The beaver broke the surface of the pond with hardly a ripple. Cautiously it scanned the pond area along its shoreline with deep brown eyes. This was an old beaver, and with its advanced age came the experience that had kept it alive for so long. There were streaks of silver in its thick, water-repellent coat which it wore as a badge of success. It could be said with certainty that a long life in the wild was the epitome of success.
The old beaver was a king of its kind. It was the boss of the dam that was blocking the water flowing from Hatchet Creek to the smaller creeks below. The beaver lifted his head higher out of the water, sniffed at the afternoon air and dived again into the safety of the water. Something had alerted it. Below the level of its dim consciousness it had noticed something to be afraid of, and that something was a human hunter crouched in the bushes that grew from the muddy shore of the pond.
Boun eased the arrow feathers away from his ear as he released the string. He had hesitated again to shoot the old beaver when the brief opportunity had arisen, just as he had hesitated every other time in the past. Also all his traps had failed to catch the beaver, and Boun was beginning to wonder if he really wanted the old beaver's pelt at all.
Stretching out of his prolonged crotch, Boun heard his knees crack. Even his young body protested against remaining frozen in one spot for so long. And all his suffering was for nothing. Old Silver, as the young hunter was want to call the beaver, had escaped him again. Was it the old beaver's wily ways or some contrary jinx Boun had placed on himself so he would not kill the beaver? Perhaps he was growing fond if it after trying to catch or kill it for so long. He sighed, thinking how valuable Old Silver's pelt would be to some furrier back at Fort Tumulin, and eventually on some grand lady's gown on some rich estate in Tarantia.
"Well, not today," murmured the hunter. It was not often he spoke to himself aloud; rather, he was speaking to the beaver boss and not to himself. He shrugged, becoming indifferent to his lack of success, turned from the pond to a woodland path and jogged toward his main camp.
He was many miles into Pictdom, well past Black River, and as such, kept his own wary eye for those savages who might be hunting him. At the present moment he was not fearful for his life. He had seen no signs of Picts for several weeks, and knew that he was hunting along the boarder of the territory of the Blue Wolves, a pack of Picts he had friendly contact with. However, that friendly contact with the Blue Wolves guaranteed him safety among none of the other savage totem clans. His best defense was to avoid detection by the occasional roving band of Pictish hunters or warbands.
He and his father had penetrated far into Pict territory a year ago. His father had been a trapper who made his living by supplying the furriers at Fort Timulin with rare, hard to get pelts. This was the only work his father could get since he was a half breed. His father had told him that he was half Pict and half Cimmerian. This was such an unusual mixture of bloods that most white men of the Aquilonian territories regarded his father as a curiosity rather than an undesirable. Despite their curiosity they all regarded him as inferior.
Whatever his bloodlines, Yumak the Breed was anything but inferior. His woodland skills had been second to none, and he had shared them with his son. Yumak had penetrated the Pictish wilderness with successful impunity until one fatal morning several months ago. That day a party of Picts had found his father tending a mink trap. After a terrific struggle and the death of five Picts, they killed his father and left Boun alone hundreds of miles from civilization. Since then the boy had navigated through the untracked wilderness toward the Black River. Beyond the Black River lay the territories of Aquilonia and safety.
Boun's camp was nothing more than a eight stick leanto and a small campfire. The few furs he had taken along the way were kept in the leanto which was expertly camouflaged against casual detection. Were any Picts to actively search for his camp they would undoubtedly find it. If they did this they would be after him. Once on a hunt, Picts were like hounds on a scent. They would stop only when their prey was bleeding in their mouths.
Boun's thoughts returned to the big beaver. Let the old boss repopulate the dams with its progeny. In the end its silver streaked pelt would hang from his drying stick.
He spent the rest of the day preparing for the long journey out. He made up his swag so tomorrow morning he could just sling it over his back and start off. He would have to carry his furs out since he had no mule or horse, but that would not be a problem because he had only a few excellent furs. He was not a prolific trapper. He usually ate what he killed as well as took the hide for the fur trade. He was a man who lived off the land. What furs he saved he did so to obtain the silver he needed for the few things in civilization that he valued. Like haircuts and maybe a fancy woman.
