For nine days, Varyem rode north with his father’s party to join the ogre hunt. Every day, the wolves of fear and dread stalked his heart. The men’s boasts, the hunting songs at the campfire, all of it reminded him of what he had to do.
How can I go through with this hunt? Varyem asked himself time and again. How will I live with myself?
But every time he looked at his father’s face, every time he heard his father telling stories and laughing with the men, he thought of his family’s shame.
They took the old roads through the land, passing many villages and towns filled with huts of earthen or wattle-and-daub construction. The open plains and fields became rolling hills, and the stands of trees began to thicken into a forest. As this was an ogre hunt, one called by the king, they camped in their own felt tents and ate and drank around the fires, with their horses and their great ogre-hounds for company. Varyem’s father said it reminded him of the old times, when their people had roamed the Horse Plains far, far to the west.
There was a silence between them, like a curtain, a silence of long practice. Varyem’s father rode ahead, or else he hung back and gave place to Varyem. When the men gathered around the fire at night, Varyem and a few of their retainers sat by themselves.
One evening around the fire, Varyem looked up when he heard his father call his name.
“So, Varyem, I hear you’ll be joining the sons of Jarovitan on their hunt. How did you arrange that?”
He felt the fear and dread prowling toward him, but he looked his father – Beregan, a name that had become hateful – full in the face. How dare his father part the curtain that had hung between them?
“It was arranged for me,” he said, feeling the heat of his anger rising within him.
Arranged for me, because of your indiscretion.
His father poked at the fire with his iron sword. “Well, that is a good thing. Who arranged it for you?”
“It was the suggestion of Farstay, one of the wives of Jarovitan. She knew I was friendly with both princes, her son and… the other, Prince Hamarvan.” The wolves of fear and dread nosed closer to his heart as he thought of his mission, but this close to his father, his family’s shame was overpowering.
His father looked guilty for a moment, but then nodded. “How kind of her.”
He suppressed a bitter laugh. Kind… the woman had known that he was desperate to remove the stain on his family’s honor. That had made him useful to her.
I am Varyem son of Beregan, Beregan who lay with the wife of a great lord and was discovered.
He thought of his two younger sisters, thought of the promised bride-prices and favorable matches. It was the only thought that gave him a moment of peace.
The next day, they reached a field filled with several great encampments of felt tents. Varyem saw the great banner of the king, deep-red with a golden sun symbol, and the banners of the greater and lesser lords.
His heart skipped a beat as he found the black banner of Jarovitan with its silver wheel-like gyre symbol. He looked over his shoulder at his father. The coals of his anger and shame, always warm, grew hotter.
Without a word, he rode down to the encampment. He had a task to accomplish. His personal slave followed behind him, a handsome youth riding a mule.
He reached the circle of tents without anyone challenging him. When a man wearing the cloak and sword of a warrior asked who he was, he introduced himself.
“Of course, Lord Varyem!” the man said. “The sons of my lord Jarovitan are expecting you. Please, come with me.”
Varyem followed the man through the tents and the knots of warriors. Some were busy with the tasks of the camp and the hunt: fletching arrows, tending to their recurved bows, polishing the sewn-together iron plates of armored cuirasses, and testing the heft of spears. Others busied themselves with food, drink, and ogre-hunting songs.
They found the two princes near the center of the camp, sparring on foot with long pointed staffs. A few warriors surrounded them in a loose circle, their cloaks a mixture of browns, greens, reds, and golds, and several slave-youths stood nearby, dressed in simple tunics and trousers.
His eyes went first to Parastam, who was circling his half-brother and laughing. “Is your hand steady, my brother?” he said, making teasing jabs with his staff. “Is it steady?” His merry eyes were a light yellow-gold, a common color among their people, and his complexion was tawny. He was handsome enough: a high face with wide cheekbones, his beard short, about a hand’s-span length. His woolen cloak and tunic were hemmed with a deep red hue. It reminded Varyem of blood.
Varyem looked from Parastam, his heart going to his throat.
“Try my hand and see, brother,” said Hamarvan, drawing up his staff and holding it at the ready. His proud, square face betrayed no sign of emotion, save perhaps for a hint of confidence in his deep-set dark eyes. His cloak and tunic were hemmed with silver and a complex black embroidered pattern.
Two brothers… Varyem knew that by the customs of their people, all the tribes who called themselves by the name Ketaryat, either one of the brothers – half-brothers, he reminded himself – could inherit their father’s status as chieftain of their tribe, the Ashvasadra. Their father Jarovitan had yet to name either one heir, but one day one of them would almost certainly take his place: they were already esteemed among Jarovitan’s retainers, and his other sons were all much younger.
And then the chieftain who will rule over my tribe will be in my debt, Varyem reminded himself. It didn’t take away the sick feeling of guilt that twisted at his bowels like a knife.
Parastam let out a yell and threw himself at his brother, staff raised. Hamarvan stepped aside as he came and thrust his staff at Parastam, jabbing the dull-looking tip into the thick woolen tunic.
“You will need to do better against the ogre, brother,” Hamarvan said, clapping Parastam on the shoulder. “He will be a wilder man than I.” He saw Varyem, and waved to him to come closer. “Lord Varyem, son of Beregan of the line of the Barduvatra, welcome.” He clapped his hands. “Bring wine for our guest, and meat and stew from my own fire.” The slave-youths leapt to obey him.
The knife of his guilt twisted again. “My Lord Hamarvan, son of Jarovitan of the line of the Ashvasadra,” he said, bowing his head as he addressed Hamarvan. The Barduvatra, Varyem’s tribe, owed allegiance to the Ashvasadra, the tribe to which Hamarvan and Parastam belonged. He couldn’t help but notice the single tusk-like fang that hung from a leather thong about Hamarvan’s neck: the fang of a boar ogre.
