Chapter 3

With hardly a splash, Larke hastily slid over the left side of his coracle, gliding smoothly into the now waist deep swamp waters. Then, when he was certain that the ripples on the water above wouldn’t betray him, he reversed course and kicked out powerfully with his feet, with his hands and arms only minimally attempting to force his passage further to the right, towards the north. A Yelfin hunter would not expect their coup-prize to move further towards danger, once the trap of surprise had been sprung.

The lad was in some danger of encroaching into shallower waters that could betray his passage, but he kept swimming underwater towards deeper murky waters. Larke could hold his breath for a very long time, even when he was a young boy. None of his fellows could last underwater longer than three or four minutes, at the very most. With his trained lungs, a full five minutes and beyond was achievable. He thought that his personal best time was just over seven minutes, but he wasn’t certain about the exact length of that prior ordeal.

On this occasion, less than five minutes amply sufficed to reach the shallows of the northern shore of this part of the swamp, where many reeds and willows grew thickly at the shoreline. It was an old trick to cautiously pluck a reed to use as a small but sufficient breathing tube for hiding underwater, but it was also a usually very successful trick worth repeating at this time of need. Getting air into his mouth and lungs from the reed, he tried to relax and he decided that he’d remain hidden at least another five minutes longer, before risking a glimpse from the surface, hopefully partially hidden within the swamp plants.

Larke began to consider his predicament and then began to let his thoughts wander just a bit as he relaxed with the certainty of safety. His opponent must have misfired that sharp hunting arrow with some error, he surmised. No one, not even a special rival would willingly take what would have been a certain kill-shot, striking his head. Now a wounding shot, perhaps to the upraised paddling arm or shoulder, that was more conceivable – but also quite beyond the usual accepted rules for collecting coup, even in these rather unsettled times!

Rules are sometimes broken; usually by ignorance and sometimes out of poor judgment or anger, and this was his current surmise. The alternative was that a moderately skilled hunter with a serious grudge might be wishing to now permanently remove a threat, and Larke was intended to be stealthily killed from ambush all along, his body to disappear this night into the swamp ... frankly to the lasting regret of far too few members of his village.

Now that was another sort of thought ... was the arrow that had nearly struck him even of Yelfin make? Even if so, that didn’t guarantee that the archer had been of that race as well. It wasn’t impossible to find ‘lost’ Yelfin arrows, stuck in a tree out here in what was no-man’s land, so a very cunning human adversary, might just attempt to frame their neighbors for this heinous crime, to further point suspicion for this attempted assassination away from the village!

Too many options ... and too few of them good ones! Larke surmised, as his head gently rose above the water just enough so that his eyes could scan the surroundings. He had surfaced nice and quietly, without creating any splashes or ripples and no additional arrows were fired his way. The only person in sight was his gatherer friend, Maeye, who seemed in a complete panic and was splashing about in the waist high waters near Larke’s small boat, desperate to find his missing and now presumed dead friend.

It was actually extremely touching, Larke thought with a smile, as he gently submerged again to slither along the shallow shoreline waters for another twenty yards, to where a large tree had fallen into the swamp. This large trunk gave the lad plenty of cover so that he could emerge from the water, slowly and hopefully unseen, so that his wet leather breeches wouldn’t betray his movement onto dry land with squeaking sounds. Now under the improved cover of the heavier undergrowth of the marshlands, he started making his way back towards Maeye’s gathering spot in an oblique manner, avoiding the open trail by the shoreline and any clearings in the brush that would betray his passage. By then, his gatherer friend had admitted defeat and had returned to the shore as well.

Another small, but more welcome surprise was now in order!

“Speak not!” Larke whispered into his ear, as he covered Maeye’s mouth tightly and pulled him firmly back behind a thick bush where we could talk in private.

“Now ... I’m fine, the archer missed,” the lad whispered further, “But speak softly for my ears only, where did he fire from? And who was he ... was he Yelfin or a human seeking to kill me this night?”

“From the edge of the south shore of this lagoon. A human, I’m certain, for I heard his passage before I saw him, as he moved through the brush there with little skill. Once at the shore, he stood to full height and allowed the moon to clearly mark his face as he fired ... at first, I feared, upon me! He was a short thin man with dark greasy hair that much covered his face but reflected a clear shine, from its oils. That was all I could see with certainty. Then he hid himself at once back in that shoreline brush, undoubtedly as certain as I was that his arrow had struck you by surprise. Afterwards, I was in some haste to swim to your assistance, so I cannot say that I heard him move, either towards us or in retreat, but at my one quick glance as he left, he seemed to move as if favoring an old injury on his left side.”

