The Garden At The End Of The World

Paul Klemperer (c) 2012

I.

His world ended quickly enough but the knowledge of it was longer in coming.  Returning from the hunt with a string of pheasant over his shoulder, Valkav saw the smoke through the trees.  He ran, instinctively drawing his bow.  In the clearing of the village all was demons and fire.  Helmeted riders, swords flashing in the light of the burning huts, wheeled and struck.  Hooves, screams, the roar of dry straw flaring, it made the youth dizzy with awe, yet he had the presence of mind to look for the leader.  There, by the granary, astride a black mount eighteen hands high.  The others looked to him as he directed the pillage with a war staff.  

Valkav was too far away still but his blood was singing with rage and so he took his stance, pulled and loosed an arcing arrow.  It struck home, but weakly and only in the marauder’s thigh.  Valkav saw the man look down and calmly break off the shaft.  Then he looked straight at Valkav, and the boy felt a cold dread.  A wave of the leader’s staff and riders veered toward Valkav, forming a circle which quickly tightened on him.  Valkav’s bow sang, but the seasoned marauders danced their mounts, easily dodging his arrows.

Suddenly a snorting horse was upon him.  Valkav threw his bow in the beast’s face and leaped to the side, still he was not quick enough.  Stunning pain made him reel.  His left side went numb, arm hanging like a stranger’s.  But blind instinct helped the youth find his feet and he scampered back toward the forest.  Slowed by branches, the riders were forced to pick their way while Valkav knew the wood like an old friend.  But any hesitation and he would be dead as the game he had so recently tracked here.  Swords hacked branches mere inches behind him.  He scurried and dodged, gasping for breath.  The damned horses were wearing him down.  If he could just make it to the bogs he might have a chance.

Chest pounding, sweat blinding him, young Valkav felt his doom approaching.  Great Mother make it quick, he prayed.  And then he felt the earth grow soft.  Yes!  He was at the bogs.  His feet sought the solid bits, stumps, roots and rocks.  Behind him the riders cursed as their mounts sank into sucking mud.  Now their great size was no advantage.  Valkav turned to taunt them, wishing he still had his bow.  The folly of youth; a dagger blossomed in his shoulder.  These killers still had tricks!  Valkav staggered deeper into the marsh, struggling not to fall.  Eventually he did fall, already feverish from his wounds, but the Great Mother protected him with her cloak of night.  For some minutes his pursuers slogged fruitlessly about in the darkness, not wishing to return to Lord Cthatil without a trophy, before deciding a puny village whelp was not worth further effort.