The Last Arrow
Puthro looked at the darkening sky. The black clouds moving in from the north matched his mood. The day had been wasted, no game to be found anywhere. He had seen a doe and her fawn, but passed on the easy shot. His fathers voice sounded in his head, “The gods forbid killing a mother or her young.” There would be other game. He and Sherra had some food left. True, it wasn’t fresh meat, but it filled the belly just as well. Sherra could make bark taste good if need be and he still had his snares to check in the morning; perhaps they would yield a hare or ground hen. His family would not go hungry.
His stomach twisted. What he thought had been the start of hunger pains now grew into something more. It became an uncomfortable warmth that spread into his head. Something was wrong. He started to run toward home. He kept running as the uneasiness grew and gnawed at his insides. The woods made no sound. The smell of trouble and fear hung in the air. It clung to the inside of his nostrils, closing them off, working it’s way down into his chest, making it hard to breath. Fire seemed to engulf his heart. He stopped and leaned against a tree, trying to sort out his feelings. The Gods had blessed him with the gift of being able to sense what was going on and what people were feeling, even at a great distance with those he was close to. Yet at times he found it hard to find the truth within himself. He probed through the mass of feelings that were now raging. Pushing aside the fear to grasp at the base, almost within his reach then fleeing away. He tried again, probing deeper, letting his mind remain calm while its fingers gently reached into the fire and grasped the problem. Home. That was it. Something was wrong with Sherra and the little ones. He quickly set out to cover the remaining distance. The trees became a blur until he neared their clearing and slowed. Dropping to his belly, he approached the edge of
the clearing. He was being watched. He turned his head and came face to face with the She Wolf.
She sniffed the air and licked his face, then started to move toward the back of the house. She stopped to see if he was following. If she was here, then all was well with Nilrem, his son. The wolf always seemed to be watching whenever the child was outside. Seeing that he followed, the wolf crept to the side of the house and emitted a low yip. The woodpile burst apart and his daughter came running out holding her baby brother. Her dirty face showed the paths tears had made on their silent journey down her tanned cheeks.
“Men came to the house,” she cried. “They dragged mother into the woods. The wolves knocked the wood down and covered us. Why did they take mother? Where is she? What is going to happen to her? I’m Scared papa”
“Shhh, my little one.” He gently took her into his arms and kissed her forehead. She held the baby. He held her, softly trying to surround them with his love. “You will be alright. The Gods are with this family, you know that. The wolf won’t let any harm come to you or Nilrem, you know that too. Now I want you to go into the storage hole and wait for me to come back. I won’t be long. I will go find mother.” He tried to sound calm but he was far from it. His mind was filling with dread, and the pains had not left entirely. His thoughts raced as he went to help his children into the hole. What sort of men would take his wife and…
The she wolf stiffened, sniffing the air. Puthro grabbed his bow then noticed her tail start to wag as the rest of the pack came into the clearing. Ignoring Puthro, they approached Lorthri, who still held Nilrem. Each put their muzzle to the boy and licked his face as if they wanted to make
sure he was well. The children would be safe now with the pack here. Nothing with half a brain would try taking on a pack of wolves.
Puthro approached the house, taking it all in with a quick look. Chairs were knocked over, the corner of the table broken. The body of the male wolf lay by the door, six arrows sticking out proclaiming the effort it took to end his life. A clump of hair stuck to the end of a broken chair. He picked it up looking closer; it was dark with flecks of blood in it not Sherra’s flaming red hair thank the gods. She put up a fight all right. Puthro picked up the wolf and carried him out the front door. Laying him gently at the edge of the clearing, he turned back to see the pack watching him. A small peace entered his mind.
“Lor, you and the baby had better stay in the house; I’ll be back before too long. If the wolves act as if trouble is coming, hide in the woods with them.”
“Okay, Papa.” She stood in the door holding the still silent Nilrem in one arm while the other lightly petted the back of the she wolf. The rest of the pack had taken up different positions around the clearing and the house. He took one last look then dove into the forest, following the trail of his stolen wife.
The path was easy enough to follow. From the tracks Puthro guessed it to be a band of about thirty men. The way their feet sank into the dirt heel first told him that they were wearing armor, or maybe heavy packs. A trail of blood also marked the path. As he rounded a tree he saw the cause. A breath of relief escaped his lips when he saw it wasn’t Sherra. A solider lay just off the path, his arm torn almost in two; the hasty bandage hadn’t helped. He was dead. A quick look at
the wound told Puthro that the wolf had taken at least one of them. The soldier’s breastplate and helmet were covered in black pitch.
“Damn mercs!” Puthro muttered as he spit on the body to ward against evil. He pushed on. He had to find her alive; nothing else but her safety mattered. As he followed the trail his mind said a silent prayer to the Gods. He prayed for Sherra’s safety. He thanked them for the wolf pack. They had appeared for the first time the night Nilrem was born, surrounding the cabin waiting. Once the baby made its life cry, the wolves howled in unison. Everyone had looked anxiously about until Sherra, panting, sweat running from her brow said:” They’re Nilrem’s gift from the Gods, worry not.” And that was that, they were accepted as if it was normal everyday life. Whenever he would bring the subject up to her she would smile and just softly say, “Nilrem’s gift.”
