Fox Hunter

By Tuomas Vainio

It has been roughly three long years since the day the city first learned that the Skull of Oghren was smashed. A skull used to create afflicted as one the most severe punishment in the city, a source of historic blight on the world at large, and the destruction has not gone unnoticed.

There is a new storm headed towards the city. Sköll, a fox hunter by trade, is seeking truth of the matter. An undying warrior renowned for his skill and monstrous might. A man as much a hero and a saviour as he is a villain and enemy to the city.

As for the young set of the hands that saw the effort to see the Skull of Oghren smashed, their lives have gone on largely unnoticed by the many powers of the city. But the passage of time will see it changed as the magisters of city once again hold the annual test to pick the most promising children to join their ranks.

There is indeed a storm brewing and it is hard to imagine that anyone would get through it truly unscathed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tuomas Vainio
• Release date: Dec 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370733156

Tuomas Vainio

I write, I read, and the typos are still there. It is the crux of my life. Anyhow, my published works should not be overpriced and in some outlets you might be even able to set your own price!

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Rats, Magic, and Thieves:

Fox Hunter

Tuomas Vainio

Fox Hunter. Copyright © 2017 Tuomas Vainio.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without a written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact the author at [e-mail].

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

Three years have passed since the rumours of the destruction of the indestructible Skull of Oghren first spread far and wide from the city. Three long years have passed, and even in the most distant corners people and creatures of various kind are starting to believe it as true. At least, the skull has not resurfaced, nor are there rumours of legions of afflicted spewing forth or even gathering in dark places.

The world seems to remain at peace, and it terrifies those who grasp the reins of power. Thus more and more gazes are slowly turning towards the city. Some with curiosity, some with malice. They all wait for more news to come from that city built within a caldera of a dead volcano. A city almost like a mountain itself nested where the valley meets the sea, surrounded by fertile lands and protected even further by tall mountains in both East and West and an ancient fortresses guarding the lone passage from the North.

It is not to disparage the might of magisters of the city, but their council is not the de facto ruler of the city. A multitude of rat kings in control of the city's literal underbelly, and creatures of both horror and death lie hidden deep in the roots of the city itself. The status quo is shifting, pressure is rising as there are many that would see themselves at the top.

But for now, there is a ship approaching from south. The vessel has three masts and triangular sails that are slowly lowered by the sailors. Nevertheless, the salty water splashes against the bow of the ship. Foam and salty drops spray onto the traveller staring towards the city waiting in the distance. His coat is made out of the tails of a hundred foxes and it dances along with the nudges of the wind. Between his shoulders rest a skull made of bronze. A tarnished skull that bears the mark of time and days on the road, and he bears a pair of rose berries within the hollow eye sockets as his eyes.

He is a man once cursed to live rest of his days without his own head. Well, he might say how it was not much of a head to look at, or how it never did him any good in the first place. But it does not change the fact how the sailors on the ship will be glad to see him depart their vessel. Regardless of their hardened natures, they are unnerved by the silent blank stare of the faux eyes residing within the skull, and how the tall fox hunter makes those slide from one side to mimic movements of real eyes.

Shrieks and shouts are exchanged between the men working at the dock and by sailors on the boat. An exchange about where there is an open space to dock, news of the city, fees, and even the current tax rates for different goods to import and export. After all, a ship's captain might always want to consider docking to another city along the shores of Nuevell. But not today. Thus through careful control of the remaining triangular sales, the speed of the ship slows down as it glides towards an open spot by the pier. The men on board rush to the side with their hooked staves to fish and pull the ropes throw for them by the men at the docks, and so the ship gets reeled in.

Plank is lowered from the ship onto the pier, and our bronze skulled fox hunter takes his brisk steps towards it and stops before his last step. He extends his left arm and waits with his gloved palm wide open. His cloak is pushed aside revealing the enchanted bronze short sword hanging on his belt inside a black leather scabbard. A blade polished well enough to act as a mirror, as attested by one of the sailors that longed to cut his beard during the voyage itself.

