"The Hunter; prologue" by Karen Stevens

Prologue

She ran, fear a cold lump in her stomach. They were following her, she knew. She could feel them, dogging her footsteps. She had to run, run…

She stumbled and almost fell, bare feet slipping in the mud and slush; she’d lost the feeling in her feet, and every step sent a jolt of impact up her legs. Her clothing – a loose nightshirt, patched and faded, inherited from her older brother - was too thin to protect her from the cold and dragged at her every step; the bottom was wet and muddy.

She could hear the pursuit behind and sobbed for breath. Tiny unconscious noises of fear broke from her throat. I have to run faster! She couldn’t; even with terror clawing at her back, hard enough to run as fast as she was.

She slid and lost her footing, stumbling and sliding across the ground. She bit back a cry and stumbled to her hands and knees. Pain stabbed up her leg – the fall had twisted her ankle. A sob of frustration broken from her throat. Oh no, please… She could hear the cries from behind her; yowls of triumph, they knew they had her.

She crawled a few paces forward, gritting her teeth against pain. The moon drifted free of the clouds, painting the ground in white and silver, the forest silver-edged black.

As she raised her eyes to the forest, she glimpsed a figure in front of her, silhouetted against the moonlit snow. She shrank down in fear. They cut round in front of me…The bays of triumph behind her were deafening now, sounding as though they were practically at her heels. She stared at the figure in front of her, curled up almost into a ball, too numb to care.

The figure in front of her raised an arm; she saw light gleam on a weapon of some kind. She hugged the earth more tightly and heard something whistle over her head, followed by a howl of pain.

The figure ran forward, sword rasping from its’ sheath as he sprung over her. She turned her head to see him confronting her pursuers. He moved incredibly fast, his blade like silver flame as he ducked and then struck. Dark blood splattered across the snow and then one of them fell with an agonised cry, clutching his stomach. The figure spun to face the other. He blocked a blow and sliced upwards, cutting deep into the others’ arm before grasping his sword in both hands and swinging at the creature’s neck; the head parted from the body, rolling across the snow.

He crouched, wiping his sword clean on the body of the one he’d beheaded and sheathed it before moving over to her. She remained huddled, waiting for the blow that would finish her. He crouched beside her, an intimidating figure in his silver armour and crested helm. “Child-” he reached out a gauntlet clad hand, but she flinched away and he hesitated. “I won’t hurt you. Are you from the village?”

She nodded. Her last vision of her home, cottages ablaze, people screaming, cut down by those…creatures – her mother’s screams, her father’s body …She started to shake, numbness fading into shock. “Everybody’s dead.” She whispered.

“Yes.” He reached out to her again, laying a hand on her shoulder. “But you needn’t fear; they’re dead now.”

She raised her head – his eyes were only glints of light in the shadows of his helmet. “Let me see?” There was a plea in her voice.

He hesitated again, then nodded and reached out, helping her to her feet. He supported her when her ankle buckled, leading her to the bodies of those he’d slain.

She blinked as sleet began to fall, blowing into her eyes. The first one killed lay face down, blood fanned out on the snow underneath him. The second was missing it’s head, the neck terminating in a bloody stump. The third lay transfixed by the spear he’d thrown. As she gazed at them, a detail she’d noticed at the village but hadn’t accepted registered on her mind. “They’re not human.” She whispered.

The bodies were squat, broad-shouldered and muscular, covered in dark fur. Their hands were broad, the fingers short and tipped with curving black claws in place of nails and their feet were oddly shaped, rising up to unnaturally jointed ankles. Their faces weren’t human but the muzzled heads of beasts; wolves, but wolves with a profusion of over-long fangs protruding from their jaws, wolves with an insane lust for killing frozen in their dead eyes.

“No, child. These are Wolven, lower than beasts.” He said softly. “Look on them and learn to hate.”

She began to shake. “Beasts. They…they ate –“

He pulled his spear free, wiped the blade clean on the fur of the creature it had killed and slid it into a sheath on his back. Coming back to her, he crouched to meet her eyes. “Don’t think on it,” he said “it’s not a thing for a child to remember. Will you come along with me now?”

She gazed at him mutely, then nodded. He swung her up easily in his arms, though she gave a faint gasp of surprise and clutched at him desperately, her fingers locking around the strap that secured the spear to his back. “It will be of no help to anyone if you get frostbite.” He said when she murmured a faint protest; her feet were bare and showed signs of the abuse they’d suffered in her flight, already darkening with bruises. “Relax, now; I’ll not let you fall.”

She leaned her head against his chest; the silver armour that covered his breast was cold against her cheek, but it felt more comfortable than the softest goosedown pillow at that moment. Before he'd reached his destination she's dozed off, lulled by the safety his actions and soft words had promised.

That was how I met Vardin, who has been so responsible for the rest of my life, as a heroic figure out of a story, saving my life. Was there any way I could've know from the beginning how things would turn out?