A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

The grass of the forest floor tickled the soles of Fenreir’s feet as he stalked his prey. These forests had been Fenreir’s home for decades now, and he had called a little village his home for almost as long. When they found out about his hunting skills, they quickly welcomed him into their fold. Now, as he aged, his skills had begun to wane, but he still insisted on carrying his own weight. He told the village priest that he would hunt until the day the gods hindered his movement. Unless he was unable to hoist himself from his bed in the morning, he would hunt and provide for this place that had sacrificed so much for him.

There was a great buck before him now, a male of the commonly hunted deer species in these parts. It was likely twice the size of Fenreir himself, and if he could take it down and bring it in, it would feed half the village. Other hunters had offered to attend him on these hunts, but he felt they were only trying to pity him. A decade before, he had taken apprentices and had taught them the ways of the hunt: how to stalk, how to read the forest, and how to kill, but now they wanted to pity the old man and help him when he was the only reason they knew their blackberries from the deathfruit.

He raised his bow and drew back the fresh string on the old bow. His biceps tensed, and his brown eyes focused. His slim body tightened to steady his breathing for the killshot. The leaves of the bush he hid in did not so much as move in the wind as he loosed his fingers. The arrow flew true and pierced the chest of the great beast. Fenreir knew from experience that the buck was dead, even if that fact took several seconds to register in the brain of the great beast.

At that moment, a blood-curdling cry split the air from gods knew how far away. The hunter whipped around to look for the source of the sound; the knife slipped free from its sheath on his waist purely on instinct. When he saw no immediate danger, he looked up, through the canopy of the forest, back the way he had come, and saw a pillar of smoke rising high into the clouds.

The buck watched as his killer leaped from the bush and ran through the foliage away from the kill. He groaned and fell forward into the dirt as he died.

Fenreir was back on the outskirts of his village, Konray, and orbited the place he called home, looking for the danger. Finally, through an opening in the homes that let him see straight to the village center, he saw that the temple was burning and the priests were on the ground. The whole village center was filled with villagers. Fathers, mothers, children, holy men and women, and elders watched as a company of soldiers surrounded them and held them all at swordpoint.

“…my father!” The man who looked to be in charge of the lot of soldiers held a knife to the throat of their high priest. “He killed the man who allowed these pagan practices to persist in our Great God’s land. He killed the source of the mercy you benefited from so greatly.” Fenreir recognized the voice but thought it was wrong. This man was dead; the hunter knew that. Could this new man be related to that old voice?

“Tell me where he is, or all of your holy ones die with their pagan temple.” Fenreir had moved through the alleyways to get close enough to see the fear in the eyes of all the women and children. “Tell me!”

Fenreir recognized the garb of the soldiers. These were imperial men, soldiers from the capital itself. What were they doing out here?

Fenreir called out, stepping out of the shadows, “Stop! Don’t hurt the old man!” He realized he was speaking in the Imperial tongue, which none of the villagers even knew. That was probably why they weren’t responding to the demands of this nobleman.

“Rek orj, thun, ojkat!” the high priest told Fenreir. It meant, “Don’t concern yourself, old hunter, run!”

In their tongue, Fenreir told the priest, “I can’t do that.”

“You, hunter! You would take this old man’s place?” the nobleman demanded.

“Who are you looking for?” Fenreir asked the man, his hands raised as he continued to approach the man.

“Take those head coverings off, man, let me see your face.”

“It seems neither of us can get a straight answer from the other,” Fenreir said as he took off the coverings that covered his forehead and mouth while he hunted. A breeze caught his hair and blew away a bit of the sweat that had been coating his forehead.

The Nobleman threw away the elder, unharmed, Fenreir thought from the lack of blood, and pointed his sword at the hunter. “It’s you! I’ll kill you! Guard, give him your sword. I will not kill him unarmed like some filth-ridden assassin.”

One of the soldiers near them, with a confused look on his face, tossed Fenreir his sword. A few of the other guards had stepped forward to help their lord kill the old hunter. “Stay back!” The Nobleman insisted, “This kill is mine, just close ranks, ensure he does not run. Rats are known to run when their lives are in danger.”

“Who are you, boy, and why do you desire death?” Fenreir asked the noble.

“You don’t recognize me? They say I have my father’s eyes. Look into them and see if you find the eyes of the man you killed.” The Nobleman took a step forward and brought his blade down to strike at the older man.

Fenreir parried the strike and side-stepped another blow. The old hunter was trying to look into his opponent’s eyes. Could it be true? Could some poor orphan that he had made in his old life have found him all the way out here? Then Fenreir saw in the rage-filled eyes of the Nobleman the eyes of the old Emperor. That made him stumble. His sword was knocked aside, and he felt a gash open on his chest. He fell to his knees.

“Know me! Ye people, know your emperor. I am Jonathan the First of his name.” Emperor Jonathan picked up Fenreir’s weakening body by the hair. He dragged the old man before the villagers, who had treated him like family for decades. “I name this man, Fenreir the Subtle, assassin of the guild, slayer of my father, and reuiner of the Empire. Know you of his past! I demand that you know! Would any stand for this man?”

“Fenreir, do you deny any of this?” asked the village elder.

The old assassin weakly shook his head. “I cannot.” Fenreir remembered it now. His last kill was over three decades ago. The Emperor of the Silver Throne. The only witness was the man’s son. That boy must have made him and spent his life hunting him.

“I speak for my people, my lord, we did not know of this man’s treachery. Do with him what you will, we will not resist you.”

“So, you savages do speak!” The man pointed at the gathered villagers and commanded his soldiers, saying, “Kill them all and make sure Fenreir can see each die. The Empire will no longer suffer the pagan to live.”

Fenreir felt his lifeblood seeping out onto the dirt. He would die with his people. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Emperor Jonathan hoisted the dying man back to his feet. After the horrors subsided and all the village had been slaughtered before the assassin, Emperor Jonathan spoke, “Look at them all, look at their innocent pagan blood, know, assassin, that this blood is on your hands. Now, with your final thoughts being the knowledge of the cost of your murderous ways, go and be with them in the fires of eternal damnation.”

Fenreir felt a sharp pain in his scalp as his hair was given to someone else to hold. The Emperor stepped in front of his father’s assassin. No more words were spoken, and the last sight that Fenreir beheld was that of his old life catching up to him.