A young ship boy climbs up the stairs leading to the hull, he holds onto a thick leather rope as a leash and pulls a somewhat unwilling large hound with him. The hound stares lazily onwards as drool drips from its snout. The leash is placed onto the fox hunter's waiting hand, and the ship boy backs away.

Our fox hunter nods his head, and the jaw drops down for him to speak with the captain. The sound of the voice is calm and it seems to emanate from nowhere in particular: 'Thank you in behalf of the Queen of Emeralds for fulfilling this service.'

'You paid in advance, what kind of captain would I be if I would not be a man worth my word?'

The bronze skull turns to look around. The rose berries slide to the right side of the eye sockets as the fox hunter looks towards the markings left behind by a kraken. 'Dead.' The skull of the man leans backwards and then clacks repeatedly against the jaw while a bellowing laughter arises from the unsightly fox hunter.

The captain shifts his body to stand before the young ship boy, but before he can utter anything back; the bronze skull continues: 'Were you not a man of your word, by Io, the ship would have been claimed by pirates, crushed by a kraken, or perhaps sunk by the storm that tore the ropes and sails alike.' The fox hunter slams his right hand onto the captain's shoulder. 'No need to be so dreary about life. Most people only die once.'

'Ah.' The captain adds, in a mixture of awkward relief and refusal to recall the unlikely number of disasters that had befallen his ship.

'I am glad I got here dry. It is not my preference to the walk at the bottom of the sea.' The gaze of rose berries darts to the old large hound. 'And training a new hound would have taken its time too!' The fox hunter's laughter bellows once more, as he gently yanks the leash to get the old hound off its butt.

'Good luck to you.' The ship boy shouts.

'And may the winds be fairer to you!'

Now that our fox hunter out of the way, the crew can finally start preparing to unload their cargo while the dock officials request the permission to board. However, these officials cannot help but to stare long after the man with the coat made of fox tails and a large hound on a leash.

'Was that…' One the officials asks from his superior.

'The city is currently open for all… For all.' He shivers. 'So the less we know, the better we are. Rumours of the wives and old ladies will reach our ears if there is something to know.' The two stare at each other.

'Right.' And so they proceed to inspect the goods on board, by picking random containers based on the ship's manifesto to see what is inside. After all, there is a high tax on hoxweed and a profit to be made if you can avoid it.

Chapter 1:

Pan is now around ten summers old and he sits perched at the corner of a roof. His left eye is covered with an eye patch. He wears a cloak made of patches of different fabrics over his shoulders, and his black hair is caressed by the morning wind. The boy, grins as he sees a group of three boys snatch a lady's purse and dart off in their escape. Crude but efficient, the boy smirks. The old lady doesn't know who to chase, who to shout after, thus all she can do is shriek out the word thief and frantically point towards the three boys already almost gone beyond the nearest corners.

The boy watches how people stop and look at the old women, some even try to give chase but it is already too late for it. 'Nice, but wrong turf.' Pan mutters to himself, before standing up and running along the rooftops until he spots one of them follow all by himself.

His feet race along the roof tiles, he leaps over the narrow gabs between buildings, and crosses the streets along the laundry lines.

Sweat has almost risen to Pan's forehead by the time he notices how the two others are already waiting for the third. A dark and dank alley out sight, a perfect place for our three would-be-thieves to go over the contents of the purse they stole. Thus they pour everything onto the ground before them, and crouch to inspect their new found treasures. A moment Pan uses to slide down along the nearest rain pipe and creep behind them.

'Look at this gold!' Says one of the boys with anticipation in his tone. 'Think of what we could do with it!' The others laugh and pat his shoulders. Thus at long last Pan decides to make his presence known by clearing his throat. The boys are startled, and instinctively back away on all fours, until they realise how Pan seems roughly two summers younger than what they are. Their hearts calm, and confidence returns to their faces.

'Go away boy, or we'll roughen you up.' One of them adds while the two others nod their heads most approvingly.

Yet Pan's eye peers towards the shine of gold. 'Wrong turf.' He says almost jokingly.

