In this section of my web site I will be posting short stories and other writing. Some of the stories will be snippets from one of the books I am working on; others will be stand-alone. All will be, in some form, works in progress and subject to revision. Certain elements, such as the titles of any books in progress, are withheld in this forum.
All writing is copyright Stu Shepherd -- ©2008 Stu Shepherd
(The Prologue From a Teen Fantasy novel... codename AIBM)
Encounter at the Ancestor Oak
By Stu Shepherd
It was cold.
The boy shivered. He closed his eyes to the darkness, willing them to see that which remained hidden. They opened, searched. Nothing.
Yet, his heart raced. Beads of sweat slipped silently down his temples, as if afraid of the chill in the night air. He concentrated his senses on his ears, on the expectant sounds of something – anything - from the woods ahead.
He had grown up among the Daressk, the clan that lived in the rolling foothills that graced the northern end of the valley of the Gedreans, so he knew this was what to expect, here on this autumn night, here at the very edge of the great Dark Forest of the Vebdense. Hunters mostly, the hardy folk of the land spent much time outdoors, so the chill in the night air of early fall was no surprise to this boy, Darengk of the Daresski. Still, it was cold. Maybe it wasn’t any colder than last night, or than it would be the next night, but here and now everything seemed more intense. The stagnant stale must of decaying grass and fallen leaves seemed stuffier on the damp air this night. The scratching and cackle of increasingly naked branches dancing and scraping in the night breeze seemed louder, mocking. The full moon and stars that glittered amongst the broken clouds to the east seemed brighter, as if casting their light down upon him alone, shining and pointing and saying “Look here... over here!” He shivered. A frown creased his lips.
How many times had his Father warned him that such fear as this had no place on the Hunt? And that made it worse. Fear of what was out there met the greater fear – fear of failing to meet his Father’s standards. He swallowed heavily, squinting his eyes as if that would help him see just a little more in the darkness, to spy that something amidst the anything out there. It didn’t help.
Darengk crouched down at the edge of the field, his boots crunching dried weeds and sandy soil as they slid in the damp. He glanced back, acutely aware of the little pillar of steam his breath gave out each time he surrendered to nature and let out the bitter night air his body had done its best to warm to a more genial state. His father would scold him, he feared, if he were watching. A Hunter controls such things, if he wants to catch his prey. Use the conditions -- that was the key. He looked back just the once, to see any sign of such breath, but he saw no other such signs, no other sign of Hunters – nor, thankfully, of prey. Were they watching?
Darengk glanced over the last orderly row of wheat at the edge of the field, back to the line of wind-break trees several dozen yards behind him. Amidst those loomed the huge gnarled old oak, its arms drooping down to the ground, as if seeking support to counter the weight of its antiquity. It was the Ancestor Oak. Its trunk was a good three yards round, craggy and moss-covered. It had been here when the first of the Gedreans had set stake to this land, generations ago. It marked the last scrub lands before the mass of the forest took hold, the last grounds recoverable for farming and herding.
But soon the settlers discovered that the Ancestor Oak was where they of the forest ventured back each year. No one knew why. The first full moon of autumn, every year, they came. At first, the men who had begun to plant and farm in the foothills of the Daressk had left them alone. The first settlers locked the doors and kept out the lights; let them come in without interference. It was unpleasant, that which was left in the morning, but it seemed prudent to let what was natural remain natural. It had likely occurred for a thousand years, this yearly ritual. The first Daresski were wise enough not to interfere with the comings and goings of them, the denizens of the forest shadows.
Then Darengk’s Grandfather, Torrenegk the Stout, had decided that allowing this yearly rite would no longer do. All he could see were intrusions into the safety of their lands, intrusions that could not continue. How long would it be before the intruders stayed longer? How long till the blood they shed widened to be the blood of the Daresski? He would not have it. So, he began the Hunt. Now Darengk’s father Berengk was Baron of the Daressk, charged with its protection, and Berengk had other plans for the Hunt.
Beyond the Ancestor Oak, on toward the valley, Darengk could see warm and inviting night-fires glowing amidst the rambling foothills, hamlets and farms bundled up for the night. His school mates would be in such places, grumbling over homework or playing Scribs and Dragons or other mundane things. But Darengk was here, as was expected of him. The Son of the Baron was of Age. No longer would he be insulated from the un-pleasantries of responsibility. In the cold, Darengk’s tunic dampened with sweat.
