“We. Do. Not. Go. Into the forest. Ever, do you understand me?” The chief sighed, running his hand through his mass of red hair. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the forest, but what lives in it that’s wrong. Enemies.”
“So we should fight them. We fought Grovna and his clan, and sometimes we fight the cave-folk, if they try and cheat us.”
“Not the kind of enemy you can fight, son.”
“Why not?”
“So many questions! You’ll grow up smart, mark my words.”
“I don’t care about growing up smart. I want to be a warrior.”
“I have plenty of good warriors. It takes more than just that to be a chief. Now, if you’re so curious about what lives in the forest, I suppose you could go ask Thorkil. He’d know better than anyone.”
“I will!” said his son, and turned to run off, back away from the edge of the forest towards the village below. The chief called after him:
“Be sure you’re quick, though! I must meet with the cave-folk later, and I want you to come with me.”
Everyone in the village knew Thorkil was mad, or at least half-mad. Some said that the potions and poultices he mixed had gotten into his brain and addled his wits; others were of the view that he had been hit in the head in some forgotten battle. No one had proposed either theory to the old man’s face, however. For all his oddities, the man’s remedies worked more often than not, and the clan suffered only lightly from plague and disease. He looked up with a smile as the chief’s son entered his hut.
“Ah, young Arnulf. What brings the son of the chief here on such a fine day as this?”
“My father caught me trying to go in the forest and I asked him why we don’t go in there and he said I should come ask you.”
“Did he now.” said Thorkil flatly. “Well, I suppose it will do no harm to tell you. Although the truth will not satisfy nor please you.”
“Well now I must know,” said Arnulf eagerly. “How can I not, with an introduction like that?”
“Very well. Long ago, when I was only a little older than you are now, and Kazko was chief...”
Thorkil shivered in the cold. It was a bright spring day out in the fields, but here under the trees, the air was cold and damp. He heard insects, chittering in the underbrush, and tried not to think of centipedes crawling up his legs. So preoccupied was he that he very nearly screamed when a meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was only Garveg, though, a boy a little older than him, who said cheerfully:
“Isn’t this exciting? Our first real hunt!”
“I-it certainly is, Garveg.” Replied Thorkil, his teeth chattering a little. “I wonder what exactly we are hunting, though.”
“Some beast or another. Bear, sabre cat, elk, it matters not to me!”
Thorkil shrugged and nodded as Garveg burst into laughter.
“Quiet, lads.” said Kazko, just a bit of an edge in his voice. “We’re coming up on the hunting ground now, and we don’t want to give ourselves away, do we?”
They both shook their heads and fell silent. One of the other hunters chuckled, until Kazko turned his eye on him as well.
“I gave these boys leeway, as this is their first hunt. But now, it seems, even my seasoned warriors seem to think there is something to make light of. Mark my words, this is no simple search for food or killing of a beast. We hunt a monster, and if you are not careful, it will kill every one of us.” He turned, and walked into the forest without looking after him. After a moment, they followed.
Thorkil was last in line, and had never been particularly tall, so it took him a moment to see why they had stopped. Ahead of them was a break in the forest, some kind of clearing. And in the center of it... Some kind of stone man? No, not a man. He craned his neck to see, and caught a glimpse of horns, and strange holes where eyes should have been. At that moment, however, he was distracted by something else; a figure, emerging from the trees across the clearing. And then another. And another. The rest of the band had seen them as well. Kazko pointed, his bronze sword out. Them. They all turned once again, and saw.
The things emerging from the trees were not human. Superficially the right shape, they were nevertheless malformed and misshapen. Even their flesh was the wrong color, an angry red across much of its surface. After a moment, one of them stepped forward and raised a stone knife in salute to the figure. Thorkil held his breath.
The knife came down, and the creature staggered for a moment before beginning to fall. Two of its compatriots grabbed its arms, holding it up at an angle as the blood ran out of its body and splashed at the feet of the stone man. Thorkil watched in horror as the flow became a trickle, and then at last, finally stopped. The man-creatures didn’t move, though. They sat, staring at the statue, eyes closed. A low hum began a sort of whisper through the clearing. The hunting party waited, every man tensed to pounce, until at last, with a terrible creaking noise, the head of the statue moved, slowly rotating until its eyeless face stared directly towards them. There was a great croaking, a sound like frogs, but infinitely louder. It was only just barely that Thorkil even heard Kazko shouting the command to attack. He grabbed his spear, and ran forward into the clearing, shouting incoherently.
The thing was nearly free of the stone now. Had it been imprisoned inside? Was it transforming from the rock? Had this merely been a gigantic egg? Thorkil knew not, and he had no desire to. The stone head remained on, with its terrible eye-spaces, but much of the rest was gone, leaving a fleshy green mass, flailing and lashing out at any who came near. Kazko was the only one who dared.
The frogmen, or whatever they were, had been surprisingly easy to defeat. After but a few spear thrusts, most of them had scurried away into the shadows beneath the trees leaving the warriors to finish off what remained. Now they stood in a cautious half-circle, watching their chief battle against the thing. A forest of tentacles waved before it, but each one that it projected towards Kazko was cut off by his flashing sword. The rest of the warriors had just begun to advance towards it when all hell broke loose. Tired of the game, the thing threw forward all of its appendages at once. Thorkil caught a glimpse of three clawed feet beneath its body before he was plucked from the ground and held screaming upside down. Fortunately, he was facing towards the creature, and so was the only one to see what happened to Kazko.
The chief, grabbed by one arm, was howling ferociously as the thing held him in front of its stone helmet. Al around him, his warriors were being thrown to the ground and dashed to pieces on the rock, and there was nothing he could do about it. Well, no. There was one thing... His sword arm still free, Kazko lifted his weapon high and smashed it down on the stone.
Thorkil was preparing himself for impact as the sword hit the creature’s head. He felt the tentacle spasm and suddenly go limp, and he fell to the ground with hardly a bruise. He picked himself up and began to run towards the edge of the forest, stopping only to help a delirious Garveg back to his feet. The last thing he saw before leaving the forest forever was the monster, still holding Kazko above its head, begin to lumber into the trees.
“...And that, young lad, is why we don’t go in the forest anymore.” Said Thorkil, and sat back on his heels with a sigh.
“But what happened afterwards? Did you get back to the village?”
“Of course we did. I’m here, aren’t I? At any rate, we made it home, and now the forest is off limits.”
“But what if Kazko killed the thing? And what happened to his sword?”
“Even if he did, he must be dead as well, for he never returned. Now stop asking me questions. Your father wants you to go with him to meet the cave-folk.”
Arnulf ran out of the room at that. Thorkil sighed as he left again, and went back to the business of mixing up potions.
And from the forest, eyes watched the village, waiting for the right chance to get their revenge. And something that had no eyes at all...
