The Hunter

            THE HUNTER

           

“I have never seen or heard of such a fish… But I must kill him. I am glad we do not have to try to kill the stars… But imagine if a man each day should have to try to kill the sun? We were born lucky.”

Ernest Hemingway.

The Old Man and The Sea

PART ONE

            Some men must hunt fish to make their living. Some men must hunt rabbits, or deer in the forest. Others must hunt the wolf or the tiger to live. Other men, yet, must sail great ships to hunt whales.

            But Raymond must hunt monsters.

            That is what the Gods made him for.

            Two men stood toe to toe in the snow outside the tavern. The snow storm that raged around them, drive the stars from the sky. One of the men was huge, in the dark he could have been mistaken for a troll. In one hand he held a bottle of ale, the other hand was clenched in a massive fist. The other man was shorter, but strong enough around the arms and shoulders. He had wild hair like a lion, which was whipped around his weather beaten face by the gale.

            ‘This is going to hurt, little man,’ growled the giant. ‘No one insults me and walks away from it.’

            ‘Finish it quickly,’ was the reply.

            The wild man knew that the big man would hit him with the bottle, and try to win the fight with one blow. It was always the way. So he was ready to take a step back, avoid the blow, and hit the big man on the chin.

            The big man fell like a tree struck by lightning.

            The smaller man picked him up gently and put him over his shoulder as easily as a man lifting a child. Then he carried him into the tavern and placed him on his companions table, shattering their bottles and mugs. The big mans mates were horrified, except for one, who had won a wager.

            The wild haired man walked over to his own table, where a tall and ancient man sat.

            ‘More ale Raymond?’ the old man asked him.

            ‘Aye.’

            They had both been in this situation before. It was far too common for a big drunk man to pick a fight with a living legend.

           

            The old man’s name was Virgil. Some said that he was a wizards, some said he was a poet, some a philosopher. No one knew. He had the hands of a farmer and the face of a king. He dressed like a beggar, except for the silver rigs he wore on every finger, and the short sword he wore at the belt.

            It was know that he and Raymond traveled together, but it was not known why, except to Virgil.

            It was also known that he liked to drink ale, and tonight was no exception.

            The next morning Raymond and Virgil woke early, because they had work to do.

            “How many trolls are there? ’ Raymond asked.

            ‘There are said to be six,’ Virgil replied. ‘Could be more, could be less.’

            Raymond closed his eyes for a moment, appearing lost in thought. Then he looked down at his breakfast of steak, fried eggs and bread, then at Virgil’s meal of fried bread and ale, then at his friend’s expressionless face.

            ‘Fun,’ he said at last, then,’ how far to the trolls nest?’

            ‘Not far, be could be there in the afternoon,’ Virgil replied.

            ‘Then we will be there before lunch.’

            Virgil knew of his friend’s hatred of trolls, and understood his inpatients, so he resigned himself to a hard days march.

            ‘Also, there is an ogre on the mountain,’ Virgil added.

            ‘Great, will I have to kill it?’

            ‘The ogre is said to be a reasonable fellow, you may not need to fight it.’

            ‘We will see.’

            The snow was piled a foot thick in the fields, but on the highway it had been crushed down by boots, hooves and wagons. Still it was not an easy road to walk from the tavern in the low lands to the tiny mountain village which was their destination. In places the winding road was steep, and often the compressed snow had become treacherous ice.

            Yet Raymond strode forwards with the agility and stubbornness of a goat. Vigil followed him with the strength of a far younger man. Raymond was usually a man of few words, but on that day he was eager to talk. They discussed their tactics for the coming day and night. Killing six trolls, each one of which could kill a bull with its bare hands, would require more strategy than Raymond’s usual, brutal and direct methods.

            Trolls are twice as strong as most men, and can move fast and have a certain degree of cunning. Raymond knew from experience that he could kill one in single combat, but six was a different story. They had two weaknesses. Firstly, they were so driven by greed and hunger that they were stupid and unreasonable- a child could out wit a troll. Secondly, their place, greasy skin was very sensitive to light, so they only came out at night.

            They also discussed the ogre. Having an ogre on the same mountain where the trolls had their nest made everything more unpredictable. Ogres were wild-cards. Most ogres are greedy and territorial, after that they are unpredictable. Some were bandits and murderers, some semi-respectable mercenaries; some were even merchants or farmers. Most ogres treated their territory as a private kingdom, where they ruled as barons and demanded tribute from any thing inside, some times the tribute was repaid with loyal protection, but not always. Ogres and trolls hated each other passionately, so it was odd for an ogre to allow trolls on his mountain. Either the ogre was too weak to resist the trolls, or the ogre was so powerful that he considered the trolls and the village to be insignificant amid his vast kingdom.

            Raymond had met many ogres in the past, some were wild beasts that needed to be put down, others had been valuable allies. As a general rule, he liked to fight them.  

            It was long after midday when they reached the village. It was nothing but a few run down long houses, a lot of shacks and an inn, perched on the side of a mountain and surrounded by dark, snow covered forest.

            The inn was a smallish stone building with wooden roof that sagged under the weight of the snow. The only sign of life was a little smoke coming from the chimney, no light or sound came from inside.

            Raymond thrust open the door.

            ‘I am Raymond of the Westmorland, and I have come to slay your trolls!’ he announced.

            There was no reply. The room was empty apart from the bar wench who looked up from washing a mug. She looked the two men up and down, looked at them a second time, and managed a faint smile.

            ‘Two pints of your finest ale,’ Virgil ordered.

This was more familiar territory and the girl got to work with the automatic reflexes of some one who knew there work, but was utterly exhausted.

            ‘And a meat pie,’ Virgil continued.

            ‘Three meat pies with plenty of bread,’ Raymond added.

            ‘Sorry m’lords,’ the girl looked close to tears. “We ‘ave no pies, nor meat.’

            ‘What do you have?’ Virgil asked.

            ‘Fried bread or porridge.’

            ‘Fried bread or…’ Raymond controlled his disappointment.

            ‘T’was the Trolls, you see m’lords…’a tear started to form in her sea blue eyes.

            Raymond put a hand, reassuringly on her slender shoulder, ‘Don’t worry lass, bread and porridge is good enough for us. Tomorrow the trolls will be dead, and you can get this inn back in order.’

            She said nothing, but the gentle touch of his huge hand reassured her. She served the ale.

            Virgil took one huge swig, then actually spat it out on the floor. Raymond took one sip, then went outside and threw the ale out onto the ground.

            ‘Sorry m’lords, the ale is a bit old, the last delivery was ambushed by the trolls, and this is all we have.’

            ‘Do you have wine? Virgil asked.

            ‘Yes, we still have a flask of the good wine.’

            ‘Excellent!’ Raymond declared. ‘Fetch it, if you will. And we will need rooms tonight, but we will be going to bed very late.”

            ‘As you say,’ she replied.

            “May we speak with the land lord?’ Virgil asked.

            ‘My father? Dead, m’lords, the trolls…’

            ‘And you mother?”

            The serving girl could take no more. She sat down on the floor and wept. Raymond sat beside her and put an arm protectively around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried softly.

            Virgil went behind the bar, poured three mugs of wine, drank all of one, then went to the tiny kitchen and started cooking.

            ‘Will you really kill the trolls?’ she whisperd to Raymond.

            ‘It is what I do.’