The Bull's Eye...

I awake early and prepare a small breakfast as I have so many mornings before. Usually I enjoy the predawn light, but not today. When you have seen so much death it is heartening to watch the world come to life around you.

As I clatter the pots and pans Grant and Cleombrotus stir in their blankets and rouse themselves. We eat in an unusual yet comfortable silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

We are at a crossroads. We all know it, but don’t speak of it. As we pack our small camp the silence grows. A tense atmosphere such as this has always brought out the worse in me. I have always been uncomfortable in them. Not in an anxious way, I always just feel like a child trying not to laugh in class. The more the tension grows the more the temptation to giggle like an idiot. I’ve always had an inability to deal with emotional situations well.

I smother a laugh and it sounds like a hog snorting. The others giggle too as the mood lightens.

I mount Sasha and swing to face my brothers. They mount their horses and do likewise. In silence we sit facing each other for a minute or two. The plan was to ride north but without a word uttered we know the plan has changed. Each of us has our own path to follow for now.

Sasha is skittish and keen for the off. I calm her. As I look back to the others they are smiling at one another. With a nod Cleombrotus turns and rides south leaving Grant and I alone. Finally the atmosphere is broken and I can contain myself no longer. I break into a huge, childish grin and Grant smirks back with equal stupidity. “What are we doing?” does not have to be said out loud. With that Grant wheels his horse and rides off dramatically. I look east to the Storm hills and beyond.

The priests utter incantations and breathe deeply from dark, smoking incense pots. The world shimmers as if viewed through the heat of the fire. The earth tilts suddenly and the sky turns to violet, casting an unnatural light across the world. The shimmering subsides once more as all comes back to focus.

With The Block at my back I set off. This is an arid land and unfamiliar to me, far away from the lush plains and pasture land of Dragon pass. Sasha treads cautiously, high-stepping in the unfamiliar sand and scrub of the Praxian flatlands.

The calling I have felt these past months has led me to this place at this time and I am drawn.

My first task is to hunt and kill a plains beast, the first I encounter, then deliver it to the priestesses of Eiritha at their temple in the Paps foothills.

Within a few miles I spy in the distance a creature, a large creature. On a tight rein Sasha walks slowly towards it, head high. I knock an arrow. As we approach the beast I recognise the shape of a high-llama, not dangerous but difficult to chase down. Its speed will be similar to that of Sasha, faster without a rider. I must close the gap as much as possible.

Suddenly the beast is spooked and is off.  I kick Sasha into a gallop. The high-llama is still too far out so I call on the words of mobility and immediately we begin to close. As I come alongside the hindquarters of the fleeing creature I cast the speedart spell, hoping to end this quickly, but it has other ideas. At the very moment I loosen my grip on the string it veers away. My shaft finds its mark but does not sink deeply enough through the tough, sun-baked hide. Giving chase I put a further five arrows into the beast from close range but still it does not slow, let alone fall.

Spying a small hillock of rock and scree ahead there is an opportunity. As the high-llama stumbles and scrambles up the slope I swing Sasha to the right, rounding the hillock and bringing her to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust on the far side. With arrow poised I wait. The fleeing llama crests the hill and continues its headlong charge down. I set myself. Heels gripping tightly against Sasha’s flanks I rise slightly in the stirrups. The shaft flies and the llama drops dead in a spray of dust and shingle, pierced through the skull just behind the left eye.

Thinking hard, I recall and perform the appropriate ceremony over the body. The Eiritha temple is a hard ride but the going is uneventful. I present the carcass and prepare for the second stage of my journey.

For my second task I must find and kill the first non-Stormbull life I find.

Once more in the heat and dust of the Praxian plains I find myself a prize worthy of Great Urox, a griffin feasting upon the bloodied remains of a recently killed baboon.

A river flow’s nearby which the baboon was obviously using as a watering hole before the attack came.

Wasting no time I slide my helm into position, take up my bow, kick Sasha into a charge and scream the war cry of my family. With lightning reflexes the griffin is up from its feast, jowls dripping gore and bearing down on me. It shows no fear and I cannot but admire its bestial instincts to fight fire with fire. We charge, head to head. Its great claws gouge clumps from the earth as I rise in the saddle, my bow string singing like a lute as I rain arrows between Sashas’ horns. Three find their mark before we collide like titans from a bygone age. Thunder rolls across the heavens as The Great Bull bellows his approval. The huge bulk of the griffin becomes apparent as it speeds past on my right flank and enormous paw with claws like a fistful of sabres lashes out. I throw myself wildly to the left. Gripping tightly with my thighs to avoid a fall I only partially avoid the raking claws of the griffin, leather and plate scales are torn from my side exposing two deep, black cuts where the flesh beneath has been gouged away. With a wince of pain I wheel Sasha about and dropping the bow take up my spear. I charge again; the spear, held lance-like, glints in the violet light of this other place. The pounding drum of hooves is muffled by the seemingly inadequate bronze cavalry helm as I bear down on the mighty creature. At the last second it leaps to the left slashing the air where I had been a heartbeat before. My speed carries me clear and I turn again for a third charge. This time the speed of my charge is brutal. Beneath me Sasha has sensed we cannot expend energy in this way for long and has given her all for one final assault. My aim is good and the spear impales deeply before being wrenched from my grip.

