Derik the Tall

Many moons have passed since the death of my father. I, Derik, am all that is left of what was my family. I was born the son of a hunter/trapper in the Bossonian Marches. My mother, Mitra bless her soul, was allowed into the heavens the day of my birth. Least that’s what my father told me the few times I asked. When I grew older we moved to the east banks of the Bossonian River. He and I built a small humble cabin to live in and dry our fishing nets. For years there we trapped and brought our wolf pelts and wild cat hides to market at the Fort. We made good with what we had but the Fort was a half day travel to the north of our hovel. That soon changed when my father enlisted as a soldier and we gave up our cabin and moved to the fort. For three years I watched my father leave and enter the Gate. His bow and hatchet were all he used. Sometimes he left with a troop, sometimes alone. Sometimes he was gone for a few hours and sometimes a week. He knew the land well, better then any in the Kings army. He told me tales of what lie behind the wall and over the river, ferocious barbarians the Pict. Spilling their own blood in demonic ceremonies, eating their dead, sending their women to do mans work. Sometimes he’d spin his tales in his drunken sleep. It was those tales that frightened me the most. 

    One day, while my father was out on patrol, a soldier spotted me atop a rampart pretending to shoot imaginary Pict in the meadow below. He was an officer of the Kings army named Lieutenant Dran. Father called him “sir” as did most of the people in the fort.

“Derick!” he called from below. “Son come here young man.” I ran down the rampart to meet him. “yessir?” I replied. “Have a seat little Pict slayer.” He said holding a wriggling bag behind his back. So I did… He looked down at me then to my imaginary slain enemies “Derick you fight the Pict well son. With that bow I no doubt think you will become a fine Bossonian archer as your Father is.” He smiled as I nodded in agreement. “The Pict have a name for your father you know? It is whispered among them that he is as Deaths Shadow.” He chuckled then looked serious “Derick you are sixteen summers old right?” again I nodded “I think its time to begin your training as a scout archer for this post like your father…” As he continued on the speech that I had heard so many times to the new recruits, my eyes couldn’t help but wander to that wriggling bag behind him. “What is in there?” I wondered as I heard fragments of Lieutenant Dran’s speech about honor, a code, Mitra, the High King and the Pict when suddenly the bag whelped!  I looked up at the Lieutenant’s eyes in wonder as he chuckled brought it forward and opened it in front of my face. “ Hehe! You haven’t heard a word I said have you young man.” A black and brown furry head popped up and licked my nose! “Puppy!!! For me?”  Reaching in I looked at the soldiers eyes and with a nod from him I pulled that pup out. “What’s his name?” I asked. Dran looked at the puppy and said “He doesn’t have one yet. That’s one of the few things a boy gets to choose is a puppy’s name.” He exclaimed. Suddenly there was a shout from the gate. Lieutenant Dran looked up at the alarm. “Son stay put here” as he pushed me under the rampart “and take good care of that Pup!” he yelled as he bolted off.

   It’s been four years since that day. The day a mortally wounded “Death’s Shadow” led the Pict right to our Fort. The day Lieutenant Dran was struck dead during the attack. That was the day I hid under that rampart petting and clinging to my new pup wondering if I should go help fight or stay put and take care of the pup. Many good men died that day. But also many bad men died too. My Father was a good soldier. Some said he was the best. Others said he was weak for not dying along the east banks, bringing the Pict back to the fort with his broken body. Now older and wiser I see what the Pict did. They tortured him arrow after arrow, mile after mile through the wilderness. They were tracking my father, day after day, as he bled a trail to the fort. Neither man nor beast should ever die that way. Someday I shall have my vengeance, my father’s vengeance, and those soldiers that died that day will rest in peace when I put those to death that which put them to death. By my blood the Pict will surrender or die.

Now here I stand with my guard dog Fritch beside me. Upon another wall overlooking a green meadow where I will fire my arrows into that deadly space between here and the Thunder river bank. Every morning I practice shooting wild hare for the children to fetch for much needed meat and hide. Twenty summers old now and a soldier of the Bossonian archers I wait. Wait for a day when it will be my time. Deaths Shadow will come, more silent and more deadly to hunt the Pict once more. Perhaps today is my time…