Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Torin

Spit by a tongue of flame an ember landed sizzling against flesh, singeing the hair upon Torin’s arm, disrupting the scenes playing across his mind. Flinching, as much from the reminiscences as the sting, he distractedly massaged the burn and wondered why the events in Cristalleria continued to haunt him. He supposed it was because of Fortenbrass. He should never have taken the risk. Especially as it had been attempted only as a lark. Signs had been posted everywhere throughout the Kingdom and he, on the spur of the moment upon arriving in town, had decided to give it a try. Even Fortenbrass had been eager for the challenge after so many weeks of just plodding down monotonous country roads.

Torin shivered, he’d come so close to losing him. No amount of wealthy princesses was worth that price. His stomach clenched as he gazed beyond the campfire at the foraging horse. Fortenbrass, his beloved comrade, ally, friend, and sole survivor from his former existence, a life that had ceased to be, crushed beneath the boot heels of a marauding troll army.

Sighing heavily, he shoved a toppled log back into place, coaxing the flames into a higher blaze, then sank once more into reverie, recalling how the sight of the fallen animal struggling to its feet had expunged all thought save one: to hasten to his comrade’s side. Galvanized, he had negotiated the hill's slippery surface, stumbling and slipping, finally forced to crab-walk his way down. Upon reaching the ground, he'd dropped to his knees beside the injured horse, hands skillfully feeling for breaks, bowed tendons, splints or bucked shins. All the while Fortenbrass nuzzled gently at his neck, nickering soft reassurances in his ear. Finding nothing more serious than skinned and bruised knees, relief had swept through his battered body, leaving him to lean weakly against the animal's leg.

Shortly, thereafter, they had limped, with what dignity they could muster, from the tournament field, sparing no backward glance nor single thought for the mammoth mound rising iceberg-like from the verdant sea of grass.

That had been, Torin ticked the days off on splayed fingers, two…three weeks ago today. [Six grueling days spent on the mend, regaining strength, licking their wounds.] Brooding he picked up a piece of kindling, rolling it deliberately between his palms. How time flies, when you've gone a-gypsying. Wandering the Kingdoms' highways and byways, nothing to constrain or tie you down. No home to return to, nor family waiting to welcome you back.

With a derisive snort he snapped the stick, flinging the pieces [along with the self-pity that occasionally snaked to his side] into the murky woods skirting the camp. Shrugging out of his jerkin and shaping it into a makeshift pillow, he plopped back upon the mossy ground. Pulling the blanket to his chest, he bade Fortenbrass a goodnight, then stretched out and settled down. The gentle crackle-pop lullaby of the fire soon initiated sleep.

High-pitched…piercing screeching…
baying…yowling…
growling…snarling…
shrill whinnying…furious snorting
heavy bodies crashing…smashing
through the brush.

Something scurried across his head and squirmed under the blanket, scratching his neck as it wiggled frantically under his shoulder and burrowed frenziedly into the side of his thigh. Startled, Torin stumbled to his feet and stood groggy and disoriented, blinking in confusion as a pair of nightmarish figures burst into sight.

Monstrous hounds
long of leg…huge of paw…pointed of ear…barbed of tail
Lean…sinewy…sleek…abysmally black…
Eyes…gangrenous…saucer huge…elf-fire lit
Jaws…gaping…pitiless…distilling foam
Fangs…cruelty-honed…rapaciously bared.

Snatching up a blazing bough Torin swung it rapidly back and forth in a wide arc at the raging, lunging heads. Brutal jaws widened, snapped shut. The flambeau’s tip exploded as razor-sharp incisors closed on the wood. Torin stood his ground, giving not an inch. The creatures advanced, bodies elongating, muscles flexing, heads down, necks weaving, ears flattened. Wicked slited eyes glittered noxiously in the flickering firelight. Torin’s sweat-slicked palms sought a securer purchase on the torch as the hounds split up in their approach, one to his right…one to his left.

Breath ragged…harsh…
heart pounding…buffeting…
concentration riveted…
eyes darting…betwixt the two…
attempting to keep both in sight…
hoping to catch the presage…sign
heralding their charge.

In the background, a shadow reared, diverting Torin’s attention, but not the hounds’. A sickening crack filled the air as immense hooves flashed downward catching one of the dogs unawares and smashing it to the ground. Fortenbrass heaved up, readying to stomp it again. Dazed but unhurt the hound spun leaping for the horse's throat, snarling jaws poised to rip and tear, claws extended to disembowel and gut. Pivoting, the horse met the attack, lashing out with back hooves, kicking the creature against a tree trunk.

The second hound, neither alarmed nor intimidated by the assault upon its comrade returned its attention to the human. It circled, sizing up the situation. Torin mirrored its moves, brandishing his puny torch as though it were a mystic sword. A growl, half question, half command rumbled from animal’s throat.

