Chapter 5. The Omen of Death

Alone in the dim room of the uninhabited tower, Jules slumped in a chair, resting his head on the arm he lay on the table. Beside his hand, strong tea was getting cold at the bottom of a clay mug. Watching the fire cracking in the fireplace, the boy let his thoughts wander in silence.

Usually, Sokal would be there, under the table, and Jules would stick his feet into the dog's thick fur to keep them warm. Or they would lie together close to the fire, the hound being a licking furry pillow under the boy's head. But the hound was gone. Jules balled his fist and slammed it against the tabletop.

"What is this noise?" the door opened, revealing the hunter standing on the threshold. He rested one hand on the door handle while holding a grey package under his armpit. "I thought you would be already asleep. It was a rough day, not mentioning the night before."

"I'm fine, and coming to the wetlands with you," Jules rubbed his eyes to get rid of the few tears that gathered in their corners. "I mean, I can at least carry the bag, if you -"

"Of course you're coming," Ravin cut him short. He closed the door and approached the table to lay the package on the tabletop before Jules. "You're my apprentice after all, aren't you? We're short of time, so I'll kill the swamper, but you should see how it's done."

Jules nodded, relief washing over his face. He had half-expected Ravin to leave him at the castle; after what had happened the last night, he wouldn't be surprised if his master refused to take him along. But now the hunter motioned at him to unwrap the package, shifting Jules' attention back to reality.

It was long and rather thin, and when Jules pulled it closer, it clattered. The grey cloth revealed a reila's parts: two metallic bars and a sword-like blade.

"Woah! Don't tell me - is it for me, really?"

"I used it when I was an apprentice myself," Ravin watched the boy screwing the parts together with a hint of pride in his dark eyes. "You still need to grow into it, but it's better than none, and it'll be useful at the swamps."

"I'll take the best care of it, I swear!" Jules reached for the blade. It was the basic type that every hunter used. Other ones, resembling forks or hooks or even saws were usually owned by the Lords for whom the hunters worked.

When he screwed the blade to the shaft, the weapon dwarfed him. Jules looked in the mirror that stood in the corner of the bedroom and grimaced - he had to grow about a head taller to use his reila comfortably. Now he readjusted his grip to hold it firmly and gave it a swing.

It would have been a perfect right-to-left cut if Ravin didn't grab the reila's shaft.

"It's not a stick wrapped in cloth anymore," the hunter took the reila out of his apprentice's hands and leaned it by his own one, awaiting him by the door. "I haven't sharpened the blade yet, but it's still a potentially deadly weapon. Do not swing it carelessly."

"Sorry. I've just got excited," Jules couldn't help smiling despite Ravin's stern expression. "I can't wait to see Rai's face! You'll teach me to fight with it before he's back, won't you?"

"For now, just get dressed," Ravin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled deeply. "The sun's already low. We're leaving."

The Stone Town was nearly deserted; as they rode down the narrow streets they met only several workers scurrying in shadows back to their homes. They cast the hunters' hostile glares; each time, Jules pulled the hood of his black cloak down to hide his face. Looking at Ravin's back, he wondered how his master felt about it - he had grown in Arvene after all, and those people must have been people he used to know.

As they rode by the baker's shop, a ragdoll hanging from the trade sign turned around on its rope to stare at Jules with its empty, beady eyes. The boy flinched; he clenched his fists to squash the sudden urge to grab the doll and rip it off from where it hung.

"Do you really want to settle down here?" he pulled lightly on Ravin's cloak to get his master's attention. "I know you grew up here, but we've worked in many nicer places, so why here?"

"I couldn't have known about the curse-thing, now could I?" the hunter let his horse trot as they left the town. "I own a house here. Pritchard left it for Rai and me in his last will."

"A house? In the town?" Jules tried to keep his voice neutral, but the question came full of reluctance.

"No, it's a hut by the forest," Ravin turned from the road into a narrow patch leading toward a distant hill. On its top, a lonely tree reached for the darkening sky. "We're almost there."

They climbed the hill, then the hunter halted the horse. Jules looked at the landscape stretching below. Leaves hardly covered the branches of the half-withered trees growing down there, and the withering boughs looked sinisterly in the fading daylight. Muddy water reached above the roots, and despite the reddish glow of the setting sun, it was black like a lake of tar.

"So...," Jules jumped off Opal's back and grabbed his reila. "We need just one head, don't we?"

"Yes, we do," the hunter dismounted his horse and loosened the girth of the saddle. He patted the stallion's black neck, then detached his weapon and an axe from the saddle. "Look for red lights."

Jules knew much about swampers - he'd read about them in his bestiary - but he had never seen one. Frog-like creatures, they were the size of a cow, and they inhabited the depth of marshland and bogs. A single tentacle grew out of the middle of their skulls, and at nights its end emitted a reddish light. It was how they lured their victims; people told that there was something hypnotizing in these lights, something that made wanderers follow them through the swamps, not caring about water and mud and darkness.

"What do healers use their heads for?" Jules asked now, as his book didn't say a word about swamper's healing properties.

"It's their spit. It somehow makes wounds heal faster," the hunter's eyes wandered over the wetlands down the hill. The sun disappeared under the distant horizon. The sky got dark except for the fading red glow on the west. "Their glands are very delicate things. They are difficult to cut off, so we just chop off the heads and the healers do the rest themselves."

"Why can't Mistress Dorven just heal the Lord with magic?"