'Huh?'

Pan draws a dagger from underneath his cloak. He points the sharp tip towards the three boys and repeats the words: 'Wrong turf.' This time without a single shade of joviality.

The three boys stare at the blade. The sight of it makes them feel uncomfortable, but then again: there are three of them and they are all bigger than the one-eyed boy with his small knife. How hard could it be to wrestle the knife away – they think. Smirks rise onto their faces. 'Yeah, it is a wrong turf.' One them is quick to add before getting a step closer.

Pan's arm slashes upwards, the blade cuts the air, and nick's the boy's chin. A drop of blood flies along with the blade, as another shortly after falls down to the dark stones of the alley. The boy whose chin was cut, stops. He touches the wound, and stares at this fingertips smeared in red. Pan grins: 'Don't worry, you won't die from it. Heck, when you get older, women will love that scar… if you come up a decent story.'

'You…' The one on the right begins.

But Pan cuts him short: 'I got a knife, and you don't. I could stab you in your guts, and you would all bleed out before anyone can help you. Before you can crawl back to the streets. I could stab you in your chest and pierce your lungs, and you would suffocate to death. You are at the wrong turf, boys, you better turn around run away.'

'Bah.' The boy on the right retorts. 'You do not have the guts to kill us, you are just little boy with a knife.'

Pan smirks: 'Well, you may think that, but there is reason why wear this eye patch of mine and why I got a knife and you don't.' He slashes the air before him, causing the boys to jolt back on reflex alone. Pan chuckles. 'Is this the place you want to die? I am fine with it. But there is no shame in running away, after all who would know?' Pan's smirk turns wider until it is nothing but a malicious bloodthirsty grin.

The three boys stare at the fourth in silence, taking their glances at each other, before one them finally clears his throat. He raises his shoulders, and shrugs out the words: 'You are not worth it.' He turns around and takes steps away from the ill-gotten treasure. The two others follow suit.

Pan waits them to vanish behind the corners before whistling a brief note with his fingers brought to his lips. Heads of brown rats pop up among the debris and trash. Their eyes kindle with the spark of intelligence. The rats gather around the small treasures and the empty pouch, picking up what they can with their tiny paws.

'Claim what is valuable, leave the rest, and you know where to take it.' Pan adds almost nonchalantly, as he reaches down to pick up a single coin for his own pocket. Then the rats disappear just as they had appeared, underneath the trash, and into the holes on the brick walls of the narrow alley.

While standing all alone, Pan gazes around one last time before he reaches back to the rain pipe to hoist his own body back onto the roofs of the city.

A deep breath. The wind caresses Pan's cheeks and plays with his hair. He is a thief in the city, and he is standing under the direct glare of the Sun. An oxymoron of an expression, no matter how he thinks of it. But he likes how the warmth of the sun spreads through his ailing body and how it ties his torn soul to his mortal flesh. He takes another deep breath, before continuing on his way along the brick roofs of the city's buildings.

For a while he just goes about looking at the life of the streets below him. But it has been a long day, so Pan simply decides to heads toward his home. An enchanted building masked by illusions so it remains unseen to all who have not stayed long enough within its walls. Unseen even though it stands few floors higher than the other buildings in the same block.

Thus as he runs from roof to roof, leaping and balancing his way across the gabs formed by alleys and streets, the chimneys around him start puff out their smoke as a sign how people are preparing their suppers. Trails of smoke rise higher all around the city and wind tosses the faint tendrils around the tall towers that almost look like daggers piercing the sky, well, at least in the distance. The scent of burning coal and wood finds its way to Pan's nose, and underneath it lies a faint lingering scent of a piece of an occasional piece meat being roasted or spices thrown into pots of boiling water.

Pan's stomach grumbles in longing for nourishment and he at long last makes the final leaps. The street flashes below and the boy lands gracefully on the edge of the right block of buildings. The bare laundry rope shakes until it sets back to the tune of the evening wind. Ahead, past the seven buildings before Pan awaits the storm pipe he has climbed up and down for years. He knows where it is slightly loose and rusted. Where to place his weight, and where to grab in order to hoist his body up and past the edge of the roof above.

