The men did not include me. I was left with the butchers and cooks whilst the others went to sea. Sailing was one thing but taking a child on the hunt another. I figured that yesterday was a test of sorts by Wulfric. Clearly, I did not make the cut. Instead I was left ashore to gathered wood for the fires and put an edge on the many hatchets and knives. Wulfric had bought a lot of water and materials but little food. Back at Lighthouse Keep I had thought that we had taken aboard plentiful stores. There was a marked discrepancy between the volume of stores, but I had thought little of it. The Captain was banking on making a kill soon and feeding off it. It was a gamble; we had a few days at best then we had to head back to port. Going west was easy but heading back was another story. It was was a strong northwesterly wind that blew us out. To return home, we had to circumvent that wind. We had to make a triangular detour. That could take a week in bad weather. Should a man be desperate enough they could try to sail against the wind. That however would be an endless battle against wind and current, even aided by mage wind a ship would flounder. I know of only one ship that could make that run, no it is not the Rusalka. As much as I love her, she is a lady of canvas and timber. It takes a monster of black iron and smoke to beat those waters.

I did my best to avoid Stan now that we so few people around. I was successful on that account as I volunteered to go further inland for firewood. I enjoyed the solitude that the foraging allowed. One of the butchers had given me a rope, knife, and waterskin before waving me off on my merry way. They did not expect me back for a while and I was fine with that. The island was not a particularly large one. There was a large central hill that had some woodland around it. The cooks needed a lot of fuel to keep their copper pots burning. I believe the oil boilers mantra is low and slow. I was more interested in climbing the hill than collecting wood. So, I did.

I leisurely made my way up the hill. Along the way I was picking at the odd dry branch and keeping an eye out for smooth pebbles. I had bought my sling with me and idly thought of getting luck with a seabird. Lucky for me, not so much the bird. As a caveat sea birds are almost universally foul, I do not recommend eating them. Passing through the wooded approach I began climbing the ridges. I was well beyond our shore encampment and had lost sight of it in the folds of the hills.

When the going got rocky I decided to sit for a while and take a drink from my skin. The sun was not yet at its zenith, but it promised to be a warm day. The whaling season begins in late spring on the Isles and whilst it never gets as balmy as it does in the south, hard walking over stony ground was hot work. I figured that I would be back by lunch once I climbed the hill. And bundled an acceptable amount of wood of course. The water had gone tepid from my body heat, but I drank it eagerly anyway. I put my feet up and traced my finger on the boulder that I sat on. On closer inspection, the moss-covered stone was an oddity. It was a hard, dark blue that was alone in an outcrop of pale limestone. Working my fingers over the surface I noticed that there were indentations beneath the moss. Curious, I scraped away the covering lichen to reveal a surface marked by complex swirling patterns.

It was native work. Not to say I knew what any of it meant. I knew that they had no written language, though later I would discover that was not entirely true, but that is beside the point. I knew it was islander work from the whorls and curving patterns. It was an aesthetic that the highland clans of the Isle shared. The natives were as much our cousin as the Northmen were. We shared the same relationship as we do with that other cousin. Open hostility tempered by opportunistic profiteering. We made peace when convenient and war when profitable. All of us northerners shared the same problem, we were at best a loose confederation than a single nation. These days the Lord Protector has gotten a firmer grip on the Isles than any before had. The Æsc’s have a hundred jarls and the islanders a nominal high king, it is worse than the electors and principalities of the Reich. You never quite knew where you stood with any of us. So, we generally assumed the worst and hit them before they hit us.

I absently admired the workmanship before moving on. There was a hill to climb and wood to gather. I thought no more of the carving. It was a few more spans before I reached the summit of the island. The hill commanded an all-encompassing view of the land. Looking back the way I came I could now spot our moored ships on the eastern beach. I could make out faint wisps of smoke if I looked hard enough. I soon turned away to take in the rest of the island. To the north there were a few miles of desultory shrubs that abruptly cut off into cliffside. The south and west were very much the same as the east. A light woodland ending in sandy beaches. The only difference was that the west had visitors too.

My final observation took a moment to sink in. There was the silhouette of a ship on the western beach. Some quaint notion possessed me to think it was one of ours, perhaps I did not like the alternative conclusion. A sign of movement on the western slope caused me to break my observation. I clapped eyes with the approaching figures almost simultaneously. My figure must have been covered by the ridges during their climb. They were equally caught off guard as I was, only that there were three of them. One came to their senses before the rest of us. They shouted something at me, I could not make it out but waved back at them. The figures were all dressed in tartan and skirts. Seeing that two of them were clearly bearded I thought it odd that men would wear skirts. The newcomers held a quick debate and came to a swifter conclusion. They proceeded to run at me with a drawn assortment of knives and clubs.

