A Hunter’s Vigil

Three days prior

In the forest ten miles north of E-village

Noren extracted the short spear from the wild boar’s carcass, then produced a linen cloth to meticulously wipe the blood from its tip.

This marked their second wild boar this month, yet with spring having only just settled in, the boars were not particularly robust.

“Tolke, shoulder the boar; we’re heading back.”

Noren instructed Tolke, who stood vigilant nearby.

Tolke hoisted the boar onto his back; their hunt had taken them quite deep, and a flicker of doubt arose as to whether they could reach home before sunset.

Noren and Tolke began their trek back, moving against the faint blood trail, carefully obscuring their tracks as they went.

“Do you hear anything?”

Halfway through their journey, Tolke suddenly lifted his head, scanning their surroundings.

Noren cupped a hand behind her ear, yet heard nothing.

Tolke’s five senses, especially his hearing, were significantly more acute than hers.

The young woman shook her head, her voice a soft murmur. “No, you go ahead. I’ll take care of the tracks.”

Tolke glanced at the slanting sun, not hesitating. “Alright, hurry and catch up. It’s getting late.”

Gathering his strength, he broke into a light run, swiftly vanishing from Noren’s line of sight.

Noren didn’t delay either, speeding up her work to erase the bloodstains left by the boar.

If residual blood were discovered, Noren wouldn’t be able to hunt in this count’s private forest for a long time to come.

After all, within this forest, tusked wild boars were hardly the carnivores’ preferred prey.

Should bloodstains from a prolonged animal escape appear without any accompanying carcass, it would inevitably raise suspicions of poaching.

And if one were merely to strip the hide and leave the corpse for other animals to devour, abandoning the valuable tusks and prime meat would be an unforgivable waste.

Having successfully concealed the blood trail, she ascended a towering oak.

Whether due to the winter’s persistent foliage or the swift onset of spring growth, the oak stood robustly verdant.

Fortunately, numerous fir trees surrounded it, ensuring her perch remained inconspicuous.

Noren sat on a branch, her left arm embracing the tree trunk, her right arm raising the short spear, its tip aimed downwards, ready to be thrown at any moment.

She narrowed her eyes.

In the distance, a lone figure suddenly emerged from behind a tree, sprinting in her direction.

‘That appears to be a runaway serf.’

As the figure drew nearer, the sound of ragged, desperate breaths reached her ears.

The serf bore streaks of blood, likely from scrapes and collisions within the forest.

Had he been subjected to torture, such speed would have been impossible.

Realizing the approaching figure was merely a runaway serf, Noren’s taut nerves relaxed.

She began to weigh the practicality of capturing him to augment her family’s labor force.

‘To seize him, or not to seize him?’

Noren instinctively tightened her grip on the spear shaft, poised to strike.

The serf, utterly oblivious to Noren’s hidden presence in the tree, dashed past below without a moment’s hesitation.

‘No, it’s too much trouble. We’re hardly short on thralls anyway.’

After a fleeting consideration, Noren abandoned the idea, resolving to wait until he was long gone before descending.

****

Though the sun had yet to fully dip below the horizon, the moon, a faint specter, already emerged early, as if pursued by Fenrir himself.

The Norse maiden sat perched in the tree, diligently wrapping a cloth strap around the short spear wedged between her thighs.

The lingering twilight cast a serene and solemn glow upon her clear, cool features.

‘I wonder if Tolke has made it back to the village yet…’

A touch of boredom crept into Noren’s thoughts.

‘Hm? What is that?’

Noren’s brow subtly furrowed as a wavering light materialized amidst the trees.

The light drew closer, revealing a man bearing a torch.

The man wore a white cowl, a short sword clutched in his left hand.

Clad in padded fabric armor, a leather belt cinched his waist, from which a short sword sheath hung.

He was clearly a professional warrior.

Three more figures followed in his wake, all armed.

Yet it was the scar-faced man among them who most piqued Noren’s attention.

A long scar stretched from his left cheekbone to the corner of his mouth, lending his face a fierce, unforgiving cast.

He wielded a long spear that towered above his head, and wore a conical helmet with a nasal guard, his long gambeson overlaid with a half-plate leather cuirass.

If her memory served, this man had served at Opava Castle, fulfilling the role of a patrol guard or similar duty.

The lengthy scar on his left cheek, rumor had it, was a souvenir from a Magyar invasion, a testament to his prowess.

Whispers claimed he had personally slain several Magyar raiders.

‘Four men, merely to apprehend one runaway serf, and one among them a seasoned veteran of war? What transgression could this serf possibly have committed?’

Noren’s thoughts were not unfounded.

In recent years, trade had seen a resurgence across the various nations of Europe, and urban movements were burgeoning.

Even in a remote backwater like the Opava Count’s territory, the city settlement of Hradec had been established along the Moravian River.

Many serfs had fled to cities, yearning for new lives and the coveted status of freemen, thereby supplying numerous cities with abundant labor.

Yet, this massive influx of people also imposed immense burdens; issues such as food supply, sanitation, and public order constantly hampered the cities’ further development.

As a fundamental necessity for urban centers, food could not be supplied solely through trade, particularly in a location like Opava, far removed from the Moravian capital.

Consequently, vast numbers of farmers had begun cultivating land outside Hradec, establishing a crucial food source.

This, in turn, explained why the lord permitted a certain number of serfs to escape to Hradec; after all, they were still tilling his lands, and the location of their toil mattered little.

Only the most desperate serfs would contemplate venturing into a neighboring count’s territory.

Most, however, would perish en route or be apprehended by soldiers and subjected to hanging—strung up to dry like slabs of cured meat.

It was a bleak question whether their lives were even worth the modest cost of a hemp rope.

‘May they not discover me,’ Noren thought, holding her breath, her hopes pinned on the soldiers’ swift departure.

As if in answer to her unspoken plea, the scar-faced man brought his squad to a halt, his gaze sweeping the surroundings.

By then, the sky had grown considerably dim.

While most medieval folk were utterly blind in the darkness, the guards, who enjoyed a diet of meat and fruit, would likely possess a measure of night vision.

The scar-faced man took the torch, bending low to scrutinize the faint traces remaining on the ground.

He seemed to have uncovered something, but his murmur was too low for Noren to discern.

One guard attempted to stray from the formation, only to be sharply reprimanded by the scar-faced man.

Sheepishly, the guard rejoined the ranks, then accepted the torch offered by the leader and advanced in the indicated direction.

The remaining men, without further delay, fell in behind him.

Once they had completely vanished from sight, Noren slid her short spear into the long leather sheath on her back, swiftly descended the tree, and moved to the spot where the scar-faced man had been scrutinizing the ground.

“What could they have found?”

The young woman crouched, her palm brushing aside blades of grass as she pressed it into the soil. “Wasn’t it meticulously concealed?”

The forest floor was thoroughly carpeted with fallen leaves and tangled weeds; unless traversed frequently, no obvious tracks would emerge.

Indeed, even witchers among spellcasters required their heightened senses to discern trails in such a forest, let alone ordinary medieval folk who suffered from some degree of night blindness.

‘Startling myself over nothing,’ she muttered.

Standing, she was about to depart when a sudden realization struck her. “They… which way did they go?”

She spun her head, gazing in the direction the soldiers had vanished—

THWACK!