The Dogs of War [Avayevnon Short FIction]

[Seraph]

The Dogs of War

[/b]

Snow crunched underfoot as the warriors flew over the windswept hills.  It was summertime, so the snow only covered the hillside three hands deep.  The storm had broken, and time was short.  If the snow began again, the curtain would be drawn and they would be lost.  They moved quickly, confident of their path and their objective.  Their eyes fixed forwards, alert, hardly met with one another's but they had no need of eye contact.  They were a unit, and had learnt to trust that each would be there when the other had need of him.  They ran in tandem, spread in a careful haphazard.   Each knew his position and his purpose.

They approached the hill before their destiny.  Each man in his heart swore a quick prayer for safety.  They had come thus far without harm, but their ease of passing was more ominous to them than bloody hardship.  Still they continued.  Hreyrgal did not so much see as sense some members of his war band split from the main group to trek along where the hill made a ravine against the bank of the River Anjilling, half frozen even at this time of year, bearing man-sized blocks of ice in its chill rapids.  The hill sloped steeply upwards, bisected along the middle by tall tufts of yellowed grass and brambles, so as to form a hedge to negate sight.   The blasted trees about him bore no leaves despite the summertime, and stood instead gnarled and outstretched, as if frozen amid a dervish of many arms, grey and knotted, preserved in death as an immortal picture of past life.  And these watchers stood sentry over the coming battle, careening their stiff necks in anticipation.  

The sounds of battle met his ears and Hreyrgal knew his moment was upon him.  He mounted the hill, preparing him his spear when he heard the shouts of his companions and the barks of their foes.  A root, rising up out of the ground, just hidden in the drift, snatched hold of his foot to bring the warrior down.  As he fell he feared his death by the villain's agency, but no blow came and Hreyrgal took to his knees.  Ahead he saw in monstrous form a hound of war whose malevolent snarl and salivous jowels threatened his demise.  Reaching for his spear he met naught but the wet white powder all around him, so completely had his weapon been swallowed by the snow.  He groped about in sudden desperation for his one defense against this adversary, feeling the creature's advance shrinking ever the distance between life and death.  His fingers found the felled branch of a dead tree, and found it snapped and broken to a point'"a primitive weapon indeed, but now his only hope.

Scrambling upright, Hreyrgal faced his foe.  It was as if a moment of recognition passed between the two, that this was the moment of testing.  The two stared into each other's eyes for a second of eternity, as the sounds of battle muted for these two duelists.  They stood there, the primordial hunter and the beast, each one defiant, each one challenging.  The reverie broke and the combatants charged.

The distance closed and Hreyrgal knew he could not stop the monster's motion.  He waited for his moment, hoping only to escape the ravaging claws.  He matched each bounding leap of his foe three furious steps, and so matched his foe for speed.  Finding itself in range, the canine gave a mighty leap, and so did Hreyrgal, for in this final moment, he did throw his weight to his left and fly with all his strength of legs out of the path of doom, aiming his branch towards his flying foe.  His weapon scraped and splintered on its side, cutting shallow across the skin and snapping shattered at the haft.  

The wasted remnant mocked him in his hand.  He had delayed his death, but had not overcome his enemy.  He saw the canine turn undaunted to pursue him, the blood trickling unnoticed from its side.  Where were his companions now that he needed them?  He lay unarmed and soon to be destroyed.  He'd counted on his friends as he had always done before.  He'd saved them for each time that they'd save him.  Together was the way they worked, each other's partners, each other's eyes.  Yet here and now he was blind, for he had none to help.  And as the hound prepared to charge again, Hreyrgal did the last thing he could do:  He ran.  

He fled, each step a struggle to exceed of reach of death's cruel jaws.  Yet each step he felt the beast draw nearer, each step his panic seized him ever greater.  He feared each step should be his last.  He felt it hit him, knocking him winded to the ground, a heavy black shape from his right.  Hreyrgal grunted as he fell under the weight of this second beast.  He felt the jaws of the canine close upon his head and could feel the prick of its teeth, the wet stench of halitosis on its breath.  Pinned there, it seemed to Hreyrgal that the beast waited for some signal to bite down.  He dared not move for fear of prompting it.  He could see nothing'"nothing but blood-spattered snow.  A voice spoke and a pair of feet came into the corner of his sight, black booted and ringed with tattered, green-brown robes.  

So this is the Druid, he thought, my enemy.  At his feet I fall and fail.  What shame.

The Druid seemed to contemplate his captive for a moment, appraising him.  He seemed in no great hurry.

'No,' she said.  'No taking chances.'  Then commanding, 'Isaz, kill him.'