“Ah, Varyem, you have come,” Parastam said, laughing as he rubbed at his ribcage. “My lady mother said you might.”
Was this why Jarovitan had yet to name either of his sons his heir? Was the thought of condemning one of them to death too much?
I am Varyem son of Beregan, Beregan who lay with the wife of a great lord and was discovered.
Hamarvan opened his arms. “Welcome to the hunting party, Lord Varyem. You will be our brother on the hunt.”
Varyem tried to fix the faces of his sisters in his mind. Parastam’s mother had promised him two bride-prices and two favorable matches… far better than the two daughters of a disgraced clan could hope for otherwise.
Feeling sick with himself, Varyem put on his best smile as he embraced and exchanged the kiss of greeting with the man he had come to kill.
The king of all the tribes blessed the hunt, and sent them out into the forests. Varyem and his slave rode with Hamarvan and Parastam, each of whom brought four companions. They brought additional mules to carry food and supplies, and Varyem saw each of the warriors was armed as he was: a bow and quiver of arrows, a pair of throwing spears, and an iron-bladed sword. Most of the warriors also brought a personal slave, but Varyem was surprised to see Hamarvan do without.
“My lord, are you without a servant?” he asked Hamarvan, as they rode into the forest. “My man can cook for us both.”
Lady Farstay had given him only the simplest of instructions: “My son Parastam will be hunting the ogre along with his half-brother Hamarvan, son of my sister-wife Alastava. Their father has yet to name one of them heir. Perhaps an accident will remove the choice.” He had to start getting closer to Hamarvan, despite the guilt and the fear.
“A kind offer, my Lord Varyem,” Hamarvan said. “I would accept, but for me the hunt is a time to do things I do not otherwise do.”
“He’ll stop saying that when he burns the evening bread,” Parastam said. He gestured behind him, to not one but two slaves, one male and one female, each riding a mule.
Hamarvan’s eyes took on a playful glint. Up close, they were umber, brown with hints of yellow. “This is from the noble lord, if he can be so called, who is bringing a slave-girl on an ogre hunt.”
Parastam threw back his head and brayed with laughter. “Unlike you, brother, there are some things I do not wish to do with my own hand.” He grinned wickedly. “And we will be a long way into the wilderness before we have a chance at an ogre. The beasts may ravage flocks and herds, but they flee the habitation of men.”
Here they were, laughing and bantering like two brothers. Did Parastam know his mother’s design? Did he suspect? Did Hamarvan harbor equally murderous plans toward Parastam? The thought was like a rope thrown to a drowning man, and Varyem clung to it, desperate to be free of the fear, dread, and guilt. What if each brother wanted the other dead?
Hamarvan shook his head. “They are not beasts. They are wild-men, and not to be underestimated.” His hand went to the ogre fang hanging around his neck. He clenched it, and Varyem noted the muscles of his arm flex.
Two days into the wilderness, the ogre-hounds finally bayed and howled, and led them to a stand of beech. The rotting smell of carrion assailed Varyem’s nostrils even before he looked up and saw the carcass of the hairy, hoofed beast – the head was gone, but after a moment he realized the creature was a bison. It had been cached high up, more than twenty feet, and he could see that it was tied to a couple of boughs.
Hamarvan stopped and looked up at the kill. “This is good. The ogre was here, probably no more than a few days ago.”
“Why is the head missing?” Varyem asked. Hamarvan wore a boar ogre’s tusk, and Varyem had heard how he had helped to kill it. He clearly knew much about their quarry.
“They favor the eyes, tongue, and the brains,” Hamarvan said. “They also use the horns as tools.”
“The beast is close, then?” Parastam said, making a face at the bison carcass. “By the Ashen One, that’s rank.”
“The wild-man may be close,” Hamarvan said, and Varyem noted the way he carefully said the word man. “Or he may be far. They can cover great distances in a single night. From here on out, everyone should look for giant boulders, mounds of earth that stand out from the landscape. Use your Third Eye sense – you may glimpse hints of the ogre-gift.”
Varyem suppressed a shudder. Every ogre story he had heard since boyhood made it clear that in addition to their great size and strength, ogres were cunning and could use their ogre-gifts to disguise themselves.
“How did the ogre get it up that high?” Varyem said, looking at the carcass of the bison. Surely no ogre could reach twenty feet.
“Climbed,” Hamarvan said. “The wild-men use their auras to climb trees, even the steepest cliffs.”
“I still say they’re beasts, caching their kills like leopards,” Parastam said. “What about you, Varyem?”
He looked up at the carcass of the bison. “Ogres kill like beasts, because they are hungry or because they are threatened. Men do the same, but men also kill for other reasons: for power, for lust—”
“Because they catch another man laying with their wife?” Parastam said, his grin boyish.
Varyem felt the hot rush of anger rising within him, and his eyes hardened as he looked toward Parastam. But then he sighed and shook his head.
“You are right, my Lord Parastam: a boar ogre cannot bring shame to his cub.”
“Pardon, my lord, I meant no offense,” Parastam said, his eyes still playful.
Varyem shook his head. “The offense was committed by my father. All men know of this thing.”
By the laws of their people, a man who caught another man laying with his wife had the right to kill him where he lay. However, the laws of their people also said that even one who made a cuckold of another man had the right to defend himself from mortal harm – though not without avoiding the stain of adultery.
His father Beregan had been caught, and he had defended himself, preserving his life but staining his family honor.