As I looked around me to see what they were charging the penny finally dropped. Yes, it took me long enough. They were island folk in kilts not dresses, an honest mistake I assure you. Just never make it with a highlander or in my case a native. I legged it. Pure honest terror had won the fight or flight argument and gave me speed. My pursuers had about a hundred yards worth of broken uphill climbing before they reached the summit. I was already racing down the reverse on the wings of self-preservation. It should have been solid sprint back to camp and safety. If I wasn’t twelve that is, and if my decent too wasn’t on rocky ground, or the island bastards weren’t all as surefooted as goats. They were going to catch me.

Now I could have tried my luck with the sling at the summit. I was a fair shot and they had no cover, a sling stone to unarmored flesh did terrible things. However, when presented with an alternative to bloodshed I took it without considering the first. I would learn, this was a part of my education. I had enough sense to attempt to lose them in the woods. As I made my way back down, I kept a low profile. They had the high ground and it would be easy for them to spot me, but I needed to break line of sight. They had probably seen our encampment when they passed the summit. Keeping close to the ridges I tried to use blind spots created by the terrain. I hugged boulders and made bounding movements. The three were closing but they had yet to catch sight of me. So far so good. What was not so good was that they were blundering closer to me without needing to know where I was.

I peeked my head around the cover. It was not good I had lost more than half my original lead. If I kept bounding, I was going to be caught either way. There was a choice to make and very little time. I could lose my advantage in the forest or risk capture now. I made my choice. It would be a mad dash to the woods.

Heart thundering, I burst from my position in a rush for the trees. A cry of surprise and the pounding of feet made me recklessly bold. I skid and slid as much as I ran down the rocky slope. Taking ankle shattering leaps, I tempted luck a little too many times. Jumping over a boulder I crashed on to my left foot. My weight and an unsteady landing had my ankle give sideward. Falling over there was a popping sensation before I rolled down the scree. I fell heavily but I drove my tumbling onwards before I transitioned back into a run. I felt a dampness around my midriff but paid it no heed, I had not the time or the courage to see the damage.

Just a little more. There was just a little more to go before the tree line. But then the hunters were at my heels. Would I have time to break sight and hide? They were questions for later. I felt my breath burn and my heart clench as my body begin to falter. I could hear excited whoops and the lilting speech of the islanders right behind me. I made a panicked glance over my shoulder to see one of the natives baring down on me. Snapping my head back I sprinted the last distance into the woods and saw a sudden drop to my left. The roots of a tree had disturbed the soil and I intended to make use of the terrain. I made another ankle jarring leap. I got lucky this time, I landed and rolled off the impact. Scrabbling upright I continued to run.

My gamble had bought me a few moments as the three hesitated to make the jump. I was surprisingly calm about the whole situation. Once death had established itself as the price of failure, reptilian logic had taken the fore. No, I was not unafraid. Fear rode on one shoulder, but survival was firmly on the other. Panic nor terror had reared their ugly heads. I did my best to use the trees to my advantage. All I needed to do now was to shake them off. In a way I was incredibly fortunate that all three had come for me. If they had any sense one should have turned back to rally their fellows. Evidently, they were very either very confident or just green.

Rather than heading directly to the beach I ran towards the thickest part of the woods. I would loop back after they were gone. Of course, losing them was the big if of the whole situation. Despite my attempts at stealth, the three were still hot on my heels. I had no further tricks at hand, so I just ran. After an indeterminate amount of time I needed to stop running. My heart was going to fail before my pursuers caught me. The foliage had grown denser and the sounds of the pursuit had grown faint. I hoped that they had gotten tired or thought me far too much of a hassle to run down. Seeing a clearing ahead made my way to its edge. It would be foolish to step into the open, so I skirted around it. It was time to loop back and warn the others.

I paused in a bush to catch my breath and reorient myself by the Lighthouse. I had fled to the south of the hill and needed to cut back northeast. I reached down to my side to feel how bad my injuries were. My hands came back wet but clear. I had burst my waterskin from the fall off the hill. I had cuts and gashes everywhere, but none were serious. What concerned me was my ankle. During my dash to the woods it felt fine, but now that I paused it felt warm and unusually tender. I reached down to feel it and found that it was hot and swollen. I had torn something there; it would become painful to stand soon. I should have kept it cold and under pressure. The islanders were not obliging. Moving whilst I could still run was my only option.

