The Hunter's Mark Pt. 04

Hunting was not difficult, Jens had always thought. Not even while Father Winter spread his arms over the world. Even this early, when the sun had barely risen and light was scarce, hunting was easy enough. It was even pleasant to look at, from the right point of view. A thin layer of snow covered the hilltops, and drifts fed down into gullies. Icicles hung from the high tree branches, which had weeks ago shed the last of their leaves. It was a strange, dark beauty.

But the fog changed everything. Jens knew that, when he was alone and the fog hung in the air, ghosts came out. Most of them were here for his sins, and the gods knew he had plenty of those. Ghosts of the lost, too, and others. They would appear in the shadows between the trees, in the sounds that came from nowhere, in the shapes of the clouds. He'd tried outrunning them. He'd tried shouting them down. But now he knew that the best thing to do about ghosts was to let them be, to let them say their piece. They only wanted to remind him of the things he already knew.

He saw Uncle Stalhi, not as he really was, but gripped by rage. This was not one of his spitting, cursing rages. His anger was cold, and he looked accusingly at Jens. "You fool of a boy," he grumbled.

There were ghosts of people Jens had met on the run. Fellow travelers, disappointed in him for not staying with them. Some were dead and broken, prey of beasts and bandits. People he maybe could have saved. There were victims, too, shop owners and chiefs, glowering at him for stealing from them. Jens could have made his plea, 'I had no choice! We were hungry!' but he knew better than to waste his breath. He saw the young warriors he'd killed at Uncle June's hall, boys a lot like him. He saw all the men he'd killed, all silently watching him, waiting for him to join them.

Not all the ghosts were aggrieved with him. He heard Sally's voice in the wind. She was not dead or lost to him-- she was just by the lake shore, not an hour's walk away-- but her ghost appeared to him anyway, because she was a mystery. He didn't know what was in her heart. Her old place as the mayor's right-hand woman could have supported her for life, and she had thrown that away to follow him on the lam. She must have loved him, because why else would she do that for him? Then again, she'd never said anything about love, and she never objected when another woman talked to him or flirted with him. In the south, no interested girl would ever allow that. He didn't know what to make of her.

His mother knew. There she was, leaning against a tree trunk, favoring her right leg like always. As she looked at him, she tore her hair out. "Jens, by the gods! When are you going to give that girl a pendant?" Her own pendant, the one his father had carved for her, hung prominent over her chest.

Seeing her, Jens felt an aching regret. She'd had no part in the disaster that shattered their family, but still her punishment was that she would never see her sons again. He hoped the gods would at least send her a sign that they were alright.

He saw his father on the next ridge, helping him look for animal tracks.

His father noticed Sally. He gave a proud, manly huff and said, "Son, if you don't put a baby in that girl, I will!" And he laughed that raucous, gravelly laugh that as a boy Jens had found so reassuring.

And Jens smiled, because it still reassured him. "I wish it was that simple," he said. "But sooner or later, she'll want to have a home. Everyone does. And with me..." He sighed and looked at the forest. "Do I really have it?"

The ghosts weren't telling. Jens knew of the Hunter's Mark, the invisible brand the all-devouring predator god Sokere placed on cowards. It doomed them to be chased forever, to flee forever. Every day, Jens was more certain he had it.

Now his family was silent. They stood looking at him, judging him, and not always in his favor. But they loved him too. He knew that without asking. He saw his sister put a hand on her mother's shoulder and tell her, not for the first time, to be easy, not to work herself too hard. When she turned her head and met Jens' eyes, he apologized-- not for the first time-- for stealing her raft. She began to speak.

Something intruded on his ears. Jens heard footsteps, human ones, and at once the ghosts shrank into the corners. He nocked an arrow on his bowstring.

Jens saw the stranger before the stranger saw him. He had a hood swollen from the layers of cloth beneath it, and sackcloth strips tied tightly around his coat and trousers to keep the warmth in.

Jens drew the arrow back and aimed for the center of the man's chest. A thousand times, the pilgrims had told him that only bandits lived in this forest. And scaring away the bandits by sticking the ones who got too close was what they paid him for. Jens hesitated, hoping for a reason not to shoot.

Another one stepped out of the dark, and Jens cursed. "Get out!" he shouted. "Get out of the forest!"