When it was dark Boun lay beneath his lean-to and thought of the town of Vernatiam. This is where he would go to trade his furs and get his haircut. There he would see the pretty women with soft white skin walking about in pretty dresses. When he thought of these town women he could smell their perfume. Boun loved the smell of perfume. And if the scent of perfume led him to a pretty woman, which it usually did, then all the better.
Although he was just under 15 summers his maturing body needed a woman just as a grown man's did. He thought that if he was man enough to survive in the Pictish Wilderness alone, he was man enough to love a woman. Besides, boys grew up fast on the frontier.
There was no danger in the night, and the young hunter fell asleep.
He returned to the pond one last time. Dropping his bundle of furs near the roots of a large tree, Boun stared out at the beaver dam and thought of Old Silver. He had to admit to himself that he was here to see the big boss beaver one more time. It might happen that the next time he traveled this way Old Silver would be dead. He knew why his arrow had not slain the boss beaver. It was because he hadn't wanted to. As he was about to leave the forest he admitted that to himself now.
Boun couldn't have been more surprised when he saw Old Silver rear out of the water and slap his paddlelike tail on the water in the classic beaver danger signal. Then the big beaver scrambled nimbly onto his mud plastered home. The old boss stared across the pond directly at the young hunter and barked a few words. Boun heard them as words, not barks.
"Run, killers come."
Boun was stunned. He fell back against the tree behind him. Old Silver had spoken words to him. They were not in any language the young hunter had ever heard before but he had understood them.
Boun had been a forester all his life, and to hear a beaver speak to him threatened the groundwork of his sanity. He had heard all the rumors that the Pictish wilderness was littered with bizarre and dangerous creatures, and that it was a gigantic hiding place for dark and sinister sorcery. Hearing Old Silver speak to him forced Boun outside the normal framework of his mind. It displaced him from his habitual practicality and stretched his credabilities to the point where he could accept the impossible. And once accepted some sort of explanation was required to fit the outrageous event of a speaking Old Silver into what the young hunter accepted as normal. With this in mind, Boun stepped forward, his hand held out toward the old boss beaver, and entreated him to speak again.
The beaver shook his head, spraying water about in a shower, and gave Boun a look that said, "haven't I done enough, brother." Old Silver snorted, slipped into the water and was gone.
As the big beaver disappeared into the water, Boun slipped out of the strange mood that had captured him during this odd event. His reborn practicality flushed the amazement from his mind. "Killers come" could mean nothing less that trouble.
It was time to survive. He returned to his five senses and searched for a reason for the warning, although he knew it could only have referred to Picts.
And Picts it was. A large party of bloodthirsty totem brothers on the warpath. Since they were on his trail, he could imagine their delight at finding such sport far from the border that separated their forest from Aquilonia. He could hear their laughing at the audacity of some foolish white man venturing so far from home. They were not interested in enslaving him; he knew that. They wanted to kill him; quickly if they had too, but slowly if they could.
The furs he had been treasuring became worthless next to his life. Boun had no doubt that it was his life that was hanging in the balance between those death dealing pursuers and the young hunter's ability to match their forest prowess. He tossed the bundle of furs into a thicket of briars. He hoped the Picts would pass the furs in their lust for his life. It was a slight hope, and one that quickly faded as he ran down the trail.
Under ordinary circumstances Boun traveled carefully. Like all men who were alone in the woods he feared being injured. He expected a mishap like a fall to happen at anytime so he took precautions to prevent it before it did happen. Now, however, was a time to discard care and move as quickly as he could. The Picts were confident. Their caterwauling reached him to chill his bones. Old Silver's warning had barely come in time. Had the big beaver not alerted Boun to the danger, the young hunter would have probably been run down by the Picts in quick order. With a short time to dash ahead of his enemies, Boun had a slim chance to escape.
His mouth stretched into a grim determined line on his sun darkened face. He was not ready to die. As a hunter and a child of the wilderness he had seen too much death to fear it as a civilized boy might. A boy from the city was too isolated from the reality of killing and dying to know that he will die as surely as the next man. In their hearts civilized men believed they might live forever. Their houses might protect them from the inevitability of death. And so if they think of death they begin to fear, as if they were immortals to lose something precious.
