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Chapter 15
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Neophor trudged through the barely visible track with a growing sense of trepidation. The chill crept into his limbs like a paralyzing fear, stabbing him with every step forward. 8
Cold and fear. 9
The two senses merged so completely that he could not differentiate between them. 10
Winter had stripped the old forest of its glorious green coat. The canopy was parched and withering, the twisted branches filtering the soft glare of the moon, hiding drunk behind a grey haze of clouds. The faint light illuminated his pale face, grey eyes sobered with fear, yet still tainted with a hint of boyish daring. His hair was a long, untamed mass of black, pushed back by a band of engraved silver. The trees stood tall and towering around him, like dark silhouettes in the dimness, naked limbs obscured by white frost, branches reaching towards the sky in needy prayer. 11
The winter wind howled, breathing an estrange sense of life into the forest. A life that seemed sinister in the gloomy night. 12
He held a jagged piece of syphian glass in his hand, its tip flickering with a green flame, unperturbed by the wind. It guided him like a beacon, throwing a faint light into the gloom. He had been walking for over an hour now, plunging deeper into the heart of the forest. Moonlight was becoming scarcer. The darkness around him seemed to stretch endlessly, unmarred by color, just a murky blackness. It did little to unnerve him, though. It had become second nature now. 13
It was only the daunting task ahead that tensed his mind. 14
This is it. The final test. Three years of tramping half-blinded through the wretched forest, two years of rigorous training in marksmanship, uncountable months of enduring the savage winters of the Northlands – it all paid off tonight. Or otherwise, he thought ironically. 15
He remembered his training vividly. It had become his life, more or less, in these past few years: waking up after four grateful hours of sleep, sitting in an ice-cold pond till the first rays of light hit the sky, one cold meal in the morning, another one at night and the terribly rigorous training throughout the entire day. Of course, the trainees had inherited tricks from the earlier cadets, they would steal warming draughts from the alchemists and drain them in the ponds, then sit casually for hours grinning like loons. They would, as boys often do, steal honeycakes, fried hams and lamb and veal, cheeses and sweet curbs from the bakers and often, they would bunk their duties and go running off into the surrounding meadows – they were reprimanded savagely, but it always seemed worth the punishment. Even so, it was a prison and more than once had Neophor had thought of quitting. But something kept him going every day. An inner drive to endure. And endure I did. 16
It was at last time to prove his worth. This would be the final trial. 17
The last hunt. 18
I can’t fail. I won’t fail. He had put in too much effort to fail now. 19
The track ascended as he carried on forward, and he could not help but wonder how the other trainees were faring, especially Johen, his friend and childhood companion. As children, they had been almost inseparable, more brothers then friends. It did not come as a surprise when both decided to enroll into the Hawks together. It had been such an exciting prospect then, little less than a fantasy, to be in the ranks of the renowned rangers. Only when their training had started, had the initial keenness disappeared. Didn’t fancy being rangers much after that did we? It amused him now. 20
The Hawks were famous all over the Northlands, known as a standing institute for greatness. The rangers had performed remarkable deeds, often travelling all over the Northlands, fighting off raiders and bandits and rogues, cleansing villages and forests from packs of wild beasts. They were hailed as local heroes. Rightly so, if someone lives through their training program, thought Neophor. Even I should be a hero.21
He and the other trainees had all sweat to the bone for this day – and for good reason too. Their task was no simple one. It would involve everything they had learnt over the past years, and a great deal of daring. 22
His prey lay deeper ahead still. The jinuangi. The black cat was not known for its hospitality. Being extremely territorial, the jinuangi had earned itself recognition as a formidable foe. Their task was to track and slay the enormous beasts, then to dissect and bring back one of its tusks. Neophor himself had seen the jinuangi only once before. A horrifying, full-bloomed female, as large as an ox. Perhaps stronger too. It had taken twenty arrows into its gut before any of the rangers had dared to approach it. 23
Thinking about it, Neophor was terrified. He had never been the best ranger. That had been Johen, the prodigy boy. He was built solely for this purpose; with his strong, sturdy footing and an exceptional talent for marksmanship. He’ll make it. I should be more worried about myself. Neophor, on the other hand was considerably less skilled. He was the transparent trainee, tagging along with the rest of the group, cunning and often bright, yet never good enough. The Hawks had high standards. 24
Not anymore, thought, shaking these thoughts form his head. Today, he was the predator. 25
He walked for an endless time, dissolved in his own thoughts. The trees on either seed became thicker, much less spaced. The dwindling light threatened to exhaust itself. The roof of the forest had become an obscuring network of branches. Icicles hung from their edges, like chiseled white daggers in the darkness. Neophor passed his hands over the nearby trunks, feeling the thick bark against his cold hands as he made his way forward. The snow on the ground had become thinner and darker, mingled with dirt from the track.26
A certain smell hung in the air. Neophor recognized it at once. The odor was distinctively offensive, a territorial marking – a warning for invaders. 27
He had entered into the lair of a jinuangi. 28
He began moving at once, step after careful step, eyes intently scanning the distance. The glass in his hand trembled. Adrenalin pumped through his blood, exhilarating his senses. He was ever vigilant, ever ready, his training coming into full effect. He compensated his lack of sight, paying close attention to other senses. He searched for sounds, painfully aware that soon this could become a predicament of life and death. 29
Slowly, Neophor drew an oaken longbow, a finely sculpted weapon. Placing the glass-torch in his mouth, he knocked an arrow, ready to release it at the slightest hint of danger.30