Hamarvan cleared his throat. “I think, my Lord Varyem, that I grasp your meaning: like an ogre, a man may kill an animal for food or sport, or he may kill in defense – but a man also makes a ritual of killing.”
It took Varyem a moment to comprehend that Hamarvan had changed the conversation away from his father Beregan’s transgression. “I-I suppose you speak truth, my lord,” he said, realizing that he had given it little thought.
Hamarvan seemed deep in thought for a long moment. “I am not so sure that ogres do not make a ritual of killing. Who knows? Perhaps our quarry hunts us no less than we hunt it.”
“Perhaps the ogre is brother to the man after all,” Parastam said, laughing.
They rode the rest of the day, and saw the occasional ogre-sign: tracks like a man’s bare feet, but far larger, perhaps twice the size. The tracks led them deeper into the forest. Trees were everywhere: Varyem recognized stately beech, fluted- and crooked-trunked hornbeam, ironwood, pleasing to the eye, and oak, tall and sprawling. The trees mantled the land, and Varyem felt more and more that they had entered another realm, the wild land of the ogres.
Toward evening, Father Sun began to set beyond the tops of the trees, plunging the forest into shadow. Varyem was glad for the light of their spirit-lamps, ingots of glass that held spirits of light, as they pressed on in search of a place to pitch their tents.
It was dark by the time they found a clearing and set the slaves to making fires and pitching the tents. Varyem and a few of the others walked around the edges of the clearing with raised lamps, keeping guard. Somewhere in the depths of the forest, an owl hooted.
Parastam approached him, a spear in his hand. “Lord Varyem! Remember what my brother said before: look out for large boulders or mounds of earth that look out of place. Ogres are masters of hiding.” He smirked.
Ogres don’t join hunting parties with men they plan to kill, Varyem thought. As sick as it made him feel, the ogre had nothing on him when it came to hiding.
“I’ll keep an eye out, my Lord Parastam,” he said.
Parastam slipped his arm around Varyem’s shoulders. “We’ll watch together!” He leaned closer, until his breath tickled Varyem’s ear.
It was a friendly, companionable gesture, but Varyem stiffened, knowing what was coming.
“My mother told me everything,” Parastam said, voice a whisper. “Watch for the moment. An arrow or spear-thrust, intended for the ogre of course but gone tragically astray…” He shrugged. “I’ll venture to say it’s been known to happen.”
“I will watch, my lord,” Varyem said. His stomach felt knotted, and there was a sour taste of bile in the back of his throat.
“Good,” Parastam said, voice a contented purr. “By the way, my mother is a matchmaker without peer, and she has Father’s ear. Your sisters will be two happy brides.” He squeezed Varyem’s shoulder, winked at him, and sauntered off.
They sat around the fire that evening and ate toasted bread and dried meat. Varyem couldn’t help but notice that Hamarvan’s bread looked rather more burnt than everyone else’s. The fire and their spirit-lamps provided light enough in the clearing, but the trees encircled them, looming at the wan edge of their light. Everyone seemed to be tired, and no one suggested passing the evening in song.
Somewhere within the depths of the forest, an owl hooted. Off in the distance, a wolf howled, long and deep. The ogre-hounds began to bark, their voices loud and resonant.
“Everyone stay within the clearing tonight,” Hamarvan said. “We’ll keep a couple of the spirit-lamps lit and take turns watching. If you need to relieve yourselves, do so here in the clearing. No one is to step behind the trees for any reason.”
Varyem suddenly felt cold, and shifted uncomfortably. “Is the ogre near?”
Hamarvan’s gaze was even and steady. “Did you hear the owl, and then the wolf?”
Varyem frowned. “Are you saying the ogre…?”
Hamarvan shrugged. “Perhaps the owl was an owl. Perhaps the wolf was a wolf. Perhaps the shadows of the trees conceal only trees.”
But then again, perhaps not, Varyem thought.
“We have the ogre-hounds,” Hamarvan said, gesturing to the large, almost wolf-like dogs. “They may alert us to the coming of an ogre, but only if they catch his wind.”
Parastam looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we should have the slaves keep watch, and leave the warriors to get sufficient rest.”
Hamarvan shook his head. “If the ogre attacks, I want an armed man to greet it.”
Parastam shrugged. “As you say, brother – and I have heard it said that ogres can mimic the beasts.”
Varyem slept in his tent along with his slave-youth. At one point in the night, he heard the dogs barking, and he came awake and reached for his sword.
“Master?” the youth said, from his position near Varyem’s feet.
“At ease, boy,” Varyem said. Somewhere out in the forest, he heard a stick break, and then another. His heart raced. Could it be an ogre? He knew that these forests were home to other predators: wolves, bears, tigers, leopards, and lynxes.
Several more sticks broke. The dogs barked some more.
Varyem poked his head out of the tent, and saw the man on watch, a companion of Parastam’s. He was looking toward the forest, his face illuminated by the spirit-lamp he carried.
Varyem called out to him. “Do you see anything?”
The man started, turned toward him, and smiled. He was wearing a red knit cap with a forward-facing point.
“Ah, startled me, Lord Varyem.” He raised his spear in a friendly salute. “No, it’s off in the trees.”
The snapping of sticks stopped. Varyem waited for a long moment, ears pricked.
Finally, he shrugged and sighed. “Must have been an animal. Wake me when it is my turn.”
“Will do, my lord,” the man said, visibly relaxing.
Varyem went back to sleep.
He awoke suddenly some time later, his mind started into wakefulness by a terrible, bloodcurdling sound.
The dogs were barking again.
