The Ghastly Tales of Dalien Grieger: The Howling

Chapter One: A Bloody Broth

The wind moved through the howling grass, whipping up a nauseating song that whistled through the fields. Dalien Grieger swung his scythe back and forth, each swing lessening the stomach-churning music each blade of grass produced. He paused his work for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and scanned the vast Howling Plains, where he found countless Harvesters, like himself, sweeping their scythes low.
  Every thirty feet or so, Dalien passed a mound of grass, piled high and ready to be shipped off to each of the eight great cities of the Echstad, courtesy of the South Strings Trading Company. Before the end of the year, the grass would be used to string a thousand Lutes of Mourning, that in turn would be used against the Kovanche tribes of the Howling Moors.
  Dalien rested the scythe on his shoulder, reached into his dirty waistcoat and retrieved a small tin, battered and misshapen. He'd had the thing for years and it had certainly seen better days. Searching the ground around him, he found a handful of dry howling grass and filled the tin to the brim and closed the lid.
  'Enough of your dilly dallying, Harvester,' a voice called from behind. Dalien turned to find a Groundsman, astride a horse, trotting up beside him. He wore a standard white military uniform with leather facings, and a rapier that hung from his hip. The only difference between the Groundman's uniform and those that were worn by the King's own, was the heraldry stitched upon the left shoulder, three blades of Howling Grass upon a field of gold. 'You can rest when the work's done you lazy bastard. Six months you signed up for, not six bloody minutes.'
  'Of course, sir. Anything you say sir.' Dalien jibed, maybe a tad too loosely.
  'Don't you get cheeky with me, Harvester,' the Groundsman warned. 'I've already whipped two insolent buggers today, and I've got no problem making it three. Get back to work.' He spat and trotted away.
  Dalien returned the tin to his waistcoat and continued his reaping. Six months of this shit, he thought, I'd rather be back on the frontline. Well...maybe not. Besides, he needed the coin.
 