The howling horde of destruction behind him knew death well. They were born killers who lived by their red handed expertise and took pleasure in it. Boun was a more peaceful soul than the average Pict, though both lived in the wild forest, and he saw death as an thing that happens to all living things. It was law of life that though a man need not fear death, he should fight against it.
All thoughts of haircuts or perfumed ladies vanished from the young hunter's mind. He plunged into the brown and green thickness of the forest with the Picts howling at his leather bound heels.
He ran through the forest, using old paths he had discovered earlier during his hunting trips with his father, and managed to put distance between himself and his pursuers. Oddly it seemed he was more familiar with the local forest than they were. Boun wondered if they were a tribe foreign to this territory.
They chased him for days. He had little time to hunt and had eaten all his rations after the first two days. They were driving him deeper into Pict territory. Every time he turned and broke for the Black River they cut him off and drove him back again. Even his wolflike vitality was draining. He was growing tired. He rested when he could. Ate whatever he could get his hands on. He was never more grateful for the instructions his father had given him on which berries or roots to eat and which not to. Occasionally a quick shot brought down a bird, and the boy ate it raw. But always he kept running.
Boun swallowed hard. He tried to understand why the huge cat hadn't killed him. There was no apparent explanation. There was no sleep for the boy the rest of the night.
"He's good in the woods," the ropelike man said in his defense. "Unholy good."
"I know that, you misbirth. If he wasn't he wouldn't be worth killing. He must be killed," screeched Golim Sag.
There were 17 Picts in the group. All belonged to the same social totem: a religious dedication to the Lord of Beasts, Jhebbal Sag. Because this was a social totem, and not one describing a clan or family, the members of the Sag Totem came from many tribes. This eclectic gathering of individuals endowed the totem group with special powers. One of these was the ability to travel through the territories of normal clans with little or no interference. Of course, this didn't always happen, because some of the tribal totems were fiercely protective of their hunting grounds, and some were not overly afraid of a socio-religious totem dedicated to an ancient god. But for the most part the Sag Totem was stronger because of its diverse membership.
A well built Pict stepped up to Golim Sag. All of the group acknowledged Golim Sag as leader of the totem, but this man did so reluctantly. He was more intelligent than his clan brethren, as well as stronger and a very able fighter. His name was Ripte.
"So you have said, Golim Sag. Yet only you have heard the whim of Jhebbal Sag on this matter. Only you have told us that all the descendants of the Beast Lord must die except for yourself," challenged Ripte. He was a war leader in his tribal clan. A man who was not accustomed to submitting to others.
Golim Sag turned on his challenger. He lifted a medallion of stone from his breast and held it high. His black eyes glared at Ripte in a deep shade of menace.
"Are you the Shaman of Jbellah Sag? Does he whisper his commands to you? Do you wield the proof of his pleasure with the magic of the Beast Lord? Does Ripte do any of these things?" he barked.
The Pict warrior stepped back again. He shrugged his broad shoulders to admit that none of Golim Sag's statements applied to him.
It was true that Golim Sag had demonstrated magic. He had called forth the great beasts of the forest and commanded them. All animals and men who remembered Jhebbal Sag were brothers, and if a man was such a brother then the biggest and greatest beasts of the forest were his to command. And it was true that in most cases the only men to remember the ancient language of Jhebbal Sag were those who were descended from his loins. There were groves throughout Pictdom where the old Beast Lord sometimes still visited and took his pleasure among the females of the animal kingdom. Sometimes he mated with a pantheress, doe, or a woman. And from these matings came a steady supply of exceptional creatures who were brothers in spirit as well as blood. By demonstrating the power of the Call of Jhebbal Sag, Golim Sag has proved he was of the old god's blood.
What puzzled Ripte was this new directive to slay all other men who bear the Beast Lord's blood. Ripte suspected that this was more Golim Sag's command than his father's. When Golim Sag had called the mighty beasts of Jhebbal from the forest and sent them after the boy, they had refused to go. It had been the first time Ripte had seen Golim Sag fail to command the beasts. It had to be significant.
Seeing that the warrior was not going to answer, Golim Sag went on, "You are the great war leader, Ripte. You must decide how to find this boy."