“Master?” the slave-youth said.
Heart pounding, Varyem sat up, grabbing at his sword even as his mind struggled into wakefulness like an animal trying to find its legs.
He was halfway out of the tent and looking out at the clearing before his mind realized what he had heard: a howling scream, man-like and yet other, somehow beast-like. It was dawn, and Father Sun was beginning to creep over the tops of the trees, his light red and bloody. Looking around the encampment, he saw Hamarvan and Parastam and several of the others starting to emerge from their tents. The dogs were straining at their leads and howling.
Scanning the edge of the clearing, Varyem saw something small and red. He charged toward it, drawing his iron-bladed sword by reflex.
It was a red knit cap, with a forward-facing point.
Varyem looked around, his heart thudding. The cap lay near two large trees, and the ground around was disturbed, as if churned up by a struggle. He could see dark stains of blood.
“Everyone form up!” Hamarvan bellowed. “The ogre is nearby!” He ran up to stand near Varyem. “That was the ogre’s scream. I’d say our man wounded it before it took him.”
“It took Bialevan?” Parastam screamed. “We have to get him back!”
“We ride to kill the ogre,” Hamarvan said, heading for the horses. “We’ll honor your friend later.”
It took a moment for Varyem to realize Hamarvan’s meaning: they would honor Parastam’s friend, because the ogre had already killed him.
The dogs led them deep into the forest, barking and howling. There was an abundance of large, man-like tracks, the imprint of enormous bare feet in the earth. Varyem couldn’t help but notice that although the feet were very large, perhaps twice the length of a man’s, the space between the tracks suggested a stride of several feet, a stride that somehow seemed too long even for an ogre.
Then again, he had heard the stories: he knew that ogres drew on the wild power of the earth, allowing them to bound great distances. Thinking of the prodigious speed and strength of their foe made him uneasy.
They found Bialevan’s spirit-lamp first. It was still glowing. A little deeper into the forest, and they found his bow in its sheath.
Parastam took the lead, charging at the front along with his remaining companions. Varyem followed behind, along with Hamarvan and his friends, the slaves bringing up the rear.
Suddenly, Parastam reined in his horse and shouted at something on the ground. Varyem could see a break in the trees ahead, an open way that he could see led to the banks of a small river.
With Parastam and his friends ahead, it took Varyem a moment to ride up and see what Parastam was shouting at. When he saw it, he shuddered.
There, lying on the ground before them, was the severed head of Parastam’s companion Bialevan.
They followed the ogre’s trail up the banks of the small river, ducking the overhanging limbs of trees. The ogre’s tracks were clear in the muddy earth. There were spots of blood here and there, and Varyem wondered whether they were from the ogre or Parastam’s slain companion. He kept his Third Eye sense open, and saw a faint glowing light in the ogre footprints, traces of the ogre-gift.
They rode up the riverbank until they came to a place where the bank narrowed and disappeared, the waters of the river abutting the gnarled roots and trunks of overhanging trees. Stands of reeds grew here, partly screening the way ahead. Some of them had clearly been recently trampled, and now lay flattened and broken in the water.
“Have a care, men, and keep your weapons close at hand,” Hamarvan said, even as Parastam and his companions began to direct their horses into the waters of the river. “The ogre cannot be far.”
Varyem drew his bow from its sheath and held it in his right hand, then drew three arrows from his quiver and held them in his left.
The ogre-hounds thronged around Parastam and his remaining companions, barking and splashing as they entered the water. The river was slow, and it only seemed to come up to the dogs’ shoulders and much of the way up the horses’ legs.
Varyem’s heart began to beat faster. Could the ogre be lying in wait?
“Yes, have a care, all,” Parastam said, drawing out one of his throwing-spears. “We don’t want any hasty javelin throws or arrows depriving us of a horse or a dog.”
Varyem’s heart skipped a beat. Parastam was not looking at him, but the meaning was plain: be ready to kill my half-brother.
“Lord Varyem, you may find a throwing-spear preferable in this circumstance,” Hamarvan said, as they urged their horses into the water.
“The bow suits me, my lord,” Varyem said. His hands felt clammy, and his tongue seemed thick and very dry. He coughed to clear his throat, and licked his lips. “I have spent much time hunting with it.”
“You know when to trust your skill,” Hamarvan said, and Varyem heard approval in his voice.
They made their way into the reeds, their horses shifting uneasily but still remaining obedient. The water here was shallow enough, and the reeds grew around a few river boulders. Varyem eyed the large stones uneasily. Surely none of them were large enough to be an ogre, concealed by the ogre-gift? Looking ahead, Varyem could see the reeds begin to thin, and he thought he could glimpse the riverbank opening up again.
He turned his head to the right, and suddenly saw a great mound of earth, covered with moss and tufts of grass, sitting at the edge of the river in between two beech trees.
“Hold,” Hamarvan said, and Varyem glanced and saw that Hamarvan was following his gaze.
He looked back to the mound, and saw two dark, beady eyes staring back at him.
Below the eyes, a great mouth opened and let out a bloodcurdling howl. The moss- and grass-covered mound of earth became a great hairy manlike form, which rose from where it had been crouched and threw itself at Hamarvan.
Varyem’s fingers moved by reflex, nocking arrow to bow, drawing with his thumb, sighting, and loosing the arrow. He had been aiming for the ogre’s trunk, but the creature lunged forward, and the arrow lodged in its thickly-muscled shoulder instead.
Hamarvan’s horse reared and gave out a horrible horse-scream of terror, but Hamarvan merely reached out and clung to the saddle. As the ogre reached out, faster than Varyem would have believed a thing of such size could move, Hamarvan stabbed it in the hand with his spear.
