Flight of the Krilo

  Flight of the Krilo

  By

  Sam Ferguson

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Dragon Scale Publishing, 212 E Crossroads Blvd. #119, Saratoga Springs UT 84045

  Flight of the Krilo

  Text copyright © 2017 by Sam Ferguson

  Illustration copyright © Dragon Scale Publishing

  Front cover art by Jimmy Ling

  Other Books by Sam Ferguson

  The Sorceress of Aspenwood Series

  The Dragon’s Champion Series

  The Wealth of Kings

  The Netherworld Gate Series

  The Dragons of Kendualdern series

  The Fur Trader

  The Haymaker Adventures

  Other Books by Dragon Scale Publishing

  The Protector of Esparia by Lisa M. Wilson

  Kingdom of Denall Series by Eric Buffington:

  The Troven

  Secrets at the Keep

  The Changing

  Tales of the NoWhere and NeverWhen by Jason Hauser

  Wisp the Wayfinder

  Puck the Pathwinder

  Nobb the Nightbinder

  Also available exclusively on the

  Dragon Scale website:

  Tharzule’s Tome of Wishes by Malinda Smiley

  Orcs and Elves by Bethan Owen

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dark Ages, year 365

  Halsten crept slowly through a patch of ferns and skirted a large oak tree as he kept his eyes on the buck some fifty yards upwind of him. In his left hand he held a great bow that his father had given him when he had turned seventeen and come of age. That was nine years ago. In another nine years, he would be making a bow for his own son’s seventeenth birthday.

  That is, assuming there was any game left to be hunted by that time.

  The Feklyn woods had shrunken considerably since the time Halsten had started hunting. The dry desert in the east was expanding, and bringing with it a scarcity of water and abundance of sand and harsh winds. The animals were forced to migrate farther away in search of food. Some herds had futilely attempted to cross the Velik desert in the east. Those animals became food for carrion birds.

  All of these facts throbbed in the back of Halsten’s mind. He knew he had to slay this buck and bring it back to his tribe. They needed the meat.

  His feet inched along as quietly as though he were a ghost, floating across the ground. Despite the dry summer, his foot never set upon a fragile twig, nor on a crackling leaf. The deer never saw him coming.

  Halsten nocked an arrow to his string and took in a silent breath as he drew it back to his right cheek. His green eyes sighted down the arrow, ensuring the missile would strike true. His fingers straightened, and the bowstring brushed the pads of his fingertips as it rushed forward to send the arrow on its way. The shaft spun in the air without a sound.

  The deer looked up from its meal of clover and grass, but it didn’t evade the arrow. The missile sunk deep into the deer’s neck and the animal snorted violently before jumping and doing a half spin in the air. Then it fell to the ground.

  “There shall be meat tonight in for the Gray Wolf tribe,” Halsten said to himself with a wide smile.

  With any luck, his cousins Ingvar and Ivar, twins only one year younger than Halsten, would also be blessed by Akuhn, the great Wolf Goddess who granted their tribe success on their hunts.

  Halsten slung his bow over his shoulder and went to the dead deer. He no longer cared for stealth, having already determined that this particular buck was alone and no other deer were in the area. He stopped a few feet away from the corpse and admired his trophy. The arrow had gone in through the middle of the neck, severing the major artery and causing a large puddle of blood to pool upon the ground.

  The young Varvarr knelt down next to the corpse and bowed his head.

  “Brother deer, I thank you for your life, which will now give my family strength. Go now, and run in the Sacred Valley of Akuhn.” Halsten pulled his field knife and turned the deer so that the belly faced him and the legs were pulled away so he could have clear access to clean the animal. He pierced the tough hide and began cutting back and forth as his knife made a long, straight slit and the guts began to fall out of the opening. Blood ran over his hands and caused hunks of fur to accumulate on the back of his fingers, but he didn’t mind. He removed all of the organs, tossing the intestines and bladder to the side as an offering for the scavengers. The kidneys and liver he took and wrapped in large maple leaves that had been stuffed into a pouch hanging from the left side of his belt. The heart he kept separate. He carefully wrapped it in dried corn husks and then tied it with a thin leather thong. He then opened the beaded flap of an intricately designed leather satchel and gently placed the heart inside. This was to be an offering to Akuhn in thanks for the bountiful hunt.

  He then replaced his knife and was about to take the carcass up in his hands and sling it across his shoulders, but a noise from the trees to his right stopped him.

  Halsten looked up and scanned the forest. He caught a glimpse of movement. A dark form behind a pine tree. His hand went down to the hatchet at his right side. His eyes continued to search the forest. Then, the form whirled around the tree and Halsten barely made out the hideous tusks protruding from the orc’s lower lip before it fired an arrow at him.

  Halsten reached out with his left hand and yanked the dead buck’s antler up, jerking the whole carcass off the ground as he stood. The orc’s arrow thudded into the deer’s side, but failed to break through. Halsten dropped the deer and threw his hatchet. It spun end over end with astounding precision. The blade bit into the orc’s skull with a sickening crack! Halsten then pulled his bow as two more orcs came rushing at him from the side. Each of them were wearing expertly crafted leather armor and armed with swords. They howled in rage at seeing their comrade killed, and were coming in hard and fast.

