Fearsome Ch. 01 - 02

"How long has it been?" Hawthe said from his desk.

"About a year, I think."

"Scathian?"

"I thought I spotted a red cloak," Gunn said, grinning a little. 

It was almost always a Scathian. A part of getting to the third steppe of Anwen Citadel involved evading The Fifty on the way. Once a challenger was there, none of The Fifty would touch him until he made the offer. A challenger had to be good to make it this far. 

"Is he offering anything interesting?"

"Dow is checking."

Dow showed in the doorway, a tall man with long brown hair and an unsmiling face.

"What did the Scathian bring?" Hawthe asked him. 

"Shapper fur, a large bedcover, Legatus," Dow answered. 

Hawthe rose, buckling his scabbard, grabbing his cloak. Shapper fur was Scathian luxury, their coats long and white, difficult to trap. It was the warmest fur, soft and thick. Somebody wanted his attention.

"It's a worthy offering," Hawthe said, pulling on his vambraces. "I'll answer. The Scathian?"

"A giant with a big giant sword," Dow answered, serious, because Dow was always serious, even when he was joking. 

Hawthe grinned. He ducked under the doorway, clattering down the stairs, the sounds of the heels of his boots blending with the men behind him. He turned at the bottom of the stairs and went down a long hall and opened the only door into Anwen castle, leading to the main plateau.  

He swung his leg over his horse, turning its head down the single road from the citadel, several cutbacks, steep and winding, his patrol following. He ignored the first cutback and the steppe there, a guard tower. Ascot and Stiles were on watch, both of them nodding when they saw him.

He and his men passed the second plateau. Hawthe could already hear the challenger yelling in Scathian. 

"Fuck's sake," Hawthe muttered. 

"Like we'll understand what he's saying better if he yells it," Gunn agreed.

Hawthe saw the man, who saw him, his noise stopping, the giant grinning at him. The Scathian was big, a giant with a massive two-handed sword who stood a good head over him. But Calthus was an ancient civilization that taught martial skill in ways this man didn't understand. Calthus had held out against Scatha, their neighbors, for over three hundred years because of that skill, although the Scathian soldiers outnumbered them four-to-one. 

Hawthe saw the offering, a bedcover of Shapper fur, high-quality workmanship, the fur clean. Any man could challenge one of The Fifty on the third tier below Anwen Citadel, provided one of The Fifty liked the offering he brought. An offering that none of them liked meant they'd just shoot the challenger with an arrow for being in their territory. An unusually worthy offering would draw the attention of the legatus. 

If he won the exchange, Hawthe would get the Shapper fur bedcover. If the Scathian won, the Scathian would get to say he had killed the legatus of The Fifty.

Hawthe stopped the line. The Scathian looked Hawthe over as Hawthe threw his leg over the horse's neck, dismounting. The giant Scathian smiled at him and pursed his lips and made a series of gentle kissing motions at him, indicating he was pretty, the man's hand running over his crotch, rubbing. 

The third steppe jutted out over a long fall, the road taking another cutback. Hawthe strode into the center, joining the giant Scathian there, facing him, side-on to the drop. 

"Duther," the giant said, touching his own chest, looking down at him, still grinning.  

"Hawthe," he returned, touching his own. "Legatus." 

The giant Scathian seemed pleased and then more wary, looking him down and up again. Gunn strode forward, a brass bell there. Gunn took up the clapper and rang the bell, Hawthe's men fanning out. They wouldn't interfere. Hawthe drew his sword, the giant having his in his hands.

The Scathian was already moving, taking the advantage he'd been given. Neither of them had a shield, because defended men could battle to exhaustion and a third steppe challenge was, by tradition, quick and dirty. 

The Scathian raised his sword two-handed over his shoulder, bringing it down with crushing force. Scathians valued brute strength. Hawthe stepped back, smacking the heavy sword aside with his own, the blades meeting and sliding down each other's length. Hawthe's elbow came up, stepping past the huge sword, his grip on his own reversing, positioned, doing the next thing. He drove the heavy hilt toward the giant's face, no trouble reaching him here, the man's head snapping back. The Scathian stumbled away toward the edge. 

Hawthe's men were silent, watching. Hawthe's sword had never stopped as he unfolded and extending his arm, a constant motion, sweeping for the giant's neck, the giant off-balance and throwing himself back again, alarmed, Hawthe driving him toward the edge again. The Scathian glanced at the drop behind himself and brought his sword up, guarding high, Hawthe's blade deflected. 