He forced his eyes quickly back to the front, to the dark maw in that towering line of black trees that marked the commencement of the Dark Forest, seeking desperately for some sign of movement, something that showed they were there. Yet, in his heart as it pounded in his ears, and in his mind as it raced and froze at the same time, he did NOT want to see any movement, to know that they were there.
Were they there?
He knew the plan, and the plan was in motion. Someone had to be where he was. Someone had to be seen. It was his time to prove his worth. It was his first Hunt. He was of age, and was expected to prove himself. So this was his job. Darengk, the hunter. Someone had to get them to show themselves. The Hunter had to become the Hunted… the lure.
Darengk stood in a low crouch, his short sword in scabbard but ready, his bow in hand, arrow strung. He stepped slowly, forward into the heavy grass between the last row of wheat and the edge of the forest. What magic it was, what lure, that brought them down here, to the edge of the Daressk and the Ancestor Oak on this particular night, every year, he was not sure. The tales made the story sound as if they were drawn - like salmon to their spawning grounds. That they could find their way in the forest at all was something of a mystery, for its magic at all other times kept those things out which were out, and those things in which were in. But here they showed, every year, for one night. So here the men of the Daressk hunted. One way or another, their antagonists would be gone before dawn. The light of day outside of the Forest they could not stand. Darengk grimaced. But dawn was not for six hours. How many were there? And what were they?
The sounds of the night played their symphony. His ears strained to hear, to extract any sound that did not belong. There! It was quiet, no more than the breaking of a matchstick. Out there in the forest a twig had snapped. They were there, all right. And they were watching him.
“Darklings.” Darengk mumbled.
For a long moment he stood there, alone in the opening amidst the wheat and the trees. Many unseen eyes were on him, he was sure. He slowly stretched his body out to stand erect. He looked back into the forest and called forward in his strongest voice (though it broke at the end).
‘You will not enter our lands!”
His words were met by silence for a fleeting moment. Had they heard?
They had. A dozen tiny wild screams erupted from the once-quiet dark edge of the trees, and shapes moved. He stepped back. Suddenly, forms erupted in the dark, shapes, creatures, Darklings. They were short, perhaps three feet, wiry, yet they moved with speed. He took a step back before one had bounded once, twice, thrice, and leaped toward him. Darengk’s arrow came up and flew, but flew un-aimed. The creature carried a large club in its arms. The Darkling was humanoid in appearance, yet short and with thin muscular arms and legs. In the blue light of night Darengk could not see the greenish cast to the skin he knew (from the tales) that they had, nor the black almost lifeless form of the eye. In the rush of the attack he had time to see very little, before the Darkling leaped and its club smashed down to meet Darengk’s forehead. Darengk dove before the blow, avoiding the worst of its impact, but thus exposing himself to the full fury of the darkling.
As Darengk’s form crumpled to the ground, a wave of arrows leapt from the wheat. Some found marks on the shapes of the intruders. The wave of Darklings slowed, unsure, in the midst of the twenty-yard wide gap between field and trees. One or two Darklings, pierced by arrows, turned back to grasp for the safety of the trees.
Darengk’s body hit with a thud. His bow flew from his hands. The dark became unformed as he nearly slipped from consciousness. The Darkling had stopped over him. It reached down, its woeful breath and glistening teeth mocking him as it grasped his vest.
“Tcha-tcha-kai!” It screamed at him. His vision focused just enough to see the anger in its eyes. Then suddenly it sensed something, its ears drooping, its glare turning skyward.
A screech erupted in the air from somewhere back toward the Valley. The Darkling released Darengk’s vest, the boy dropping with a thump back to the dried weeds. Darengk tried to shake off the blow, focus his eyes. The Darkling stepped past him, ran again toward the wheat, toward the Oak. Dazed, Darengk still managed to see enough, to see the dark shape that had suddenly announced its presence in the air, silhouetted against the indigo sky and its salting of clouds rimmed by moonlight. Again, his nerves lit on fire. There was only one thing it could be.
With a swooping sound the dark shape rushed across the waving wheat field and right up to them. It climbed, then pulled up. Yes. Darengk knew for sure now.
It was the Dragon!