Pan's eyes dart towards his own window, intentionally left open, and the green that fills the attic room. His room and the thought comes with pride.

The boy casts his cloak onto his bed and leaves his short blade standing on the table, stuck in a narrow gab between two planks of wood. Then he draws out the coin he had claimed earlier, he looks at the imprint of a slain dragon and at the hundred sails on the other side. It was not minted in the city. If it had, it would have been nothing more than a sleek untitled piece of gold. Pan's mind wonders whether the gold was produced by the magisters of the city, or whether some poor sod had to dig it up, before someone far away decided to leave their mark on it.

The coin is left to rest by the blade when Pan's stomach finally wins the battle of wills, and the boy decides to head down the stairs. Past the rooms filled with tomes, and the various interests his sister, Loge, and those of her friends. Their little pet projects, and places to hide from the outside world itself if they so choose.

It is five floors to reach the ground floor, though it feels as if he had skipped a floor. Usually it is livelier, but today the house remains quiet, barren of the voices of laughter and shrieks that usually fill every corner. Thus what awaits in the ground floor is the familiar sight of Loge stirring the black iron pot, as creatures of fire caress the pot's black sides. Scent of the soup rises upwards with every stir of the ladle.

Pan lingers by the stairs, watching as she hums a random tune while the old rat snores loudly in the middle of the kitchen table. 'Life is good.' The boy mutters to himself as he waits silently for his sister to finish the soup.

As for Loge, our girl under a mane of curly auburn hair and eyes as blue as the sky itself, the creatures of fire she has conjured are but after thoughts. Her focus has been entirely directed towards the pot she stirs. Towards the bubbling liquid, as chunks of vegetables and meat rise and fall with the whims of the boiling water while droplets of grease and oil dance on the surface.

A spoonful to taste and Loge decides it needs a little bit more salt. The small glass container floats across the kitchen to her hand, and a pinch later, it bounces back to the shelf it came. Another spoonful and the ladle is pulled out. The creatures of fire shrink and vanish, and then a lid is placed on top of the pot. The soup is left to simmer for a while longer, and the lid begins to rattle.

'Oh! Hi Pan.' Loge says as she turns around to look at the old rat scratching its belly. 'Just give it a moment more.' She reaches to the wall to pick few bowls to place on the table while her brother observes silently at the stairs. 'The examination is on next week, eight days from now.'

'I am not doing it.' Pan replies with cold blank stare in his eye.

'But…' Loge tries to present her usual counter argument, but Pan is quick to interject.

'I cannot, so I will not.'

Loge places the bowls on the table. 'You know; you can pass the test, just turn invisible, or make a plant grow, anything really-'

Pan groans loudly. 'I am a thief, and in the long run, we need a real thief.'

The old rat grudgingly gets up and stretches his old body. 'The boy has a point, even the mightiest magisters and their apprentices sometimes lean towards the underbelly of our city. There are things to acquire, information and objects, either discreetly or not. But for Pan, I fear Surtur might recognise his remaining eye and the black of his hair. It is better if we minimise this risk.'

'But what if I bump into Surtur!' Loge protests.

'You are hardly the first auburn haired girl to pass into the ranks of the magisters, even if we consider how your skills and talents are perhaps, truly, noteworthy.'

Pan hops up and takes the few quick steps to sit by the table, in front of one of the bowls. 'You will become the magisters inside their halls and towers, while I am the thief that prowls within the caldera walls, if you think about it, it is not much different to how things are now.'

'Fine…' Loge adds meekly, looking down.

Pan scratches his head, and quickly adds: 'Plus, the old rat needs help.' A cheeky smile rises to the faces of both siblings as the old rat protests with vehemence. Protests that after few minutes transform into an encouragement for the two kids to start slurping the soup the old rat digs into a piece of potato on top of additional spoon.

And so the day slowly turns into a night. The sparkle of the painted glass windows faints as the last rays of sun disappear behind the mountains.

