Chapter 8: The Hunt

Birdsong reverberated loudly inside the canvas walls of the wagon, waking Spirit with its cheerful melody. Groggily, he raised his head and looked about the dark wagon. It looked the same as it had yesterday, with the haphazard piles of books and trinkets everywhere. But Spirit hardly noticed them as he searched for the source of the cheerful melody. How had a bird gotten into the wagon?

Before Spirit could muster the energy to get out of bed, Bellirn groaned and rolled himself upright. Sleepily, he plodded over to a small cabinet beside the flap and took something off the top.

Immediately, the song stopped. Bellirn stood there for several more moments, then placed the object back on the cupboard and lumbered back to his bedside. Curious, Spirit pulled himself off the floor to examine the object, and was surprised to find it was the little bird made of oak leaves he had seen yesterday. He reached out to pick it up, then stopped when he heard Bellirn say, “Don’t touch that.”

Spirit glanced over at him. The elf was in the middle of pulling on a dark green shirt and matching trousers. He was thin, but underneath his pale skin muscles rippled and bulged. Once more Spirit had to revise his conclusions about these elves. They certainly weren’t a people to underestimate.

“What is it?” Spirit asked.

“It’s something I made to wake me up in the mornings.”

Spirit peeked out the flap. The sun had yet to rise, and the animals in the woods were still sleeping. He drew his head back in. “You wake up at this unholy hour every day?”

Bellirn grimaced. “No. I usually sleep until sunrise.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair and yawned. “Someone must have tampered with it.”

Spirit grinned apologetically. “That was probably me. I picked it up yesterday when I was rummaging around in here.”

Bellirn laughed and shrugged. “It’s alright. It won’t hurt us to get up early once in a while.” He made to stride towards the flap, but tripped on a pile of junk and nearly fell.

Spirit chuckled slightly. “Or maybe it will.”

Bellirn blushed with embarrassment, but laughed alongside Spirit. Then he  and Spirit stepped outside.

The campsite looked almost exactly as they had left it the previous night: fire pit full of ashes, logs set in a circle around it. The other wagons remained dark and quite, their occupants still sleeping the day away. The trees swayed softly in the gentle breeze, and the buzzing of cicadas filtered between the thick trunks.

Spirit took a deep breath, savoring the bite of the cold morning air. Smiling, he turned to Bellirn. “What can we do to get breakfast prepared?”

Bellirn looked surprised at the question. “Usually we all hunt together, and then prepare our own food.”

“But seeing as we’re both already awake, why don’t we go hunting now?”

Bellirn pointed a finger at Spirit teasingly. “You’re just saying that because you want to butter up to them.”

Spirit grinned shiftily. “So what if I am?” The grin disappeared. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Bellirn nodded. “It won’t be all you need to do, but it’s certainly a good start.”

“Alright!” Spirit said excitedly.

Bellirn motioned back towards his wagon. “Come on. Everything we need is in my wagon.”

Together, they clambered back into the wagon, Spirit’s excitement growing with every step. Once they were inside, Bellirn made a beeline for the weapon cabinet. Spirit’s grin widened.

Just as Spirit had done, Bellirn put his palm to the rough wood and the door swung open, quite as a whisper. Reaching inside, Bellirn pulled out a short, curved sword. He gestured to Spirit. “Take what you want.”

Eagerly, Spirit looked around inside the cupboard. There was the bow, its silver fittings gleaming. There was also a quiver of arrows, made of a dark wood and fitted with silver, just like the bow. A rack at the back held two swords, one of which was now in Bellirn’s grasp, and a dagger. Carefully, Spirit withdrew the weapon and examined it.

The sheath was made of leather, soft as fresh grass, with a cap made of bronze. A small hook ran along the inside of the sheath, allowing the user to clip it easily to a belt.

After looking to Bellirn for approval, Spirit grasped the hilt and pulled. The blade came free with a steely hiss, metal singing against leather. The blade was crafted from dusky golden steel that sparkled in the candlelight. It curved gently from the tip all the way down to the black wooden cross guard. The guard was fashioned from more of the black wood the elves seemed so fond of, and each tip was adorned with a bronze flacon head. The hilt was wrapped in more leather, and a small red jewel was set in the pommel.

