Radulf: The Unlucky [Act 1]

Chapter 3: Afkommet-the offspring (Tatiana!)

Tatiana!

Chapter 3: Tyzmonsdatter

Afkommet—the offspring

This next part isn't particularly believable, maybe the blue-pen editor will apologize for that or the printer will resign in shame. These are not my concerns.

Have you ever seen a Yeti?, yes, an abominable snowman, whatever, seen one? OK, but have you had to kill a dozen of them? Anyway, while Iapyx and I were killing bears, bigfeet—what?—and ferocious, tho long ago extinct, kat-beests, Icon was, presumably flying around shouting “Woot! Woot! Woot!”, and shooting more fireballs indiscriminately upon the brown grass and shrubs of the parched mountainside. Irresponsible. Irresponsible.

Except unicorns! Iapyx and I dispatched animals from previous epochs, and it took a long time. We took out exotic, unimaginable creatures, and even several that seemed perfectly normal, everything, that is, except for three unicorns; ingen af os havde nosserne til at dræbe enhjørninger.

Eventually, all the fires were put out and the land, a steaming, mud-soaked slog of dead, though fantastical, creatures. Icon, sans Lindwurm, appeared through the haze, down the hill, trudging through the mire and gunk. “Helloa!”, he called, waving an arm above his head. Iapyx and I exchanged a glance—does he even know?—and hailed back, “Helloa!”

He waved both arms and called again, and we both also shouted louder. I rolled my eyes. We didn't have to extract him from the mud, he could just dry it in his path, which, he probably did do.

“Have fun?”, I asked when he had rejoined us on the, now flooded, path.

“It worked!”, he said.

Iapyx inhaled sharply, we were on opposite sides and a half-step behind Icon and again I gave him a look which he returned. “You may want to consider,” I started, “being a little more careful in the future.” Iapyx nodded, then, apparently realizing his brother didn't know, said, “Seconded”.

We walked along the path, The Wolf, that majestic and ancient range to our right and high above, its slopes and cliffs worn but slightly by the aeons. A quiet giant sleeping over our shoulders for long enough that you'd think the peaks extended around Earth herself.

“Approach slowly. Announce yourself. One false move and I'll rip your arms and legs from your torso and consume them raw while you watch.” Prosaic, aye? These words seemed to form of their own accord within my mind, but, at the same time, there was a sudden movement and a zap! … I do not know how long I stood there, dumbfounded.

But instinct kicked in, so I threw myself into the mud. My ears were still ringing and the lifeless arm of Icon splished into mud at my side. I squirmed on my belly like one of his lizards and tried to find Tyzmon who was nowhere. I reached down and took Icon's wrist where I found no pulse. I pulled and nothing.

I slowly positioned myself to see him only to discover the horror of our situation. Icon's chest was a burned and smoldering hole of singed clothing and cauterized flesh. The scent of cooked quail, of all things, permeated the area and, I won't lie to you, I felt a tear or two drip down my cheeks and chin.

I could hear sounds of a scuffle up the hill and tore my eyes from Icon's ruined body to see Tyzmon wrestling with a creature wearing a fantastical costume. It was as though a child was invited to dress up as a bushman but took it too far.

I shall go into detail about Tyzmyn's costume momentarily, but for now, Tyzmon, fighting like a skiderik and hooking on and wrestling like one of the bears we had so recently dispatched back into the annals of mythology and far antiquity.