***

The old rat, as is his habit, makes sure that both Pan and Loge have fallen asleep in their rooms before he himself ventures out. Through holes in the walls, our vassal of rat king Sus heads to greet his own vassals. The rats of his domain, bound to him by the ancient magic and spells almost as old as the city itself. A claim to a piece of land that resonates with a will strong enough.

'Lord Albezjer!' The nearest dark brown rat bows before the old grey rat.

The old rat stares towards the raised faces of the two dozen in coat of brown. They whisper secrets to his ears, sightings of small treasures and rumours worth something to the right ears. The little spies tell everything to their lord, and he just chuckles as his mind considers the possibilities slowly expanding before his mind. Albezjer smiles as the minds of the brown rats are slowly growing and he muses how some day those might even be equal to his.

But then come the mentions of rat sightings, both big and small. How the lines of ownership both above and below are constantly shifting, but for now none of the eleven rat kings appear to be too keen on claiming Albezjer fledgling vassal domain. Thus he can once more advice his rats to observe and collect whatever they can. Advice how they can best abuse the situation to grow stronger, richer, and more influential. In other words, at the back of the old rat's mind, important enough take part in the grand game of favours and services that keep the city running day after day. A great desire for power resides within the old rat. It is bubbling and waiting for its chance to burst out until his presence alone is enough to silence those before him. 'Just like in the old days…' The old rat whispers to himself.

But for now, schemes are plans are shared to the ears listening with curiosity. Thus, with his silent nod, the rats that had gathered before him, disperse into the dark holes and passages underneath the city's streets. They will find more of their kin, and pass onwards the old rat's wishes and demands.

He lingers for a moment in the dark. Sniffing at the scents, listening to every distant drop and hum of sound. Such calm silence feels strange to him, it almost unnerves the old rat to his very bones. Until a scratch echoes to his ears, his nose and whiskers twist from recognising an all too familiar scent.

'Speak.' The old rat snorts out from his snout.

'Perhaps I will.' Says the young rat bowing before the other's glare. 'You serve Sus.'

'And you Capra.'

'No-no, my old friend from Surtur's shoulder, I am Capra.'

'Just a fragment of the whole, nothing more. What do you want?'

The other rat smiles, and rubs its front paws together. 'You are being quiet, strangely so… What is it that you plot? What schemes does your silence in this forgotten corner of the city entail?'

The old rat yawns and refuses to answer, or even look at the other rat to that matter.

'I wonder…' It continues as it circles and sniffs around. 'It is obvious that you've trained that boy, and how you are hiding from Surtur.' The old rat continues its silence. 'I cannot blame you, I know I couldn't bear to sit on his shoulder… But there are unanswered questions about that fire five years ago, was it?' The rat stops. 'You wouldn't know anything about it? A little titbit among old friends?'

'Surtur died on that night, I felt it in my flesh and bones as ancient spells and binds were torn asunder. Just like everyone else, beyond distance, or state of mind. The house burned, and I presume that so did Surtur along with it.'

The eyes of the other rat squint into narrow slits. 'Have you seen him? Before or after the day the magisters brought him back?'

'Yes.' The old rat chuckles, and adds shortly after: 'Afterwards, and I prefer to maintain my current distance in the future.'

'Right-right. But what would you say of him, based on what you've seen?'

'He may seem weaker than before, but make no mistake, he is still Surtur of old in his mind and soul. For better or worse.'

The other rat ponders the words before simply grunting out: 'Ah.'

'Well?'

'What?' The other rat snaps out of his thoughts.

'Even with my history of feats, there is so little I can offer to you at the moment, and you know it. Thus I find it unlikely that you would come ask me of' Surtur, surely you have your own ears and favours to claim among the ranks of the magisters…'

'Yes… and my eyes among many other places in this city, currently in the docks…'

'And you've seen something strange, out of ordinary…'

The other rat chuckles. 'Indeed. A fox hunter, and not just any. One with a skull of bronze and large hound in tow. You've dealt with him before, with Surtur, or so the bard songs went in the taverns.'

