II - The Huntsman's Daughter

  Sybil took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. She felt a jerk and watched as the quarrel launched from her crossbow, then sailed through the air and thumped harmlessly against the bark of a tree. The little white hare scurried off into the brush without so much as glancing in her direction.

  “Mother above,” she said, lowering the crossbow.

  Martin Fletcher placed a gentle hand on her shoulder; his musket leaned against his torso, its barrel pointed toward the sky. “Come, now. Taking the Goddess’ name in vain won’t bring that hare back to us, will it?”

  Sybil looked at her father and frowned. “That’s the third one I’ve missed. I’m not sure I’ll ever hit a mark with this cursed thing.”

  “You just need to take your time and breathe, my girl,” her father said. “You’re fully capable of wielding that weapon, despite what you may think. When it comes to your training, you’re twice the marksman I was at your age.” He smiled playfully from beneath his thick beard. “Of course, having a competent teacher goes a very long way.”

  Sybil approached her spent quarrel and pulled it loose from the tree. “I could be thrice the marksman you were while practicing, and it shan’t make a lick of difference if I cannot hit my mark when it matters.” She sighed, tucking the quarrel back into her quiver. “I’m not certain what I am missing, but I hope that I find it soon.”

  “Just give yourself time, my daughter. You’ll get to where you need to be before too long. Thankfully, one of us is less willing to abandon you than the other.” He paused. “Now, we should be getting home. Night is quickly approaching, and your mother will have supper prepared soon.”

  Martin led the way through the trees; Sybil loaded a quarrel back into her crossbow as they walked, but she doubted that she would have reason to fire it again that day. They made their way back to Misty, their tired, old packhorse who had been a part of their family since before Sybil was born. She could not carry as much as she used to, but that hardly mattered when they saw such little success in their hunts. The horse held the carcasses of two slain hares strung to her back, both of them looking about as frail as the equine did. Both animals had been slain by Martin, and blood still dribbled from the holes in their bodies created by his musket balls.

  Her father slung his musket into its waiting scabbard on Misty’s side, then reviewed their day’s catch with a frown. “An entire day’s work for only two pitiful hares. A shame, that.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose I will offer one to Lucas and see how much he’ll give me for it. The other I’ll butcher myself and your mother can cook it up in a stew.”

  Martin grabbed Misty’s reins and began leading the horse through the forest, with Sybil following next to him. She kept her crossbow loaded and in her hands, just in case by some miracle they ran into something else to hunt—and by a greater miracle she actually managed to hunt it.

  She looked at her father as they walked. “Perhaps we should try our luck on the far end of the river tomorrow. I doubt it can be any worse than it is on this end.”

  “I agree,” he said, “although I also doubt that it will be any better.”

  Sybil frowned. “What will we do if things don’t improve?”

  “We’ll do the same as we always do: go back out day after day until we bring something home that’s worth speaking of.” He countered her frown with a smile. “Our village has seen far worse spells than this one, my girl, and we’ve made it through them all. When I was your age, my father and I went weeks without finding any game, but we kept at it until we finally discovered our mark. We survived, just as we’ll survive our current bout of hardship.”

  Their conversation lapsed into silence. Sybil listened to the sound of Misty’s heavy hooves clopping against the forest floor as they walked. The girl could smell a familiar chill in the air that warned her of a quickly approaching winter, and she silently worried about the coming of the first snowfall. If game was already as scarce as it was, a harsh turn in the weather would only make things that much worse.

  They walked on until they found a familiar dirt trail that led them the rest of the way to their village. The sun had begun its rapid descent, the sky already purple with stars. A single sentry, wielding a musket in his hands and with a polearm slung over his back, nodded at them as they approached the border of their village. The young man wore loose-fitting leather armor and an iron sallet helm that looked to be a size too small. Despite all of his armor and weapons, it was clear that he, with his youthful, handsome face, wasn’t much older than a boy, and in fact was hardly even Sybil’s senior. She had briefly known his name at some point, but had forgotten it; she hoped to one day learn it again.

  “Evening, Mr. Fletcher,” the sentry said. “How went the day’s hunt?”

  Martin shook his head. “Not as well as I’d like, but there’s always tomorrow, is there not?”

  The sentry nodded again. Sybil could see the portrait of worry that briefly painted the youth’s face. “That there is, sir.”

  Their quick exchange at its end, Martin offered the sentry a nod of his own before leading his daughter into the village and to the local butcher. Sybil waited outside with Misty while her father entered Lucas’ building with one hare in his grasp. He stepped outside a few minutes later, empty-handed and looking slightly more tired than he had when walking in.

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  “How much did he give you?” Sybil asked.

  “About as much as I expected,” the huntsman said. He sighed again. “Damn thing was barely worth the ball I wasted on it. I likely should have kept it for tomorrow’s stew.”

  Sybil didn’t know what to say, so she did not speak. Martin took Misty’s reins again and began leading the packhorse through town. Sybil looked around as they walked, taking in her surroundings. Everything, from the quaint, little homes with their thatch roofs and messily built wooden walls, to the smith with its forge that seemed to be lit at all hours of the day, to the village’s sole tavern with its grumpy, old owner and revolving line of barmaids, stood as it always had, from the very moment she had been born. Part of her wanted to believe that it would all be there long after she was gone from the world, but a familiar burden of doubt reared in her mind at the thought of such a possibility.

