The Last Ice Hunter

[lum]

“And? Did you get the prisoner talk?”

Owen turned, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, Jotta. Not yet. I trust you have resecured the northern flank?”

Jotta nodded. “I did. It’s funny though how they could have missed those traps. I thought they were so good at setting traps themselves.”

“Well, don’t fret, good lad. Our new tactic’s working.” Owen’s eyes swept the busy camp. “This place is the perfect bait. When they gaze bewitched at the gaps in our defenses, they forget to check what’s right under their feet. I think that point has been proven, and even Malken can’t deny that.”

Jotta snorted. “He seemed all ecstatic. At least for now… with things finally moving in the right direction.”

“Aye.” Owen’s nod was thoughtful.

Jotta saw it. “Until things… Listen, Owen. It’s none of my business, but on the next bad luck… someone else…”

“No.” Owen cut him off, hard. “Don’t say that. Not out loud and not like this. Unless you have a deathwish. And should we ever disagree with leadership, we handle it like we always handle matters like that. With a challenge, in front of all. No whispers nor suggestions in corners.”

Jotta’s shoulders tightened. “Very well. Anything else you like me to do?”

“Well, it’s time to mess up their water. Take a few men and go throw those barrels with the garbage we agreed upon in the stream. Any who drinks of it downstream will be sick in the very least. Doomed if we’re lucky.”

Jotta gave a short, easy nod and took off.

Owen looked around. The camp hummed with activity. New tents were being erected and men wired stakes, laughing out loud. Things looked good. For now.

…

He watched like he was weighing the wind. The late afternoon light hung low and heavy, slanting through the rock peaks in gold and grey. The camp’s hustle and bustle had shifted into something that looked like a half-sleeping beast.

Patrols came and went in lazy circles. Never far. Never long. He counted their steps, memorized the rhythm of their boots and tracked the paths they carved visible and invisible throughout the landscape.

This was going to be hard.

Then, finally, something changed.

A pair of guards strayed a little too far, drawn by talk or boredom. Their laughter carried between the rock.

Leif’s eyes narrowed.

Normally, these guys weren’t supposed to venture this distance. Perhaps they were looking for something. Or just lacked some obedience. Either way, it was a crack in the pattern.

Still, the light was too bright. Even stones seemed to glint.

But the chance might not come again.

He moved. Slow, soundless. A step, then stillness. As he proceeded he kept the wind in his face, the slope at his back.

It felt like old habits returning, the rhythm of the hunt, the way his heartbeat seemed to count every step.

The men had stopped near a toppled rock formation, one leaning his spear against it while the other knelt to unbuckle his belt.

Leif eased closer, low to the hard surface, his fingers brushing moss. He could hear their voices now.

Close enough.

He measured the distance. Two men indeed. Neither alert.
If he struck fast enough, maybe one would fall before the other could shout.

But something within him resisted the idea of killing them off. There were already enough corpses to feed the crows.

Change of plan.

He reached for a stone and tossed it lightly behind the guards.

The sound made them turn.

Leif slipped forward.

…

The lookout motioned.

Malken strained his eyes in the direction where the man pointed. “I don’t see what you mean. It’s getting dark. Open the gate. You and you, with me.”

At a stone’s throw from the camp, Malken saw it. Some sort of package. He recognized it as clothes tied together, with a letter on top.

“What is this…?” He murmured as he motioned one of the others to investigate the perimeter.

“A message of sorts? Those look like the clothes of Jeron,” the other guard said.

“What… why are his clothes…” Malken ripped the letter from the package.

As he unfolded the material he began to read as he glanced between the message on the garments.

I HAVE YOUR MEN. THEY LACK STYLE. RELEASE THE PRISONER AND THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER BLOODSHED.


The scrap of cloth trembled in Malken’s hands as he read the blocky letters a second time. Around him the camp had quieted, men curving their shoulder-lines like beasts listening for the next sound.

The brazier’s glow painted his face red. Malken’s jaw worked and even Owen was silent. For a heartbeat Malken glanced as if unsure whether to toss the note to the wind or tear it across his palm. Then his voice cut the hush.

“Bring the prisoner!”

A murmur rolled through the rings of men as two warriors went to fetch Ingritt.

Owen’s head snapped up at a sound. Jotta was two paces behind him. They nodded at each other.

A moment later Ingritt was dragged forward toward the fire pit.

Malken’s voice was like a blade. “Seems like your fellow ghosts like playing ransom.” He turned to his men. “Hands up who wants to hand her over!”

Voices rose and fell, some angry, some afraid. Skerv’s shout was hot and high: “No! We don’t barter like cowards! I say let them die. If they got caught, they were disobeying orders.”

Owen offered Skerv a stern look. “Our numbers have already been severely reduced. Not all because people disobeyed orders.”

“On the contrary…” Jotta murmured behind him.


The men around the brazier reminded Ingritt of a rough amphitheatre she visited during her childhood. Only this time she wasn’t just a spectator. Her face was streaked with soot and blood as she sat bound to a pole under the darkening sky.

The air smelled of smoke, panic and opportunity.

It seemed Leif had succeeded capturing some of the raiders and put them up for a trade. From what she gathered though these men had been going through a rough time, and she didn’t think they’d give her up that easily. Especially not after what Leif had been doing to them these past months.

The man she got to know as Owen was speaking now.

“At least our ghosts have manners. They speak through cloth, and write without errors. Very sophisticated. Very polite.”

Skerv’s voice rose like a crude blade. “We don’t barter for our dead! We don’t hand over our catch for losers!”

A dozen throats answered him with the same hot, brimming anger. Malken’s grin broadened; he liked the noise. Strength was a currency.

Owen’s eyes flicked to Ingritt for a fraction of a breath. She met his stare; no pleading now, only something like resolve.

And then he turned back to the men. “Why don’t we name our own conditions? We can do this as clean as we like. It’s clear they want to have her back.”

Malken’s jaw tightened. He loved a theater of authority, but there was much at stack. More than just this prisoner and his captured men.

Before he could say anything, Skerv barked a laugh that held too little humor. “And you’d trust their word? You’d trust these hunters’ promises?”

Jotta stayed to one side, silent, but his eyes measured the mob.

A young man at the edge shouted, “We send her! We send this witch to them and show strength!” A cheer rose from a cluster of raw, hungry men.

The mood teetered toward blood, and Owen saw it like a flame licking tinder.