All the other men turned their eyes on Ripte. Golim Sag had challenged him in return. His reputation as a war party leader was being questioned. Now it was Ripte's fault that the boy had not been taken.
"This boy is too forest wise. He knows the woods better than our own boys. I can only attribute this to the fact that his grandmother was a daughter of Jhebbal Sag. It was only by luck that we found his father. Remember we have hunted him for several years. Now the boy is fleeing us. He knows we want his head. If we are to take him we must split up the group into pairs of two. He is just a boy and cannot hope to fight a full grown Pict warrior," said Ripte slowly.
"Yes," said another warrior, "we must string out a line to drive the boy until he drops. As well as keep him from crossing the Black River back to the safety of Aquilonia."
"We have already been doing that by hounding his trail. But to catch him we must do more. This is a good plan," said another warrior.
"Good, it is decided. Let it be done," commanded the Shaman of Jhebbal Sag.
A cool morning breeze brought him the scent of man. He was grateful that his senses were sharper than those of normal men. It was a legacy handed down from his father and his grandmother. Yumak had told him that there was beastblood in his veins. Enough to let him taste the wind and learn things from it that ordinary men would never know.
While his senses were not as sharp as a white tailed deer, they were extraordinary. The Picts were moving toward him with the breeze at their backs. Apparently they were not aware of his enhanced senses or they would not have made such a fundamental mistake. Boun was tired of running. Although he knew he was probably no match for an adult Pict warrior in close combat, he had great confidence in his skill with the bow. As he waited, he listened and decided there were no more than two Picts on his trail. He prepared to wait for them.
Boun was a superb forest hunter. He selected a place where he would not be seen. Here he froze, moving nothing. His bow was in his hand with an arrow ready. When a target presented itself, the boy could snap-shoot immediately. The trick was to focus on the smallest part of the target and swiftly shoot. Boun was trained to fire from any awkward position, because this was often necessary to hit easily startled game. Now he need only wait for the Picts.
He waited almost an hour before he saw them. A Pict's hair was solid black. This is a color that rarely occurs in nature except in the fur of bears or other animals. Or in the glossy ebony of a Pict's hair. This is what Boun saw first. Shortly after he saw the rest of their lean, brown bodies. They were moving slowly, picking their way through the bush on the balls of their feet and making very little noise. They had not yet seen him.
He waited until they entered a small clearing he had chosen as the site of his ambush. For a moment they were exposed from the knees up. With animal quickness, the boy fired at the foremost warrior. His arrow sprouted from the Pict's chest and sat him down on his ass. The other Pict crouched in the knee high grass and drew his own arrow. He fired back at where Boun had been hiding and hit nothing because the boy had already moved.
The Pict knew that the boy was very close. He drew his hatchet and charged into the bush after him. Boun shot at him and hit him in the leg. The Pict swung his hand ax at the boy. Boun deflected it with his bow while he drew his own hatchet in his right hand, but instead of striking the Pict, he dodged under the Pict's outstretched arms and ran a few steps behind him. Wheeling on an injured leg, the Pict saw Boun draw his hatchet for a throw. In anticipation of the throw, the Pict started a desperate dodge. Boun faked the throw, and as the Pict was lunging to one side, he swung his ax around in a full circle, brought it up again and let it fly at the savage. Already committed to dodging to the left, the Pict was hit by the ax in the chest. Gasping with the crunch of the ax, the Pict twisted and rolled on the ground. He jerked around, not yet dead and half rose to his unwounded knee and drew his knife. He taunted Boun to come and finish him. It was the savage's hope that he could still kill the boy if he came close enough.
Boun thought the warrior was foolish. Calmly, he fitted an arrow to his bowstring and shot the man in the chest. The Pict grunted and flopped around on the ground until he lay still.
Boun checked the other warrior and found that he was also dead. His arrow had pierced his heart. The boy stripped the warriors of any food they were carrying as well as arrows he could use. Fortunately, his bow had not been broken when he parried the Pict's ax. He preferred his own bow to those of the men he killed.
One of the reasons he had decided to fight these two men was that now there was a break in their line. He hoped he could move through the hole back to the Black River. If the Picts were stretched far enough he might be able to do it. Munching on a piece of dried meat, he started back toward Aquilonia.