  An acquaintance of her father’s stopped them in the middle of town, prompting a brief conversation. For a while Sybil only listened to the indistinguishable clamour of the people around her, but soon a nearby exchange broke through the hum, catching her attention.

  “Did you hear that the Plague has reached Brightburrow?” a man said.

  “Brightburrow?” responded a woman. “Why, that’s hardly a day’s ride from here!”

  “Aye. That cursed blight draws nearer every day. Won’t be long before it’s at our doorstep, and soon we’ll have to create our own pyre like they do in the cities.”

  “Ghastly business, that. I’m not sure I’d ever grow accustomed to the smell.”

  “You’ll likely have no other choice, soon enough. Though I’m not sure you’ll have to endure it for terribly long.”

  Martin, finished with his conversation, stole back Sybil’s attention, and together they continued on their way. Less than a minute went by before he spoke.

  “Listen not to their words, Sybil.” She turned to find her father looking at her.

  “You overheard them?” Sybil asked.

  Martin nodded. “I did.” His face was stern, as if the mention of Plague had angered him, but there was a familiar kindness in his soft eyes. “Such rumors are not to be entertained. The Plague cannot reach us here, as isolated as we are in this village.”

  “How can you be certain? What if a trader comes into town and brings the Plague with him? All it takes is one person to pass it to the entire village.”

  “That will not happen,” her father said. His hard face softened into a smile that matched his eyes. “Trust me, my daughter. We are far too few and too cut off from the world for the Plague to reach us. The blight takes hold of its victims rather quickly; anybody sick with it will grow too infirm to travel before they can make it here. In our isolation, we are perfectly safe.”

  Sybil frowned. “I hope you are right.”

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Mark my words, my daughter. A year from now, we will all be as healthy as a herd of oxen. And just as well-fed, I’d like to add.”

  The girl was not convinced, but she allowed the conversation to lapse. They continued through town in silence, her father leading Misty by the reins while Sybil went along with the loaded crossbow in her hands. She should have returned the weapon to its holster on the packhorse, but she only half-noticed its presence, and did not want to further burden the aging equine with any extra weight. Soon the small cluster of buildings began to thin, and it was not long before they once again found themselves surrounded by trees. They continued on for another short while until they arrived at a small clearing at the very limits of the village’s influence. It was here, in isolation amongst isolation, that the huntsman and his family lived.

  Their little cottage stood in the center of this glade, much as it had for generations, and much how it would for generations to come. It wore its age in its weathered timbers and the dense thatch roof that had been fully replaced countless times over the course of many decades. To anybody who might visit from a bustling city, it would not appear to be much, but to Sybil and her parents, it was home. It would always be home.

  Gentle white smoke drifted up from the stone chimney that rose out of the thatch; Sybil knew that her father was correct about her mother already being hard at work preparing their supper. She could smell the boiling vegetables from several meters out and felt her stomach beginning to growl. Sybil and her father led Misty back to her small hovel behind the cottage, and after stripping her of the day’s equipment along with their meager spoils, they made their way into their waiting home. The last vestige of sunlight clung to the horizon as Martin closed the door shut behind them, and the scent of cooking stew struck Sybil’s nose in a mighty wave of delicious aroma.

  “We’re home, Beatrice,” Martin said as they stepped deeper into the cottage.

  Sybil’s mother was in the kitchen, which took up a large portion of their quant, small home. She was tending to the bubbling stew cooking in a cast iron pot above the blazing red hearth. When she heard her husband’s words, she turned to greet them. Sybil immediately recognized the uncharacteristic paleness in her face; she could see sweat streaming down her mother’s flushed pink cheeks.

  “My two loves return,” Beatrice said with a smile. She stuck the iron ladle that she was holding into the boiling pot behind her without looking back at it. “How went the day’s hunt?”

  Martin shook his head. “’Tis unfortunate that you are not the first person to ask me that question since we returned to the village, as repeatedly delivering the same ill news exhausts me greatly.”

  Beatrice’s smile vanished, morphing into a concerned frown. “Well, I won’t make you recount it another time for my sake.” She paused. “Come, help me set the table. Supper should be just about—”

  She broke out into a sudden flurry of coughs that took her the better part of thirty seconds to finally quell. When her fit had calmed, she spent another few moments catching her breath with considerable difficulty.

  It was Sybil’s turn to frown. “Are you alright, Mother?”

  “Of course, my dear,” the older woman said. “I’ve just had a bit of a cough today, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you sure, Love?” Martin asked. “You do look a tad flushed in the cheeks, and you’re sweating.”

  “I’d like to see how you look after slaving away over a hot stew for hours,” Beatrice said playfully.

  “Well, alright,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “I trust you’ll let me know if you need to see the physician.”

  Beatrice nodded. “Of course, dear. But you needn’t worry about that. I’ll be better by morning, I am sure.” She paused. “Now, come get your supper before your stomachs shrivel up with hunger.”

  Her husband and daughter did as she instructed. The family enjoyed their meal of vegetable stew, and none of them mentioned a single time how much better it would have tasted with a little bit of meat thrown into it. But despite wearing a mask of merriment, Sybil continued watching her mother with a nagging worry in the back of her mind—one that couldn’t help but continuously remind her of those words that she had heard earlier in the evening, and which had been stuck in her troubled mind ever since.

  She thought of a pyre, erected in the center of their little village, burning hot and bright.