Huntsman

         Terrimak sat tall upon his stallion, Nymat, the fine black animal steady as a rock as they surveyed the village in the valley below. His Ghost Hounds whined, anxious to follow their quarry, their voices drifting eerily on the wind. Terrimak silenced them with a wave of his hand, his black, cracked fingernails gleaming dully in the sunlight. The village was small and without a defensive wall, lookout tower or guardhouse. Terrimak smiled and scratched his short, grizzled beard. Well, why should they bother? Little around here would bother a village. The dragons had been killed or driven off, the elven border was four days’ ride to the south, and peace and prosperity ruled over the Tykon Empire. Only the Werefolk still caused trouble in these parts, and they were easy enough to deal with.

         Urging Nymat down the hill at a casual walk, he chewed thoughtfully at the end of a red grass stem, the ache in his head easing as he swallowed its sour juice. Terrimak kept watch for his prey, glad that this Were was Bitten and not Chosen. Chosen had the infuriating habit of Changing to birds to escape. Luckily, Terrimak was a master archer. This one was only a Werewolf, the most common Were and Terrimak’s personal enemy; his little sister had been killed by a Werewolf. He had never forgiven himself for being unable to protect her, even though he was only eight years old at the time. It was no excuse. Now, thirty years later, he was a Huntsman, sworn to kill all Were at any cost, even if it meant his own life.

         His six Hounds kept their silence as they drew closer to the village, their ghostly shapes pacing him on either side. If he looked directly at them, they were invisible, but out of the corner of his eye, they gleamed with moonfire, like creatures carved from the wind. The curve of a barrel chest, the arch of a neck, the gleam in those crystal blue eyes; he knew each one by sight and by the sound of their voice. They were his life far more than any flesh and blood creature had ever been.

         Farmers in their fields looked up from their plowing as he passed by, some doffing their caps and bowing low, but all watching him with wide eyes. Ragged children peered from empty doorways, the wail of tiny children rising thin and weak through the open windows. This part of the Empire was forgotten by the powerful and avoided by the rich, so a man on a fine horse with sharkskin boots and a well made sword strapped to his back was a rare sight indeed.

         Into the village he rode, ignoring the housewives staring out their windows, and making for the well in the muddy square. He rode a slow circle around the well, looking into every face that stared out at him and watching the color drain from their cheeks as they realized what he was. Raising his hand sharply, Terrimak released the Hounds from their silence and they raised their voices as one in a haunting chord that made the hair on Terrimak’s neck prickle with anticipation. They raced toward the blacksmith’s shop, baying with such fervor that Terrimak knew the Were was inside. Their vaporous forms passed through the walls, one of the benefits of being without a body, but the Huntsman was forced to break down the door.

         Inside, the Were was trying to cover his ears with one hand while still keeping the point of his dagger against the blacksmith’s throat, a task that was proving frustrating. He was younger than Terrimak had thought, with brown hair and wolfish golden eyes, eyes that narrowed with fear at the sight of him.

         “Shut up, shut up!” he screamed over and over, pricking the smith’s neck in his agitation. A large drop of blood dripped onto the heavy leather apron. Terrimak’s two big males lunged forward, grabbing the spirit within the Were in their jaws. He screamed, sinking the tip of his dagger into the smith’s jaw as the Ghost Hounds struggled with the moonfire bright shadow in the shape of a huge wolf. They had it by the leg and were slowly dragging it from its host body. This was too easy.

         Terrimak drew his sword and swung it in a great arc, the whistling of the blade singing above the baying of his Hounds. The keen edge bit into flesh, slicing through veins and arteries, and finally balking when it met bone. He slid his sword out of both necks and let the smith and Were fall to the ground, blood soaking their stunned faces. As they Were died, the spirit fled the body, turning on the Hounds like a flash of lightning, ghostly fangs bared. In a wave, the other four leaped upon him, their own teeth quick and flashing. A moment, no more, and it was over, the Werespirit ripped to shreds and devoured by the Hounds. They didn’t really eat it, of course, but they did absorb its energy, fueling their souls and healing their wounds.

         Terrimak kicked the blacksmith aside and cleaned his blade on the Were’s tunic, sheathing it across his back and taking up the enemy’s dagger. With several swift and precise cuts, he finished severing the Were’s head and bagged it, then flipped the carcass over onto its stomach. With the ease of much practice, he sliced down the back and ripped out the spine and placed it in the bag as well, now pulling tight the drawstring of the leather pouch.

         A crowd of villagers had gathered outside the blacksmith shop, but they parted with haste born of fear when Terrimak emerged, his leather bag dripping blood onto the ground. Tying the bag to his saddle, he swung up onto Nymat’s back and rode slowly away, a scream piercing the still air as the bodies were discovered. He wiped away a trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His gums had begun to bleed again.