The race between me and my pursuers had just gotten a lot more dire. The prospect of pain tempted me to rise and head back as soon as possible. Before I did, I decided to at least wrap my ankle in something. Drawing my knife, I started disassembling the torn waterskin. As if went about fastening my makeshift compression, something snapped behind me. Was I discovered? I grew still as I slowly reached for the knife. More movement then… snuffling? I clasped the knife and spun in anticipation of a fight to find a rather alarmed sow looking back at me. My relief was short-lived as I realized she could give my location away at any moment.

So, there I was trying to placate my porcine problem. Forgive me, I have a love for alliteration. Fortunately, the wild pig considered me little more than a small surprise. She gave a soft dismissive grunt before moving on. Tangible relief flooded my being as I watched the animal continue to ignore me for whatever quarry she was snuffling for. As I watched her leave, something else caught my eye. It was not a figure but a shadow that was darker than the rest. There was someone hiding at the opposite end of the clearing. The islanders must have stalked me here but could not seem to spot me. If I moved, I would draw their attention. If I waited, I risked capture or a far more difficult return trip.

A rustle from the sow’s movement caused my hunters to give themselves away. In a flash of understanding, I realized they had no idea that there was a was a pig. Opportunity once again hinge on boldness. I fished out a pebble I collected from my pocket. Slowly I pitched my arm back as discreetly as possible. Before I could have second thoughts, I threw the stone as hard as I could. With a rustle of foliage my missile struck the pig on her snout. Then with a twitch then a squeal, the sow fled back the way it came. Two figures immediately broke across the clearing. Their blood was up, deaf to the squeal they were blind to my throw.

I waited until I was sure the two were gone. Just a bit longer and I would make my own flight. I picked up my knife and moved to sheath it when I saw the third figure emerge. He was dressed like the others and carried a club the natives called a shillelagh. He seemed about as old Winston was. That meant he was bigger and faster than me. To make things worse he had not joined his two older companions in their headlong chase. He was looking directly at me.

Fight or flight it was do or die. Either the slow certain death or the swift and brutal possibility of life. Surrender had never passed my mind, nor do I think he would have taken me prisoner. I grasped the knife and crouched into a tensed position. He saw but the bush covered most my figure. If he had seen that I was armed he would not have had advanced so brazenly. Or maybe he did and did not care. Either way he was confident enough to not call his friends. The bastard was grinning at the prospect of blood. All the better, if I could surprise him with my boldness, I could swiftly end this fight. If things dragged on, he would eventually overpower me or worse, call his friends.

He said something as he approached. It was a gentle crooning in that lilting islander tongue. However, His eyes spoke of different tone. I did not need to know the language to know what he meant. It was a universal message; I am going to hurt you and I am going to like it. Closer he came, one arm outstretched the other with the shillelagh down low. When we were arms reach, he exploded into motion. Faster than I could rise he hauled me by my throat. That was good. Rising with him I drew my knife across his throat. Surprised the islander dropped me. I expected a jet of blood, but he only gurgled in shock. One hand clamped around his throat, a look of terror and confusion replaced his prior confidence. I thought he would die any moment now, but he remained standing. The youth made a strange gurgling rasp as he fell on his rear. Swiftly I came to the horrible realization that I had cut too shallow and failed to sever any blood vessels. His terrible silent gawking was an attempt to scream through a severed windpipe. He was going to live, and I needed to end this quickly. Seizing on that desperate logic, I laid into him with the knife.

On the Isles we make dirty big, single edged, clip pointed knives. They are fearsome cutters with a functional point. Barroom tales would have you believe that it could lop off an arm. Here look at mine, I’ve never taken off a limb with it, but I think some of the larger ones could… Alright I killed the kid. It was slow and it wasn’t pretty. I made the mistake of wildly slashing at him. He raised an arm to fend me off, but the knife just bit into his palm. I was a kid as well and my arms were weak, but the blade was heavy and razor. It bit deep into his second finger bone. All my ruthless certainty vanished before the sensation of parting flesh and the jarring bone. Tears of pain and terror rolled down his face. Panicked I fell into frenzy. All slash slash slash… Flesh torn. Edge stuck on bone. It wasn’t quick it wasn’t clean. I butchered him. The whole act was done in silence. Only my frenzied panting and his desperate gurgles announced my deed. I should have stuck the knife under his ribs and ended it quickly. As I said, I was just beginning my education.