind of warning. But, although usually the others were crossing him when he made statements like that, treating him like a jinxer this time they all agreed with him. They didn‟t say it though, so as not to lend a graver note to what had happened. All felt it in their bones though. They had traveled without surcease all night, going as far as they could – as was their habit – from a hamlet they‟d stolen some things from. Not that many, but extremely useful. 'One eye‟ got a black wolf coat which would come in handy in a few months when the cold came, the bearded one got a handsome saddle that made him very proud and Tole got a hunting bow with a full quiver. He wasn‟t good at wielding it at all, so although he‟d snatched it he gruffly gave it to Morsk – who was otherwise quite skilled at that sort of thing – telling him maybe next time he‟ll be luckier. “I doubt it though,” he added ruefully. The bow was quite crafty, made of yew and seemed strong surely capable of taking down even a sturdy boar. Morsk arched it a few times to test its duress. “Great bow,” he said beside himself with excitement. So, as a precaution they went all night without stopping, going as far as possible from that village. Grundt, whose turn had come to sit under the hood, rose at sun up after a few hours of sleep and asked Morsk – who was driving the horses – to stop the wagon so he can relieve himself. They were just going through a forest so it was the ideal place for it. The one eyed one and Tole, on the other hand gave him the run over because the big guy ruined their sleep. He of course, didn‟t give two dimes. “What do you expect, want my bladder to burst?” he said gruffly and sprited out of the wagon. He gave a morose greeting to Narg. He in turn, was


nodding off the horse behind the wagon; then looking around askance because he‟d almost fallen off his saddle when the wagon stopped and the old mare abruptly halted on its old legs. “Just a moment and we‟ll be off soon,” Grundt told them half asleep and went toward the brush nearby untying the rope around his waist. Something cracked fiercely under his foot and the ground suddenly opened up beneath his heels. He fell making a surprised sound and went altogether down a hole that had just appeared out of the blue. A thump, a shriek of pain. The bearded one woke up out of his numbness and couldn‟t believe what had happened under his sleepy eyes. Where the giant had just been treading a big gaping hole appeared and now you could see the broken twigs and branches covered by a knitted matting covering large parts of the ground; cut grass was used as covering as well and it was all set up to disguise the trap from any perceiving eye. Grundt‟s howling woke everyone up just fine and they began to jump from the wagon bewildered and frightened. Alcast was the last to come out with a heavily thumping heart. The thurse had fallen into a boar trap; a pit about six feet deep with a few well sharpened pikes stuck in the muddy soil. One of them had lodged itself in the thigh of his leg and another had deeply bruised a hand The big drake of a man was cursing mightily brutally woken up to reality. “Get me the blazes out of here!” he was yelling like a madman trying to get up. “Don‟t move! Grundt, don‟t make a move!” the one eyed chief contributed with his own agitation. “Boy!” he carried on crying for Alcast. The lad came up front. “Here.” “Go and look for some Ribgrass and Horsetail herbs! Quickly! Do you know their look?” The boy nodded to say yes. “Have you gone already?...”


He skedaddled as fast as he could more out of reflex on account of the old man‟s voice and all his muscles were set ablaze by it. Of course, Grundt‟s howls had done their part too. He‟d got to see the others get ropes from the wagon taking quick counsel on how to reel the giant out of the pit as safely as possible. The wound on his leg was deep – as the spike had pierced his calf through and through as if it were exhilarated at finally having found a good juicy meat to taste from and had given it it‟s best bite. The boy didn‟t gape about. He‟d learned of Horsetail being a healing herb used best for stopping a bleeding when Tole once fell trying to arrange supper and had cut himself on his own knife. The one eyed old man cursed his clumsiness and called him all sorts, but after he swabbed the wound with some honey he also bandaged him with Horsetail leaves which made the bleeding stop quite quickly. Alcast saw the plant for the first time on that occasion and decided it were for the best to keep it in mind, just in case he ever needed it. As for Ribgrass, everyone knew it was used to get the puss out of a wound, and helped it crust. They‟d certainly need it when changing the bandages. He‟d had no trouble finding them. He picked the leaves quickly, even more than he needed and then ran back to the wagon. Meantime, his brothers had put the ropes across Grundt‟s waist and were preparing to lift him up with great commotion. Morsk had gone down into the pit carefully in order to help the big guy take his leg out of the pike. Frightened, Tole offered Grundt a few gulps of mead from the bottle so he can muster his courage since they all knew it would hurt like hell itself. Alcast reached them right when Grundt was giving the bottle back to the fat man; of course only after he‟d gulped with such thirst that he‟d made Tole heave a small sigh which of course passed entirely unnoticed what with the entire ruckus. “Morsk,” the old man commanded quickly, “don‟t let