The war leader led his brown wolves along the trail the boy had left. They howled in anger over the slaying of their comrades. They wanted to kill the boy more than ever.
Golim Sag turned on this man, his long face contorted with rage. "Who are you to question me? Be silent or I will feed you to a monster from the black woods." The warrior paled as he retreated from the shaman's threat.
Ripte wondered the same thing. Of what use could the Ligureans be to a boy with the blood of Jhebbal Sag in his veins. The Ligureans shunned the Lord of Beasts. They worshipped the spirit of nature in the form of a woman. Some sort of mother or nature goddess. They did not value the savagery of a god who had ruled the forests and jungles over a million years ago.
"Catch him, Ripte," warned Golim Sag, "if you value your life, catch him."
Boun came in cautiously. He was crouched over with his arrow loaded and ready to fly. Every sense was alert for danger. He could snap a shot out in an instant. His hope was that there might be some sort of sanctuary in the grove for him. The Ligureans were supposed to be white men. Not that the Picts were not of the white race, but they were so swarthy and sunbrowned that most white men thought of them as a lower order.
The Ligureans were from a race of whites who had lived in these lands before the arrival of the Hyborian tribes who now ruled much of the civilized world. They had retreated into the deep woods where they still worshipped nature in their own odd way. If their manner of worship was odd, their magic was not weak. It was enough to keep the savage Picts from bothering them over the past ages.
As Boun entered the grove he was impressed by its majesty. A circle of large stones, marked in symbols he had never seen before, was placed in the shadow of the largest oak tree the boy had ever seen. There was a clear bubbling brook nearby, and the grove was carpeted in deep green grass only a few inches high. In the center of the stone circle was a mighty stone platform. It was carved in the same symbols as the pillars that made the surrounding circle. A single ray of sunlight hit the center slab through the branches of the mighty oak tree. A blue and green mist rose from the slab and formed a wavering oval that was shaped like a woman's opening. Inside the oval Boun's keen eyes saw strange things. There were scenes depicting wonderfully beautiful settings of nature, a woman of incomparable beauty and unimaginable fertility, animals of all kinds from all ages, and plants arching toward the sun in the ecstasy of life. Boun forgot his savage pursuers as he stared at the images. He lowered his bow without thought and stepped lightly toward the misty oval. He was so fascinated by the oval that he almost failed to notice the three men in white robes who were kneeling before the mist. As he came closer, they noticed him, however, and turned in surprise to see a strange boy advancing on their shrine.
They rose together. Each held a long gnarled staff in their hand. Their leader stepped forward out of the circle of stone and held his staff out. It was obvious he wanted Boun to stop.
With great difficulty, Boun tore his eyes from the mist, and narrowed them as he evaluated these three men. They must be Ligureans. Probably they were great sorcerers as well. He doubted if his woodland bow would do him any good against such men. He kept it lowered.
All three men were out of the circle and advancing on the boy. With their faces covered by their white cowls, Boun was not sure what their intentions were. He stood his ground as he remembered that certain death awaited him outside at the hands of the savage Picts.
"How dare you enter this grove sacred to our Goddess," said the first one in a deep voice. His blue eyes burned through the shadows of his hood. "This is a sacred place. Only the initiated may come here."
For all his woodland skill, Boun was still a boy. He found himself tongue tied in this confrontation. Nervously he rubbed his nose with his right hand. His bow lowered even more. It was effectively disarmed.
The leader walked right up to Boun. He studied the boy for several seconds. The Ligurean priest had never seen such green eyes in a mortal man as this boy had. At first he thought they were Hyperborean green, but then discarded this idea because of their rich forest hue. Despite the boy's youth, he looked back at the priest without faltering with those unusual eyes.
"Who are you?" asked the priest. His voice was like a deep bell tone.
At last he regained his voice. He answered proudly. "I am Boun, son of Yumak."
"And what is the son of Yumak doing in this place that is sacred to our Goddess, the Mother of Nature?" asked the druidic priest.
"I'm sorry to intrude," replied Boun. "The Picts are chasing me. They've been hunting me for almost two weeks. I just wanted a place to rest."
"Picts?" mused another of the priests. "Coming here?"