  The young Varvarr nocked an arrow in less than a second and fired it at the nearest orc. The foe’s eye shot wide as the arrow tore through its neck. Blood shot out to the side as the orc twirled on his toes and fell sideways to the ground. Halsten then tossed his bow to the side and drew his field knife. The weapon was long and straight, with a narrow tip that gave way to a wider, single-edged blade that was serrated along the back.

  The orc came in with an overhead chop, but Halsten was prepared for that. He ducked to the left and lashed out with a lightning-fast slice that drew a gash under the orc’s right armpit.

  The orc screamed in pain and jumped away as it shifted its weapon to its left hand. Its right arm now hung limp at its side as blood began to ooze down the brown armor. Halsten kept his breathing even and steady as he maneuvered around to the side. The orc mimicked him as a mirror, circling around and matching each of Halsten’s steps. The orc was wounded now, and would not make a clumsy strike again.
Halsten would have thrown the knife, but his field knife was not nearly so well balanced for that as his hatchet was. In truth, it was a tool meant only for skinning his prey. It was Halsten’s skill, more than anything else, that turned the knife into a deadly weapon capable of matching an orc with a sword.

  The orc wrinkled its nose and then advanced two steps and feinted a thrust. Halsten stepped back, not stupid enough to try and parry a move like that. The orc advanced again and pulled its blade back to prepare for another strike, and then Halsten quick-stepped forward and put all of his weight into a front kick that landed heavily on the orc’s torso. The orc stumbled backward, but didn’t fall to the ground. However, in trying to keep its balance, it had moved its right arm quickly, and that opened the fresh wound a bit more.

  Halsten could see the pain in the panting orc’s eyes.

  “Khullan elviszi,” the orc spat.

  Halsten did not speak the orc tongue, but he understood the name Khullan. It was the name of the fallen god who had been defeated by Icadion during the Ancient Era, some three hundred and sixty-five years ago. The young Varvarr sneered at the orc and said, “Khullan is dead, but do not fear. I shall send you to join him soon.”

  The orc didn’t understand Halsten’s words any more than the young Varvarr understood orcish, but the sentiment was clear. The orc howled in rage and ran forward. A chop to the side, then a straight thrust followed by a diagonal slash had Halsten backpedaling away as fast as he could. His feet fell lithely upon the ground as his muscular torso weaved and dodged each strike. The orc sent in another thrust toward Halsten’s chest, and then the Varvarr made his move. He spun around the blade and then thrust his knife deep into the orc’s left shoulder. The orc snarled angrily as the knife tore through the joint.

  Halsten then yanked down on the handle, tearing the wound open and making the orc’s sword arm useless.

  For all of that, this orc was not finished yet. It turned and gave Halsten a savage head-butt to the face that knocked the young Varvarr back two paces. A second later, the orc swung with a right hook. Halsten shot his left arm up, blocking the blow by catching the orc on the inside of the elbow. His right hand then sailed in unimpeded to bury the field knife deep in the orc’s gut. Halsten’s killing blow was strong enough that he lifted the orc from the ground and held him up in the air until the orc’s legs stopped kicking. Then he dropped the corpse and wiped his knife on the side of his leather pants.

  “Go and be with your fallen god, abomination,” Halsten spat.

  Just then there came a raucous trampling of bushes and sticks from Halsten’s right. He wheeled around, ready to fight, but saw Ivar and Ingvar burst into the small clearing. They looked at the two orcs near Halsten and then scanned the trees around them. Halsten could see from the fresh blood on their weapons that they had met with orcs as well.

  “They came for me after I slew the deer,” Halsten said matter-of-factly as he sheathed his knife.

  Ivar nodded. “They did similarly with us.”

  “You killed two?” Ingvar asked. He fished something out of his pocket and then proudly displayed four bloody tusks, complete with bits of flesh clinging to the base of each. “I killed two also. Ivar killed one.”

  “I killed three,” Halsten said. He pointed off to the trees where the orc archer’s body was lying in a heap on the ground.

  Ingvar whistled through his teeth and put the trophies back in his pocket. “The tusks will make for a good necklace.”

  Halsten frowned and pointed to the necklace of orc tusks currently hanging from Ingvar’s neck. “You already have nearly twenty tusks on that one, I don’t think you need another necklace.”

  Ingvar shook his head. “I will stop making necklaces when they stop attacking our clan.”

  “I prefer to wear them on my wrist,” Ivar said as he brought up his left wrist to display a sturdy leather bracer with several tusks dangling by thick cords.

  Halsten nodded and gathered his bow and hatchet. Unlike his cousins, he did not take prizes from the orcs. Instead, he collected their weapons and used one of the orc’s shirts to bundle them together. He then tied the bundle to the deer’s antlers and hoisted the animal up across his shoulders.

  Ingvar graciously offered to take Halsten’s bow, saying it would be a shame to dirty such a weapon with blood.