He looked back as well as he could, his head pounding and blood pouring down from the gash on his forehead. The Darkling that had struck him and run on had now frozen, staring in horror up at the hovering beast. As if to fulfill the expectations of the Darkling’s terror, with a roar and flash of orange light fire burst forth from the Dragon, the field and weeds erupting in flames. The gaze of the Dragon flashed around the scene, missing nothing. Darengk froze as its dark orbs locked on him and the Darkling that had knocked him down. The Darkling, likely deciding that this was more than he had signed up for, turned back toward the forest and ran past Darengk even faster than when he had attacked. Suddenly the shadow dropped from the sky, swiping with its arms and knocking the Darkling to the ground. Wind and hot breath and the odor of sulfur beat down on Darengk as the Dragon alighted beside his prone form.
The Dragon glanced down at him, its eyes flaring and wild. Yet in those eyes Darengk found not fear, but comfort. Gently it cradled its huge claws in front of him. The Darkling that had struck him struggled to its feet, threw down its mace, screamed and turned to flee as fast as its short green legs would carry it back toward the Forest.
Darengk knew it was probably the excitement of the fight – or the dizziness of his head - but he could have sworn that the Dragon winked at him. Then it turned its head back toward the Darklings, their forms silhouetted by the line of burning weeds between them and the forest. The Dragon opened its huge jaws and let out a screaming roar. The other Darklings broke from their frozen terror. Now they all turned and began fleeing helter-skelter back toward the darkness and their only hope for safety.
From back toward the Valley came the sound of the other hunters rushing forward, to join the evaporating fight. The Dragon was doing their work for them. Darengk looked back, to see the comforting form of his best friend, Kylrick Evanshire, exit the wheat and rush toward him. Beyond, Darengk caught a glimpse as the dark form of his father, Berengk, pushed through the wheat, his sword held out and challenging – yet he seemed to be yelling at the dragon itself, though through the din of the fire and the noise of the screams of the Darklings and the exclamations of the Hunters he could not be sure what his father said. It struck him as odd, but then the world was spinning. He almost passed out, shook his head. That hurt!
Darengk turned back toward the forest to watch the Dragon slice through the first rank of Darklings, batting them forward and away from the field, picking them up and heaving them one by one back into the dark of the forest. Several were singed by flame, running as they could back for the dark obscurity of the tree line. A few took the blast full force, to seemingly evaporate into smoke and scattering bits of tree or leaf, as if that was all they were – gathered bits of forest, come alive for a night’s sojourn into the world of men. Abruptly, all of the others scrambled to join the hasty retreat. And the Dragon was there, encouraging them. Yet, in its attack the Dragon seemed careful, careful not to kill, not to injure more than necessary. But, Darengk in his dazed state wondered, if the Darklings indeed were made from bits of the forest then were they being killed, or returning to their natural form? The tales said such beings were from Otherwhere, becoming part of the Here only by will, using substance of the Here in absence of their real substance. But then tales were legion amongst the Gedreans, and few could be fully believed. Still, whatever they were, the Darklings fled, hurt, frightened, yet alive. And Darengk’s’ head pounded from the blow, so that at least he could testify had been real.
Kylrick got to him, kneeled down.
“You okay Darengk?”
“Never better.”
Kylrick grinned. “I can’t believe your luck. The Guardian saved you!”
“I knew he would. I never doubted.”
‘You were right. Those rumors of his sickness were wrong.”
“The Guardian will always protect us.”
Kylrick reached out a hand to him, but just as he grabbed it, the sounds in the forest changed. Kylrick released his grip and stood up higher, to look further into the gloom.
“Uhhm…” he announced.
A growl rumbled heavily through the forest. It was loud, as loud as the roar of their guardian. The Darklings slowed, looked about, as if unsure of their course. Off deep in the blackness of the woods a bluish tinge arose, a light, glittering and shining like sunrays through afternoon clouds, yet it was an actinic blue light, bluer than sky in winter or the cobalt patterns on Darengk’s mother’s finest china. This was something else, and from its arrival a hush scattered across the battlefield.
The Guardian Dragon noticed, and pulled back. He flew in a great loop, up and around, to hover over the fields of the Daressk, right over Darengk. He pinched his eyes, staring into the dark forest, looking for this new threat.
The light in the forest grew brighter. Around it, in stark sharp silhouettes hundreds of Darklings danced and threatened their cries and hoots joining the rumble of the, the thing that was also out there. It was coming over the rise, the thing. Its light grew, blue and ill and cold as ice.
Darengk pushed himself to his knees. Around him the other hunters of Daressk scrambled back away from the forest, to the clearing. They milled around, dumbfounded as the new thing threatened the victory they had already counted as won. Kylrick too stepped backward a few paces, his eyes glued to the blue glow in the forest.