Boun nodded his head. "I'm sorry. I brought them here. I didn't know this grove was here until I got here. And now that I'm here the Picts have me trapped. They will be here shortly."
The priests knew he spoke the truth. They could hear their howls just outside the grove. As yet they had not raised the courage to enter a place that was taboo to their kind. A lesson of taboo that had been learned the hard way centuries ago. The Priests of the Mother Goddess were powerful magicians, and the Picts feared their holy power.
One of the priests walked slowly to the entrance to the grove and looked out. Then he returned.
"This is a problem. They are of a societal totem. The one dedicated to the Beast God. At their head is Golim Sag, the bastard son of Jhebbal Sag. Of all the Picts in the forest, he is the one who might work up the courage to trespass this grove," said the priest.
The leader addressed Boun. "Why do they hunt you, boy? What makes you so valuable?"
Boun shrugged his grimy shoulders. "I don't know. They killed my father a few months ago. I made my way toward Aquilonia alone. Then they found me. I would have been caught had not the boss beaver warned me."
"Warned you?" repeated the priest.
"It was the strangest thing. He seemed to speak to me. A warning. And just in time for the Picts were coming," explained Boun.
"You say your father was Yumak. Do you have Pictish ancestors?"
"My father was half Pict. And half Cimmerian. His mother was Saga, daughter of Horm, of the Blue Wolves," said Boun.
"Saga," hissed the third priest. He had not spoken until now. He lifted his staff as if the strike the boy. The leader blocked the strike with his own rod of oak.
"You know her, Timulin?" whispered the leader.
"Yes, a daughter of the Beast God. This boy carries the blood of Jhebbal Sag. Why the Picts want to kill him I do not know. Perhaps Golim Sag is jealous of others that carry his father's blood. I have heard he is a petty man, as often these offspring of the Beast God are," elaborated the third priest, Timulin.
The head priest studied Boun again. He made an odd motion with his hand and the boy felt a tingling crawl over his skin. Then the priest shook his head.
"I do not understand this. You entered this grove without harm. I feel the Mother of Nature has accepted you. Yet you bear the blood of Jhebbal Sag. Do you know that the Beast God is at odds with our Goddess. His primeval savagery and chaotic need to impress his superiority over all beasts is in opposition to the Mother who seeks harmony in nature. Jhebbal Sag is an ancient anthropomorphic god, yet a god of all beasts who lurk in the wild places. Fang and claw are his laws. The satisfaction of his primordial needs are his goals. For millions of years he has loped through his wild lands in the form of one great beast or another; for such is his pleasure. When man came he added them to his stable. From him they learned to rip and tear one another like beasts. And you carry his blood."
Boun calmed his frayed nerves. He spoke to the priest slowly. "I have lived all my life in the wilderness with my father. My mother was gone from me at an early age. My father was a simple man who lived in harmony with nature, much as I have heard your Goddess asks of you. From him I learned to live off the land by taking only what I needed. The law of the Fang and the Claw are part of life in the woods, but I don't revel in it. I go about my business with a great respect for the woods. If there is anything of the Beast Lord in me, I have never known it."
The three priests walked toward the entrance of the grove. Boun watched them go until they had passed beyond the closest bend of the path that led to the woods. When they were gone he walked over to the mist.
There was a welcome from the mist. A maternal call he had not felt since being a infant. Here was sanctuary. He was right to come here. What instinct had led him to this place where the Mother of Nature lived? He passed between the stones of the circle and stood before the mist. He could touch it if he wanted to. Timidly, he lifted his hand to do so.
Lightning cracked. There was a roar of a dragon. Picts screamed as they let loose their arrows. A holy war was being fought outside the grove.
Boun heard the voice of the Goddess. He dropped his bow on the grassy ground. Impulsively he pushed his hand into the mist. A good feeling lifted his spirits. He smiled for the first time in weeks.
Druidic blood stained the grass. A massive armor plated dragon summoned by Golim Sag lay in a blackened heap of smoldering flesh. Many Picts were dead. Three remained. The son of Jhebbal Sag, the ropelike Eroka, and Ripte rushed into the grove. They had won the battle. Now the prize would be theirs.