Both the men jumped, then their eyes fixed on him. One of them stepped forward, hands up, an unwholesome smile on his face. "Hey, well, hello there, lad. What an unlikely meeting."

"Get away!" he yelled again. "This forest is church land. No one is allowed here unless they're pilgrims, or they're with pilgrims. I'm with the pilgrims. And you're not." He should have shot already. More pilgrims were being robbed or killed in this forest, or simply disappearing with all of their valuables. These men were dangerous. But he didn't want to see their faces in the fog for the rest of his life.

"We're here with the church too," said the man in front, his palms still out. "We're the inspectorate of the high priest. Here to monitor."

"Inspectorate?"

"Yes, here to see to it that no one is... misusing church land."

"The pilgrims said nothing about this."

"Oh, didn't they? Because the letter of warning went out months ago."

The pilgrims called paper messages writs, not letters. Jens began to feel the tingle in his back, the whisper of real danger. He kept the string drawn.

The man grew imperious. "Look at you, lad, aiming your bow at two inspectors! How is that for behavior? What am I to say when I write my letter back to the king?"

"Wait..." The tingle got stronger. His fear was ready to melt into fury. It was that same feeling he'd had at Uncle June's hall. The same feeling he remembered from that wretched day he fled from his own home.

"We will not wait!" snapped the man. "Lower that weapon, or we'll cut your hands off!"

"Wait. You said you'd send a letter to the king. But you said you work for the high priest."

The man hesitated.

He was lying. He was a bandit. He was here to kill, and steal, and rape, and Jens was in his way. If he didn't shoot, if he didn't kill, the pilgrims would be in danger. Eric would be in danger.

Jens let the arrow go. His arm lurched as he released, so the arrow flew wide and stuck sideways into the snow.

Both the men snapped out sabers from under their coats. "Now you've done it, you cur!"

The tingling became a burn, and the burn suffused his whole body. His muscles trembled. Time slowed, and everything became crisp. The cool black and blue of the forest became a loud, violent clash of bright white snow and pitch-black sky. He rammed another arrow onto his string, yanked it back and took one moment to aim, an action he knew through practice and did without thought.

He did it just well enough. He opened his fingers, the shaft whistled off into the first bandit's hood, and the man clutched at it as he fell. Jens had aimed for his middle and missed by two whole feet, but there was no time to think of that. The other bandit was after him, only a half-dozen strides away.

He jerked his machete from its sheath and dodged to the side as the bandit brought his saber down. With a wild swing, Jens lashed out at his throat, but he felt no resistance. He didn't wait to see why. He smashed his blade into the bandit's, lunged forward and piled into him as they both toppled into the snow. His free hand clawed at the bandit's throat, beat against his other arm. His legs struggled for grip on the powdery snow, and his throat roared with blind, white-hot terror.

Jens saw a flash of steel, and he pulled his head back, nearly dodged a cut that slid over his scalp. But then the saber fell past him, and he lurched forward, trapping the bandit's right arm as it followed through. Jens' own right hand was trapped too, but with his left he wrenched free his offhand tomahawk, the only one he had left, and he brought it down on the bandit's temple.

And again. And again. Soon, he was pumping his whole chest, his whole back, as he swung into him. Breaks opened in the skin. Dark patches grew where a corner of the ax's blade dragged over his flesh. Steaming-warm blood flooded out of cuts he chopped into his neck, in his chest, and Jens didn't stop because he knew he was still in danger, was still afraid, still not free of the bandit's saber and its deadly intent.

Suddenly, Jens felt the closeness of that saber, its nearness to his neck, to his arms, to his soft, unprotected stomach, and he threw himself off the bandit, exploded to his feet. He stood back, shifting on his toes, certain that his enemy would get up any moment. But the bandit did nothing but bleed. The tomahawk stuck up from a bare, stained length of his collarbone like a woodsman's ax from a stump.

Jens wanted the tomahawk back. It was the last thing he still had from home. But this was an evil place. Any moment now, the spirits who loved murder and pain would gather and feast on the suffering, feast on the terror. The bandits' ghosts would rise, and they would know his face.

Then he noticed something else. The first bandit, the one he'd killed with his arrow, was gone. Footprints, in a sprinting pattern, led away from the point where he'd fallen, and somehow there was no trail of blood. There was no blood at all.

