The wind carried a harsh message of ice-bitten weather fast approaching. A pale face grimaced against the chilly gust, and quietly the man slinked away from the hutch he had come to visit. It was little more than shabby structure built clumsily along the cold and unforgiving mountainside, little more than a child’s play fort beside a looming giant. The walls of the hut were lined with animal furs to keep out excess chill and empty snow-gourd shells that rattled ominously in the icy winds. Their purpose the man long forgotten.
“You didn’t find your answers,” a thick, gravelly voice purred from behind him. Sharp green eyes darted over a broad shoulder, and the warrior waved his hand abruptly.
“You don’t have them,” he replied hastily. “I’m running out of time.”
“You never had time to begin with.” The old hunched figure chuckled. The warrior’s eyes narrowed and he removed the piece of cloth covering his mouth and nose from the stinging winds. The strong face, with hidden remnants of memories from battles and bloodshed etched into the serious countenance, reminded the wiseman to choose his words with more care. This was not a safe man. “The answer you seek lies with the Wolf.”
“A wolf? Are you serious?!” The warrior retorted angrily. He cared little for wolves. Or riddles. He crossed his arms over his chest impatiently. “What wolf?”
“The Wolf! Haldamir’s Styrren fool.”
The warrior spun on his heel and strode out. Surprised, the wiseman seized his walking stick and tried to catch up with the younger man. They left the hut and stepped out into the snowy mountainside, leaving crunchy impressions in the white blanket covering the earth.
“Why do you leave?!” He exclaimed. He caught the young man with his walking stick. “I gave you the answers!”
“I know what you will say.” The warrior replied coolly. His eyes turned hard. “I won’t put my hope in the blasted “Chosen Hunter” legends. If Haldamir and his damn beast care so much for the welfare of Men why do the same evils keep recurring?!”
“We are Children of the Earth. That makes us susceptible to darkness.” The wiseman responded cryptically. “The Hunter will rise again. If you work hard and search, you will find him. The One Who Hunts Evil. A child of Haldamir. And then he will lead the people against the ancient shadows towering over your young civilization.”
“I fight Wolves remember?” The younger man replied lowly. “I am a Red Hood.”
“Once you fought side by side. Once a child of Haldamir led the Red Hoods and we enjoyed over three centuries of peace. Now you foolish babes attempt to governor-you who have forgotten the Old Ways in favor of new traditions. The one who Styrren’s Head choses is the one who can put the shadows of the land to rest. This has always been so. They who wield Rahiren. Only a child of Haldamir can assist you if what you tell me is true.” The old man returned to his hut and reluctantly the younger followed.
“Why?” The man demanded curtly. He gathered the fabric hanging over a chair into his hands. “Why a child of Haldamir?”
The wiseman could sense that the question was rhetorical in nature and did not reply. The man gripped the dark edges of the fabric firmly in his hands and then whipped it about his shoulders in a flurry of scarlet red. The blood colored cloak settled upon his shoulders like a warm friend, and gleamed against the bright white of the snow outside. The hood of the cloak was lifted and placed over the man’s head, masking his face from the world, leaving it a dark, blind hole.
“Raven,” the old man croaked. A withered claw-like hand reached out to the warrior. “You remember our deal?”
“You hardly supplied any information oh great onlooker of the world.”
“You swore!”
“Only if I got the information I needed. Now I must go forth and search for a child of Haldamir’s!”
“Please,” the old man begged pitifully. He collapsed to the ground shaking. “I will die.”
Raven’s eyes narrowed in disgust and he removed a pouch from his waist. He threw it down before the man repulsed and a phial of golden liquid rolled out toward the man.
“You should have died long ago fool,” Raven snarled. “You keep this selfish existence up because you fear death. It breaks nature’s laws.” The man scrambled to take up the vial and unplugged it with shaky, clumsy fingers before downing it all in a desperate gulp. Raven shook his head and stormed out of the hut, full of fury and loathing
“You need me,” the man shouted back, feeling the liquid restore his body and mind. He felt more alive than before, bright eyed and vigorous.
“As of late,” Raven replied softly, “you haven’t been useful to us.” He looked over his shoulder again. “You are something of a bother. And you have lived too long Aros. We are tired of looking to old fools for false guidance.” A flicker of shadow appeared in the forest colored eyes. “May you find peace in your mountain old man.”
The wiseman began to sweat. He touched his brow and looked at his fingers. His mouth gaped in disbelief when he saw there was blood mingled with the sweaty water. He trembled like leaf and tried to form a curse at the young man. His tongue grew sluggish and heavy in his mouth; he could feel his lungs shrivel and his throat constrict. Down on one knee he went and soon both. He bumbled uselessly as the poison seeped deep into his body and gnawed at the innards and bones, turning them to liquid.
Raven turned and left before the scene became too gruesome. He didn’t smile nor did he spare the old man a second thought. He did as he was told and deemed right. The man had lived too long and his unnatural battle against the arms of age carried on too long. Mortality, Raven thought to himself, isn’t a curse for one to dispel with a healing draught.
Silently the red-hooded warrior mounted his steed, a surefooted black mare with a smudge of white upon her brow and followed the mountain trail down toward leveled land.
He had a difficult task ahead of him-hunt down the Hunter.
* * * * * * *
Raedin lifted the newly dropped lamb from the wet grass with care. The little thing bleated and wiggled a little, but when he wrapped his cloak around it and pressed it into his chest, it relaxed and set its head down on the crook of his arm. It let out a sweet maaa and Raedin stroked its fuzzy head.
Its mother however, was not so happy. She tried to ram her head into his legs but he easily kicked her away. He was glad to collect the last lamb and be rid of the constant butting of the mothers with their little horns. It left him feeling sore in the legs and sometimes a well-aimed strike would break the skin. Raedin often thought about making a slingshot and hitting the ewes when they came too close but that would require to two hands and the lambs took up most of his arms.