him fall. You have to push from beneath!” “Alright, alright,” he said and grabbed the giants back planting his feet as best he could to keep his balance. Grundt was pale and no longer going on and on as he was doing before Alcast left for the leaves; he was still cursing though, but with all the loss of blood he was yellow faced and seemed to be ready to faint at any moment. Seeing him, the boy couldn‟t help but think how odd it was that this wound being inflicted it made no difference how big and strong he was. The blood gushes just the same out of everyman and even a considerable giant like Grundt could pass out because of it. “Ready boys?” “READY!” “Grundt, lad, hold on!” the old man shouted. The howling terrified Alcast, raising every hair on his head. He didn‟t particularly like the big ox but he still couldn‟t find his way to reproach him for anything. All the while he‟d gone around with them he learned to read and understand well that beside Grundt‟s darkness he had treated the boy fairly each time the loot was split or when they had to rotate for the watch time. He felt bad that this happened to him, the sturdiest of them, the most warlike, the „great sheep dog‟ as Morsk would call him often. The pike went thorugh the flesh and the blood was flowing in dark waives spilling all over Morsk‟s hands. Grundt was taken quickly out of the pit and laid down on the grass; the old man started patching him instantly giving orders for a fire to get started. “Put the leaves down,“ he told Alcast who‟d turned to stone at the sight of the wound, “and go help Tole with the fire! Be quick!“ He took his dagger out and cut the trousers off the wounded one to be able to bandage him further. Then he asked for water so he can clean the wounds and the


bearded one handed him the water skin, filled during the evening. Grundt could barely manage to stay awake, really squeezing Morsk‟s shoulder so strongly that he sometimes winced, overwhelmed with the pain. During this time Tole was running around dazed after the fire wood. While his gut impeded his speed well enough his panic made things in no way better making him behave like bumbling fool confused about which way to go. Trying to control himself, Alcast started to gather some wood as fast as he could to try and make the situation easier for the fat one and by the time the old man finished tending to the wound, the fire had already been set. The boy quickly tended to it by ripping some moss from the trees nearby and using the tinder he always carried with him. The fat man tried blowing in the fire to make it bigger but he was literally out of breath for his own sake so Alcast was again the one to take care of it which he did by using a piece of bark found on the ground, rousing it. Tole sat down exahausted on a mound, barely breathing muttering under his breath about pretty much every devil that he could involve with Grundt‟s lack of vision for an otherwise conspicuous trap. „One eye‟ was drenched in blood, as if he‟d stabbed someone himself. He had to move quickly or the giant one could lose his leg or even die on account of the blood loss. The wound from his hand did not seem so grievous but it too needed tending since Grundt was all muddied up; the rain fallen the previous evening had made the earth at the bottom of the pit muddy and slimy. Narg quickly made towards the wagon and came back with Grundt‟s hatchet in his hand. He looked through the grass for a few seconds and after lifting the stone came back to the fire. Alcast was looking confused while the thief set the stone near the burning embers about half a foot away, not knowing what he was going to do. It was only when the bearded one leaned the


hatchet on the stone so that the blade was caressed by the flames that the kid understood and raised his gaze, contrite, stopping his fluttering in a daze. Narg pretended not to notice him, avoiding his eyes, and went towards the wagon again. Noticing his movement, Tole moved from his sitting mound where he has been sitting for a moment to regain his breath and went after him. “We need to boil some water,“ he whispered while moving to the wagon. “Yeah, I know,“ the big beard grumbled his reply while searching for the cauldron. “No, you fools, not hot water, otherwise he‟ll bleed „til the morning!“ the one eyed chief got angry while tending to Grundt. He turned to him: “These boys would have killed you for sure,“ and he grumbled on sorely while the big fellow was trying to force a smile out. “Just sit still, you‟ll be fine…” The bearded thief stopped. So did Tole, staring at their boss with a question on his face. “ Instead of idling around like that you‟d best go look for a brook or river!” Morsk snapped at them and motioned them nastily with his head. “We‟ll need more water anyway. Cold water, you fools!” „One eye‟ cut a piece of cloth from Grundt‟s trousers and started to mince the leaves into small pieces, mixing them and preparing a dressing for the wound with which he hoped to stop the bleeding. But, before bandaging his leg he had to do exactly what Alcast had suspected, and the boy shuddered to think of it. His gaze sprinted toward the hatchet without knowing it. He got busy bellowing the fire to stop thinking about it and Tole and Narg went into the forest to look for a water source. Tole, of course, was muttering under his breath as usual. Exhausted, Grundt was still sweating, but he was drained of any strength required to utter as many words as he‟d have wanted. He was rancoured with himself and filled with the kindest curses for his doings such as:


„idiot‟ and „stumbling ox‟. Especially since when he fell in the pit he had relieved himself in his breeches on account of the pain and he was all wet now. Although everyone else was ignoring this fact – since it was perfectly understandable – he was nigh rabid thinking of the monstrous embarrassment in front of everyone else, and twice at that: once because he was so groggy to miss the snare, he who was so skilled at this sort of thing and a second time because of course, of his wet breeches. Meantime the old man finished preparing the curative leaves and set the cloth directly on the grass to keep it at hand. He grabbed the mead bottle and stared Grundt squarely in the eyes. “Brother,” he said drily, “you know what I must do.” Grundt said nothing. He just growled from deep inside his throat, grimly, summoning his courage at the knowledge of what was coming. He stretched a hand to his side and found a small branch in the grass and before he bit on it he said determined: “Get on with it!” And he clenched his teeth on the wet wood squeezing Morsk‟s shoulder. Alcast tried to keep minding his own chore but his hand went out of rhythm over the fire. To be a witness to great pain is never pleasant. Without wasting time, „One eye‟ opened the bottle and poured mead the wounded leg. Grundt let loose a muffled howl while biting the piece of wood, tensing up in Morsk‟s arms; this one though held on tightly. “Just a little more, brother,” he mumbled. “A little more…” The old man bent over the hatchet whose steely edge was red hot now. He let the bottle down being careful to set it in such a way as not to spill any of the needful drink and picked up the hatchet with his right hand. “Here comes the tough part,” He whispered. Grundt was holding on to avoid fainting. The flesh sizzled something horrid and the smell of fried flesh


filled the air quickly making Alcast‟s legs soft. The giant howled again, more fiercely and writhed powerfully with the pain. The boy couldn‟t help but look there. The wound was utterly abhorrent. “Just a little more!” Morsk cried out struggling to keep him to the ground. The one eyed chief put the hot hatchet on his arm wound also. Another sizzle. Grundt ceased squirming and passed out, dropping easy into the arms of Morsk. It had been too much for him. “Pheew,” the old man wiped his perspired forehead. He threw the hatchet in the grass and began to wrap the leg with the wrappings he‟d prepared earlier especially for this. “Let‟s get him inside,“ he said. “Kid, you help us too.“ Alcast finally let the bark out of his hand which he‟d used on the fire out of inertia; there wasn‟t any need anyway. With a grimace on his face he hurried to give a hand, since the mountain man was heavy as a log. Especially so since he‟d passed out and was motionless and less then helpful. With moil and toil they strove carefully not to hurt him and barely got him in the wagon covering him with a blanket. Soon enough the other two came back. They‟d found a brook nearby and filled a whole waterskin. Tole however, had slipped on some wet rocks and was limping a bit. “Fat and a klutz too,” Narg scolded him bitterly. Tole made a gesture as if he were fed up. He really didn‟t care to confront anyone, not after seeing Grundt‟s injury. Not to mention his ankle was aching too. Meantime, light had shown itself fully in the few minutes it took for everything to pass and the sun was showing itself as a curios being, peering above the tree-line that had been a silent witness to the tribulations of the mighty Grundt.