Coldness gripped his guts. A survivor meant a witness. That meant vengeful friends coming back for him.

Jens didn't dare chase him. He turned and ran. He knew he risked catching a foot on a root that hid under the snow, or rolling an ankle on a slippery slope, but still he ran. Constantly, he looked over his shoulder, not sure what he was watching for. But the way back to the pilgrims was long, and soon his fear burned out. His energy shriveled with it, and his frenzied sprint became dogged and weary. His breathing slowed along with the pounding of his heart.

Then the pain began. A hot, ragged line of agony curled from the top of his ear to the crown of his head. Blood dripped onto his shoulder, and when he tested it with his hands, he found that the side of his face was soaked. The pain came in pulses, a third rhythm along with his heart and his breathing. Those rhythms were his only company as he made his way back to the pilgrims. The ghosts had fled, and they wouldn't be coming back; the fog was clearing.

Finally, he crested the last hill and was met with the haunting beauty of the pilgrim fleet. It was a scattering of wooden boats, dozens of them, each little more than a cottage on a hull, all huddled around the wooden docks that ringed the backwater lake that bordered the great, slow river. It was a floating little town, home to pilgrims who migrated down the river at the pleasure of a god Jens knew very little about. The fleet needed protection, and Jens and his party needed a home, so for the last few months they had traveled as part of the flock. Honorary pilgrims, the patriarch had called them, but Jens felt more like a guard dog.

Torches burned on each boat, making orbs of orange haze against the wet, cold, dark air, and each orb had a twin on the surface of the water. The orbs stood out from the boats like kindly, glowing eyes, and the dark brown silhouettes of the boats stood out against the snow of the bank, or the scattered stars of the night sky over the sea. It was a picture of peace and ease.

And now Jens came streaked with blood. He was an ogre in a flower garden, utterly out of place. And if he stayed here, he would bring ruin. In his mind, he thrashed himself, but there was no undoing it. Their time here was up already. It was time to leave again.

Each of the boats in the pilgrim fleet had its own purpose. Many were homes for families or cells for monks. There were kitchen boats and workshop boats and, of course, guard boats laden with weapons, where the warriors trained and slept.

Jens made for his guard boat, looking for wound dressings and Eric. He found the bandages, but Eric was missing, along with the rest of the guards. Out hunting or watching the coast, he guessed. In silence, he dressed his wound, then he picked up his rucksack and started cramming things into it. First the light, bulky things, to make the sack sit easier on his back: the blanket, the tent and a few wooden tools. Next went a map-- he had always meant to ask someone what the words on it meant, but didn't want to admit he couldn't read-- and then heavier things. Water, smoked meat, tent stakes and the frying pan. They were plain and unlovely things, but they could be made ready to leave on a moment's notice, and they were tough enough to survive a trip to anywhere. Just like he was.

He put on the rucksack, shrugged himself into the straps and felt the weight push down on his back. It was a feeling he did not miss. On second thought, he heaved it off and left it in his corner of the boat. First, he would find Eric, then he would come back for it. No need to shoulder its weight any longer than he had to.

Eric was not on the supply boat where the boys liked to play. He wasn't on the roof of the boat where his friend Keziah lived. But then he checked at one of the kitchen boats, and there he found Eric chopping carrots for a big, quiet woman. It made Jens speechless to see how fast that boy grew. So recently, he would have barely measured up to her elbow, and now he was as tall as her shoulder.

"Eric, something bad happened. I need you to pack your things, quickly."

"What?" Eric turned to him, and he saw Jens' wound. "What happened?"

Jens eyed the cook with suspicion. For reasons he could not name, he did not want her to hear this. "Come over here with me." Then, when they were just off the boat: "I've been in a fight, and one of the men who attacked me ran away. We need to leave here, now."

"No!" Eric snapped. "I'm not leaving!"

Jens sighed. A year ago, Eric would have moped a little, then come along. But now he demanded answers for everything. "We don't have a choice. There's bandits in the woods, and they'll be hunting for me. For both of us."

"So what? They've always been there."

"You don't understand. I killed one of them. The other one saw me, and he got away, so they know what I look like."

"So stay here where we're not alone."

