Alexey Pehov - Chasers of the Wind

The cowherd suddenly remembered that it would be very difficult to hang the loggers now. He had seen them being chopped up into little pieces with his own eyes. It was the day before yesterday. Pork, as always, had been grazing the damned, lazy cows in the same old place not far from the standing stone. Or more accurately, the cows had been grazing themselves and he had been watching them build the wooden fort. It was a real fortress, even though half the stockade hadn’t been set yet. But they had already managed to build a tower, and an actual archer was sitting on it watching the road! He could shoot anyone he wanted. And he’d hit them, too. They were brave, these archers. And really good shots. Almost as good as Gnut from the village, just not one-eyed.

So anyways, there were the loggers and a few soldiers with them, building the fort, and just who do you think popped out onto the road from Al’sgara? Imperial soldiers. About forty of them. They were all on horses, screaming, waving their weapons around. They started hacking away at anyone they could get their hands on. Pork was actually horrified—they were cutting down both the loggers and the soldiers! They didn’t even bother to sort out who was good and who was evil. They needed to kill the loggers! But they could befriend the Nabatorians. They could meet in the evenings, chat about weapons and virgins, drink the innkeeper’s shaf. His shaf was so tasty! Every day now the Nabatorians treated Pork to it and then they laughed when his legs gave out. But he didn’t have any hard feelings against them. No. He understood that it was all in good fun. Plus, they were going to give him a sword soon. It wouldn’t do to get in a fight with them.

But the wicked Imperial soldiers didn’t get away alive. The commander of the village rode to the rescue with his soldiers. And every solider had an archer with him. They jumped down from the horses, and how they started to fire! Hoo-wee! And the one who was still sitting in the tower helped. Wow, how they rained down arrows on them all! They killed so many. Uh-huh. And those they couldn’t, the riders cut down. As they should. Serves them right. And the villagers considered them friends. What idiots, right?

Pork watched as the Nabatorians inspected the bodies of the dead men. They took their horses, weapons, money, their beautiful boots. That was the most interesting of all. He wanted to do that, too. Except that no one called him over to the dead men. So all the spoils fell to others.

And then Pork recalled the other dead men. The ones in the forest glade. The ones killed by the fearsome carpenter. They probably still had all sorts of money and other pretty things. He could keep them for himself or trade them in for tasty food. Oh, yeah. And Pars, who looked so kindly on the outside, had killed those strange men just as fast as the Nabatorians had killed the swift troop of Imperial soldiers. It was good that Pork never thought to tell anyone what had happened. Then others would have taken everything away from the dead men and kept it for themselves, and Pork would be left holding the bag. What a smart boy he was after all!

The half-wit had a goal. He decided to lay hold of the belongings of the dead men and so, leaving the cows in Melot’s care (after he diligently prayed to him), he headed for the forest. He had to walk far, through the entire village. Pork was afraid that his father would see him and then he’d really be in trouble. But he was lucky. No one stopped him.

In the forest, Pork began to have doubts.

What if someone else had found the wonderful dead men and robbed them? What then? He’d be going there for nothing. He wouldn’t have any of those useful things or tasty treats. And what if the dead men had gone off somewhere?

The closer he came, the more terrified he became. The stories that the miller’s son told him last summer came back to him. All about how dead men can come to life, how they crawl out of graveyards and gobble up anyone who dares to walk past them at night. And even if you didn’t walk, but ran instead, they’d just chase you down and then gobble you up. During one especially chilling story, L’on had sneaked up on Pork, grabbed him by the shoulder, and barked. The half-wit soiled his trousers from fear and stuttered for a week. And everyone had laughed and called him Rotten Turnip.

His nose was hit by the foul odor of decay and the idiot realized that the dead men hadn’t gone anywhere. He saw the glade, the bodies that had been fairly devoured by the vultures and ravens, and an outsider, who was attentively inspecting the corpses. The fetid air and the thousands of flies fighting over the carrion didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Pork nearly started crying from disappointment. He was too late! Now that man would take everything! All the money and everything else. He’d lost his sweets and his wealth! The vile bastard!

The man was standing with his back to Pork. He was tall. Broad in the shoulders. There was something strange about the black staff he held in his hands, but the half-wit couldn’t figure out what it was. The man was dressed in a long, white hooded robe, cinched at the waist by a wide black belt, on which hung a formidable curved sword.

Oh, yes, it would be bad to argue with him. He had a weapon. He’d be sure to use it to cut off his head if you asked him to share his spoils.

Frustrated, Pork whined softly, smearing tears across his dirty cheeks with his fists.

The stranger had excellent hearing. He instantly turned sharply and peered at the bushes where the cowherd was hiding. His rival’s face was concealed by the hood and all Pork could see was a dark opening. When the cowherd saw the darkness under the hood, he felt pierced to the bone by the man’s gaze, and he experienced a fresh onslaught of terror. He pressed himself into the ground and held his breath, hoping that the stranger wouldn’t see him.

But he didn’t think of turning away. He just stood there and watched. Pork’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest from terror. He regretted that he’d come here at all. He’d rather be herding cows. Better them than these treasures. He’d lived without them so far, and he could live another hundred years without them. Right now the half-wit wanted only one thing—for the creepy man to leave.

He slowly began to crawl backward, and instantly the man in white began walking quickly in his direction. Now Pork could see that the head of his staff was carved out of a piece of black stone in the shape of a skull. The cowherd froze, horror-struck.

“Come out,” ordered his rival, as he stopped in front of the bush. “I won’t cause you any harm.”

Pork didn’t dare disobey. Squeaking from fear, trying not to look at the man who was talking to him, he wormed his way out into the glade. For a fraction of a second the man regarded him, and then he removed his hood from his head.

He didn’t seem horrifying and ominous anymore. He was a bit older than Pork. He was tanned, with black hair and high cheekbones, refined features, handsome brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.

The stranger was looking at the half-wit with curiosity but without any ill will.

“Are you from the village?”

Pork nodded hurriedly, trying to show how nice he was.

“Do you know what happened here?”

Another nod. He wasn’t about to lie.

“Who killed them?”

“Pars the carpenter.”

“And did he kill these two as well?” The man pointed at the two bodies nearest him.

The cowherd wrinkled his brow, trying to remember. Then he shook his head no.

“No, no. Those two were already dead when Pars came running to help his wife.”

“His wife? Was it she who burned their heads?”

“I don’t know,” said Pork truthfully. “I didn’t see.”