'A long time ago.' The other rat leans forwards, with its tiny ears perched for the words to follow. 'I would give advice to stay away from him, as long as you can, and if you cannot, just give him what he wants. He tends to be rather one minded, stubborn to a fault, and dreadfully determined.'

'I'll keep that on our minds.'

The old rat yawns. 'And if you must oppose him, try to knock off his head, and kick it as far as you can.' The old rat takes some small steps away from the younger. 'And never harm the hound, or other creatures that might tag along.'

'I see, I see.' The younger rat nods. 'But what could such a hunter seek in a city without any foxes?'

Albezjer pauses. 'That I do not know…'

'There are rumours… Were…' The aspect of Capra sighs and turn's her piercing stare right towards the eyes of the old rat. 'Can you tell me about dragon hearts?'

'Are you fine with what I can recall?' The other rat nods. 'You will owe me favour.' She nods again. 'Dragon hearts… It is a source power and longevity. A magister cannot create one, they can only tear one from a still living dragon, or the chest of another magister. The owner of such tool is decided by might alone…'

'What would one look like?'

'A pile of ash most likely, it is not easy to claim such a heart.'

'But in the right hands?'

'It will glow with fury that is almost blinding…'

'And the wrong?'

'A misshapen blob of dark steel, almost impossible to melt and forge. I am sure you've heard bard songs about blades crafted out of dragon hearts?'

'Thank you.' The lone part of Capra looks at the old rat. ‘Are you not curious why I ask of such things?'

The old takes a leap and climbs on top of a small ledge, and soon the tip of his shortened tail vanishes from sight. The fragment of Capra lingers for a moment longer, before it too vanishes underneath the streets of the city. 'I guess it was obvious…'

Chapter 2:

A door gets kicked in. The blow of the heavy boots makes it groan, and a tall figure steps inside the murky confines of one the more questionable taverns in the dock district. 'Foam of Wonders, huh?' The man with a bronze skull utters to the startled thieves and sailors at their tables. Some more jolted than others by the sight of the orange coat upon his shoulders rather than the skull itself. But soon, the panic and surprise passes. And the tavern owner rushes out from the back with an accusing finger waving in the air and a litany of words perhaps slightly too crass to be repeated here. But the general gist involves sheep, their intestines, and acts that are not for the faint of heart.

'… You will pay for the door. You will…'

The large man simply presses his finger to the tavern keeper’s lip, as if to calm an angry baby. If through by nothing else than bafflement, it works. And the tavern keeper's focus rests onto the two rose berries that keep staring downwards and barely hanging within the hollow eye sockets. 'I heard there has been a fox in this city…'

'He's a fox hunter. Look at his cloak–' a voice assists from the side, a voice quickly silence by the tavern owner's glare.

'… And I have come here to hunt it down.' The bronze skull moves as if it were about to smile, but it is almost impossible to tell without any flesh covering it.

The tavern owner blinks, shivers, before he takes his few steps backwards, and finally even his fists open. 'There are no foxes in this city. If there were, you are already more than thousand years too late to hunt them down. Pay for the door, and leave my establishment.'

The fox hunter yanks the leash, and the large old hound waltzes inside with a slumberous gait. Drool drips, the hound's nose twitches, and it passes an all knowing glare to its owner before falling on its butt by the man's side. 'The rumours tell that an old mask of vulpi was found on the streets… following the night that saw that old skull of Oghren smashed to bits. I have come to hunt down that mask, and any foxes found on the way.'

The words sink into the men and two women gathered at the tables, and they all burst into laughter. The bar-wench in her stained apron snorts out: 'That mask is long gone. If not claimed by the magisters themselves, then it resides in some one's hidden treasure trove.'

The bronze skull shifts to look at the woman. 'Indeed, and who would know more of treasure troves than the rats of this city?'

Silence falls, and the tavern owner tries his best to defend the reputation of his somewhat shady establishment, but this man with rosy eyes simply retorts how his hound thinks the establishment reeks of