Hunt for the WilderKing

Hunt for the Wilderking

One-eyed gods never died quickly. As the figure in front of him lay bleeding gold, Fionn wondered why that was. He had seen many would-be emperors and principalities with solitary gazes perish over the centuries. Some of them, in fact most of them, had done it more than once. That was not strange for any of them, but what was strange was that their deaths lacked the fierce urgency of demise that was so common amongst the outer powers. Fionn had always guessed they had something to prove. Most gods were just eager to get on with it, he had observed. Perhaps they were confident in the knowledge that their wife, son, or earthly avatar would revive them when they got the chance. Whether by reassembly or reincarnation it did not matter. Sometimes you ended up partially mummified or therocephalian, but that was a small price to pay for cheating what came to all men. Maybe that’s what he feared, thought Fionn. Maybe the old man thought he would end up with the head of a raven next time he opened his eye. As if hearing his thoughts, the dying king’s aviary companions paused their spastic fluttering and jerked their heads towards him. His face contorted. The ravens each possessed a lone black marble of an eye. Had he maimed his own familiars? Fionn had seen gods do far worse to their beasts. Still, he suddenly felt much less pity for the old god.

Even as he lay prone and bloody, his abdomen perforated by the crooked tree, he continued expostulating raspy discourses, spells, and curses in equal measure. Before Fionn’s lack of pity evolved into full-blown disgust, a hand clasped firmly onto his shoulder.

“Something the matter, tallyman?”

Fionn did not need to turn round.

“Not until you arrived, Sar.”

The basalt-skinned giant laughed, his voice as coarse as stone.

“Do not feel too much sorrow for him. I heard he is one of those ‘cycle’ gods.” Next to his head, Sar traced a rapid circle with his index finger. Fionn wasn’t sure if he was demonstrating the cyclical eschatology of the dying sage, or just implying he was a few neophytes short of a cult.

“I don’t’ know what I find more impressive, tallyman. The fact he’s being killed by a tree through the gut, or that he’s still trying to cast those ridiculous runes of his.”

Sar walked over to the mass of twisting branches with a nonchalance of a man struck by curiosity. Ignoring the weakening moans of the plant’s newest fertiliser, he ran a finger across the greyish bark. The motion snapped a section of the bark off, revealing a ruddy orange beneath.

“The wielder of the runes killed by a regular tree. Not a World Tree or a Lord of Trees. Just a tree. I tell you somewhere in hell, a certain fire giant is finding this whole scene very, very funny.”

Sar turned back to Fionn, his demeanour businesslike.

“How many does this make?”

“Too many. Well, five. But that is five-“

Sar waved his hand, cutting short the aphorism, his numerous bracelets jangling as he did so.

“It’s this land, Fionn.” His jovial tone was gone. “There is something about it. Something wrong. Something I cannot quite put my finger on it.” He trailed off.

“Now who is guilty of cliches? Besides, I thought you would be right at home in a desert.” Fionn tilted his head in the direction of Sar’s homeland, his blonde curls silver in the unforgiving sunlight. Sar’s posture straightened; his bronze-trimmed robe animated by the gesture.

“My kingdom is a tapestry of gold sand, red spices, and indigo silks. It is a palace of nature! It is known across the continents and far beyond as the Aurelian State, the Burnished Domain, the-”

“Preaching the glories of one’s godhood whilst another lies dying at your feet.” A voice like a spear of ice cut through Sar’s impassioned lecture. “Even for a god, that’s vain.”

Herme Briarmane approached the pair, his pearl fur, inky hair and emerald overcoat a sharp contradiction to the red dirt and pale, cloudless sky. A creature of winter in a land of relentless summer. Before Fionn had even realised it, he had inclined his head in supplication.

“My lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sar in a similar pose, but with both hands placed palms down on his chest. “I was merely recalling the glories of my homeland, I-”

This time it was Briarmane’s turn to interrupt with a handwave. “I care not. Another one of us is dead and you stand here, orating like one of your priests, while the Wild hunt crumbles before us.” Fionn did not dare look at his face, but he could imagine the Wilderking’s features twisting in barely masked contempt. Instead, he looked aside at Sar. Despite his colossal proportions, Sar seemed to visibly shrink in the presence of the stag-horned sovereign.

“Forgive me my lord. I was carried away by longing for the comforts of the Sand Gardens.”

Silence. Fionn thought for a moment he might have to record his second obituary for the day. His instinctively reached for the tome bound by chain to his belt. But the Master of the Wild Hunt’s four hooves remained still and caked in red dust. Fionn dared a look at the human torso he knew rested atop the white-haired bulk. His eyes traced the intricate gold etchings of the forest-green cloak, twisting through the emerald folds like shining serpents. Soon the golds snakes mated with the night-black locks of Briarmane’s hair, which then encircled his pallid, yet sculpted features. Despite the intense heat, Fionn shivered. Those eyes. He had never got use to those eyes. Depthless night in a storm of mountain grey. The irises vertical and pale like the feline queens of the dry north. Fionn almost wished he a god to thank for the fact Briarmane’s gaze was not directed at him, before he chastised himself that he was a god and needn’t participate in gratitude, even reflexively. Before his internal monologue could decide whether that statement made logical sense, Herme relented.