"Not every wound can be healed," Ravin walked down the hill, carrying his reila in one hand and the axe in the other. He looked round to make sure his apprentice followed him. "The Lord is old. His mind and body are weakened. And healers are not miracle workers."

The hillside was gentle enough to be easily walked down. Jules stopped on the edge of the swamp's bank and looked down at the dark mud. He grimaced at the very thought of the dirty water soaking through his boots and socks.

"Sometimes I hate this job," he muttered.

"Funny thing to say for an apprentice," Ravin arched one eyebrow at him. He reached to his bag and took out a mask. It was all black, except for spots where the paint had flaked off. The eye-holes were secured with thick glass. "Swampers spit venom when startled. You'll put the mask on only when we're close,"

Jules attached the mask to his belt. He was about to jump into the mud when a strong hand grasped his collar and yanked him back.

"What do you have your reila for? Feel the ground," Ravin shook his head at his apprentice's recklessness. "A dead hunter is a useless hunter."

They headed north, deeper and deeper into the swamps. Soon they were surrounded by the withered trees; Jules threw quick glances at the branches that reached toward the black water like pairs of gnarled arms. Deep shadows lay under the trees' crowns, a total blackness not disturbed by the moonlight.

Jules tightened his grip on the reila, thrusting forward through the water and the mud. His feet dug in the soil; the marsh sucked his shoes, and each of his steps was accompanied by a loud splash.

"I'm sick of these wetlands," he tripped and leaned on his reila. He fought to regain his balance, splashing mud so badly it reached Ravin's face. "Sorry."

The hunter sighed loudly and raised his eyes toward the dark sky as if praying for patience.

"Be careful," he reminded, wiping his face with his sleeve. The mud left a long, dark trail. "A hunter is always..."

"Ready, I know" Jules finished instead of him. He noticed a reddish spark under the man's armpit and pointed his finger at it, "There! Look!"

Ravin turned in the indicated direction and gave a short nod.

"Let's kill it before it dives or runs away."

Jules hurried toward the red light. The hunter followed him – the boy could hear water splashing when his master moved, but he didn't look round. His eyes were fixed on the red, glittering spot. The light, warm and soft, waved gently. Beautiful, Jules thought – just like a reddish star that had descended from the sky.

He went forward, not paying attention to the world around until his feet met something hard in the mud and he tripped. He was about to fall into the black water, but Ravin grasped his collar and steadied him.

"Stay focused, Jules", the hunter patted his back, "Don't look directly at the light or it will lure you. Remember what you know about swampers. You don't want to end up in a trance."

"Yeah, sure", the boy muttered, looking toward the red light again. Now it's charm was broken. Was it really the same thing that had just amazed him?

As he came closer, he saw the ugly, toad-like creature. It was massive and fat; its skin was dark, something between the dark green of rotting leaves and black. Its protruding eyes gazed at the two humans approaching it. The swamper didn't even flinch, waiting patiently like a customer at an inn, expecting dinner.

"Put the mask on," Ravin reminded.

Jules didn't see much through the thick glass; everything was blurred and foggy, but the red light remained still. He clenched his fist on the shaft of his reila. He wished he could finish the creature off and somehow make up for his failure at the last hunt. But he stepped back, making room for his master, as now it was time what mattered the most.

Ravin was only another blurred shape as he fell on the swamper, taking a swing.

A terrible shriek pierced the night. It vibrated in the air and in Jules' head - they boy let go off the reila and pressed his hands to his ears. His vision went black; he lurched to the side and fell, sunk in the mud and choked as it got to his mouth.

His heart pounded so heavily his chest hurt. Blood went cold in his veins. Under his eyelids he saw his sister's face, but not lively and smiling - no, her skin was pale and stiff, her eyes empty like beads. Clotted blood trailed from her lips and covered her chin.

The shriek quietened. The silence that followed it was so sharp it hurt Jules' ears. Only now he realised Ravin held him upright. Were he alone, he would have likely drowned in the mud.

All his clothes were soaked through, clinging to his body and sucking the warmth out off it. He trembled in a gust of chilly wind.

"What the hell was that?!" He tore the mask off his face. The swamper lay dead with Ravin's reila sticking out of its body. "You didn't tell me they scream like this!"

"Because they don't," Ravin let go of his apprentice's arm. "It was a death howler."

"A death howler?" Jules frowned at the sound of the name. "What is it?"

"Find your reila. It would be a shame if you lost it the day you got it," the hunter took the axe and walked toward the corpse. "Hurry."

Jules scanned the mud around. His weapon had disappeared with no trace.

"Damn it," he muttered. He walked around, shuffling his legs, hoping he would feel it.

The first thing he found turned out to be a branch. Water reached up to his waist, so he had to dive to reach it. Mad, he threw it away with all the strength left in his body. He lurched, tripped on something hard and fell.

His reila. He muttered every curse word he knew.

A cracking noise of breaking bones made him cringe. He spun around to see Ravin packing the swamper's head into a bag.

"Let's go," the hunter threw the bag over his shoulder as if it was full of potatoes. "We have no time left."

Jules had to trot to follow him. The hunter's expression was tense and severe under a mask of calmness.

"What's wrong?" the boy glanced at him. "Are we running away from something?"

"It's the death howler," Ravin gave him a backwards glance, just to make sure the boy managed to keep up with him. "Its wailing is a bad omen. Lord Harald is dying."