Darengk looked up at the dragon, felt the swooping breeze as its great wings beat slowly and easily to support its great weight. Somehow the sight of the dragon was of greater comfort than the sound of the thing in the forest was of menace. His heart knew – the Guardian was there, and nothing bad would come of this. But, by the shock on the faces around him, he seemed to be the only one who knew that. Had they lost faith in the Guardian? How could they? They had seen him in action so many times, out here on the edge, out here protecting the magic of the Valley from the forces outside.
But now the Guardian Dragon hovered, waiting for the thing to make its appearance. Darengk looked back to the forest as the shape of the thing crested the rise. Partially scattered behind trees, to Darengk it looked like large hairy cow, but as it glowed in its own magical light and it cleared some brush, he could see that this was no cow. It looked to all the world like a fat dragon, with a fat serpentine head, but its body was covered with hair, which glowed the blue aura of Otherwhere. It had short stubby wings and a stubby, clubbed tail, which made its body mass that much more pronounced. As it neared the yellow light from the fires in the fields the details of its face grew clearer. It held a square jaw, with mismatched sharp teeth. It gnawed at the air with its jaws, growling and generally looking unhappy.
“It’s a Wargog!” Someone behind him yelled. A shiver ran down his spine. A thing, unknown and dark was one measure of thing to fear, but a named villain was quite another. Wargogs were known from, well, the Tales. True or not, the tales did not paint a pretty picture. Why, the most desperate of mothers were known to keep their wayward boys from venturing too far from home into the woods by raising the specter of a rampaging Wargog. Of course, boys of the Daressk rarely had to endure that artifice, for the boys of the Daressk might just want to go looking for a Wargog. Then again, having now come face to face to one in person, Darengk decided that the boys of the Daressk might have been a bit hasty in taking up such a quest.
As the Wargog pushed through to the last line of trees it stopped to face the men and let out a mighty, gravelly, bellowing roar. In response to this, the Hunters generally but bravely retreated back toward the wheat. A few, really brave but likely too foolish to think better of it, stayed where they were. Darengk was too dazed and fascinated to move. The Dragon, however, knew a challenge when he saw one.
The Guardian dove for the trees then pulled up again, spewing out a wall of golden flame, which poured toward the Wargog like the crashing of a wave. The brightness blinded Darengk for a moment, but he could quickly surmise what happened next. Blue flame burst forth from the Wargog, arcing up to meet the golden flame, and swirling around, fighting and trapping it like so many streams of water around a grass fire. All became smoke and grey and the odor of burning wood mixed with electrical ozone. And through it the Wargog began moving toward the men of the Daressk once again.
A few brave souls let fly with their arrows. One, a man from upper Dalence, a good five kilts from there, scored a hit – and also scored the Wargog’s attention. It shot a tongue of blue flame toward him, but he dove and rolled and retreated to the wheat with only what appeared to be a frozen backside. He whimpered as he met the wheat and dove to rub his bum on the ground.
The dizziness made him feel amused even amidst the spreading fear, for Darengk’s mind flashed into memory a bit of a tale about a Wargog that had ventured into a small village. The villagers had defeated it by tricking it into a store room below the emporium, where they chained it to the wall and from that day it made its living by freeze-drying the goods of the village for long term storage. It seemed a silly tale, in retrospect. Darengk doubted that this Wargog could be lured into a dark room by the promise of a large vat of ale. Well, since no one had the foresight to bring along a large vat of ale to the Hunt, there was no way to test the validity of the tale. Darengk mused to himself, in his stunned state, that likely, had anyone brought a large vat of ale to the Hunt, the hunters would now be in no condition to face this challenge, anyway, so it was probably best all the way around that no ale was in sight.
Now the Guardian Dragon flexed his long clawed fingers and dove to meet the Wargog face to face. Gold and blue flame and flashes of wings and hair billowed and swirled as the two met tooth and claw in a challenge to decide the night’s business. There came another blinding flash and the Guardian flew out of the furball, backward, smashing onto the ground of the clearing with a carump! Darengk gasped. “NO!!!” He took to his feet, pulling his sword and stepping toward the Wargog.
But the Guardian had made his feet again. He shook his head, panting heavily, his face and neck glistening from bloody gashes.
“He is weakening!” Someone behind in the wheat yelled out. “The Guardian is weakening!”
