Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

He had considered everything as he planned for this morning’s hunt, even memorising the patrol schedule along the north bank of the river. He was sure the Malakasian soldiers knew Ronan locals regularly made their way into the forbidden region; periodically they hanged a poacher as an example, but a lot of the occupation officers frequently looked the other way. This morning’s problem was not getting into the forest, but getting out with a large deer strapped across Renna’s back. Garec reckoned if he could cross below the cliffs at Danae’s Eddy, he could be back at the tavern by the midday aven. He stretched out long under a low-hanging branch and for a moment lost sight of the deer. As he rose on the other side, he found his quarry and took aim along the shaft of the arrow. He drew a slow, shallow breath and steadied for the kill. He could not afford to be tracking a wounded deer all over the forbidden forest; this had to be a clean shot.

The attack was sudden, and came from three sides. Grettans! Garec gasped and dropped face-first onto the ground in the thicket. Grettans this far south, that was impossible! He fought the urge to turn and run back the way he had come, and silently promised himself he would never again approach any quarry except from downwind. The closest grettan had been crouching in the underbrush just a few paces away: if Garec had approached from the southern side of the field, he would be dead already. Now he had to get back to Renna – he prayed to all the gods of the Northern Forest she was still alive. There was no way he could outrun a grettan, even over the few hundred paces back to his horse.

Garec stole a quick look towards the meadow where several of the beasts were tearing into the deer’s corpse. As large as farm horses, grettans had powerful legs, enormous paws spiked with deadly claws and huge mouths with razor-sharp fangs, perfect for gripping their prey while they tore away strips of flesh with their forelegs. Their dense fur was black. Small ears jutted from their large heads, and their broad faces had horse-like nostrils and small black eyes set wide apart. Grettans rippled with thick muscle: they had few predators in the wild.

Garec counted eight of the beasts in and around the meadow, the largest of which was a bull looming over the deer carcase. The unfortunate animal was stripped clean in a matter of moments; bloody, steaming entrails had been cast about the thicket.

How could he possibly have missed grettan tracks – had he been too busy planning his escape from the forest? Forcing the questions from his mind, Garec focused on the problem at hand. He had to remain calm while he made his way, as silently as possible, back to Renna. She was fast: they had a good chance of escape if he could actually get to her.

He painstakingly backed out of the thicket, careful not to break any dry branches or rustle the early autumn leaves already strewn beneath his feet. He was sweating hard despite the cool morning breeze and the stinging sweat irritated his eyes. His legs and lower back tightened, near to cramping, and he was forced to stop for several moments, awkwardly tucked beneath the branches of a wild raspberry bush, while he waited for his muscles to relax. It was fear. He knew it. He took several deep breaths and willed his heart to stop pounding and to fall back into place somewhere beneath his throat. Rutting whores: grettans here? What in all demonpissing nightmares were they doing here?

Garec was soon free of the thicket and forced himself to walk, not run, through the forest towards the river. Ahead he could see Renna still tethered near the shallow pool, her nostrils flaring: she sensed the grettans nearby. Impatient with Garec’s tediously slow return, she pawed nervously at the ground.

‘Easy girl, easy,’ Garec soothed. ‘We’re going to be fine.’ He was less than twenty paces from her when Renna let out a sharp whinny. The young hunter felt his blood freeze. A demon scream echoed from the meadow, followed by the sound of the grettan pack crashing through the underbrush.

‘Rutting dogs,’ he yelled, sprinting the last few paces and leaping into the saddle, ‘let’s go, Rennie, let’s get out of here.’

Danae’s Eddy was a short distance east, near a lazy bend in the Estrad River. The cliffs there might provide an escape, if only Renna could outrun the grettan pack for a few moments.

Garec had only seen grettans once before, on a hunting trip to northern Falkan; he’d never tried to outrun one. He knew they were fast: there were stories of the largest grettans easily chasing down horses on the Falkan plains. Renna was galloping flat out now, and it took all Garec’s concentration to help guide her along the riverbank. The sun was fully out, but the heavy morning dew had yet to dry from ferns and tree limbs along the trail and Garec’s boots and leggings were soaking wet. Looking down at his soggy legs, Garec suddenly had an idea – if they could make it to Danae’s Eddy before Renna was hamstrung.

The fastest grettans were close on her heels now; Garec could hear their hungry snarling behind the thud of the mare’s hooves. Praying Renna could keep up her pace without his guiding hand, he turned halfway in the saddle and fired an arrow at a large bull that was snapping viciously at her flanks. It struck the beast in the neck, but didn’t appear to slow him at all. Garec nocked and fired again, and again pierced the large bull’s throat – but even with two arrows in its neck, the enormous creature was still making up ground against the tiring horse.

It was a heroic flight as Renna pounded through the brush, but Garec could feel her slowing beneath him. A smaller grettan came up fast and, leaping, managed to get a paw onto Renna’s hindquarter. The horse screamed a desperate whinny but maintained her stride, though blood was flowing from her torn hide. Garec briefly felt rage eclipse his terror. He looked ahead, hoping to spot any low-hanging branches, but, seeing none, he stood in the stirrups, turned nearly all the way around and fired at the smaller grettan. The arrow took the snarling monster in the head just above one eye. Garec spared a moment to thank the gods he had brought his longbow rather than the smaller forest bow, otherwise he’d never have got through the animal’s thick skull. The arrow sank deep in the grettan’s head and stopped it dead in mid-stride. Four of the slower grettans abruptly gave up the pursuit when they saw one of their own collapse; the coterie of fangs and claws fell upon the still-twitching corpse and began tearing away large pieces of its flesh. Scratching and clawing at one another with blood-soaked paws, the cannibal beasts vied for position over the mangled carcase of their fallen brother.

There were still two grettans continuing the pursuit, and Garec began to despair of reaching the cliffs.

Then he saw them through the trees, perhaps two hundred paces out.

The mossy rocks would still be wet with morning dew, and there was a razor-thin dirt trail leading across the expansive outcropping that narrowed into thin switchbacks leading down to the deepest part of the river. The huge bull with the arrows in its throat swiped at Renna and managed to tear one of Garec’s saddlebags from the mare’s back. Two rabbits and a ring-necked pheasant fell to the trail and the last of the smaller grettans stopped to enjoy a less animated meal, but the injured bull continued after the fleeing mare.

When Renna burst from the treeline atop the cliffs, the grettan was running astride her, timing its leap onto the horse’s neck. Garec pulled a hunting knife from his belt, hoping to ram it as far into the animal’s chest as possible when the inevitable attack came. Seeing the trail at last, he focused his concentration on guiding Renna along it while the grettan paced them on the damp rocks.