With just a nod and a quick clasping of his friend’s hand in farewell, Larke slid off his wet moccasins and stepped off into the safety of the deeper shadows barefoot, so that the wet leather would not betray his movement. Now he hastened southward, taking other indirect and oblique approaches towards the main southern trail. He did not overly hasten though, and he carefully selected each footstep to ensure that his passage was as silent as possible. Even in the dark of night, he knew every footpath in this part of the swamp and he could travel with both quickness and stealth in the safety of the shadows well off from the main open trail. At least twice a minute he’d freeze in place and just listen for at least ten seconds.

With a smile after one of these pauses to listen to the night sounds of the swamp, that the stealthy hunter could tell for certain that his quarry was already in full retreat, hastening south down the main trail, towards their home village.

The attempted assassin was not running yet, but walking hastily, turning often to stop and listen for signs of pursuit as well. Larke was too clever and experienced to be discovered in such a way and he was certain that in any case that his own hearing was far sharper. The sounds of the would-be assassin hurrying along, confirmed to Larke’s satisfaction that his quarry did tend to favor one foot as he hastened away, suggesting some old or fresh injury to his left leg. This confirmation, along with Maeye’s excellent physical description, gave the lad an excellent guess now of his prey’s identity, general woodland skills and his likely combat capabilities.

With his exceptional eyesight, the dim moonlight was near-to daylight for him and he decided that he could pursue his quarry quite easily while on a tangent, on another lesser trail that paralleled this same course, but further out of sight and the man’s hearing range. It didn’t take long, perhaps just ten minutes for Larke to get well ahead of his assailant where he could now prepare for an ambush of his own.

Perhaps the simplest solution for everyone would have been for Larke to just mortally shoot the would-be assassin and dump his body into the swamp, further back to the northeast, where most of the other human hunters only rarely went. The fresh heart’s blood flowing from the kill would attract any swamp lizard within miles, and this would save a lot of incriminations later. Unfortunately, the young gatherer didn’t consider himself that coarse or hard of heart ... to kill an enemy now in cold blood, and besides ... he really did want to know – why?

Already, the annoyed gatherer had a very good idea of whom the attempted assassin was, even from Maeye’s admittedly brief observation, so it was no real surprise when Jorge Weaver came hobbling into view, out of the gloom along the trail. Jorge had suffered a significant injury to his left leg some years ago while hunting, receiving a bite from a swamp lizard. His life had only been saved by the nearby presence of other hunters and the wound had healed quite ill, leaving a pronounced weakness in the muscle and a slight resulting limp. Since then, Jorge had performed mostly light duties in the village, working with the weaver girls ... and also running minor errands for Havril.

Indeed, Jorge was much beholden to the village headman, and ever while following his instructions, played the minor bully when delivering his orders. Aye ... if Larke’s stepfather had ordered this assassination, then Jorge would indeed be the very man that he’d instruct to perform it! Weak leg or not, there was nothing impaired with Jorge’s skill with a bow. That arrow had only missed his skull by a fraction of an inch, only because Larke’s rather exceptional senses had warned him at nearly the last possible second!

Larke needed to be sure of his own aim, so he could stop his victim with certainty, but insure also that the wounded man could still speak. Carefully then, he let his avenging arrow fly out, accurately striking the would-be killer high into his right thigh. Jorge fell at once to the pathway, as his lame left leg alone could not bear his entire body weight. Sensing that he’d been trapped, the angry young man drew forth his belt knife, but seeing that Larke already had a bead drawn on him with a fresh arrow, he dropped the weapon from his hand in surrender.

“Why did you do this, Jorge?” Larke calmly asked, keeping the arrow on his bowstring taunt but not quite fully ready to fire. “I did not realize that we had a quarrel, you and I.”

“Pull the arrow out and let me go, and I’ll tell you.” The wounded man whined in supplication.

“Yes ... you will tell me, but now, for I do not think that you quite recognize your peril. That arrow was well-aimed, and should either you or I withdraw it, you would bleed out, quickly, in but a few minutes. That arrowhead has cut the main vein running down your leg and naught but Mistress Ermingra, our healer, could bind and cauterize such a mortal wound, allowing you to still live. At best, even should you pull the arrow yourself with courage that I’m quite certain that you lack, wound fever would start to take you within hours. Nor could you hope to hobble home, under the strength of your weak leg alone, leaving the arrow impaled within you. No, Jorge ... if you want to live at all or even hope to see the sunrise only yet a couple hours from now, you will tell me all ... and pledge to repeat those truths thereafter, should I now spare your life and bear you in safety back to the village. Please decide quickly and make Oath, while the darkness might for a short while further still hide your crimes.”

