Olga McArrow - Cold obsidian

Old Crogan gave his orders at once. Soon, the party of twenty riders gathered in his yard. There were no chargas at his base for they didn’t get along with his favourite hyenas, so Crogan’s thugs rode taranders instead: huge, hulky beasts, horned and cloven-footed. Taranders didn’t care about the hyenas yelping and snapping before them, at all.

The weather was properly murky and foggy that morning, perfect for the manhunt. The fog filled all the lowlands like spilled milk. You could hide an army in that fog if you wanted. Old Crogan led the hunting team. He rode a white tarander harnessed in gold and silver as a glorious leader should. It’s been a long time since he went for a manhunt himself, so he felt great, the ache in his old wounds all forgotten. Once in a while, he threw a glance at his son, noticing how well the lad rode, how tall he became, how clever and shrewd his eyes were. Rebellious though he was, the young Crogan was a good son, worthy of his sire. Too bad he was so afraid of hyenas, but it couldn’t be helped: a rabid hyena tried to eat him when he was a toddler, that had apparently scarred him for life. Of course, Crogan gutted that hyena himself so all his other pets would see what awaited them if they tried to hurt his heir, but the fear remained, deep buried in the lad’s heart. Back in the house, when Crogan chastised his son for disobedience it was not the promise of burning in the hellish fire pit that made the young Crogan turn pale, it was the hyena. His father could only hope his boy would outgrow that fear one day.

“That’s where Crogan’s thugs mark the edge of the Haunted Woods,” Vlada was explaining the thin white dotted line on the map. “They’re afraid of these hills, so they don’t go there. Today we’re leaving the safe territory, Kan.”

“This is bad, right?” He sighed.

“We’ll be fine,” Vlada smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ve already passed most of the Burnt Region through the safe land. Now we just have to cross the river and be off. There’s a bridge, but it is guarded, so we won’t go there. We will ford the river in its widest place where it is shallow.”

Kangassk couldn’t bring himself to read after they made their last camp on the safe land. He lay in the grass and watched the sky go dark. Lots of thoughts buzzed in his head: about Aren-castell, so distant now it could have been a dream, about the journey he got himself into, and about the purpose of everything. He envied Vlada. The girl had a clear goal ahead of her. He didn’t. He just tagged along, trying to be helpful. Not that she needed his help much…

The morning was foggy and damp. The travellers’ clothes and chargas’ fur were wet with morning dew. The beasts didn’t like being wet at all. They stopped now and again to shake the silver droplets off. Their riders didn’t have that luxury.

It was hard to tell in the fog whether they had already crossed the thin border between the Haunted Woods and old Crogan’s territory. Kangassk just assumed they were no longer safe, so he kept his bow ready. Fog made him feel uneasy, especially after the stories about sylphs, the fog dwellers, Vlada told him yesterday. They were nasty critters, those sylphs! Kan would rather meet bandits again. At least bandits were human and he knew how to deal with them.

Sasler left the hills he had been watching the strangers from. Up there he could move at a walking pace and still see them from the top thanks to the scope. Now, after they had turned to the river, away from the hills, he had to follow them closely, so he needed a ride.

A wild charga answered his call. The beast had been very fond of the old hunter since the day he saved her from the snare. Back then old Crogan’s thugs were still bold enough to enter Sasler’s territory from time to time and even put their snares there. Sasler hated snares with passion. He never used them himself. He also never hunted the hunters, other predators, that is. He rescued the little charga that day and nursed her back to health. Since then, whenever he needed a ride, she had been willing to help.

Holding onto the thick fur of the unharnessed beast Sasler rode down the hill, right into the milky fog. He very well understood how hard it would be to find the kids there and keep up with them, yet he had to try.

Old Crogan planned the ambush very carefully to provide the best possible example for his heir.

The river, Fervida, was fast yet shallow there, on the wide rocky bed, barely knee-deep. The strangers took their boots off before fording the river. They shivered as they entered the icy cold water leading their chargas behind. The poor beasts hated every step of the way by the looks of them.

Here they went, all four, two people and two animals, right into the trap. Crogan waited until they had reached the middle of the river before passing the signalling horn to his son. Blowing it proved to be hard for the young lungs, but the lad did his best. He managed to produce a weak, but distinguishable sound. The team, following the order, let the hyenas loose.

The fastest of the hyenas died first, it got an arrow between the eyes. Kan was quick. The second-best runner got an arrow to the side and yelped, spinning in circles and biting at the arrow shaft in a desperate attempt to get rid of it. Kan had drawn the third arrow, ready to bring another snappy monster down, but lowered his bow as he saw the bandits emerging from the fog at both sides of the river. Every single one of them had a gun.

The trap had closed. Here they stood in the middle of the river, with hyenas raging on both shores, anxiously awaiting a command to tear them apart, and the silent bandits standing behind the beasts, guns ready. The chargas hissed, baring their teeth, bristling their fur. Kangassk, not knowing what else to do, tried to shield Vlada with his body.

“Drop your weapons!” somebody cried to them from the western shore. The voice was young, impudent, and boyish.

“Do as he says, Kan,” said Vlada in a chilly tone.

They threw their swords, bow, and arrows into the river. The swords sank to the bottom, but the bow and arrows were carried away by the bubbling water.

Thanks to his wild friend’s acute sense of smell, Sasler had finally found the kids after a couple of hours. He climbed a lofty rock to rise above the fog a bit and took a closer look at them through the scope. That was when he had realized he came too late.

Two black figures stood barefooted in the middle of the river, their hands in the air, their weapons at their feet. Crogan’s thugs watched them from the both sides of Fervida.

Sasler’s heart began to race as he zoomed in to examine the bandits’ faces: both Crogans, father and son, had been there! The boy looked so much like his sire there could be no mistake.

“My revenge will be terrible, Crogan,” he thought, aiming at the little bandit’s leg…

Young Crogan uttered a shrill scream and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg. All the thuggish insolence he had been so proud of washed away in an instant, he cried like a child he was. His pants were soaked with blood and the stain was growing wider and wider.

“The ghost shooter! The Wood Ghost is here!” the bandits around him shouted, their fear quickly turning into panic. A moment later they broke the formation and started shooting in all directions in a desperate attempt to reach the unseen hunter in the fog.

The second bullet bit the young Crogan in the palm, adding to his agony. Then it was the thugs’ turn. The ones who had carelessly removed their kevlar cowls in the heat got shot in their heads and died instantly. The others weren’t so lucky and shared the young Crogan’s fate: the Ghost shot them in the legs.

Vlada and Kan froze where they stood, with their hands still up. Both were afraid to move at first but soon realized the ghost shooter was after the bandits, not them. They, on the other hand, had a new problem to deal with: the hyenas. The beasts, maddened by their masters’ panic, decided to go for the kill and charged.