Cuhlyn's Tale

The first one to go was a young hunter who hadn’t been given his stalking name yet. His birth name was Neeka - the frost that clings to fresh spring petals. A patrol found him, or pieces of him, on the southern slope. They knew it wasn’t a beast that did it even though the village all prayed it was. Cuhlyn hadn’t seen the body himself but his warchief described it to him in hushed tones - head on a pike, tongue ripped out. Those who had done it scarred the rest of the boy’s face up for the patrols to see.

Fiergalt, their Warchief, doubled the guard and the patrols. Cuhlyn joined them eagerly. At dusk, they’d leave the comfort of the fire  to cheers and dance and climb down the mountainside to the passes where they’d  wait in the shadows for shadows to come to them.

The patrols did well. Their blades soaked in the gore of the enemy - orks, goblins, shadow creatures with gibbering mouths and black hearts. There were losses of course, Baakwelt, Korkalt, that scrappy little pebblehead Kooskow. His loss was felt dear. In spite of being no larger than a human, he’d had good fight in him and was well liked for his sport if not his debts, which were considerable. Cuhlyn mourned him and vowed his debts would be paid by the blood of the invaders.

He made them pay but there were always more. They found them on the path, in dark, fireless camps, gibbering to each other. They’d set upon them and butcher them like sheep, tossing their heads down the mountainside to warn their companions. But always there was more. The next patrol would come in victorious but it was short lived and the honors sung nightly around the fire grew thinner and less enthusiastic.

Cuhlyn did not worry. He hoped they would keep coming for all his days and that his blade never dried of their blood. Enemies had come before. His people sang saga’s about alliances with men, elves, dwarves, to repel invaders from the underdeep intent on destruction. The Goliath and their allies always prevailed. The Black Granite Band threw their throat songs to the night and the howls of their victory always echoed in the chambers of the valley. This incursion would be no different.

At dawn, when he returned from patrol carrying the spoils of his victory, he’d rest on the skins while his wife Kyarka soothed the aching muscles and staunched the slight cuts he’d received.

“Soon they’ll be routed, love. When we’ve thrown the last broken corpse from the mountainside THEN you will see the joy come back to the people.”

She said nothing, pressing the poultice harder into the wound. He glanced at her and saw worry etching her hardy face. He wasn’t used to that. She was from a line of seers, what others called dirt readers. She’d always claimed that the gift hadn’t gone to her, but he knew that wasn’t true. Sometimes he’d come home from a hunt to find her lashing the outer skins tightly to the lodge in spite of the beautiful weather. It was such a common thing that others in the band would automatically do the same, trusting to her sense. True enough, not a day would pass before the wind howled through the valley. Every now and then he’d push through the entrance flap to find little tied bundles of gifts at his doorstep: little hard breads, or a bundle of sweetmeat, or tobacco. Gifts, he thought, for a private dirt reading that she’d deny giving.

“You think not, Love? I have slayed fifty in a week. They cannot last long. They cannot outlast us!”

Kyarka’s mouth twisted. It wasn’t a smile but it wasn’t anger either. She slapped the side of his head hard, jarring him. He loved it when she did that. She was Black Granite strong and therefore no spring flower.

“You know not what strength they have, Cuhyln. fifty this week. Twenty last. What think you of that?”

What was there to think of it? The more there were, the more the glory.