         When Terrimak reached the forest on the hill above the village he stopped and cast a last look over his shoulder. The villagers had already set fire to the blacksmith’s shop, a common practice when frightened, ignorant people were left to deal with Werefolk. That’s why there were Huntsmen. However, it wasn’t his duty to dispose of bodies. They seemed to be doing a fine job of it without him, and if they were lucky, they wouldn’t burn the whole village down.

         He finished chewing the juice from the red stem and spat it away, fetching another from his saddlebag before his headache started again. Three years ago, when he first discovered the stems, they had made him feel great, like he could do anything, like he had been touched by the gods, but now they barely kept his headaches away. Still, as long as they dulled the pain, he would keep chewing on them. He couldn’t even think of being without a pouchful.

         As long as he was stopped, Terrimak decided to Call his Hounds, a ritual he performed thrice daily and more often when in strange lands. One by one, he called each Hound’s name and waited for it’s voice. It was the only way to truly know if all his Hounds were still with him.

         “Detrion,” His youngest male, inquisitive. “Kelion,” A fierce female, daughter of the great Satikion. “Kobrion,” His oldest Hound, a stoic male. “Juvion,” High-spirited female, fastest runner “Waxion,” A loud male, twin to Emecion. “Emecion,” His brother’s opposite, subdued. Each of them he had earned with sweat and blood, each of them he had raised from a pup and trained, and each of them he loved more than his own life. The moments after he called their names and before they answered were the longest of his life, fearful that he would be answered only by silence.

         Time killed nearly all Ghost Hounds, their lives ranging from ten to fourteen years in length. The oldest Hound was said to have been Ferigadion, a creature that now lived more in myth than in memory. He was supposed to have been one of the eleven Hounds belonging to Tasil, the greatest of the Hunstmen. This Hound, said to have been strong as a boar and swift as a hawk, lived twenty-one years, which might or might not be exaggerated. Terrimak believed the old legends with the faith of one who had never thought to disbelieve them.

         The sweet fwee-oo-eet of a swallow caused him to cast his eyes to the sky. It was only a Messenger though, the most common of the swallows. Terrimak had hoped to see a Blue Darba or a Silver, or maybe a Soul Stealer, but those were the very rare. He had only seen three in his life, but he would never forget the piercing black eyes that tugged at his soul before he looked away.

         This little bird fluttered down to the ground next to him and dropped a small scroll of parchment. It was a male, his wings and back a deep metallic blue and his chest pure white. Terrimak reached out to pick the scroll up, and the bird hopped backwards, but did not fly away. Terrimak unrolled the scroll and read the letter. It was written in the most beautiful script, the handwriting reminding him of a Lady’s, but it was no Lady who wrote it.

Dear Huntsman Terrimak,
         May this letter find you in good health, better health, at least, than Huntsman Tasrien. I’m afraid there’s not much left of him now, but if you hurry to the old oak outside Fethima Village you might find something to take home to his mother. It’s easier to rip a man’s arms off than you would think, especially when you’re a dragon.
         It was nice to see you at the Blue Dragon. Thanks for buying me a drink. I was the elven miner who took a liking to your sword. I must say that you look more tired these days than you used to. You need to get more sleep. I left you a little something in the left pouch of your saddlebag. No, don’t thank me, I just do what I can.
         I’ll be in Misnar in two day’s time and if you feel up to the ride, I’d love to chat.

                   best wishes,
                   Toran, last of the Weredragons


         Terrimak was too stunned to do anything but sit in the damp grass and chew the red stem. He remembered the elf from the tavern well, especially the way he kept talking about Terrimak’s sword. Terrimak had watched him carefully to be sure he didn’t try to steal it, but he never thought...

         Damn that Weredragon! What was his game? He’d been sending Terrimak messages for months, telling him where he would be, then appearing in disguise and gloating over it in the next message. Would it ever end? The swallow was still sitting on the ground looking up at him, his bright amber eyes watching every move Terrimak made, the sun glinting blue from his beautiful feathers.

         “Um, thank you,” he said, as always, feeling a little foolish for talking to a bird, his gruff voice very loud in the quiet of the forest. The Messenger bowed his head to the ground and then flew away. Terrimak read the scroll again, chewing his stem violently as his anger rose at the cruel pleasure in Toran’s words. So, young Tasrien was dead. That made seventeen Toran claimed to have killed.

         Terrimak groaned as he stood and walked to Nymat, hesitating before he opened the left pouch. Inside, he found a roll of some sort of hide, only a handsbreath wide, but nearly an armslength when he let it unroll. He stared at the hide, the taste of bile tainting each breath he took. The werekill brands burned into it were newer than most of the ones his own arm bore, but there was no doubt that they were genuine. Terrimak let the skin from Tasrien’s forearm drop to the ground and thoroughly wiped his hand on his shirt.

         He mounted his horse and rode west, the sun peering over his shoulder and casting a short shadow before him. Two days to Misnar was no problem, but would it be of any use? Even if he looked Toran square in the eye, would he know it?