The ogre bellowed, and now Varyem’s startled mind was beginning to make sense of its features: manlike, but far larger – perhaps nine feet – and hairy all over, with a sloping forehead, great beetled brows, two deep-set eyes, broad nose, mouth large and wide open to display the teeth, including the four tusk-like fangs. The hair on its head was longer, a great shaggy mane.
Varyem nocked arrow to bow and made to shoot at the wild-man again, but the creature was already moving past Hamarvan, launching itself out of the water with a great leaping bound. A javelin flew past the ogre, and then another – he didn’t see who had thrown them. With his Third Eye sense, Varyem could see the glimmer of the ogre’s aura, a brownish-green glow around the wild-man. He loosed his arrow and watched it fly within three feet of Hamarvan, but it missed the ogre’s speeding form by a hand’s-breadth or two.
The ogre tackled one of Hamarvan’s companions, a man whose name Varyem hadn’t learned, hauling the man from his horse and bounding forward again. The man cried out in terror, and Varyem could see the ogre biting into his shoulder even as it bounded forward, the man clutched in its grasp. The ogre leaped into the air like a forest demigod, the ogre-gift flaring around it so brightly that Varyem could see the light even without his Third Eye sense.
“Don’t shoot, you’ll hit the man!” Hamarvan shouted, even as the ogre splashed down into the water near the far bank of the river.
The man’s screams intensified, and Varyem could see the ogre biting into his scalp.
They all rode forward, the dogs swimming beside and ahead of the horses, everyone shouting. The ogre reached the far bank and dropped the man before plunging into the depths of the forest.
They halted the hunt for the day to tend to Hamarvan’s companion, and to honor Parastam’s deceased companion as best they could.
The wounded man had a mauled shoulder, and the left side of his scalp was a bloody mess. Under Hamarvan’s direction, they bandaged the man up on the riverbank, giving him strong drink and poppy juice for the pain. Hamarvan took out a handful of glowing walnut-size spheres of amber, placed them on his companion’s wounds, and intoned a word. The pieces of amber glowed brightly and dissolved into glowing resin, which sunk into the man’s wounds.
“The amber-purification is taking,” Hamarvan said. “We will probably be able to move him tomorrow.”
With his Third Eye sense, Varyem could see the glow of the amber-purification sinking into the man’s aura. The wounded areas glowed red, a distressed color, but where the golden light of the amber-purification entered the man’s aura it quickly became green, the color of vitality and health.
Looking at the man’s wounds, Varyem realized that the ogre had avoided doing any lasting damage. “The ogre could have killed him, but did not. He wanted to slow us down. You were right before, my lord,” he said, nodding to Hamarvan. “The ogre is hunting us.”
Hamarvan nodded. “It will be his undoing.”
“Such confidence, brother,” Parastam said.
Varyem looked up, and saw Parastam staring off into the depths of the forest.
“We are in the ogre’s domain, brother,” Parastam went on. “I can see now that the ogres are the gods of this place, as savage and wild as the land that sustains them. We will kill this ogre only if he gives himself into our hands.”
Varyem frowned as he thought over the ogre-tales he had heard growing up. “Some of the old stories speak of heroes baiting ogres with a sacrifice – an animal, say, or a captured enemy.”
Hamarvan grunted and stood up. “Listen up, men: the ogre could have hidden from us in the fastnesses of the forest.” He pointed toward the trees. “Instead, he chose to attack us. Do you realize what this means?” He paused, drawing out the tension.
When no one else spoke, Varyem cleared his throat. “It means the ogre has chosen to hunt us?”
Hamarvan nodded once. “Yes – and that means he has already given himself into our hands. He will come after us again, but we will be ready, and we will kill him together. Who is with me?”
There was a half-hearted cheer. Hamarvan frowned. “Come, men, are you warriors of the Ketaryatra or kitchen slaves? Who is with me?”
Varyem cheered a bit harder that time, and the rest with him. He saw that even Parastam cheered. What is it about Hamarvan? he thought. Why do I find myself hastening to obey him? There was something about Hamarvan that somehow made deference instinctive, and it was more than the status of his Ashvasadra tribe: Varyem felt no similar impulse toward Parastam.
“Again!” Hamarvan bellowed.
Despite himself, Varyem shouted along with the rest.
Hamarvan nodded. “Good, very good. Now, we will send out search parties to look for a clearing nearby in which to camp. Failing that, we will camp here, on the riverbank.”
Varyem found himself in a search party with Parastam, while Hamarvan and one other warrior stayed behind with the wounded man. His heart sank as Parastam drew him ahead of the others. He could see the displeasure in Parastam’s eyes.
“What were you doing?” Parastam hissed as soon as they were several horse-lengths ahead. “That was the perfect opportunity.”
Varyem’s mind raced. “Fast – the whole thing happened so fast, my lord,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Too many people.”
Parastam grit his teeth, and Varyem saw his face set in the grimace of a smile. “I will arrange for you to be alone with him, or close to, when the ogre is near. If I do that, do you think you can handle your end?”
He fixed the faces of his two younger sisters in his mind. He was doing this for them. So what if Parastam wanted his half-brother dead? Doubtless Hamarvan felt the same way. It was one of them or the other anyway.
“Well?” Parastam said, in a very low whisper.
I am Varyem son of Beregan, Beregan who lay with the wife of a great lord and was discovered – and so I, his son, will kill a man in cold blood and try to make it look like an accident.
“Yes,” Varyem said, hating himself and wanting to crawl under a rock and die. “I’ll do it.”