The Scathian roared and stepping forward with a wide sweep that Hawthe ducked under, bringing his own sword up over his head to meet it, the blades sliding off one another. Hawthe found the angle as they reached their limit and he pivoted and jabbed, one move and one-handed, extending, the Scathian overreached, piercing the giant's throat and withdrawing. He stepped back. 

The Scathian dropped his sword, which rang on the stones, looking surprised. He gurgled and choked, stumbling back, his hands going to his throat. His balance tipped, meeting Hawthe's eyes, who was watching impassively, and then he was gone. 

Hawthe didn't bother walking to look over the side. He'd seen the view, the broken bodies collected in various stages of decomposition. A few hundred years of bodies, and nobody was allowed to retrieve them. The wind would bring the stench of this one up the sheer face of the rock for a time. Hawthe pulled out a cloth and wiped his blade, sheathing his weapon. He strode to the fur, squatting, looking at it. 

"Want me to take that up, Legatus?" Ascot said, eighteen years old, the youngest of The Fifty before Neander had come, and a deadly swordsman. 

"Make sure there are no poisoned needles," Hawthe said. "Scathians always think they're clever."

#

The next morning, Hawthe was riding in the countryside near Anwen Road north of Imber, Josue and the new man Neander with him. They were inspecting carts and wagons coming through the pass, looking for contraband. The sun was shining now, the rain having stopped in the night. 

The citadel was strategically critical to Calthus. Anwen Pass was the most likely point of attack if Scatha invaded. The Fifty hunted Scathian raiders who came across the border. They would also hold the narrow pass against the Scathian hordes, if necessary, long enough for the people of Imber to retreat and warn Calthus. In the meantime, when things were quiet, they served Imber by patrolling the roads for smugglers and highwaymen who preyed on the traders.

Hawthe was in the lead when he spotted the wagon in a grove ahead. He saw two men. The thieves saw him at the same moment and immediately abandoned their looting. They ran and mounted their horses, riding hard, joining the road and fleeing.

Signaling his men, who took off after the highwaymen, Hawthe stayed where he was. He wasn't optimistic, given the lead the thieves had and the thick countryside around. The legatus urged his horse, going to the wagon. He followed the indentations on the flat path left by the wheels, dirt softened by the previous night's rain.

Two men were dead by the wagon, an older man and younger. Father and son, probably. Hawthe looked at them closely, surprised. They were dressed as Calthusians, but they were definitely Scathians. Not local smugglers. He approached the wagon from behind, careful. It was a ledge wagon, fully enclosed and ornate. The horse that had drawn it was out of harness in the far field. The Scathians had probably been grazing the animal when they were attacked, the local Calthusian highwaymen doing Hawthe's men a service for once. 

Hawthe moved his horse forward, glancing into the back of the wagon, not able to see past the curtains. He dismounted, looping the reins on a sturdy branch, looking around. Nobody and nothing. He turned, walking, hauling the back door of the wagon open and going up the stairs, ducking inside.

The wagon's interior was dim and overlaid with various smells he didn't try to sort, breathing shallowly. He opened drawers, looked into crates. The highwaymen had been looking for something of value. Hawthe found the typical contraband. There was Sima, a drug from Hebelin, their neighbor to the east, illegal, the sticky resin for smoking in hefty blocks, and also hides of various types, avoiding the tax. 

He set aside a crate, a heavy oilcloth under it covering something large and square. He pulled the oilcloth off, squatting down to look. It was an animal in a cage. He looked at the cage, heavy iron bars on all sides as well as the top and the bottom, stained with what looked like old blood, nothing to rest on and little space to move around. He couldn't figure what the animal was. It wasn't a cat. He thought he saw feathers, but he couldn't quite tell. It didn't look like a bird, either. It was curled up, not moving. He wasn't sure it was real. He couldn't see it properly.  

Hawthe stood up, ripping down curtains all around, pushing open windows and propping them, clattering, sunlight streaming into the wagon. Dust motes danced in the light, the smell of mold and rot more obvious in contrast to a small cross-breeze that rolled through. He squatted again in front of the cage. He could see the animal now, but that wasn't the problem, evidently. He kept trying to figure out what he was looking at.