  The three of them then walked back to the site where Ingvar and Ivar had slain more deer. Unfortunately, the carcasses were gone and all that was left were two piles of entrails that were already attracting crows.

  “There must have been more orcs,” Ivar said. “Akuhn bite them!”

  “Don’t drag Akuhn into this,” Halsten said. “The Wolf Goddess is not well pleased with us, and now we have only one heart to offer her. Best not to invoke her wrath.”

  Ivar nodded, but the fire in his eyes did not fade. “If we find the other orcs, then I shall offer her many hearts,” he promised.

  The three then made their seven mile trek back to their clan with only one deer to show for their efforts. To make matters worse, there were no other animals seen on the return path. The snares they had set that morning had failed to catch any rabbits as well.

  For the fourth time that week, one deer was going to be shared among the entire tribe.

  After some time, they came to the large clearing that marked the outer boundary of their camp. Nestled in the heart of the Feklyn Wood stood a grand meadow with a stream running along the southern side. It was shallow, but wide and deep enough to both draw water from and wash clothes in. Several of the female children were there now, at the bank of the water, busily scrubbing large baskets full of clothes.

  Halsten saw a single young Varvarr male, about fifteen years old, sitting and talking with one of the girls. When the young boy saw Halsten, he jumped up to his feet and picked up a bundle of firewood he had gathered. The girls nearby giggled and shot smiles to each other.

  As the chief’s son, Halsten could have reprimanded the boy, but he saw little point in it. He had been fifteen years old himself not too long ago. He remembered what it was like. As long as the mischief was harmless, Halsten was not usually one to raise his hand to the young.

  He and his cousins crossed a low lying wooden bridge and continued through the meadow for nearly a quarter mile before they arrived at their settlement. The Varvarr were not usually rooted in one place. Their tribes preferred to remain on the move, following animal migrations and hunting as the opportunity presented itself. Halsten’s tribe was anything but usual. Jarle, Halsten’s father, had come south into the Feklyn Wood some forty years ago. The animals had been abundant then, and the Velik Desert in the east was small and of little consequence to the Varvarr. Jarle had put his strongest men to work clearcutting this part of the forest. From the long timbers of pine, they had made great longhouses and other shelters. Halsten had his own longhouse, albeit somewhat shorter and smaller than the others, while many of the families in the village shared longhouses with as many as three or even upward of five families. With the heavy stones they pulled from the earth, they created a stone wall that was about waist high on a Varvarr. It wasn’t a great defense like the larger cities, but it was enough. Atop the stone wall the Varvarr set a layer of green grass, as they did across their roofs as well. It gave the entire village a very different feel from the camps that Halsten had seen of other Varvarr tribes with their tents and teepees.

  Jarle had also overseen the plowing and the tilling of the field to the east of the wall. The Varvarr were not skilled in raising crops, but they managed to produce a decent yield of potatoes and pumpkins that helped sustain them when game was low. In a good year, they could even raise a bit of corn.

  Though he couldn’t see the fire in the center of the village, for several houses blocked his view, a slanted column of smoke was working its way up into the air. Halsten smiled when he smelled the scent of roasting meat.

  Someone else had been successful in hunting.

  He and the cousins q
uickened their pace, hurrying through the village and bringing the deer to the central fire pit. There they found Jarle and several other men huddling around a large boar roasting upon a hefty spit.

  “Looks like we won’t be having just deer tonight,” Ingvar said.

  Halsten nodded. He looked across the fire and saw Samek, a large Varvarr warrior a few years older than he, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his bow over his lap and a group of young children gathered around him. Other than Halsten, Samek was the best hunter in the tribe, and Halsten knew that it was he who had slain the boar.

  Just then, a small boy with black hair turned from Samek to see Halsten. A great smile appeared on his face and he jumped up to his feet and began running toward Halsten. Sarkis was Halsten’s son. His shiny black hair flapped in the air as he sprinted toward his father, his blue eyes sparkling with happiness.

  Halsten shrugged the deer carcass off to Ivar and patted him on the back. “Take this to my father.” Halsten then turned from his path and moved toward his son. He only barely managed to prepare himself before the boy leapt into his arms.

  “Papa!” Sarkis cried out as he gave Halsten a tight hug around the neck.

  Halsten squished the boy, grunting for emphasis, and then flipped him up to sit upon his shoulders.

  “You slew a deer?” Sarkis asked.

  Halsten nodded. “I did.” He turned so that Sarkis could see the animal as it was given to Jarle.

  “Grandfather will make a fine dinner tonight,” Sarkis said matter-of-factly. “Samek killed a boar today.”

  “I see that.” Halsten said as he walked toward Samek. It was customary to congratulate successful hunters in person, especially when they took dangerous quarry as prey.

  “He says he killed it with only his knife!” Sarkis exclaimed.

  Halsten looked up to see his boy grinning from ear to ear. Halsten knew that Samek was prone to boasting, especially in front of the children, but he didn’t bother to correct the unlikely account of how the boar was slain.