They found a clearing nearby and managed to transport Hamarvan’s wounded friend to it. They set the slaves to pitching the tents, setting the fires, and cooking dinner. They made a pyre and burned the head of Parastam’s deceased companion, the only remains they had managed to find.
As Varyem watched the flames consume the small part of Bialevan that was left, he thought about how much of life was bound up with killing. Men fought and killed other men, and men and ogres fought and killed each other. It was the way of the world. Why shouldn’t he, Varyem, kill Hamarvan?
That evening, Hamarvan regaled them all with stories of his own successful ogre hunt two years prior.
“My father Jarovitan hunted ogres on the Horse Plains, no doubt as did your fathers,” he said, the light of the fire and the glowing glass spirit-lamps playing on his face, highlighting the strong cheeks and brow. “He taught me that hunting an ogre is not like hunting a bear or a tiger: bears and tigers are beasts that can be hunted down, but you must always entice an ogre to hunt you.”
Parastam laughed. “Did he, now? Did it not occur to you to mention this sooner?”
Hamarvan looked at Parastam. “I did not wish to frighten anyone away from the hunt.” He looked around the fire, and Varyem stiffened when Hamarvan’s eyes fell on him.
“Now you have all seen what an ogre can do,” Hamarvan said. “You will kill him next time.”
And I will have an accident and kill you, Varyem thought. The worst part was, he knew he could do it: he had gone on raids in the east and the south, and he had fought and killed men. He had earned a reputation as a good cavalry archer.
But it couldn’t be helped: his sisters needed good husbands, and that meant he had to kill Hamarvan. And if that made him worse than an ogre, so be it. What did ogres know of family honor, anyway?
Despite himself, he found he was curious about something Hamarvan said. “My lord, how have we enticed the ogre to hunt us?”
Hamarvan poked at the fire with a stick. “Tell me, Lord Varyem, where does the ogre come from?”
Varyem frowned and thought a moment. “The elders say they are from the Outer Bank, the land of monsters beyond the River Ocean.”
“I do not credit those tales,” Hamarvan said. He held up the tusk-like fang on its leather thong about his neck. “There are other stories about the ogres, stories far older. The Eldest Ones, the oracles, avatars, and boon-granters, say the ogres roamed these lands long before the time of the Shapers, even before the coming of man. Once they were many, but they dwindled as men multiplied. Only the ones who grasped the power of the elements, the power of the land, persisted.”
“You trust the Eldest Ones?” Parastam said, smirking.
Where was Hamarvan going with this? Varyem had heard of these ideas, but did not know whether to credit them. The Eldest Ones were beings of great power who granted boons to mankind, but they were often slippery and untrustworthy.
“I trust that ogres, like men, act according to their nature,” Hamarvan said. He drew out his iron-bladed sword and began to polish it, the blade glinting dully in the firelight. “The ogres who remain are a remnant of their race. They have survived by their wits as well as by the power of the earth.”
Varyem mulled over Hamarvan’s words. “None of that explains how you knew this one would hunt us.”
Hamarvan raised his blade and squinted at it. “Ogres attack small groups. I trusted that if we entered the wood with a suitably small group, we would meet an ogre who fancied a chance for some sport.” He grinned. “After all, what could be more thrilling than hunting a powerful and clever quarry? Perhaps they are not so different from us after all.” He looked around the fire at all of them, and then his eyes returned to Varyem. “You, my Lord Varyem: why do you hunt the ogre?”
Varyem’s heart made an effort to crawl up into his throat, but he mastered himself. “Family honor,” he said, gruffly.
Hamarvan cocked his head and looked into space as if considering. “One dead ogre for a dead man?”
Varyem’s face flushed. “It’s something,” he said, wishing Mother Earth would open up and swallow him.
Hamarvan shrugged. “You punish yourself because of your father’s sin – and yet, I know a dozen lords and more who have committed the same sin, or worse.”
“They didn’t kill the husband when discovered, did they?” Varyem said through gritted teeth, cheeks flushed with shame.
Hamarvan raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. That is precisely my point. My Lord Varyem, have you not realized that the affairs of men are marked with the rankest hypocrisy? Your father was not punished for his sin, but rather for getting caught.”
The thought hit Varyem like a physical blow, the more because at some level, he knew that Hamarvan was speaking the truth.
“Tell me, brother, is the ogre better than the man?” Parastam said. “He is wilder, after all, and lives in a simpler way.”
Hamarvan shrugged, held up his sword, and squinted down the blade. “Who can say? We know that men speak honeyed words to their fellows, and then betray each other with their deeds.” He sheathed his sword. “But a man can also do true deeds. And I have never heard it said that an ogre had any fellows, neither false nor true. It is said that the one thing an ogre cannot tolerate is the presence of another ogre: he will hunt his fellow, or flee from him if he judges him to be the stronger.”
“Some might wonder if the ogre’s way is better,” Varyem said. He shrugged. “Being more honest, after all.” No longer did he feel pursued by fear and dread: rather, it was as if a millstone of guilt lay upon his heart. How can I do this? he thought.
Hamarvan actually looked surprised. “Doubtful. Ogres are powerful, stronger than any man. And yet, men in our numbers have swarmed across the world. The ogre retreats before us and flees to the wild places.”
Varyem nodded, thinking of tales he had heard from traveling merchants and warriors who had been abroad. “I have heard it said that they were once more abundant in these lands, and that there are fewer accounts of them in the lands to the south, across the great desert. Perhaps they dwell there no longer.”
“Why do you hunt the ogre, brother?” Parastam said. “You, who speak in so many riddles?” Varyem recognized his tone as teasing, mock-quarrelsome, the tone brothers take when they pretend to fight with each other.