"What are you?" he said. 

The animal raised its head and looked at him, a delicate face he couldn't identify. A fox, maybe? It was the size of a large cat. He watched as its head kept rising, a long neck, and it moved its head into the sunlight, blinking up at him. It had huge oval green eyes with a black slit for a pupil, long dark eyelashes. It was dirty white, he saw. It seemed ill or abused, its fur filthy and matted, its manner listless.

It was so strange. He was still looking at it. Yes, those were wings. Its white fur faded into the white feathers. At the top of each wing was a black claw, as if it sometimes used them to climb. But instead of a beak, it had a muzzle, small nostrils that flared, a defined skull over a long flexible neck. 

Strange tipped ears that swept back were set under two delicate turned white horns--horns, yes, those were horns--curving slightly in an arc behind its head. It had four legs with impressive claws, definitely not catlike. Those were out all the time, like a badger or a bear, although they appeared to move independently, like fingers. A predator, and definitely a little fighter. A very long tail wrapped around its body, thick at the base and then coming to an end that almost looked like an arrowhead.

The end of its tail rose and began to move, waving, sinuous, reminding him of a cat. It was the only thing moving on the animal. A ripping rumble emerged from its throat, hostile and very obviously a threat.

"I see you're fearsome," Hawthe agreed, still curious. He looked at its side. It was such a neat little thing for all it was so dirty, but it seemed thin, its contours too sharp. He didn't see any food in the cage. "You look hungry." 

Hawthe dug into his pouch and pulled out dried meat. The animal looked at the meat and then back at his face, unfolding itself. It rose slowly, like moving hurt it. Maybe it was injured. Its wings were still partially unfolded on its back, its body graceful otherwise. It padded closer, watching his face. The animal came nearer to him, staring, green eyes. Even dirty and thin, it was awfully pretty.

"Don't bite me," he said under his breath.

Hawthe reached his fingers through the bars with the meat and offered it, ready to snatch his hand back, but the animal opened its mouth, still looking at him, his brows going up--those were some big sharp hooked canines--and took it gingerly. 

It immediately turned its back, holding the meat down with its front claws and tugging at it with its mouth, chewing quickly. Hawthe watched, frowning a little. The Scathians had starved it. Its wings were partially unfolded still, the feathers trembling. It whined like it was in pain.

When it was finished, Hawthe waited. The animal turned around slowly, that same careful movement. He'd never seen anything like it before. It had a face all its own, delicate, those huge sea-green eyes like deep liquid pools. He couldn't see any wounds on it, but it was difficult to tell with the matted fur. It came to the bars again, looking at the pouch and back at his face. Smart. 

This time when he put the meat through, the small animal surprised him by sitting up on its haunches, holding the meat in its claws like small hands and pulling the food toward its mouth. Its belly was covered with the same white fur. It didn't turn its back, eating as he watched. When it was done, its tongue emerged like a cat's tongue, licking its lips, blinking up at him, alert now. It made a low sound, stuttering, friendly. He smiled slowly. He looked in the cage again. Empty. Who knows how long it had gone without food and water.

"I bet you're thirsty after that."

He went outside to his horse and pulled out his water canteen, looking around and making sure things were still clear, coming back in. He squatted. The animal stood, putting its paw on the bars, pressing its nose through, its nostrils flaring. It smelled the water. It made a small muttering noise. 

Hawthe upended the water and poured it into his palm. He held out his hand, putting it underneath the animal. It pressed its nose between the bars and its tongue came out, trying to touch the water, but it couldn't. The little thing made a desperate sound and then withdrew, turning its back and limping slowly to where it had been in the back of the cage, curling up again with its back to him.

"I'm not trying to torment you, fearsome," Hawthe said. 

He got out of the wagon and went to the bodies, looking through pockets. He found keys on the younger one, the Scathian's eyes staring and blank. Hawthe returned with the keys, squatting in front of the lock. It was obvious which one fit. 

"Don't make me regret this," he said, fitting it, wiggling it in the lock, which was stiff. "And don't tell anyone I let contraband go, either. I'll say I found an empty cage."

The small creature's eyes were fixed on the key. It looked at him. It opened its mouth and made a sound, a clicking growl that ended high, a pretty noise and so curiously like a question. 

"Yes, I'm working on it. Then you can fly away and go back to where you belong. I can't imagine what the Scathians wanted you for," he said, looking at it again.