He looked closer at the trail; the band was headed west now. At least that was some luck, more homesteads lay to the north and a few to the south, nothing but wilds lay west. Puthro stopped to wipe the tears that were forming; he couldn’t bear to lose her. Ever since he had first met her at the market, he had been in love. She had become his whole life, nothing mattered more than Sherra-not even the children. Her smile, her touch, the way she saw the positive in any happening, the way she made him feel, were her gifts from the gods.
The smell of smoke brought his mind back to the here and now. He slowed his pace as sounds came to his ears. He crouched behind a tree. He could see what must be the mercs’ camp. Cooking fires roared to life as the band set up camp. The one sentry seemed more interested in the happenings of the camp than any threat from outside. Puthro could see his wife, her hands
tied above her head to a post near the center of camp. She looked scared, but only he could see that. To her captors her face held nothing but contempt. Around the camp Puthro counted twenty-eight men dressed in breastplates with weapons in hand or nearby. He had little hope of marching in and rescuing her. And you didn’t walk into a mercs’ camp and ask them to set their game free. What could he do? He wasn’t afraid to die. In fact without Sherra he would welcome death. But his little ones waited-Lorthri only ten crops old and Nilrem not even six moons.
His mind raced through plan after plan, each unacceptable. If only his gifts had been magic. He would come swooping down, robes flowing behind him, lighting bolts streaming from his fingers, and fire from his scream bringing death to the maggots of the camp. But he was not a wizard, just a man.
As he watched the soldiers for a weakness, he thought of his son. If only he was older, with his gift he could rally a massive army of wolves to rip the mercs to bloody shreds while Puthro walked in and freed his wife. Tears flooded his eyes. He wiped them quickly, looking again into the camp.
A man stepped in front of Sherra. Reaching up, he grabbed her smock, and ripped it away, exposing her body to the cheers of the camp. She tried to fight but two men each grabbed a bare leg and held them apart. Their intentions were all too clear. Puthro stood frozen at the sight of his wife about to be ravished. As if sensing Puthro near Sherra caught sight of him. Though she spoke no word the pleading in her eyes telling him what he must do. Expertly Puthro raised his bow, took aim, held his breath, and then released the string. The arrow buried itself in the neck of a man untying his breeches. Puthro had a second arrow fitted and released. It twirled as it sunk
itself into the right eye of the animal holding Sherra’s leg. Both men hit the ground at the same time. Sherra twisted her other leg free. moving the rope out of the third arrows path.
“Damn the gods!” Puthro screamed. Even though he had missed cutting the rope she would be free soon, her hands moving quickly working the knots.
The camp was moving now, stirred by his scream several men fired arrows, their aim was hurried and off, not knowing from where the danger came. He placed his next arrow in the throat of the sentry running toward him.
Puthro rolled to his left into tall grass. He kept rolling not standing until a tree blocked the camps view. Taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves he listened to the noise from the camp. Shouts and orders filled the air. Stepping from behind the tree he placed two more shots deep into the camp. Screams testified they had found their targets, causing further panic and chaos. More shouts for order came. These were trained men. He knew he wouldn’t have the chaos for long.
He ran to the next tree as a few arrows hissed by him. Crouching low he looked toward Sherra. A young merc, watching her naked body twist and pull at the rope, decided he could stand no more. Grabbing her face he forced his mouth onto hers. Blood erupted from their kiss as he stepped back, a gurgling scream accompanying the red flow. Sherra spit his tongue in his face as her foot struck the side of his head. He fell to the dirt at her feet.
Puthro smiled as he placed an arrow into the face of a merc that had spotted him. Five others had seen where the shot had come from and started towards him, swords drawn. The lead man Puthro turned to the center of the camp expecting his wife coming toward him. Scanning for where he might best place his arrows to help her. His heart froze. The scene brought a scream to his lips. Instead of being free and running toward safety Sherra was surrounded by six men, three with loaded crossbows. Two held her legs back behind the pole tying them together. A third had thrown a cord about her head and with all his weight pulled it back against the pole. She would not be getting free. His hopes from the moment before died, as the realization that he could not save her sank in.
Screams from the left side of the camp snapped him from his dread. He had been spotted, there was time for one last arrow. He looked around at the chaos of the camp, then, sound and smell drifted away the world around him narrowed until the only thing in his sight was Sherra. With extreme effort she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes told him of her love. Moving with fluid ease he fitted the arrow. Drawing back he sighted down the narrow shaft, “Gods forgive me…” Holding his breath he released. The arrow flew as if in slowed flight, it’s spinning causing a slight whisper in the air that the breeze carried back to him, joining with his silent cries. As he turned to disappear into the woods, the thud of the arrow piercing his wife’s heart roared through his mind.
“Take care of my little ones, love.” She whispered in his heart. “I’ll wait for you in the fields of Anhor.” A drizzle began to fall. The rain joining with his tears as he melted into the forest.