“I hunt the ogre because there is no greater or better quarry,” Hamarvan said. He looked up. “I hunt the ogre, because in so doing I capture something of his vital energy. I hunt the ogre, because he is like man.”
Varyem followed his gaze, and for the first time that evening, he saw the crescent shape of Lady Moon in the night-dark sky. She was surrounded by the stars, the torches of the Watchers, the Numberless Host who stood guard while Father Sun led his armies in battle Under-the-World. He knew that as Father Sun hunted in Under-the-World, laying waste to the Shadow-demons, Lady Moon, Lady Amayadva, turned her face toward the Wanderer, the One Who Walks the World, waiting for the time to douse her light and lay with him.
The whole world was bound up with conflict, the striving of gods and monsters and demons, men and women and ogres. Was he, Varyem the son of Beregan, any different? Was killing Hamarvan the son of Jarovitan any worse than killing a nameless ogre?
He looked back down to the faces around the campfire. Parastam gave him a pointed look. Whatever Varyem thought about it, all too soon he would have to follow through.
Varyem took the second watch of the night. The forest beyond the firelight and lamplight was dark and filled with the sounds of scurrying animals. He heard no owls or wolves.
When he had finished his watch, he went to wake Parastam, who had agreed to take the third watch. The prince surprised him by climbing out of the tent before his eyes. He was wearing his lamellar cuirass with joined-together iron plates, and he was fully armed.
“I’ll take it from here, friend Varyem,” Parastam said, his voice pleasant, friendly. As Varyem nodded and began to pass the tent, Parastam pulled himself to his feet and stepped closer.
Varyem tensed as Parastam reached across his shoulders and half-embraced him.
“We’ll encounter the ogre today,” Parastam said, whispering in Varyem’s ear. “I can feel it. See that it’s done.”
Varyem nodded. His heart felt cold and heavy, but he knew that Parastam spoke the truth: they would likely encounter the ogre, and that meant he, Varyem, would need to do what he was here to do.
“Good,” Parastam said. He looked toward his tent. “Come, boy.”
His slave-youth stepped out, looking fearful.
“See you in the morning,” Parastam said to Varyem.
Why is he rousing his slave-youth? Varyem thought, but then he realized he didn’t care. Parastam’s uses for the youth were his own.
As Varyem returned to his tent, he saw Hamarvan peering out of the flap of Hamarvan’s tent. Hamarvan saw him and nodded, but did not speak.
Returning to his tent, Varyem stepped over his own slave-boy and rolled himself up in his blanket. He slept fully clothed, but with his iron-plated lamellar cuirass to the side.
He was jolted from his sleep by a scream.
Even as he sat up, hand instinctively going to the iron sword sheathed next to him, he heard Parastam’s voice.
“Ogre!” Parastam shouted. “To arms!”
Taking his bow, arrows, and two javelins, Varyem stepped out of the tent without bothering to don his armor. His warrior instincts were kicking in: already his mind was clearing from the fog of sleep.
Parastam stood at the edge of the clearing, a spirit-lamp in his left hand, and a pair of javelins in his right hand. “To arms, everyone!”
Varyem saw Parastam’s three remaining companions emerging from their tents, all armed and wearing their iron-plated cuirasses.
Parastam pointed toward the forest. “The ogre took my slave-youth and headed into the forest!”
Hamarvan emerged from his tent, and Varyem saw that he too was wearing his cuirass. “We’ll form up and head out on foot – the trees are too dense for horses, and there’s no time to waste,” he said. His eyes fell on Varyem. “Where is your cuirass?”
“I was asleep, my lord,” Varyem said.
Hamarvan kept looking at him. Varyem could see his three friends were crawling out of their tents, other than the man who had been wounded. They all had their cuirasses on, and as they stood up they began to tie them in place, aided by their slaves.
“I’ll go get it,” Varyem said.
“We’ll lead the way,” Parastam said, and he plunged into the forest.
Varyem hastily retrieved his cuirass, and his slave-youth helped him tie it in place and fix his spirit-lamp at his belt, thus leaving his hands free for his bow and arrows. He was intensely conscious of Hamarvan’s eyes on him.
“Let’s go,” Hamarvan said.
As they plunged into the forest on foot, following Parastam and his companions, it finally occurred to Varyem to wonder at how quickly Parastam had been able to assemble his friends. They had all emerged from their tents with their cuirasses on.
Insight hit him like a bolt of lightning. Parastam had said that he would arrange for Varyem to be close to Hamarvan – and he had expressed great confidence that they would encounter the ogre.
His mind wove the insights together like strands of a rope. Parastam hadn’t seen the ogre at all: he had probably sent his slave-youth into the forest to hide him while he called a false alarm. And with his friends ready beforehand…
Varyem could see lights ahead, through the trees, but Parastam and his friends were clearly moving quickly.
Looking around, he saw that Hamarvan and his companions all looked grim and determined. They were under no illusions.
This isn’t an ogre-hunt, Varyem thought. We’re hunting each other.
“My Lord Varyem,” Hamarvan said, as they made their way forward at a brisk pace.
“Yes?” Varyem said, heart racing. Soon, very soon, he would have to shoot Hamarvan. The guilt was heavy on his heart, and he found himself wishing the ogre would take him and rip off his head before he had the chance.
“You are probably the best archer among us. Can you hit the ogre if it appears?”
“I believe so, my lord,” he said.
“Good,” Hamarvan said. “I’ll be counting on you, Lord Varyem of the Barduvatra.”