After a few whole hours of traveling they stopped, finally, exhausted. They‟d gone slow to spare Grundt the bumpy road. He woke up some time ago out of his fainting spell but he was weak with the loss of blood and soon enough fell asleep again as if trying to get back what energy had seeped out of his body. Much to his good fortune, the bleeding had stopped and if he was going to be spared the infection he was scot free. When they stopped, close to the middle of the day pulling over by the shade of the forest since it was pretty hot; they were all sleep deprived and cranky enough over everything that had passed. Not to mention that their provisions were coming to an end, meaning it was imperative to pull another heist, and soon. Unfortunately the area was barren. There hadn‟t been a settlement around all day and they were famished. “Maybe we‟ll get lucky tonight,“ Tole mumbled unpersuasively, trying to lighten the mood. None of them seemed to believe him. Morsk, on his own, as if trying to break everyone else‟s resignation spell, picked up his bow and quiver irritated and started towards the depth of the woods. “Where are you going?“ Narg asked him a surprised look on him. “Maybe I‟ll catch a bird or something!“ he snapped harshly. It sounded almost as a curse. “It beats sitting around here for nothing! Especially since Grundt needs solid grub to get back on his feet. Meat!“ he yelled fiercely. “Not mush!“ True enough, after less than half an hour he came back with a few birds, which though not large, were plenty to put together a lunch while the others took care of the fire. Meanwhile, Grudnt woke up and seemed to feel somewhat better. He certainly needed good nourishment and lots of rest for a long time in order to heal proper. „One eye‟ had changed his bandages


without pouring any of the alcohol on the wound just using a bit of honey since there was a some left at the bottom of a pot. This way he spared the giant unnecessary torment. A new herbal remedy bandage was put together and applied and it seemed as if Grudt was getting back a bit o his courage by the way he was talking. But the blood loss had taken its toll beyond any measure. So, all in all, soon enough the birds were fried, some old bread was taken out of the wagon and they all ate taking care that Grundt received the best share. By his looks to them, the giant showed his gratitude while gulping everything down. “That‟s a good sign,” Tole said to all of them referring to the appetite of the „thurse‟. “It‟s always a good sign.” Truly, Grundt needed the food. And a sunny disposition. Consequently, after his stomach had been appeased Alcast quickly picked up the lute thinking to cheer them up a bit especially the thurse to get his mind of things. Music, it is well known, has always been the best medicine. And so, a song or two at the end of their supper, were more than welcome to unwind everyone. The thieves didn‟t start drinking on this occasion, as was their habit; they just took a swig of the mead to make the meat go down and this way stayed sober. The boy barely began his song that of a sudden the old man‟s mare snuffled with excitement and stomped its hoof on the ground. Without any warning or so much as a sound, a horde of armed young men dashed from the wood all of them coming their way with determination. Alcast turned to stone with the lute in his hand, choking the song in the middle of a verse. The thieves all stopped chattering noticing the boy‟s frightened gaze over their shoulder and turned swiftly to face whatever was coming at them. “Whoever moves does it for the last time!“ a loud voice thundered and sounded through the entire forest. He was a well built red headed, with his locks braided


from his temples and a bunch of javelins held in a leather quiver at his back; on his waist you could see a strong sword, in his left hand an oaken shield with straps latched to his forearm and in his other hand he had a javelin ready to be thrown. The thieves were jumping on their feet, looking for their weapons. Alcast felt his heart freeze up. Morsk, who had kept the bow by his side all day, grabbed it quickly with a fierce look and pulled an arrow from his quiver in a rush. The red head was faster though. A lot faster. Before Morsk got a chance to place his arrow, the young man threw his javelin with such force that it went clear across twenty paces as if it were nothing. Gasping, Morsk was thrown back with his chest pierced and he collapsed on the grass. “I said don‟t move, you filthy thieves!” the young one howled and unsheathed his blade coming forward steadily. Alcast looked lost at Morsk. He‟d died on the spot, the javelin going straight through his heart. His other mates started howling madly, except for Tole who had been caught with the bottle in his hand and realized in an instant he was no match for the band of young warriors. Frightened, he threw a furtive look to the boy trying to tell him with his eyes not to put up a fight. „One eye‟ however, got around to grab his sword and Narg took hold of his spiked club. Grundt went utterly mad when he saw Morsk dead, stuck in the chest with a spear. Roaring wrathfully, he grabbed the hatchet beside the fire and, summoning his might, he made his attempt to stand up striving to get on his feet. The gang new comers was advancing swiftly in a tight half-circle formation every one of them wielding a sword or an axe in their hands. There were seven of them, all young and stout; not ten paces away. “Fraghorn! Hilse!” called out the read head on the move. The youths at the ends of the half-circle broke off