Boun glanced over his shoulder and saw them running toward him. There was nothing else he could do. To remain would be fatal. With a catlike leap, he sprang onto the slab and leaped into the mist. A loud sucking sound swallowed the mist and the boy was gone.
Golim Sag cursed and hurled his bloody knife on the grass. All his risk had been for nothing. The boy had escaped. All he had accomplished was to gain the enmity of the Ligureans. He ran from the grove in fear. His remaining horde was close behind him.
The grove was silent except for the wind through the leaves of the mighty oak. Only a bloody Pictish knife lying on the grass disturbed the sudden solitude.
Boun squatted beside his small stack of fine pelts. He was certain that he could trade these furs for a purse of Aquilonian silver. It had been a long, hazardous journey through Pictland. It wasn't the hardship of the journey that troubled Boun. He had been raised in the wilderness. It was the hostility of nearly every human being he had met along the way. Only the Blue Wolf clan has given him a place to rest, and that was because his father's mother had come from that clan.
Boun was up at first light and dismantled his leanto. He spent some time and effort returning the area of his campsite to look as natural as possible. He did this with the full knowledge that most wandering Picts would read the sign of his camp anyway. It was just a habit to clean up after himself in the hope that if any Picts would chance by they would be careless enough not detect that he had been there.
Unlike the Picts who traveled nearly naked in the warm weather, Boun wore knee high leather boots and leather pants. His back and chest were protected by a vest of tough wolfhide. His dark hair was bound by a strap of soft deer hide. He carried a short, three foot bow attached to his swag, and was armed with a forester�s ax and hunting knife. In the depths of the forest, a small bow with a draw of 40 lb. was plenty for the young archer. He hunted in the manner of the Picts. Stealth brought him close to his prey and a quick instinctive shot brought it down at short range. For this reason Boun was an excellent shot at 35 yards or less and not so fine an archer beyond that.
One night a gigantic panther clawed its way up the tree where Boun was resting. Its gleaming yellow eyes stared at the boy with evil intentions. Boun had nearly fallen asleep and was helpless before the beast. His bow was without an arrow ready. But the panther did not attack. Clearly it had intended to until something it had seen in the boy had changed its mind. It leaped from the tree and disappeared into the dark underbrush.
"Why can't you find one boy?" screamed Golim Sag. He slapped the larger man on the head as he spit the question in his face. Golim Sag was a Pict of medium height, as black haired and black eyed as the rest of his race. The man he was admonishing was much larger. Not wholly of the Pictish race being rather tall with long ropy arms and legs. This man cringed before the shaman's wrath.
It was a fresh morning. Boun licked his fingers clean of blood and feathers and tossed away what remained of the eaten bird. The Picts had chased him for nearly two weeks. He was deeper into the trackless wilderness than his father had ever taken him. So far he had avoided contact with his pursuers, but he was growing thinner and more weary with each day. Something had to change.
Ripte was concerned. The boy had killed two good men and was heading toward the safety of Aquilonia. His only consolation was that he had nearly 100 miles to go. Now the shaman would blame Ripte for the deaths of these men because it had been his idea to split the party into pairs. For all his skill at fighting, Ripte was not ready to incur the shaman's wrath.
"You fool," carped Golim Sag, " we are driving him toward a Ligurean grove. I don't want him contacting those white robed scum. Its the worst thing that can happen."
"Why is that?" asked one of his warriors.
It was no Pict ahead of him. There was the smell of incense and mistletoe. Boun read the signs on the mighty oak trees that formed a passage into a dark green grove. He knew he was entering a place where the Ligurean priests held their religious rites. There was no choice. The Picts had closed the gap and were only a half mile behind him. At least he judged it a half mile by the sound of their ferocious howling.
Outside the Picts increased their howling. Golim Sag was infuriated that his quarry had slipped into this place of sanctuary. His wolves where afraid to enter the grove. It was necessary to push them into doing that. He began a call into the deep woods that would bring forth some monster of Jhebbal Sag. The monster would lead his men into the Ligurean grove.
The head priest pointed the mist. "There is the yawn of our Goddess. Take your plea to her. We must go and prepare our defense of this place. It appears the Picts must be taught another lesson regarding who is master in this grove."
The End.