Ahead, Varyem could see the trees start to thin around the lights carried by Parastam and his companions, and he realized Parastam was leading them into another small clearing. As they approached, he could see the massive trunk of a downed tree, and a mound of earth at its base.
His mind raced. This had to be it: he didn’t know whether Parastam had scouted out the location or not, but it was the perfect place for an ambush. All they would have to do was cross the clearing and shoot at Hamarvan and the others. It was a bold plan, four against five, but with the element of surprise and Varyem’s cooperation, it could work.
Time seemed to slow for Varyem as Parastam and his men hastened across the clearing and jumped, one by one, over the tree trunk.
They were plunging into the trees on the other side when the mound of earth at the base of the tree sprang up and became a massive man-like figure.
The ogre let out a bellowing roar and came straight toward Varyem and Hamarvan.
Hamarvan leapt forward, spear in hand. “Come on, men!” he shouted.
As Hamarvan’s friends crowded forward, Varyem could see the ogre draw back one mighty hand, preparing to swipe at Hamarvan.
It had to be now.
The ogre’s hand came down in a blur. Varyem sighted and loosed his arrow.
The ogre’s roar of pain shook the clearing, and Varyem saw he had struck true: his arrow had pierced the ogre’s palm.
Hamarvan ran up to the ogre and slammed his spear in the wild-man’s belly. The ogre tried to swipe at him with its left hand, but its swing went wide, and Varyem saw dried blood on the wild-man’s powerful, hairy shoulder.
“Finish it!” Hamarvan shouted, as his companions threw javelins into the ogre’s chest and arms.
The ogre bellowed, and Varyem sighted and aimed at its mouth. It roared again, and he loosed his arrow into the ogre’s cavernous gape.
The ogre’s dark, beady eyes went wide with surprise, and it toppled to its knees.
Hamarvan drew his sword and slashed open the ogre’s throat. Blood poured out.
“Congratulations, brother!” Parastam said, and Varyem saw that he had his own bow in hand, arrow at the ready. “You have slain the ogre.”
Varyem felt Parastam’s eyes on him, a questioning gaze. He suddenly realized what he had to do.
Nocking an arrow to his bow, Varyem nodded to Parastam, a decisive look of affirmation. He raised it slightly toward Hamarvan.
It’s time.
Hamarvan looked to Varyem, and Varyem saw that he was not looking at Parastam.
Parastam smiled, drew his bow, and raised it at Hamarvan.
Varyem turned, raised his arrow, and loosed it.
Parastam’s eyes went wide, and he collapsed with Varyem’s arrow sticking out of his throat.
“NOW!” Hamarvan said, and he leapt over the body of the fallen ogre, charging at the fallen Parastam and his companions.
Varyem got off another arrow, taking one of Parastam’s companions as the man made to flee. Hamarvan closed with another, slashing across the man’s throat, and two of his companions made short work of the last man.
“He wanted me to kill you, my lord,” Varyem said to Hamarvan. He looked around at the body of the dead ogre and the bodies of Parastam and his men. “His mother, Lady Farstay – she told me that if I did it—”
“Parastam and his mother were fools,” Hamarvan said, pitching his voice to carry across the clearing. “No doubt they offered you a bribe?”
“Matches for my sisters,” Varyem said. He had failed his sisters, and he knew he would feel poorly about that later unless Hamarvan decided to kill him here, but for now he was relieved that he had not sullied himself.
Everyone was very silent for a moment. Varyem could feel the eyes of the men on him.
“My lord,” he said, trying to find the words. Part of him wanted Hamarvan to strike him dead here on the spot and tell everyone the ogre got him.
Hamarvan clapped him on the shoulder. “They were fools, thinking they could offer you a bribe to sully your honor, my Lord Varyem of the Barduvatra.” He embraced him. “I saw what you did, making him think that you were his man. He was confident, and he showed his treacherous intent.”
Varyem’s vision was suddenly blurred, and he did not trust himself to speak. Somehow, he felt that Hamarvan knew what had really happened, had been watching Varyem to see what he would do. And now that it was over, Hamarvan was prepared to accept and honor him.
“Let no one speak of what happened here tonight,” Hamarvan said. “We will say that my brother Parastam and his men fell in battle with the ogre, and were burned on the spot with honors befitting warriors.” He clapped Varyem on the shoulder. “And let everyone speak of the bravery of Lord Varyem, who slew the ogre.”
Hamarvan went to the body of the fallen ogre, reached into the wild-man’s mouth, and busied himself with his sword for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bloodied tusk-like ogre fang.
“Wear this with pride, my Lord Varyem, and may it always be a symbol of my gratitude to you.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Varyem said, voice thick, tongue dry. He held out his hand.
Hamarvan placed the ogre fang in Varyem’s palm, and grasped his shoulder in a companionable fashion. “My mother has my father’s ear, and she is an even better match-maker than Farstay the mother of my ogre-slain half-brother. I will have need of loyal men such as yourself in the days to come, my Lord Varyem.”
“Yes, my lord,” Varyem said, clasping the ogre-fang in his palm. It was sharp, and pricked at him like a thorn, but he did not care.
As he looked at Hamarvan, Varyem imagined he could see the future: intrigues and alliances between the Ketaryat tribes. Who could say how far Hamarvan would rise among the Ketaryatra? One thing was certain: Varyem knew he would follow him to the edges of the world, even to the River Ocean that encircled it and the Outer Bank beyond.
He had gone to hunt this man under the pretense of hunting the ogre. And yet, as he looked around him at the victory he had helped Hamarvan to win, Varyem realized that he had never felt more like a man.
(c)Michael R. Schultheiss–201
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