Jorge might be a willing toady of the village headman, but his self-interest was as ever paramount. He made immediate Oath-Bondage that upon returning to the village, that he would thereafter speak nothing but the truth of this matter, upon the certainty of dire punishments by the Weavers in the life to come.

Even the highly impious took these sorts of oaths extremely seriously. It was known that the Gods (most of them anyway) had been banished, but as ever, the Weavers wove the fates of every man and woman, in this life and the next.

The captured assassin admitted that Havril the Miller had paid him forty silver coins to commit the deed, with the promise of an additional final payment of sixty coins once the killing was completed and Larke’s body was forever lost within the swamp. His fate to remain a mystery. Present too when the initial payment was made, was Brom, Havril’s brother, who while overtly saying nothing, visibly agreed with the scheme, nodding as the agreement for the murder was sealed.

It was safe enough to leave Jorge lying there in the pathway. Even at a crawl, the admitted would-be assassin couldn’t move nearly far enough away to hope to reach the safety of the village before wound fever would set in. Moving the wounded leg would only increase the internal damage, the young gatherer reminded his captive before he left, making the likelihood of a good healing increasingly unlikely.

Larke ran back to reclaim his gear, the sack of captured frogs and his coracle and was able to paddle hastily back south with speed, close to where the fallen man lay. Jorge, true to his oath, had not attempted any escape, and allowed himself to be placed into the boat with his hands now tied behind his back. Larke paddled home quickly, but he kept a careful watchful eye upon his captive for signs of duplicity, but there were none. The unlucky man seemed to realize that his only hope for survival depended upon his obedience. In truth, only Mistress Ermingra’s medical skills could hope to staunch and repair such a mortal wound as he now possessed.

It was slow paddling with the extra weight in the small rounded craft, and they didn’t reach the river dock outside the village until about an hour after dawn. The lad had earlier heard the breakfast horn blow at a distance, and by the time they had entered the village, the meal was mostly over and nearly everyone was already gone to their morning duties. Larke’s report could not wait.

“Beorht,” he asked, “loudly sound your horn, if you would for me, to bid everyone to return in haste to hear our news, for Jorge here would give witness to all and bear a report of an alarming nature, of great importance for everyone here.”

The elderly gatekeeper looked hard at Jorge, quite in astonishment, and after taking a long look at the arrow still embedded in his flesh, nodded and blew on his great horn. Seven times he sounded the horn, each note long and slow, so that even those in the furthest fields could hear his call. Quickly, hearing this unusual alarm cry, everyone regathered to the central meal tables, looking up Larke and his prisoner with much amazement and obvious concern, but the lad held his tongue in silence until the last stragglers had arrived.

Havril and his brother Brom hung near the back, unobtrusively, and were already in whispered conference with each other, frightened and gravely concerned already that their assassination scheme had been discovered. Even the old river priest and the trading boat captain came too to observe, clearly quite curious about what emergency had occurred just before the final trading session had begun. Mistress Ermingra, seeing the grave wound, tried to hobble forward to inspect it, but Larke bade her to wait for yet another moment yet, so that her patient could bear witness first.

“Speak now, loudly and clearly ... remembering the Oath you have taken.” Larke whispered to Jorge, who nodded. It was clear that he was frightened of what the headman could do ... but for now he felt bound to his oath, and was indeed rather more frightened of Larke ... who admittedly wasn’t quite human. A horrible lingering death was certain, he feared, should he recant his testimony, and that paled beyond anything the headman could possibly threaten him with.

“Let me speak here and now, truthfully under Oath, of what I have seen and heard and then said and done...” the wounded former hunter spoke in a raised but surprisingly calm voice, raising up his right hand palm outwards to mark a proper Truth-Oath. He spoke then of the plan to commit murder against Larke and of the agreement he, the headsman and his brother had made. Then he displayed the purse of forty silver coins, throwing it to the ground near where the Havril was standing.

“Lies!” The headsman and his brother Brom both loudly cried out, but the captured assassin held his palm high, unwavering ... continuing to affirm his oath.

“Havril! Brom!” The old priest called out with a laugh, “Come now before me and kneel and make your own Truth-Oaths that this man’s claims are indeed all lies. For I see it in his eyes that he speaks naught but the truth! Now, I can plainly see in your eyes as well that you again have plotted murder, or its attempt, and bear that sin as well upon your already darkened souls. Kneel now and look upon me and the Gods themselves with your eyes and come swear otherwise!”

“Kneel before you, or that Doóc nothus? Never! I admit nothing ... except that I would see that half-breed driven from our midst, by any means within my power!” Havril laughed and then spat upon the ground before the priest, defying him and the Gods as well.