A shiver trailed down Torin’s spine as its companion responded. With foreboding he watched Fortenbrass’ opponent recoup, regain its feet, shake its body, swivel its head and, locking eyes with its companion, slink silently to its side, apparently none the worse for its trampling.

Muscles…human…equine…enchanted beast
tensed…coiled…tightened…
then released.
With a ghastly howl the creatures sprang…
one upon horse…one upon man…
who met their charge head on
with berserker resolve.

With razor-sharp clarity…
Overriding the chaos of combat…
Breaking through the bedlam of scrimmage…
Drowning out the raucous cries of battle…
the strident…blare of a hunting horn…
resounded…
echoing…reverberating through the trees
once…twice…thrice
summoning its pack to heel.

As one…
the hounds wheeled…whirled…dashed…
from the camp
baying acquiescence…
their vulnerable quarry…
their sanguineous intent…craving
forgotten…dismissed…supplanted…
by their master's evocation.

Disbelief…relief…disquiet, Torin’s emotions ran the gamut, overridden by one…horror. His mouth dried, sweat poured, limbs quaked. With the first eerie blast of the hunter’s horn, realization had dawned. The fight had never been his to win. It had been a cat and mouse game, the victors long assured before its onset. For the hounds of Herne’s Wild Hunt would have suffered no defeat at his nor any mortal’s hands. Only their Master’s summons had sparred the horse and man.

Fortenbrass, grappling with an adrenalin-high [unaware how futile their resistance had been] paced to and fro, flank muscles quivering. Snorting heatedly, his massive head tossing violently, the animal was either incapable or unwilling to unwind. Torin, making no attempt to soothe, but allowing him breathing space and time to ease down, dropped exhausted upon his improvised bed.

Hissing…
blood-curdling…
irate
spewed from the tousled blanket
rocketing Torin back to his feet.
[By the hair on a pig's chinny-chin-chin - What Now!]

Clutching the charred remnant of his club, he flicked the cloth aside with a toe and confronted…

a cat…
hunched, trying to flatten…shrink
Fur…dingy…ragtag…on-end
Teeth…needlepointed…bared in a rictus grin
Eyes…glaring with terror…glazed with pain…
the blanket it crouched…trembled upon
smeared…tacky with gore.

This then had been the spoor that led the hounds to the campsite. This had been their initial quarry. They'd scented and tracked the blood. Torin squatted, slowly extended a hand, then jerked it back…tattooed with four scarlet stripes.

Swearing, flesh smarting, lips tight with restrained indignation, he grabbed the discarded jerkin and, tossing it over the spitting, yowling feline, picked the cat up. Turning toward the firelight he toppled the animal upon its back, deftly avoiding further contact with the flailing paws, claws raking the air.

Torin drew in a ragged breath at the sight of an oozing, disfigured limb. Abruptly, the cat’s frenzied contorting and bucking ceased. The small body sagged and fell limp. Tensing Torin quickly unwrapped its head and neck, then relaxed, letting his breath out. Though barely discernible, the scrawny chest still rose and fell. It had simply fainted. Hunger, loss of blood, pain, shock and fright had all taken their toll.

Fortenbrass, composed and under control, snuffled lightly at the prostrate animal. Catching a coppery whiff he quickly backed up, snorting anxiously, nostrils flaring. Torin, shaking his head in answer to a whinnied question, settled down on the ground. Deciding to take advantage of the feline's cataleptic state he lay the limp body across his lap and assessed the damage at closer range.

It was bad, but could have been much worse: Two toes had been severed, the bone sheared clean through on the left hind paw. Torin scowled. This had to be the work of a spring trap, he'd wager a fairy godmother on it.

A shiver ran down his spine. The Huntsman! Christine the Cold-Hearted’s henchman; it could be no one else. This was the Disenchanted Forest, if but an outer fringe.

While journeying through the Fourth Kingdom he'd caught snatches of rumor, various tittle-tattle, that the dreaded hunter was dead. Killed by a wolf or his own arrow, he couldn't remember which and, it didn't really matter. Even if the gossip was true and the man was gone, dust-to-dust, he was just as much a menace. His evil lived on, personified by the thousands of maiming, torturous devices he'd baited, set and scattered throughout the forest.

Revolted by thoughts of the evil queen’s devotee, he cleansed the wound, stanched the bleeding as best he could and wrapped the injured paw. And, came to a decision. A doctor. He'd have to find one. Not only for the cat, but himself and Fortenbrass as well. Though they'd suffered nothing so grievous as a mangled limb, his forearm had taken the brunt of snapping jaws [the imprint grinned painfully up at him] and a nasty gash gleamed wetly across the horse's rump. Tuffet Towne was close; they’d head there first thing in the morning.

Much later, their wounds bound, bodies drained and weakened from battle and lack of rest, horse and man settled once again to sleep for whatever was left of the night. Their unexpected guest, unconscious still [but beset by pain, the memory of struggling free of steel-toothed traps and pursuit by slavering demon hounds], lay limply curled within a castoff shirt, snug and safe in a womb of dark blue chambray.