Smoke in the Hills - A Short Story feature

Relief flooded through Wekren, he had done it, he had made the shot. Silently Rakslern made his way towards him, great wooden staff in hand. "You are one of Narken's children" he stated, plainly, the
rustling of leaves highlighting his words. But the meaning was profound for Wekren, he was a hunter of the people, a person blessed by the Great God of Forests, Rain and Hunting. He was tasked with providing food for the people and he was filled with pride at the thought, he had passed the final test.

Leffen soon followed, he had passed his test as well, but he had not yet proven he was blessed by Narken. They both looked to Rakslern, the master of the hunt, he was to decide what to do next. His face was impassive, dedicated to its duty, it betrayed none of the emotions that plagued the younger
brothers. "We return to village" he said, looking at the darkening sky. The disappointment was evident on Leffen's face; he was not to prove himself this day. With determined strides the Master set off to the south towards the village, the sun lighting his wizened features from one side. The village was not far, although they had to veer off to meet up with other parties, Wekren could tell the success or failure of others by a mere glance at their faces. He ignored those that had failed, they were not important and instead focused on those that had succeeded. Young Biret, Gofert, Histel these were his brothers now.

It wasn't until the smoke hit him that he realised, whilst walking the last rise, glancing at Rakslern he noticed that he was already crouching, moving silently ahead of him. With growing trepidation Wekren followed in his path, matching his strides. The smoke smelt of charred wood and flesh, mixing with the sweet smell of dusk to create a sickening odour, it had already burnt itself out. This wasn't any mountain raiders, who would not have burnt any people along with it, this was far worse. As the rise
grew higher the group crouched lower, eventually crawling along on their stomachs. With a last final drag Wekren pulled himself to the top of the hill to view the blackened shell of his village. The space where not so long before had stood a cluster of hovels and shacks now stood a few upright posts,
declaring their stubbornness to the sky. The ground was littered with debris, but from this height it just looked like a black smudge on the countryside.

Rage enshrouded Wekren's mind, he knew who had done this before they even went down there; the snivelling men from the coast, who marched about the landscape. Cowards, all of them, shooting
sticks at them with their strange contraptions. But all of Wekren's resolve fled when he saw the first body; its features blackened and smoothed by the fire, its belly bloated, blood caked on its hands. It took all of his effort not to retch right there, but such a thing would only show weak conviction to
his brothers, an inability to witness deaths grip. The most unnerving thing, Wekren thought as he stared intently at his feet, and the blackened soil which surrounded them, was the lack of bodies.

"Aaaooooo!" he heard a brother scream, a half wail half shout. Instinctively Wekren followed his gaze but instantly wished he hadn't. In the centre of the burnings, lay a mound, which Wekren had
originally thought was the remains of the longhouse.

They were bodies.

Even with only a glance, it was branded in Wekren's memory like he was still looking at it. Seared and twisted arms reached out as though still waiting for someone to grab hold of it and pull them out of their nightmare. To be burned to death was a great insult, it meant that Renarl, the god of Fire, despised you and you were not worthy of the heat of his glare. But to be killed in such a way, was beyond insult... beyond belief, it was a sign.

Wekren had no idea how long they stood there, contemplating the gravity of the situation. It could have been days, none of them would have felt like eating whilst in that place. But it was Rakslern which broke them out of their daze, words didn't need to be said, but they were said anyway. "Brothers of Narken! Of Tolren! Men of the Mountains! What has been done here today is a grievous sign; Renarl is furious, Renarl is beyond reasonability. Something must be done and nothing short of the burnings of every one of the people who have done this will appease him. We are all brothers of Renarl now, our minds have been cleansed by fires devastation, no longer do we have commitments, we have been given only one thing to do!" No one needed to say what that thing was.

And suddenly, when all the men were still a second before, they all erupted in a flurry of motion. Prayers were said, weapons coated in ash, revenge foremost in everyone's mind. Since all of the war paint was gone, ash was the next best thing. Wekren lay down and rolled in it, from side to side, until he couldn't feel any exposed skin. Standing up again he took stock of their party. Many were covered from head to toe in ash like himself, some had drawn patterns on their chests and faces, some had even chopped off fingers or toes to show their conviction. They were not getting ready for war, they were ready for a hunt. The bastards had chosen a horrific time to raid, because all that were left now were the fighting men.