Spirit was rendered speechless by the deadly beauty of the dagger. He looked up at Bellirn in awe. “Are all elvish weapons made this way?”

Bellirn shrugged. “These are not as magnificent as more expensive or important weapons, but most of the more common ones look like this, yes.”

Spirit laughed in amazement. “I’m not sure even the emperor’s sword is quite as splendid as these.”

Bellirn ran a finger along the edge of the dagger. “The metal is enchanted as it is forged. The blade can cut through almost any substance.” Seeing the look of awe and longing on Spirit’s face, Bellirn chuckled. “Here, take it.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Sure. I never use it anyway. Besides, you need a weapon if you’re going to travel with us.”

Spirit clipped the knife to his belt excitedly. Then he looked at Bellirn and said, “Alright. I’m ready!”

Several minutes later, the pair had entered the woods outside of the camp, armed with a handful of traps each. Darkness hung like a blanket over the woods, smothering any sounds they made. The trees stood like silent sentinels, staring down at them disapprovingly. Small bushes lay scattered across their path, looming out of the blackness like pale ghosts.  Spirit’s heartbeat seemed as loud as a forge in the shadowy stillness.

Together, they crept cautiously deeper into the gloom, alert for any sign of prey. Spirit peered into the dim shadows, searching for any sign of movement. Then, he saw a patch of black underneath a large fern, a spot where there was even less light. Turning, he tapped Bellirn’s shoulder. The elf looked over at him, a question in his eyes.

Spirit pointed mutely at the black space.

Bellirn crept towards the hole. Once he arrived, he nodded appreciatively at Spirit. As the boy had suspected, it was a rabbit hole. Careful not to make any noise, Bellirn set up one of the traps they had brought over the hole, then backed away. “Good eyes,” he murmured to Spirit as he passed him. Pleased, Spirit turned and followed him.

It happened towards the end of the hunting trip. Spirit and Bellirn were crossing a clearing in the center of the forest. The sun was beginning to poke up above the horizon, and they were heading back towards the campsite, checking their traps on the way.

Spirit was bringing up the rear when he heard a stick break off to his left. His head whipped towards the sound, but he could see nothing. Shrugging, he was just turning back to face forward again when he heard a snort, almost muffled by the sound of their footsteps. Looking back again, he began to ask Bellirn if there was anyone else in the woods when the words died on his lips.

Staring out of the grey underbrush were two beady yellow eyes, filled with hunger. Then the thing stepped out into the half-light of morning, revealing a long, scrawny body covered in sleek, oily hair. The beast was not necessarily muscular, but long claws protruded from its bony paws, and its snarling maw was filled with razor-shapr teeth. The thing snarled, an evil glimmer in its eyes, then without warning it charged.

Letting out a terrified shout, Spirit leapt forward and began to run. Bellirn looked back at the commotion, saw the creature tearing towards them, and spun about. Spirit skidded to a halt next to him. “What in heavens name are you doing? That thing is going to ripe you apart!”

Bellirn’s mouth was set in a grim line. “It’s a bleak-wraith. We can’t outrun it, our only hope is to fight.”

Before Spirit could raise his voice in protest, the bleak-wraith was upon them. It leapt upward, slashing at Bellirn’s midsection with its wicked claws. Bellirn curled inward to dodge the blow, and the talons ripped a large gash sideways across his shirt.

Spinning away from the blow, Bellirn pivoted on one foot and cut at the wraith’s shoulder. But its momentum carried the wraith past the strike, and it barreled towards Spirit, bloodlust gleaming in its eyes.

Panic gripped Spirit, rooting him in place as the monster charged. Just before it struck, Bellirn shouted something indecipherable and a lightning bolt flashed into Spirit’s vision, ramming into the bleak-wraith’s flank and sending it reeling off course.

The smell of burning hair and charred flesh filled the clearing, but the ferocious beast seemed not to notice its pain. Rising from the ground, it growled and charged Spirit again. Bellirn leapt into the wraith’s path, hacking desperately at its head. But the wraith ducked under his strike and head butted him in the stomach. Bellirn flew across the clearing, smashed into a tree and crumpled to the ground. Undeterred, the beast continued its headlong rush towards the helpless boy.

