Trials of the Hunt

Chapter 1

There was tension and excitement in the air, but you couldn’t tell from the Horde’s demeanor. They were stoic and calm as they waited for the large wooden gates to open. The Huntsman appeared from the shadows behind the group and slowly took his place at the head of the Horde with Dillion and Padraig at his sides.

During the day he was their father, King Kirwin, ruler of the Taladaen Empire. At night he was their Huntsman, leader of the Wild Hunt. He stood taller than the tallest man here, maybe the hall slanted upwards towards the end, but his presence was truly remarkable. From behind, he looked like the rest of them – plain black armor, black helm, heavy leather cloak and dark boots. They all carried a flail, even Kirwin, though they never saw him use it. It was known that he enjoyed tearing a fae’s flesh with his hands. It had been a long time since he’d fought as a hybrid wolf. Walking around furry fell out of favor towards the end of the Great War. He hadn’t used his claws in a long time. But he enjoyed using his hands, it seemed, almost as much as his claws.

He answered the call of the Horned God and led the Wild Hunt at His command. He stood before the Horde and waived an ancient white boar’s horn, high in the air, then slung the horn around his neck by a long, weathered leather strap. Large, heavy wooden gates heavily carved with the Horned God’s Charge creaked slowly open. When the gates were cleared, the Huntsman walked through them and chants and incantations began behind him. Members of the Horde were summoning their steeds as they ran out of the grand hall behind their Huntsman.

Some members of the Horde, not present in the esteemed hall, joined along the way. They chanted their own incantations, summoned steeds and took off to join the rumbling mass of black clouds known in the Grasslands as the Wild Hunt. The veterans were used to this, others, the more junior members, worried they might not be able to keep up.

“The Horde waits for all its brethren.” No one knew who said or thought that, or who needed to hear it, but it comforted everyone.

The Horde took off at a furious pace across Taladae’s countryside. Kirwin strode ahead of them, calmly, and the Horde ran to keep pace with him. As the large, black horses appeared alongside their masters, the field almost doubled in size and riders began to mount their steeds. That’s when it happened. They took off on the air and became a rolling black cloud in the night sky. It wasn’t a shroud, like many believed it to be. There was no need to cloak or hide the Horde in the nighttime sky. They were doing the Horned God’s work. No shame in that.

Many had no magic that could make them fly, but they weren’t flying. They were running on the air and it was glorious.

Running on air was like walking on a sandy beach. There was substance to it and it had give, it moved just a bit under their feet and paws and they had to work to keep their footing. The air could be flung in the face and get stuck in fur. It was the magic from the Horned God that made this possible.

Kirwin strode calmly across the night air at almost a league ahead of the Horde, on foot. He had no need of a steed to get around. But he had one. When he summoned it, it was the most magnificent beast in existence. These days, he choose to walk where he went. It was more rewarding, he would say. It gave him a chance to experience the ride in a different way than riding a horse. He’d been doing this for many, many years. Like many things, the Wild Hunt could get tiring, even boring. He liked change every now and then. This was the easiest way to inject new life into his experience of the nightly ride.

The Horde kept chanting throughout the ride and the mood was exuberant. Glory to Gods long since ascended and some who still walked among the fae. Reverence for their Huntsman and for the Wild Hunt. These were prayers in their most ancient form, devotionals to the Horned God and to their highest lords.

Tonight’s quarry was a slaver in Taladae’s River Reaches. They set down near a mining village far north of the capital. Night fell across the valley as the full Hunter’s Moon rose, and the air hung heavy around the men. They gathered together, as they had on many nights, having answered the call of their Huntsman. He sat at the top of a hill, a mere league from them, waiting for just the right moment.

The men and their steeds paced below him, but he stood his ground. He kept watch on the valley ahead of him, almost a league away. Fires burned to keep the night’s cold air at bay. A lone guard kept watch, walking to and fro, bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. He could never see the Huntsman on his perch. The Horned God protected them from all manner of sight, both natural and magical, while on His hunt. His Huntsman could stand there all night and all day and no one would ever know.

“Our brother returns to us tonight,” the men whispered.