But the Wargog had weakened, too. It forced itself to its feet, a mass of glowing blue fur, blubber, teeth and claws.
The Guardian flashed another cavalcade of golden flame, which the Wargog attempted to again dissuade. But the Wargog failed to keep all of the blast away, and found itself within a swirl of mixing orange and blue flame. It bellowed again, but this time not gravelly and menacing. This was the bellow of panic and pain. It lunged forward, bounding with great crunches out from the forest edge, out toward the realm of men, out toward the Dragon and the only thing between them, which, Darengk realized with a bit of concern, was himself.
The Guardian leaped forward, crashing beside him and knocking him a dozen yards across the clearing with a swipe of its tail. Now the two behemoths met again, clashed, and the flames swirled. Catching his breath from his new location and pushing his head up to see again, Darengk caught glimpses of the Dragon, raring back on hind legs, swiping great slices at the reeling form of the Wargog. Then the flame turned all gold, and the blue was suddenly gone. A plaintive wail erupted from back in the forest. Dozens of tinny, pitiful cries of defeat echoed out as the Darklings, deprived of their champion, melted back into the shadows. As the fired died, the Dragon was left, half standing, half slumped over a dark mass. As his vision cleared Darengk could see that the mass was no longer a Wargog, but a burnt out tree stump with withering branches glowing as embers.
Sensing victory, the Guardian let out a roar, and then slumped forward, panting and weary.
Darengk pushed himself to his knees. Around him the other hunters of Daressk scrambled forward to the clearing, freeing arrows and yelling challenges. But all the Darklings fled. Some of the Hunters rushed up to the edge of the forest, but into it they would not go. Here was their land, but in there... that was the lair of the Darklings, and clearly other dark things that they really didn’t want to know about. Except for this one night a year, they knew nothing of each other. But this night, going into the forest alone was destined to be a one-way trip, and not even the bravest of the Hunters was that bold.
For a moment, Darengk joined the general rush forward, but then he turned and faced the Dragon. Its eyes were glazed. It sucked in great gulps of air, its lungs rising and falling in labored breath. The dragon was, in sum, almost exhausted.
This was not supposed to be. The Guardian Draggit was a thing of magic, of power, an instance of the pure will of the people of Gedrea to protect themselves from the unknown and unwelcome. It was not supposed to weary of the fight, even with an opponent such as the Wargog. Yet, here it lay for a long moment, tired and nearly broken.
From somewhere behind him Darengk heard his father’s voice bellow out. “Catch one alive!” Darengk knew that his father wanted to know how many of the Darklings there were, where they lived, what they did. He sensed them as a threat. But just now, Darengk didn’t care. He saw the look on his father’s face as Berengk looked at the Guardian – a look of disdain and triumph. Suddenly, Darengk felt he must protect the Guardian – not from the Darklings and their Darkthings, but from his own people, his own father.
“Get up.” He muttered to the Dragon. Its eyes caught him, winced. “Guardian, you must show strength. Get up!”
His words were lost to the noise of fire and cries of victory to any but himself and the Dragon. His plea was heard. Slowly, the Guradian pushed up on his legs. It reached a sitting position. Looking back a last moment, it winked at him, sighed, then leapt into the sky.
Darengk steadied his legs, brushing the blood from his eyes. A grin broke across his face as he watched the form of the Dragon, lit by the amber fires below, flash once more across the sky. In the forest the crashes of pounding legs muffled with increasing distance. The Darklings were fleeing for their lives. One year yet again no blood would be spilled by the creatures on the trunk of the Ancestor Oak. One more year their compulsion remained unfulfilled.
“The Guardian Dragon has saved us again!” Darengk cried out in glee. He turned back to where his father and his warriors had stepped from the field. “He is still with us!”
Hurrahs echoed up through the night as many of the men celebrated their success.
But Baron Berengk just grunted at this. Now standing with a half dozen of his lieutenants in the open a dozen yards from Darengk, Berengk glared angrily up at the glowing form of the beast, all wings and smoke. He turned to his aide.
“I am tired of that creature meddling in our affairs. Toska, our plan cannot succeed as long as it is around.”
Toska grinned. “You saw. He weakened. The Guardian is fading!” Toska spat. He watched as some of the men seemed to celebrate the deed of the Guardian unaware of the implications. The Guardian flew by one last time, seeing that the danger to the folk he served to guard was past, then the dragon’s glow disappeared over the forest, chasing the last of the Darklings back into their realm.