The griffin roars its anger and takes to the skies.

Ripping my helmet from my head I leap from the saddle and run to my discarded bow. Taking it up I wipe stinging sweat from my eyes and turn just in time to see the great beast descending at tremendous velocity, all four sets of razor sharp claws extended. I throw myself to the side as the great claws tear into the ground with sickening force. The griffin takes off again but my arrows give chase. Two shafts bury deeply in its flanks before it wheels away to the East, cries of pain and anger filling the sky.

I am ecstatic to be alive but furious at my quarry’s escape. So great a battle would be a worthy end for either man or beast.

With a blood-rage upon me I descend the riverbank to take water and wash my wound. Stepping from the river is a newtling. In its grasp is a net, bulging with small fish. The newtling takes a few nervous steps towards me. Holding up a hand it jibbers something unintelligible in its own tongue. The red mist descends at this blatant insult and I step forward, drawing my sword. It will be a bad day for this one. Taking a two handed grip of my blade I leap forward. The blade arcs over my head and descends in a burnished blur. The newtling is hacked almost in two from the ferocity of the blow. The head bounces away down to the waters’ edge, dragging shoulder flesh and ligaments with it. The blade of my sword is embedded deeply in the abdomen of the newtling. It has travelled down through the chest destroying organs and shattering the ribs and spine. The decapitated body stands before me still, held upright by the vice-like grip I maintain on the sword hilt. Relaxing a little I raise a booted foot and push the corpse from my blade. My mood lightens. I have completed the second task.

For my third task I must endure no beast or foe, but the ravages of nature itself. Leaving Sasha at a small oasis I head into the desert of The Dead Place. This most holy of places where The Great Stormbull fell during his fight with The Devil and the goddess Eiritha nourished him with the life of all the surrounding lands supports no living thing. Here I must survive for as long as I may or Humakt take me.

On the first day I am in good spirits as I scavenge enough dead wood to build shelter from the blistering glare of Yelm. However no water is to be found.

On the second day a whirlvish comes. This scouring desert whirlwind of sharp-sand, like tiny knives, partially destroys my armour and flays skin where it’s exposed. Although painful it serves more as annoyance than of life threatening peril. When the whirlvish departs I heal my ravaged flesh, only then noticing my meagre shelter has been destroyed and scattered I know not where.

Exhaustion, dehydration and exposure begin to take their toll on the third day. Unbeknown to me I begin talking to myself and seeing figures at the edge of my vision. When I turn to look, they have always gone.

On the fourth day I know I can last no longer. Half starved, naked and delirious with dehydration I crawl from The Dead Place. Purified in spirit, I am ready for the final task.

The task is straightforward; enter the Devil’s marsh and kill chaos.

Wading waist deep in stinking bog water, I stumble from tangled island to tangled island. Thick mist swirls about me in sulphurous clouds, which choke me periodically.

The half-light is oppressive and throws shadows that appear to change shape, disperse and reform elsewhere. I rest, breathing heavily and leaning on my spear. Ahead of me the murky water erupts sending plumes of brackish filth into the air. As the tumult recedes momentarily, a great slug-like beast confronts me armoured in an ebony shell that spirals in on itself in endless, hypnotic coils. A dragon snail! In a moment we are locked in combat, exchanging blows. The twin heads of this chaotic abomination hiss and spit then strike alternately. I am forced back under the weight of blows, thankfully deflecting all, but only just. The exertions of this pilgrimage are taking their toll. My energy is low, my limbs leaden and I am giving ground badly. I decide this is my last stand and will not go quietly into the night.

I sink the butt end of my spear into the soft ground and drop to one knee. Sheltering behind my shield I reach for the chain around my neck and pull forth the enchanted Tusker horn won so long ago. I wet my lips, still dry and cracked from my trials in The Dead Place and sound a long, deep note that reverberates through the filthy smog. As the echoes die away the dragon snail stands, routed to the spot, unsure for the first time. Quivers run through its slick, almost gelatinous body as it edges away. In this moment I have an epiphany. I cannot fail.

The power of the bull floods my veins and strength returns. I am ten feet tall and bellow my rage else the power of my god burst the flesh from my bones. Screaming my imminent victory I am propelled forward on hooves of iron and strike. With a bestial ferocity, fearing not for this fragile earthly body, caring not for any minor affront this chaos filth can inflict on my spirits’ vessel. My soul is promised to another and this trifling beast cannot take what is promised to Him.

It is over quickly. The dead dragon snail lies before me shrivelled and oozing dark gore from half a dozen gaping wounds.

On my knees now with head hung in exhaustion, a once a strong wind begins to blow. The wind builds quickly to a gale blowing seemingly from the earth itself. The foggy gloom swirls manically about be in luminescent colours that flicker with tiny lightening.

I am borne up, to my feet at first then clear of the ground and carried spinning round and round and high into the sky. Gently I am deposited on the very top of The Block. There He welcomes me and rewards his loyal servant.