Crunch. It was an unmistakable sound, like someone or something stepping over a twisted branch. He whipped his head in different directions, trying to decipher a moving shadow. The very air seemed to be laced with tension. His heart fluttered inside his chest. 31
He took another step and almost cried out in panic, his foot catching an outgrowth. The burning glass flew from his mouth, sizzling weakly as it extinguished in the snow. He went face forward, slamming into the snow. Don’t move, he told himself, ignoring the icy snow in his face, burning his skin. Must not breathe either. He stayed there for a moment, biting his tongue anxiously, almost waiting for the jinuangi to come leaping onto his body, burying its teeth into his throat. 32
Nothing happened. It was deathly quiet.33
Neophor heaved himself up, inhaling the cold air thankfully. A stench crept up to his nose, an unfamiliar odor. It was nauseating, unlike anything he had smelled before. He could feel the taste of bile at the end of his throat, choking him. He felt the ground, carefully pressing through the thick snow. 34
His hands touched warmth. Warmth – on snow. It was liquid, of a thick, sticky substance. He could distinguish it. Swallowing, he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his finger. 35
Blood.36
Warm blood.37
He felt around, in spite of the vomit that rose into his mouth. He almost screamed as his hands came across flesh. He jumped back, heart thudding in its ribcage. Holy – what the hell can it be? Neophor reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small piece of twisted wood. The glazed cloth on its end had been sealed off, stitched with evergreen leaves. It fumbled in his hands as he gnashed at it with his teeth, the bitter juice trickling down his throat. He ripped it apart, and the cloth burst into flame in the air, the crimson fire dancing. 38
The light illuminated a large, dark figure laying on the snow, a black-furred beast. Its eyes were empty pools, devoid of the luster of life and two large, yellowed tusks protruded out of a curled mouth. A jinuangi. It was a disturbing image. How did it die? That seemed a mystery in itself. The jinuangi were solitary creatures and territorial fights were common. Even so, those fights were rarely lethal. 39
Neophor prodded the dead beast with his foot. An idea popped into his mind, a shameful, but a very seductive idea. If he cut the tusk off and went back with it, he would pass. It’s brilliant! Simple, so utterly simple! Immediately, something grew inside him, an overbearing guilt that weighed him down like an uncomfortable belly ache.40
He ignored it. Rummaging into his pockets, he brought out a small knife. The blade was white-cast metal, forged in the Hawks own smithies, a fine weapon. It could cut through nearly anything.41
Neophor crouched over the dead beast, carefully placing the tip of the blade to the base of the tusk. He drew a breath. This is just wrong. I can’t do this, a voice inside him pleaded. I shouldn’t do this. Regardless, his hands had begun sawing the pale bone. A little while later, he had severed its edge and the tusk came off. 42
He sat cross-legged onto the ground and stared at it. For a good time he simply sat there and stared, mind muddled in an internal debate. In a way, he almost felt he deserved it, having spent half his childhood training for this day. Yet, part of him felt heavy, conscious that his entire future would be based on a lie. 43
Neophor pocketed the tusk. I won’t regret this, he told himself. 44
He got off the ground, dusting the snow off his clothes. Shutting his conscience away, he carefully placed an arrow in the beasts’ head, flinching as it made contact. 45
Suddenly, a cold crept up his spine, a freezing chill. It felt as if he had been submerged into a pool of icy water. He began to turn. But couldn’t. His body stood rooted in the same position, paralyzed. He had no control. He tried moving his legs, but he felt nothing. 46
What’s happening? He tried to shout. Nothing. The cold intensified. His own body had become his cage, a cage where he was alone with his raging, panicking thoughts, unable to make sense of what was happening to him. 47
Something gripped his shoulders. Hands, Neophor realized with dread. Iron-cold hands, colder than the snow on the ground, colder than the chill that ravaged his muscles. An unearthly cold. A shadowy presence crept behind him. He could sense it, creeping close, an unfamiliar presence. He felt the brush of rough lips on his neck and an agonizing pain as sharp teeth plunged into his skin. He felt venom spasm into his blood. Cold, painful venom. It burnt him form the inside, scorching his veins, intensifying as it spread all over his body. 48
His heart burned with a maddening pain. He slid in and out of focus, unable to scream, unable to yell. 49
Then, the spell broke. Neophor ferociously turned around to face his attacker, guided by some primitive instinct. An instinct of survival. It was tall and high, wrapped loosely in a black cloak. Its head was hooded, face obscured by a shadow darker than the night sky. Only its hands were visible, thin, bony hands with pale, frozen skin. It stood like stone, still and unmoving, almost like a shadow itself, wrought from the bowels of death. 50
It caught Neophor by the throat, crushing him with the very strength of its limbs. Neophor felt his heart blaze with a fiery pain and then his strength burst. A violet flame erupted form his hands, enveloping itself onto the creature. He heard the cloth singe and sizzle as the fire snaked onto the creature’s body. 51
It threw him back, its mouth opening in a piercing scream. Like a tortured animal, it threw its head back and sank to the ground, and the fire grew around it, the flames lapping their tongues at its body. 52
Neophor fell onto his back, his chest heaving up and down. The pain in his chest had subsided to a dull thudding. He could feel the attacker’s venom pulsing through his body, feel it overtake his mind. He lay there for a long time, listening to the agonized screams of the creature somewhere beside him. 53
I failed, he thought. 54
His last thoughts.55
And then the darkness enveloped him like a blanket. 56
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Silver trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
That's how into this story I became. I am interested in seeing what happens next. I can't wait to read the next chapter!!! 
Thank you so much!! I really really appreciate the feedback!
I will, although, try to take something out from the beginning!
I doubt that is the case, but that's how it seems to be. Anyway, it's a good 'hook' to ensure the reader reads on 
