Chapter 3. Cyran

CYRAN

Hunting is a remedy of its own. The adrenaline coursing through your veins as you pull the string, the focus of all the senses on the creature about to be snuffed out, the dire hope that the arrow will strike its target. It’s what I turn to when I don’t want to think. Or at least, it was.

Saelyna had been gone thirty minutes before I realized we were running low on meat. I found it a pleasant excuse to go into the woods, and that is undoubtedly what sets me on the knoll overlooking the village, and cutting around the King’s Forest.

It wasn’t always called that. Before the Rebellion, it was Halden Woods, named after the village. If the elves of this village were not the spearhead of the attack on the state, well, the forest would have remained what it was; a space for all. And my parents would still be alive.

I begin my descent into the first from the south side, where I’m sure few of the guards would be. Tales spun by village folk about dead and vengeful spirits hiding out in these parts have been corroborated by a few superstitious of their number, and it does not help that the boneyard lies that way.

It is darker in these parts. The trees are mainly ash, hickory, birch and mander trees, so the canopy provides a shade in grateful for.

The track is familiar to me. Father used to bring me here when we were little. We would follow a path adjacent to the roots, where the leaves did not lie, as quiet as feather fall. I would watch him take down rabbits, squinards and even deer on the run. His accuracy was unequaled. I had hoped to live up to him.

I pause occasionally to listen and peer into the murky depths of the forest. Father and Saelyna called it the god sight, my ability to see things others could not, that it was a gift from Aranon himself. My mother didn’t say anything. Neither did I. Because god sight isn’t the only ‘gift’ I possessed. And I don’t think they came from a god.

I pause again, and this time, crouch close to a birch tree, arrow nocked. The smell reaches me, faintly, but clear enough to know it is meat under fur. Four-legged, and sharp-sighted as well.

I peer around the trunk. An animal comes into sight.

A deer.

I release my arrow and avert my eyes involuntarily. No huntsman shall hunt venison. It’s a law that we’ve been obedient to since Xanwed of the deer-genn was made king. A disobedient thought comes to me.

“Take it down. No one needs to know.”

I don’t move, though. I know better than to think one of the deer-gen guards would not feel the life snuff out of one of their own.

I looked around the tree again. The deer had moved on, and I doubt it would have even fled if it had spotted me.

I continue my hunt, listening, watching the ground for signs of a hungry squinard back from a nut crusade, or a rabbit returning to its burrow, or…

I stop.

The tracks I see now cannot be spotted by the average hunter. I crouch and peer closer to the ground. They look like a dog’s, possibly a tree hound. But I’ve seen those before, and neither of them are that large. The only animal…creature that bears paw semblance to this is…

I rise quickly and strike out the incredulous thought. Wolves can’t be here. We would have known long since. The patrol guard would have spotted one, surely.

“Would they?”

They go by many names. Raveners, devil fangs, shadow biters. An agreeable name for their kind is wolf, and it is general knowledge that they are the most vicious, terrifying and cunning of the genns. If they were here, and they wouldn’t want to be seen, they could pull it off. For a short while, yes, before they could be spotted, but long enough to cause terrible damage.

I rise, and I listen to the forest. Now that I pay more attention, the birds’ chirps come in dispirited bursts, and the ground creatures are a tad quiet. Something is off. I can feel, see and smell it.

I advance, more out of curiosity than anything else. The tracks are hard to follow; they have been here a while, and the owner had been very subtle in their movement. I nock an arrow again at the sound of a snapping twig. But it’s a squinard.

“Hold your breath. Be free with your fingers. Zero in on the target, and don’t let it smell you.”

I draw slowly. As an elf, I could just let the arrow fly and trust it to be precise. That was if I had my magic. But father had taught me how to hunt without it, like a human would. It was almost as if he knew this would happen.

The squinard is moving directly into my line of target. It’s a big one, almost as tall as a deer, and its horns are already developed. It chews on the nuts sprinkled on the forest floor. I get ready to let the arrow fly. I usually hit the head, even though most frown at it as unprofessional or something. For me, I’m giving it a merciful and quick death.

I’m about to let release it into its skull when it hits me that the grandaunts are not scattered randomly. They’re in a straight line leading to…

I nearly yell as a large, bulky mass springs at the squinard, taking it down in one flash of claws. The wounded animal squeals in shock and pain, collapsing on the floor, blood spurting from its neck where the wolf had ripped it open.

Wolf? No. A wolf is big, but not THAT big.

My fingers are shaking, but I barely realize it as the creature circles back to its victim. It bites down, again and again, until the squinard’s neck is a bloody mess of tangled bone and meat.

“Go home,” my instincts scream, “Run.”

There is a belief that when you come in contact with a wolf, you run. My father said it was a lie because you had just given the beast a reason to chase you, a race you would not win, no matter how swift-footed you are.

Neither he nor the villagers, said anything about what to do when faced with a wolfed or wolf-genn, the most abominable of the genns.

The wolfen is huge, large enough to take down a deer without fuss, and rip a man in two just as easily. Its hide falls in thick brown layers, like a bear’s, and its eyes are green and fierce, but they also look…human.

It definitely is a wolfen.

I take a step backward, and another. I have to put up enough distance before daring to turn my back. Another step. It doesn’t pay attention to me, for all I know, the smell I omit is that of rotten bark and leaves. I thank the gods father still left the spray around. I make a mental note to offer incense tonight at the temple if I survive this ordeal.

If I survive.

As if to mock my hope, a twig snaps. So loudly, it echoes around me. The wolfen is not deaf. And I’m not sitting squinard.

I bolt through the woods as fast as an elf can, which is faster than any mortal at all. The beast is close at my heels, close enough that I can hear the thump of its massive paws on the ground and its hungry roars. I turn, I weave, I zigzag through the trees. The wolfen cannot easily be put off, but I try.

I see a faint light ahead. I’m close to the entrance, then. My legs are getting heavier, even with the adrenaline that floods my body. For the hundredth time, I curse the elves and their stupid rebellion that took away the magic that could bloody well save my life right now.

The beast emerges in front of me like a ghost, and I’m within inches of its snapping jaws.

An arrow is in my grip.

I plunge it into the wolfen’s eye and crash into the ground with the momentum of my attack. I got a slash at my ribs for my trouble, but its howls of pain are horrifying to hear. It rumbles through the forest, and perhaps beyond, loud enough to chill brave souls.

I don’t wait. I rush to my feet and hurry out of the forest quickly. My feet don’t feel like lead anymore as they carry me across the knoll, and down into the village, away from the death that had awaited me.