By early evening Dalien had completed his shift and had followed the Groundsmen back to camp. A campfire was lit, and a pot of vegetables and meat hung above it. Leaning on the fence that surrounded the workers camp, Dalien tugged on a pipe of dryleaf, inhaling a lungful of aromatic smoke, taking in the bitter taste. He would save the dry howling grass for another time.
  His son, Nanook, knelt at his side, quietly staring into the fire. The boy's grey skin and deep black eyes set him apart from the others, and Dalien was aware of the discriminatory scowls coming from the men about the camp, Groundsman and Harvester alike. He eyed a fellow worker threateningly, and the man wisely lowered his gaze.
  Dalien was a tall and broad man of the western Rhus, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than a good scrap. So, if any of these southern farm boys fancied their chances, Groundsmen included, he was more than willing to hand out a few beatings.
  Howls from the forests north of the plantation disturbed the camp. Moor wolves were common in this area, and it was no surprise a pack had drawn close to the camp, no doubt catching the smell of cooked meat and dryleaf.
  Moor wolves didn't fear men, unlike their western and northern cousins. they would stay close to the plantation in hope of scavenging discarded meat, it was easier than risking the pack hunting the longhorn herds. Some of the men looked anxiously towards the howls, city folk, he knew, unfamiliar with the moors. Nanook looked up at him and smiled. Dalien winked in return.
  'Wretched bloody things,' Groundsman Friedrich said, shaking his head. 'We should organise a hunting party, put the buggers down I say. What do you think, Grieger? Worth a tidy sum, a few wolf pelts.' Friedrich looked to Dalien. 'You've got some experience hunting I'm sure, being a man of the Rhus and all that. What do you say to tracking some wolves?'
  Dalien shook his head. 'Moor wolves are hard to track. They tread light and leave little debris. Without a bloodhound to pick up their scent, we may never find the pack.'
  'Here you are, boys,' Old Man Erwin cut in, hovering over the large pot of stew. 'Grab yourselves some bowls.' He was a veteran Harvester whom everyone seemed to have some degree of respect for. Even the Groundsmen offered their thanks as Erwin scooped a ladle full of stew for each of them.
  Nanook too had grown fond of the man, and he exchanged a smile with Erwin as he rushed to the pot for their serving. The boy returned with two bowls of hearty stew that Dalien had to admit looked bloody tasty.
  He nodded to Erwin in thanks and then planted his wooden spoon into the stew, scooping up a heaped spoonful of tender meat and vegetables, swimming in a deliciously peppered, bloody broth. He was going to enjoy this.
  Something whistled past Dalien's head, followed by a horrid thump. He looked up to find an arrow protruding from Old Man Erwin's throat, blood and stew spilling from his mouth.
  Everyone stared with shock, bowls and spoons falling to the ground as Erwin reached for the bloody arrow and keeled over onto the fire, dead.
  'Kovanche!' A Harvester screamed, just before an arrow thudded into his chest, sending him spinning to the ground.
  Chaos erupted as a further flurry of arrows whistled through the camp, felling several more men. Dalien reached for his scythe and grabbed his son, ducking behind a wooden stake. It was completely useless cover, but it was better than thin air.
  Dalien glanced over at his tent as the rumble of hooves approached. 'Nanook! Get my case!'
  His son nodded and rushed for the tent, ducking as he went. Dalien recoiled as horses began to jump the fence, storming the camp. They cut down Groundsmen and Harvesters with vicious single-handed axes.
  A Kovanche spotted and charged at him. Dalien arose and lifted his scythe, rolled to the right, and swung. The horse crashed into the fence, smashing through the wooden stakes, its rider sent flying through the air. The native thudded onto the ground and screamed in agony as his leg bent in a shocking angle. Dalien dashed towards the groaning Kovanche, drew a dagger, and swept the blade across his throat.
  Dalien looked around frantically and found Nanook scurrying towards him, a large leather case slung across his shoulder. He took the case from the boy and flicked open two latches.
  'Father!' Nanook yelled, as a weight suddenly fell across him.
  A Kovanche warrior tackled Dalien to the ground and forced the wind from his lungs. Dalien opened his eyes and found an axe held high, ready to cave his skull in. Swiftly, he tilted his head away from the falling blade, and the axe struck the ground.
  Well, that was fucking close.
  Struggling, Dalien reached out for the Kovanche's eyes and gouged them, forcing the warrior to roll away. Reaching for the fallen axe, Dalien picked it up and planted it deep into the Kovanche's neck. The man twitched for a moment, blood spurting from the wound and then toppled over, dead.
  Nanook rushed to him, handed him the case and Dalien lifted the lid. Inside he found his beautifully crafted lute, made with smooth, polished spruce wood. 'Hello there, old friend.' Dalien said, lifting the instrument from the case, feeling the lute in his hands for the first time in at least a month. 'I have missed you.'
  Dalien slung the strap over his head, looking over at the massacre taking place inside the camp. Kovanche were cutting down Harvesters, scalping the men and waving the strips of skin in the air. Two Groundsmen still held their ground behind a turned over wagon, but it was only a matter of time before they were over run. Dalien blew into his hands, stretched, and then positioned his fingers expertly upon the strings. He chose to play the chord of sorrow.
  The Kovanche immediately ceased their killing, dropping their weapons to the ground as the chord echoed across the campsite. Many of the warriors fell to their knees, weeping, as the wave of sorrow crashed upon them.
  Dalien grabbed Nanook and the lute case and rushed through the camp. He found one Groundsman and several Harvesters huddled together, sobbing. Dalien gestured to Nanook and the boy sung soothingly to them. Dalien recognised the song and grimaced. Something the boy's mother used to sing. He shook his head and hurried his son. After a couple more verses the survivors had recovered and were able to move.
  'Up you get, lads,' Dalien urged. 'The natives will recover soon enough.'
  They ran from the camp, leaving the weeping Kovanche behind. On the peak of the nearest hill, the Kuntz Plantation House came into view.

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