suddenly rushing towards the thieves, not runny straight, but crossways; each towards the other‟s foe. That was a strategy which they seemed to have used before since their motions were rehearsed and calculated as they passed by one another without touching. That sudden move confused the thieves, both Fregan and Narg, as they were already trying to take a few steps towards the newcomers. Most of all it confused the old man, since he had planned his attack relying on the sight from his one and only eye – which made him stumble trying to adjust his steps to dodge the axe blow from his surprising adversary flanking him. He lost his balance parrying and before he could change his stance for another swing of his sword his opponent‟s axe hit his chest with a dull sound, sending him lifeless to the ground. Narg howled maddened, swinging his club, but the lad before him struck him down so powerfully with the two handed sword he was gripping tightly that the club flew away from his hands like a frail stick, leaving him defenseless. Out of instinct the bearded thief lifted his hands in the air to signal his surrender and remained still and powerless. His foe knocked him over immediately with a solid blow and leaned fast the tip of the blade on his throat. However injured, Grundt was still wildly charging at them in a deep rage, swinging his hatchet like no other. Without a sound, like reacting to an unspoken command, the lads rallied close around the red head, as they continued to advance. “Strike him low, boys!” he commanded raising up his shield. He‟d seen the bandages, full of clogged blood, wrapping the hulk‟s thigh. In an instant, before Grundt managed to take a swing at someone – anyone – one of them turned his axe in the air gripping it by the other end close to the blade, and fiercely smacked the thurse‟s wounded thigh with the axe‟s handle. Like there was no tomorrow. Alcast felt like fainting. He‟d almost


experienced the same hurt. Grundt howled like a mad man and collapsed to the ground, letting go of the axe. Seeing just how sturdy he was three lads jumped on him swiftly without wasting any time so he couldn‟t get up anymore. “Tie‟em up, boys!” the red head boomed heading towards Tole and Alcast without slowing his pace. One of his mates was moving close to him, while two lads were tying up Narg and the others were taking care of Grundt trying as hard as possible to bind him – he, of course was roaring like a beast and struggling so fiercely that one of the lads had to whack him over the head with the hilt of his sword. Weaker than ever before in his life the hulk fainted for a second time that day. Two steps away, Narg received a few fist blows, properly delivered followed by a few fowl curses after which he cuddled on the grass moaning from the pain. As for the other two, Tole remained still and, even though he was shivering from every joint he lifted the bottle above his face as a sign of surrender, putting up an innocent face. Frightened and shivering Alcast stood up as well from the rock he had sat on tightly grasping his lute. “Tie these two as well,” the red head added drily motioning the boy next to him to get the ropes visible in the wagon. “Just in case the ropes we took with us aren‟t enough,” and he let out a sarcastic grin. His mate, who must have had about twenty years or so, was already headed towards the wagon sheathing his sword. So with one hand he grabbed Alcast by his shoulder and with the other he grabbed a piece of rope, double-backed towards his chief bringing the boy closer. Although the hold was pretty damn strong, the boy tried to settle his heart beating and resisted giving in to his fear. Albeit with little success. “„Em bloody thugs!” one of them was heard as he was tying Narg‟s hands. “His legs as well, Hilse,” said another.


Grundt had his arms already tied up, and was lying down still, with his bandages wet from the fresh blood. “Don‟t bang them up too much,” the red-haired chief said. “Not for nothing, but we‟ll need to have something left to hang.” Some of them burst into laughter. Alcast gulped, so did the fatso. “The boy is innocent,” he mumbled faintly, trying to find his voice. The red head came up before him and, after moving his shield on his shoulder he sheathed his sword firmly and grabbed the bottle from his ruddy hands. He shook it a bit and leaned his ear close to it. He seemed content with the sound he heard. “Do tell,” he demanded to Tole unclogging the bottle. Tole let his hands down, gently. The red head quickly took a swig from the mead and with a slick move tossed his comrade the bottle. “We found him on the road, a few weeks ago” – the fat one was lying without so much as blinking. “He was starving… just him and the lute. We took him with us to sing in exchange for a bowl of broth. An‟ orphan he is.” Alcast was aware this was not the moment to claim otherwise although the plump one‟s statement was not a total fit. It had been a few months not a few weeks… he quickly thought while trying to make sense of his words. Maybe Tole only wanted to protect him, belittling the time spent together to make him seem less guilty in front of the youngsters. He threw a quick glance his way but the fatty wasn‟t even looking at him – only straight into the eyes of the read headed chief. He certainly knew how to lie, no novice that way. The red head weighed Tole with his eyes and then turned toward the boy, eyeing him carefully as well. “Where are you from?” Alcast fiddled with the question. He had no idea what to say. “I don‟t know…”