Perhaps a dog, he thought. A good dog to snap at the ewes’ feet and drive them off of him and toward the barn. He would have to ask Farmer about that. He deposited the last lamb in a warm hay pile inside the barn and gently lifted a little fuzzy leg. He tied a blue ribbon around the baby’s neck, signifying that is was male, and begrudgingly let the mother in. She gave him a good whack before trotting to her bleating baby in their own stall.
Raedin rolled his eyes and closed the stall door behind them. He could see Farmer coming toward the barn with his horse faithfully walking beside him through the open door. They had round up the cows by themselves and looked quite worn-out from the work.
“Thanks son,” Farmer told him. He peeked inside the sheep’s’ stall and whistled. “Eight lambs? Those ewes must’ve given you a good run.”
“Two mothers had to share a stall,” Raedin replied. “I think a dog would make the work much easier sir.”
“I think your right. Giles’ has a bitch that just whelped not three weeks ago. She’s a good strong herder, next week we can go look at them. Though mind you, you gotta train the beast. I won’t have the time to be training a pup.” Farmer replied. He unsaddled his horse and set it loose in its stall.
“Still working on that gelding from Farsbarrow?” Raedin chuckled. Farmer swore under his breath.
“Most spirited creature I have ever had the displeasure of starting. He nearly threw me six feet into the air the fool. No one has ever touched the horse since he was dropped onto the ground I wager.”
“Too bad he is cut.” Raedin stated as they walked toward the house.
“Too bad indeed, he would be a fine stallion to breed strong foals.” Farmer agreed. He opened the door for the boy and followed behind him.
Inside the one-room house Raedin could smell the slow cooking of boar meat seasoned with rosemary and sage. Elsa stirred the red hot embers with a glowing poker, and when she saw the two entered, plunged the red hot metal into cups of apple cider mixed with an herbal tea of her own making and honey. The result was a warm, sweet yet spicy cider that warmed you to the toes and thawed out the bones. The rich smell was a welcomed relief, and Raedin gratefully sipped from the mug handed to him. He sat at the small makeshift table- the table he helped Farmer make when he was a boy as evident by the slight sloping tilt- and signed contently. Farmer cut up a few slices of hardened bread and passed a piece to Raedin as Elsa set the meat down on a platter. Raedin set the bread in the cider to make it softer and waited to be served.
“Boy caught eight lambs,” Farmer told Elsa with an even tone. Despite this, Raedin felt a twinge of joy, as that was as close to an expression of pride as Farmer got. Elsa, on the other hand, beamed at the boy. She had a pretty, round face with a natural smile and easy eyes as brown and as sweet-natured as a cow’s with long black eyelashes. She often reminded Raedin of a cow-not in the sense of her largeness, as she was a slender thing in reality, but in the gentleness of her soul.
She was a stark difference from Farmer, who seemed to those who didn’t know him, as a world weary cold-bitten man, with a long gaunt face and storm-gray eyes that held a stern certainty. Farmer was a realistic man with realistic expectations; he put little, if any faith in silly dreams and ideas of attaining fame and glory. He told Raedin this over and over that the world constantly changed, and that names and great deeds are forgotten. Heroes die mortal, and even if by the grace of the Creator they are remembered as legends. Heroes die mortal just like the rest of us. And the world always seems to go back to the way it was after they are gone. There is just as much greatness, Famer would say, in being a working man and earning a living by the sweat of your brow. Fighting off the hunger of your family and neighbors and keeping your loved ones warm in the winter. That was Farmer’s goal.
“Your bread is getting soggy.” Elsa admonished. Raedin quickly rescued his slice and took a bite. The cider almost always went well with the bread, even if it did make it soggy.
“The word is the Thane is coming down this way soon.” Elsa said with a lively smirk. Farmer’s eyebrows lifted.
“To Forewind?” He asked in soft disbelief.
“To the Bridge. Martha says that there is rumor of Red Hoods crossing into the Dawndell.”
“And what in Obscura could they possibly want in the Dawndell? Come to forage for recruits again?” Farmer snapped, rolling his eyes. Elsa smiled slyly.
“Word is they are escorting someone.”
“What noble could possibly want to come this far north with winter creeping over the Snowbacks?” Farmer questioned skeptically.
Elsa shrugged.
“They have a dark elf with them.”
Raedin perked at that. An elf coming to the Forewind? Rarely anyone other than an occasional traveler going across the Bridge came to Forewind. Elves almost never travelled this far north; Farmer said they were too fragile for the cold. But now an elf-a dark elf none-the-less- was coming this way. It would be a lie if Raedin claimed to not be excited at the thought of finally seeing one.
“Now that should prove that this is nonsense. What elf ever came so far north? And a dark elf! No dark elf would live the safety of his forest. Just as a light elf would not leave their golden palaces.”
With that Farmer cleaned his plate in the water basin and went to bed. Elsa and Raedin stayed up a little longer, Elsa insisting on tending to the minor bruises and cuts the boy received from the ewes and promptly sent him to bed. The “beds” were wooden cots near the hearth, placed one on top of the other, with a ladder so Raedin could climb up to his bed. Soft furs on top of the wood provided some extra padding and warmth and Raedin slipped the blankets Elsa weaved over his body. He turned toward the fire, and smiled as Elsa put away the dishes and did a few chores. She couldn’t sleep until all the house chores were completed.
Raedin watched at her added a log to the fire and then joined her husband in bed. After a while, the buzzing thoughts of Red Hoods and elves drifted out of Raedin, and he settled in a warm and content slumber.