"I can't bring that on these people!"

"Why not? We stick together, remember? That's what the patriarch told us."

"I'm supposed to make them safer, if I-"

"We stick together and we help each other! You've done that, remember? When you pulled the wagon out of the mud? And when you took Miriam's turns watching the babies, and when you got the horse feed. Remember? Now it's our turn to get some help."

"We... still shouldn't be here."

"Why not? They hired you on as a ranger, didn't they? They told you to kill the bandits, didn't they? It was their idea. Now you did what they said, and you think it's a bad thing! It's not a bad thing! There is no reason to run away!"

Jens saw it would be useless to argue. "Come on, we'll talk about this on the road." He reached for Eric's arm.

Eric batted away his hand. "No."

"What?"

Eric turned and ran. "Go away! I'm not leaving!" And he vaulted over a stack of crates, disappeared into the boat and out of sight. Jens followed him into the boat, and just made it in when he heard little feet clapping down on the roof, and he realized that Eric hadn't gone away. He'd climbed up. A moment after he put this together, he heard a splash from the opposite side of the boat and saw Eric swimming to another boat on the far side of the river.

The cook watched him go, wide-eyed. Then she turned her questioning eyes on Jens.

He shrugged. "I don't know what to do with him."

But he knew what not to do. Swimming after him was not an option. With his weapons weighing him down, Jens would never be able to match his speed. He would have to run back to shore and over to the one bridge that crossed the whole river. He took off. As his frenzied run carried him from the wooden planks onto the cold mud, Jens decided that he forgave his brother for his rebelliousness. It was only natural for his age. Most boys had the luxury of making mistakes like that, and it was only their bad luck that Jens had to be so strict with him.

At the boat Eric had been swimming to, Jens found no one except an old couple, and they said they hadn't seen Eric in days. When they pointed out Jens' scalp wound and asked if he was alright, he lied that it didn't hurt and left.

There was no sign of Eric in the water, and it was impossible that he had drowned. The water was cold, yes, but not so cold that it could kill him while he was still in it, and the river current was extremely tame here. Jens' skills in tracking were useless on the hard wood of the dock, so following his path was impossible. He started guessing.

A few more boats turned out to be mostly abandoned with no sign of Eric, but after going through his third boat, Jens hit on an idea. Sally had told him she would be on the navigator's boat with the scouts to listen to their plans. She and Eric talked often. She would know where to find him.

There were two scouts on the navigator's boat, tall, thin men, arguing over a map, pointing stick-like fingers at each other. Sally was there too, behind them.

But she was not looking at them or their map. She knelt in front of a chair, and in the chair sat Eric, shivering, dripping wet, a too-large blanket draped over him with the excess coiled at his feet. She worked over him with a towel, rough but careful. She asked him something, and Jens heard only the word 'pirate.' Then she noticed Jens standing there, watching them, and her face went cold.

"Sally," said Jens, "We have to go. I have to take him."

"What do you need to do that for?" She fixed him with a needlelike stare, not distracted by his wound. "Why were you chasing him?"

"Don't give me that! Something terrible has happened. I met bandits in the forest. I didn't want to fight them, but I did. I took down one, but the other ran away to tell the others. And now if we're not gone, they'll all be here."

"What do you mean, 'if we're not gone?' You think they'll come here? To the fleet?"

"Yes."

"Jens, if they want to try to raid the fleet, they'll do that no matter what you do. Running away won't help, because they'll come here anyway. Suppose they really do go looking just for you. They'll assume you're here, whether you really are or not."

"Please, don't fight me on this. I don't want to leave, but we have to."

"There's no reason for this, Jens. If you go, I'm not going with you, not this time."

That hurt, but he had known she would say it. "Just give me Eric."

"No." She stepped in front of him, hands curled to fists at her sides.

"Eric!" Jens barked. "We don't have time for this! Come here!"

Eric stood up, and for a moment it looked like he was coming. But he only took a step forward to wrap his arms around Sally's right hand. He held it close, as if her wrist was a magical charm against danger. He let go with one hand to pull the blanket tighter around him, and Jens noticed that it was no blanket at all. It was Sally's longcoat.

Jens felt the tingling rush rising in his back. Sally was between him and his brother, trying to split the family. His hand wandered to his hilt.