Last Month...

His course decided, he rose and readjusted his sword belt about his waist, and began to walk away from the rising sun, down toward the tree line. His mind wandered as he went, wondering if there were other men like himself in this strange world, or if the fates had cruelly seen it fitting that he be cast out alone, never again to share the company of man. He sighed deeply, and tried to push such thoughts from his mind, strengthening his resolve, concentrating on the task at hand, sustenance.

All other matters could, and would, be considered afterwards....

Though the distance, as he judged it, was not far looking from the small rise he had awoken on, the rolling hills of the sloping land made it a much longer journey than he had first thought. Walking up and down the seemingly endless chain of hills, he noticed the grass grow taller about his legs. The slender blades appeared innocent enough but on closer inspection, proved to bear tiny razor sharp spines along the length of them. He was grateful for his tall leather boots. The grasses, brushing against his legs, had torn and bloodied the exposed skin of his thigh beneath his heavy woolen kilt. Here and there were small outcroppings of a larger cousin to the grasses, standing perhaps as high as a man, and growing taller and denser closer to the forest. The stalks were almost identical to the grasses which whipped gracefully in the gentle breeze, but their girth was wider. He moved closer to inspect one, donning the soft leather gloves he always wore tucked into his belt. Snapping a stalk off at waist level, he ran a gloved finger along it, noting the strength of the stem, and how it spread out into a flat wedge near the top, bristling with course spines. He continued on, picking his way around the taller stands of grass. Cursing as he went along, this new development did little to improve his mood, or his general outlook on his situation. He heard the calls and rustlings of animal life grow more distinct as he drew closer. Though he saw little actual movement, the presence of watching eyes was keenly felt.

The sun had risen considerably, its warm rays combining with the difficult passage to send rivulets of sweat running from his brow, and to stain his shirt dark. It would not be long before he would reach the shade of trees, and he resolved to rest before beginning the hunt for food and water. As he was deciding this, a shadow blocked the sun from his shoulders for an instant, though he knew the sky to be cloudless. He turned and looked upward, shielding his eyes with his hand, squinting against the bright rays of the sun. Eyes drawn to a flicker of movement, he saw a great winged beast in the sky far above him, briefly silhouetted against, then disappearing back into the glare of the sun. He stood watching, transfixed, as it wheeled with a terrible grace and began to descend. He could now make it out more clearly, and seeing it, wished that it had remained a dim shadow passing him by.

It was a large bird of prey, he knew this by the outline of a large hooked beak and talons, the tips of which glinted in the light, as though capped with metal. Beneath its body it carried some sort of box or crate, which to his mind, looked akin to the great baskets drawn behind oxen in the bog fields of his home. The magnificent beauty of the beast’s flight filled him with awe and horror as he watched its mighty wings beat the air effortlessly with terrible strength. It drew closer still, dropping from the sky in great lazy circles, and his heart leapt in his chest as he identified the outline of a man on the back of the beast, and of faces peering over the edge of the box borne by the bird, peering down at him. His elation at seeing a human form again was short-lived however, as next to the heads of the men, he saw the familiar glint of sunlight reflecting against spearheads. He had no fear of any man, or any six men even, but against the powerful beast, he knew he would be lost.

The instinct of self-preservation, aided by the reflex of years of training, took him then, and he wheeled and began to run toward the tree line. Heedless of the tall grasses tearing at his flesh, he ran, legs pumping beneath him, leaping over small outcroppings of stones and bushes. Daring to look over his shoulder, he saw the bird diving toward him, and his heart nearly stopped as he caught the cold glint of its black eyes regarding him without malice, without spite or anger. That look terrified him to the bone, for he truly knew then the feeling of prey before the eyes of the predator. He knew that were it not for the great basket beneath the bird’s body, those razor sharp talons would have already pierced and torn him, tearing into his flesh like a blade in tender meat. As it was, the bird could not reach him with its beak or talons without tipping the basket and its riders onto the ground. The tree line grew ever closer as he ran, and there he would make his stand, in the crowded trees, where the bird could not freely pass.

"If I make the tree line at all" he thought, as a black projectile whistled over his shoulder, to bury itself into the ground before him.

Preferring to meet death head-on, as opposed to an arrow in the back, he stopped short and turned, drawing his blade as he wheeled. The basket was closer even than he had thought, and the moment he had turned, he caught the brunt of it full on the chest. The impact sent him flying, then rolling and tumbling towards the trees. His sword flew from his hand, glinting tauntingly at him as it twisted through the air. The air expelled from his body and he lay on his back gasping, dimly aware of the bird wheeling again, and the sound of the basket settling down on the ground not far from him. Half-crawling, he scrambled for the trees, diving into the darkness as he heard the sound of heavy feet crunching the grass behind him. He ran further into the trees, eyes scanning ahead of him in desperation. Seeing a low limb, he jumped for it, pulling himself up in one fluid motion, scampering into the dark shadows of its foliage. Crouched there, he forced his breathing to be still and quiet, his mind and body melding one with one goal: survival. He knew nothing of the men, but that they pursued him with weapons, and that made them enemies to him. His enemies died.

Listening intently, warrior-senses sharply tuned, he made out their number to be three by the sound of their treading upon the dry leaves blanketing the forest floor. He noted with satisfaction that they were trained hunters, not rushing headlong into the trees, but rather fanning out, and stalking him, their prey. Their deaths would be nobler for it, he thought grimly. After but a few moments, a helmet-clad figure walked slowly beneath him, head turning side to side in the search, spear held ready before him. He was perhaps a hunter, but not very well trained to hunt man, as not once did the man look upwards into the darkness of the trees. He allowed the man to pass beneath him before dropping out of the tree soundlessly and directly behind his foe. One hand thrust up inside the helmet, grabbing a fistful of hair, as the other reached around and roughly grasped the man’s jaw. He twisted savagely and the loud crack of the man’s neck broke the stillness of the forest. He released the broken corpse and allowed it to crumple at his feet.

The sound of the snapping had drawn the other two hunters and they stood before him at a distance of fifteen paces, one with spear, the other with drawn sword. The shirts they wore were of crimson, and their eyes glittered cruelly beneath their helms. Without a word, the one on the left let fly his spear as the other leapt toward him, intending to follow the shaft with a killing blow of blade, should the spear miss its target. He was ready for the maneuver however, and turned sideways from the spear, then crouched low as the sword whistled over his head harmlessly. Drawing his dagger from his boot, he rose suddenly from his crouch, and with the momentum of his body, drove the dagger with both hands upwards into the groin of the man before him, burying it to the hilt and yanking it upwards as he rose. The hunter’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes clouding over in pain and coming death. Releasing the dagger, he pulled the sword from the man’s hand, simultaneously shoving the corpse backwards into the path of the onrushing hunter. Entangled in the weight of his dead comrade, the hunter, now become prey, died quickly, head nearly severed from behind and to the side as He had stepped swiftly around and delivered the fatal sweep of steel.

Far too late He heard the footfall behind him, and cursed his own confidence as his head burst in a explosion of light and pain...

(To be continued)