Berengk rubbed his jaw. “If more had come, he could not have faced them. It is proof. We cannot count on the defense of magic in these dark times. We must force the people to see.”
Toska now scowled. “But how? How do we make them?”
Berengk had already moved his gaze to his son, who was holding his arm limp on the side that the Darkling had struck. Darengk seemed to be dancing, his good arm raised into the air. Several of the younger men were with him, cheering and celebrating some triumph of their imagination. Darengk, in noting his Father, separated from the troupe and staggered toward him
“Perhaps we can accomplish both at one time. Perhaps it is time for my son to truly become a man of Daressk.”
As Darengk came up to his Father, he held his good arm up. “Father, we have won the hunt!”
“We have had our victory stolen by that creature. No. We won nothing.”
“But, they fled…”
“Silence!” Berengk bellowed. “You were Point on the hunt, and the hunt failed. You stood to none of the Darklings. You allowed yourself to be attacked. You cowed before the Dragon – that creature! Go home to your mother, child. You do not belong among men!”
Darengk sank to his knees. The pain from his wounds had not touched him so heavily as his Father’s words. What had he done wrong? What, to deserve this berating?
“Father…” He whimpered.
“You were to become a man tonight. You are no more than a mouse.”
Darengk dropped his head, his body shaking, tears flowing.
Berengk paused, narrowed his eyes in a glare at his lieutenant. “Toska, send out the men. I want one of those Darklings.”
Toska looked up from the dark shape of the shattered boy. His pointed beard and well groomed sideburns glowed golden in the light from the fires. His face was a great contrast to the gloomy black hair and beard of the Baron. "Into the Forest? The stragglers. There may be an ambush in the dark...”
“Are they men of Daressk or are they sheep? Order them in – and make sure my son is with them. Perhaps yet this night he may make up for this pathetic performance.” Baron Berengk of the Daressk spat, turned, and marched back toward the fields.
Darengk pushed to his feet, watching his Father’s back disappear into the gloom of night.
Toska nodded briskly then moved forward to join the rush of Daresski toward the edge of the Forest. He paused at Darengk’s side.
“Our Baron is a hard man. You must be hard for him, this night.”
“Uncle Toska,” Darengk forced out amidst gasped breaths. “What did I.. do…wrong?”
“It is not you, Darengk. It is the Dragon.” Toska moved on, pulling his horn from his vest and beginning to blow the call to assembly.
Darengk glanced between him and the darkness where his father had gone. “Why would Father be upset that the dragon protected us?” He asked himself.
The horn blew, the men fell back to gather for instructions, Darengk slowly regained feeling in his arm, vision cleared, tears and breath returning to normal. Soon he joined his friend Kylrick in one squad of Hunters as they ventured into the dark forest, but for Darengk the night’s adventure was over. He never saw another Darkling, nor faced another attack. And just as well, he decided. Kylrick had to help him back out to the farmlands as his dizziness came and went. He wouldn’t have been much of a help in a fight in that state. He was shivering, cold to the bone, covered with mud and straw and streaked with blood. His mind craved warmth and rest, but it would be hours before his mother decided that the risk of concussion had faded.
On the way back to the assembly point Darengk did see that one group had captured a Darkling, but Darengk’s group was ushered off toward the valley and away from where his father and the leaders of the Daressk were interrogating the sickly thing. A tinge of regret touched his mind as Darengk contemplated the scared, helpless Darkling. Baron Berengk, his father, was having his fun, Darengk decided. At least it wasn’t at his expense this time. His compassion for the Darkling faded quickly as the pain in his head and the weariness of all he’d been through descended upon him with full force.
But that morning, when his head finally hit the warm pillow of home, his face went from smiling at the remembered glory of the Guardian’s victory, to a frown of worry in remembering the Guardian’s exhausted state. How safe was even this mansion if the Guardian were to fail? But such worries were for another time, when injuries and insults were not so recent, nor so painful.
Darengk was content with his role in his first hunt – whether his father approved or not. He had taken a man’s task, and done his duty. And it was in that state of grace that his mind found sleep. His dreams were inevitably haunted by echoes of this night and the encounter at the Ancestor Oak, but they were dreams of hope and adventure. Darengk dreamed, leaving everything else for the light of tomorrow.
And under the covers in the safety of his home, Darengk finally once again felt warm.
January 3.2008 version © 2009 Stu Shepherd
