It is bitter cold. The night is moonless and dark, and the dew has turned to frost in the fields around the village of Falos. Its small inner port, where the Falosi summer fishing fleets are now berthed, has been largely vacant since it close when the rains came heralding summer's ending. The winter storms will soon make travel towards the fishing grounds all but impossible for even the largest of the fleet's vessels. However, in the distance beyond the harbor, the lamps and torches on the immense quays of the island port of Sankra still glint their shadowy light upon its many workers. They will undoubtedly still be working hours past dawn to unload the large ocean liners that anchor there. Many people working on that island will lose family and friends tonight... but people die all the time.
Just then there's a small flutter of movement to my right, it is quick, there only for a moment, and then gone the next, but I don't miss it. I am ever aware of my surroundings. Years of life under my father's tutelage have forged me into the silent hunter I have become. However, the same can not be said for the out-watchers in the camp below. They've grown weary, tired minds slowly becoming more complacent as their watches trudge on. There, once again there is movement. It's to my left now, the unmistakable rustle of something large moving through high grass. I almost can't help but laugh at myself as Mära, my Ömirish great wolf, raises her tremendous sable head above the grass. Part of the rope she had been tied off with still dangling around her large shaggy neck. Luckily even with her rather prodigious size, there is still little chance the watchmen have seen my mount. Her thick black fur blends with the darkness around her. Even now I, standing as close as I am, am having difficulty discerning the wolf's exact shape and size. Only the bright amber-gold of her eyes and the white on her chest give any real evidence of her presence here in the field outside the forest. I click my tongue and she slinks over to me, ears back, feet soft against the ground, death given form. I fondle her ears for a moment then unlatch the clasp keeping my quiver strapped firmly to my saddle. I shoulder it and draw three shafts from within. I take up a good stance holding two arrows and the bow in one hand and my first shot in the other. I slow my breathing allowing my body to relax, the bowstring fights against me striving to leap forward. I feel the wind blowing across my shot, but I hold steady. An error now and months of work by my colleagues will be undone. I align my shot carefully exhaling as I let the first arrow fly. I sigh a sigh of relief, and grim satisfaction as the watchmen's lifeless body hits the ground. Silently I praise my father for the many years of archery I've been forced to endure. I leap astride Mara and spur the beast into a trot. I nock back the second arrow and prepare to fire waiting for the secondary watchmen to stroll into view. It's almost hard to believe that such a small group will soon set fire to the rooftops of what has become my home. There are fifteen of them altogether, well now only fourteen and soon to be twelve. They are waiting for a small detachment of reinforcements, which will be here within the hour. Had there been another route, any other way I would have gladly take it. Killing disagrees with me, and I have now killed twice tonight, I think to myself as my second arrow sings its near-silent song of shadowy death and many times over twice as a matter of fact. I won't be here when the mercenaries attack now, and neither will my son. That is in itself is a death sentence for the townspeople, and even though I knew the instant I came here that people could die I had prayed it wouldn't come to this.
Mara checks her pace. I prepare my third and final shot I can see clear across camp the final watchmen tending the flames of the campfire. My shot is clean, the arrow passing straight through the soft tissue in his neck. He will drown in his own blood before I'm able to clear the township's border. Regardless, my way is now clear of any unwelcome watchers. I tighten my grip on the reins and spur the wolf once more. Her furious pace is blinding the icy wind in my face threatens to chill me straight through, but still, I press Mara for greater speeds.
We will not stop or slow for many miles now, for fear of being followed.
I can't help but think back to the harbor in Fälös and pray that Atatrë and her brother Kûntë have slipped off as planned. With any luck, they will reach Sankŕa soon and book passage to Allocar further down the coast on the merchant's vessel Tor-Tora. A massive tri-master made to brave winter storms. Three days from now they will make port, secure mounts, and ride north by northeast to the fiefdom of Itafell. They will then rendezvous with me at my uncle's derelict hunting lodge in the low lands. Hopefully, bringing about the end of our pursuit from the crown's assassins.
His jumbled thoughts would do him and his friends no good now though so he pushes them out of his mind. He must focus now.