With a cry of terror, Spirit leapt to the side and slashed out with his little dagger. The blade cut a deep gash in the bleak-wraith’s sleek fur, and the thing tumbled past him, howling.

Spirit landed hard, his breath whooshing out of his chest. Struggling to breath, he rolled over to his back and looked at the wraith. Already it was recovering from its surprise, and began stalking towards him. It knew he had nowhere to run, so it had no reason to hurry. Gasping for breath, Spirit scooted backwards desperately. But the monster kept coming.

A deadly calm settled over Spirit as he realized, I’m going to die. For the briefest second, he welcomed the fact, grateful for the escape from pain and fear. But part of him resisted. It can’t end. Not like this. Pressure began to build in his chest. His muscles clenched, ready for one last fight. The force built until his chest was hurting, his body screaming for a release. Raising his knife, he let out a guttural yell and lunged at the stunned animal.

Flames exploded into being along the dagger blade, rippling and hissing with ferocity. The wraith yowled in surprise and pulled away from the burning piece of metal. But Spirit’s aim was true, and the lethal arc of light sunk deep into the beast’s flesh and stuck. The wraith screamed, an inhuman wail that tore at Spirit’s ears like a knife. Still wailing, the beast thrashed its massive body, tearing the hilt out of Spirit’s hand. Defeated without his weapon, he collapsed to the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the awful pain of those talons ripping their way into his flesh.

But it never came.

Slowly, Spirit opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the wraith standing at him. But instead all he could see was smoke. Am I dead? he wondered. He never would have guessed it would feel like this. All of his cuts and bruises were still throbbing, and he could smell something burning. I must not be dead then, he decided with some relief.

Behind him, someone groaned. Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he turned to look and there was Bellirn, sitting up against a tree and rubbing the back of his head. With another groan, Bellirn opened his eyes and looked over at Spirit. “Wha… what happened?”

Spirit shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Looking back toward the smoke, he could see a dark shape huddled at the center. Frowning quizzically, he stood and crept towards it. The closer he got, the thicker the smoke became, until he was forced to cover his mouth with his shirt so as not to inhale the poisonous fog. Then he stepped out of the cloud, and the shape resolved itself into the twisted body of the bleak-wraith.

The animal was clearly dead. The smoke was pouring out of a gash in its side, wafting into the clearing. And protruding from the hole was Spirit’s knife. Amazed, Spirit stooped and grasped the hilt. The metal was warm when he touched it, but not unpleasantly so. Redoubling his grip, he yanked the blade from the carcass and examined it. His face fell as he took in the extent of the damage his actions had inflicted.

The blade, once a clear, robust bronze was now spotted by char marks and burns. The leather wrapping on the hilt had burned away, reveling a rough interior of softening iron. The falcons on the crossguard had melted into unrecognizable lumps, and the metal ribs holding the ruby in the pommel had all but dissolved in the heat.

Tears sprang into Spirit’s eyes, but he wiped them away angrily. I can fix it, he told himself. I just need the right tools. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Bellirn staring in wonder at the smoldering remains. “How did you manage to kill it?” he asked.

Spirit mutely held up the dagger.

Some of the surprise left Bellirn’s face, and he nodded. “I see. Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Spirit shook his head.

Bellirn smiled. “Well then what are you upset about?”

Spirit swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean to melt it.”

“Oh don’t worry about that. An elvish smith can fix that easily. We’ll find one as soon as we get to the island ok?”

Spirit’s face brightened. “Do you think he would let me do it myself? I’m pretty good with a hammer.”

Bellirn chuckled. “Two things: Not all elvish smiths are male. You would do well to remember it. And I think they might let you help, but you don’t have enough knowledge of elven craftsmanship to do it yourself.”

The boy frowned, but Bellirn could see his spirits had been restored. “Well, I’m still just an apprentice.”

Bellirn grinned. “Aye, that you are. Now, what do you say we lug this thing back to the campsite? The others will never believe this.”

Spirit nodded, and grasping its legs, the pair started back towards camp.