“We solve nothing in supplication and amendment, only hasten our own end. Tallyman, has the old fool’s departure from this plane been recorded?”

Fionn nodded vigorously, and then realised he had written it before he had checked if One-eye had actually expired. Herme turned his head, and Fionn tried to avoid his stare.

“His demise is close at hand, boy.” Turns out the birds weren’t the only mind-readers around. Before Fionn could embarrass himself with an excuse, Sar spoke.

“If you would excuse my ignorance, Hillbreaker.” Sar stumbled over the honourific. “But the Wild Hunt dwindles to just the three of us. I know not this land or its guardians, but even with our combined strengths . . . do we not run the risk of meeting the same fate?” Sar turned towards the dying god and raised a single eyebrow when he observed he was no longer dying, but dead. His ravens lay motionless on the ground, their feathers glossy and still. Fionn did not even blink. See you in a thousand years, Bird-face. Herme raised his arms to the sky.

“But is that not the soul of the Wild Hunt? To be both deer and stalker. To be hunter and hunted. It is not for you to understand the paradox, only to revel in it.” Briarman spoke, eyes closed as if in rapture. “We quest and we are pursued. Our endings are also our beginnings. That is our cycle. Our Ouroboros.”

From the mouth of any other creature, this piece would have seemed laughable, if not completely deluded. A limping justification for a failing campaign. But Fionn believed him. If he worshipped anything other than himself he would have sworn by it. He actually believed him. Briarmane looked heavenwards and pointed to his chest, as if to continue the sermon. But before he could continue, they heard a noise. A echoing, fretful buzz that sounded like it came from an insect the size of a horse.

“What on the mortal plain is that?” Fionn heard himself say, his chest suddenly tight.

“A desert beast. Nothing to concern us” Sar spat, trying to disguise his nervousness as revulsion. Herme for his part said nothing, his brow furrowed.

The drone remained, growing substantially louder. Without warning, a second buzz burst into accompaniment.

“There’s another one!” Sar hissed.

“We don’t even know what it is!” Fionn shot back.

“Silence, the pair of your!” Briarmane barked. “That’s no animal.”

A third insect joined the growing chorus, and Fionn snapped his head around to the direction of the sound. In the near distance a line of dark-skinned men was rapidly approaching, their figures swirling and amorphous in the heat-have. The ones leading the charge were swinging what looked like slingshots above their heads in wide arcs,  the indistinct ends of the slings emitting the buzzing war cry.

A sonorous thunk shattered Fionn’s focus. A new branch, quivering and unnaturally straight, stuck out from the tree. The three gods shared a split-second glance and bolted. Briarmane galloped ahead, his hooves kicking up clouds of dust. Fionn and Sar trailed close behind, shielding their eyes from both the sun and the flying dirt. The drone turned into a ravenous trill, and the men joined in, howling, and bellowing their approval as the spears continued to fly.

The air burned Fionn’s lungs. He rubbed his eyes free of the scorching grains and glanced at Sar. His enormous bulk was suited to fight, not flight. But still he ran on, the spears edging ever closer as his robe flapped furiously about him. A flash of brown and his right leg buckled under him. Sar was sent careening forward, his sheer weight and thunderous speed bolstering the force of the tumble. Fionn yelled his name. A second later, his crumpled form disappeared behind him, and Fionn didn’t dare look back, even as he heard the screaming. His pushed forward, lengthening his stride. He’d almost caught to Briarmane, his powerful legs carrying him swiftly over the flat earth. Despite his racing thoughts, an idea emerged fully formed into Fionn’s head . If he could just catch up to him . . .

“My lord!” Fionn had pulled alongside the racing Herme. His head turned at the sound of Fionn, teeth bared. Briarmane screamed.

“What is it?”

“I will not survive on my own feet! Hoist me upon your back so I may live!”

Briarmane remained silent but reached a hand down towards Fionn. His heart leapt. He wouldn’t die today. Despite his coldness, his lord wasn’t about to let him die in this strange land. The gratitude strangled itself mid-thought, as Herme’s lithe fingers reached not to Fionn’s outstretched hand, but to the book at his waist. In a single snatching motion, he had broken the chain links and wrenched it free. Fionn could only answer with a wordless stare.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take the upmost care of it. After all, we’ll need it for the next one.” Herme Briarman raised the volume aloft in his left hand, an idiotic grin stretching ear to ear. “See you in a thousand years, tallyman. My bet is on all of you having beaks.”

The Wilderking let loose an ear-splitting cackle as he brought the tome crashing down.