“He doesn‟t know, chief,” the ruddy one interceded with his flattery of the warrior leader attempting to make it seem as casual as possible. “He only knows his name. Look at his head; he‟s got a blow larger than life there. It addled his memory and that‟s exactly how we found it.” The red one seemed surprised with all this, Alcast was too upon hearing Tole say that‟s how they found him; but the boy tried his best to hide it. He managed to toss Tole a look who, while the others were looking for the kid‟s scar, replied with his own to say that it were best to keep quite. The other lad passed his hand through the boy‟s hair, searchingly. “Right at the top of his head,” Tole added. There was a pinkish, narrow and long scar left there, which had prevented the hair from growing back. The readhead frowned at the sight of it. “He really got it good, no joke. Who blessed you this way, boy?” Alcast looked in his eyes with a frown of his own. Although harsh, the tone of voice was tinged with a protective feeling and his gaze was stern and honest. “I don‟t know,” he said biting his lip and lowering is gaze. “I think I fell...” That‟s what his companion told him. And wouldn‟t he have liked to know the truth… But, no matter how hard he tried to remember, not a thing was coming back to him. Only glimpses of faces, sometimes woven with feelings that bore no ordering or comprehension. “Hit on the head, my foot,” the red headed chief uttered bemused. “This one was done with a club. And a sturdy arm.” His comrade tilted his head with disgust. “What kind of a man whacks a kid on the head that way?” More contempt pouring out of him while he said it. “Who can say?” Tole said shrugging. “Some filth or bastard, I‟d say… why else would he go against a lad that way? Chief, when we found him the only thing he


knew about him was his name.” Alcast understood the fat man was trying to cover for him, lying again audaciously. He kept silent, finding that the better option. In the grass, a few steps away from him Narg was tied down and even though he was dazed from the blows he could steal overhear the conversation through all the cursing of the boys tying his bonds. Damned be Tole, he thought to himself with envy, he could really twist it about… “And how about you?” the red head began questioning the fatso‟ measuring him from head to toe. Tole let loose a very deep sigh. “Well, thieving is thieving even if I just stand back guarding the wagon,” he said sorrowfully, but lying shamelessly though, since Morsk wasn‟t alive anymore to reclaim his position. “I know I did wrong, captain.” “Tie this one up too,” the leader snarled ironically and leaned over Morsk‟s body, picking up the crafty bow that he was clutching with a stiff fist. As he put his hand on the wood, a sign of satisfaction showed itself on the young one‟s face just as a sparkle gleams on a smooth blade. “Mindless thieves,” he said smiling crookedly, “we tracked you down within the hour after you left. If you hadn‟t taken my bow I‟d have only noticed in the morning.” Tole gawked his eyes but he shut up since he was the one that had swiped it and the quiver of arrows. That was surely not a detail that the young warrior would have appreciated. He gulped. “It was my turn to race my brothers and wages were already being made about the best marksman…” – he stopped for a moment – “you follow, right?” So the bow was his. Quite the bad luck with this young colt chasing them for a full night and half a day just for a bow. Although he was probably the kind that needed action once in a while, or he didn‟t feel quite well; the theft of his bow had most likely been little more


than a pretext to hunt down the thieves. With a swift gesture he took the javelin out of Morsk‟s chest making Alcast shudder thrilled. “Come on boys!” the red leader shouted turning to his mates. “We don‟t have any time to waste. Load everyone up into the wagon and let‟s get back.” “Aren‟t we tying the small one up as well?” one of them asked frowning at Alcast while taking Narg to the wagon, holding him fast. The red head smiled at length, as if an idea struck him.. “No,” he said showing the others the lute in the boy‟s hands. “He‟ll need his hands free if we want him to sing to us on the road, right?” And he smiled giving the boy a friendly wink.

[...........]

THE SONG OF THE YOUNG WOLF Copyright: Marius Băraş 2014

The Song of the Young Wolf (fragment ENG)

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Transcript of The Song of the Young Wolf (fragment ENG)