Sell it as a novelty in Scatha, maybe. It was definitely unusual. The tumbler turned, springing open. He threaded the top of the lock through the heavy bars, dropping it.

Reaching, he opened the end of the cage, squatting, putting his body there so it couldn't bolt. The animal had gone to the far end of the cage. It didn't move. He reached for his canteen and poured water into his hand and held it out. The water slowly dripped out, a small amount still in his palm. 

He saw the animal's nose flare. It walked toward him, moving stiffly like it had before. His hand was empty by then. He poured more water into his palm. When it arrived, it rose on its hind legs, heftier than he'd thought it was, its paw with those sharp-looking claws landing on his arm, stabilizing itself. 

He was surprised when its tail came, wrapping around his wrist. He'd be nervous about the claws, which looked sharp, but he had his vambraces on, thick leather, protecting his arm. Its nostrils were flaring again. Its long flexible neck bent, dipping its muzzle. 

He poured more, and then more, watching the animal's throat work. It had been thirsty, yes. He caught its scent. He leaned down toward it, sniffing. It was filthy, but under that it had such a pleasant smell, nothing he could place. 

When he did that, its head came up, looking at him, their faces close, water dripping from the white fur of its chin. He didn't withdraw. He had the idea it might not be the smartest thing he'd ever done, remembering those teeth, but its manner wasn't hostile now. 

It began to make a noise, a sweet rumble and click. Its muzzle got near and it sniffed at his cheek, returning the favor, drawing back. It was awfully friendly. It withdrew its claws, its tail unwinding from his arm, its eyes staring into his, unblinking, a clear, brilliant green. He stared back. He brought his hand up to the fur on its neck. It puffed up briefly, going still. He touched it, the animal soft as down where its fur wasn't matted. He drew his hand back. 

The slits in each of the animal's eyes dilated and then they pinned, almost disappearing. Hawthe drew back quickly, startled, his hand going to his knife as the animal suddenly jumped at him, faster than thought, its claws digging into his vambrace, climbing his arm to his shoulder. He froze, waiting, the animal's teeth close to his face. It stayed there on his shoulder, shivering and whining like moving had hurt it. He waited more. "Not attacking, I think," he said low, straightening to his feet, his hand still on his knife.

He felt its tail wrap around his throat as he came up. He turned his head as its long flexible neck extended and its muzzle came around and he found himself staring into unblinking green eyes. The animal had weight. The tail at his throat tightened. Yes, he didn't like that. It craned its flexible neck and looked down and then back at him. 

"I know," he said, feeling his voice vibrate against its tail. "I'm bigger than you. Don't forget that."

He brought his other arm around, offering it, seeing if that would work. The animal's paw reached for his arm, moving onto it, a small hop and what sounded like another whine of pain, its movements stiff, its tail loosening from his neck. Its tail wrapped around his arm now. It really was just helping itself to balance. He dropped his hand from his knife and held the animal up, heavy, looking at it. Graceful and sure. It didn't waver. 

"Let's go outside," he said, turning and moving down the stairs. 

When they were out in the open, he stopped, waiting. The animal was blinking in the light. It looked up into the sky and his arm dipped low as it suddenly pushed off, large wings that brushed his face as they opened, flapping, Hawthe helping. That was it, then. 

But the animal failed and crashed to the ground not far, one of its wings crumpling under it, its legs trailing. It cried out, an awful sound. Hawthe was already walking to it, squatting beside it. It was panting. He reached for it slowly--he didn't want to get bit--looking at the wing, pushing feathers aside. It let him.  

There was a huge metal ring at the base of its wing, under the fur, piercing the shoulder, heavy sharpened ends. He winced. They'd obviously done it so it couldn't fly, and trying had torn its muscles, the area swollen and bleeding. It cried out again, softer now. 

"Hold still, fearsome. Let me look at it." 

The animal held surprisingly still as he shifted it a little, extending the other wing, which also had a cruel ring. That had to hurt, and the flesh around had tried to heal, scar tissue that kept tearing as the animal moved. The creature had endured them for a time. It made another sound of pain, its eyes shifting to meet his. He hesitated and reached and touched its head, stroking.  

"Let me see what I can find." He got up and looked through the wagon, a mess, locating tools, a pair of thin metal pincers.