The Huntsman

by Douglas Hill

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

They had come - on the first day of the world as it now was. They stalked over the world with cold, alien indifference. They are the Slavers, alien invaders on an embattled Earth. In this brutal world, Finn Ferral is a young huntsman with a dangerous gift - he is wild and instinctive, more wolf or hawk than man. When his father and sister are captured by Slavers, Finn follows - right to the heart of the Slavers' lair...

Release date: June 30, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 320

Sample

IT HAD BEEN a pleasant day for Joshua Ferral. The sun had risen warm to take the chill out of the October air, yet left it crisp, fresh and fragrant. Most of the trees in the dense forest were wearing their most fanciful autumn colours, and it had seemed that all of the riches of the wilds, as well as the beauties, had been there for the taking. Josh’s big leather knapsack was bulging with fresh meat – and there were some special portions that he had marked out for himself, for his wife Myra to work her cookery magic on.

He was a man of middle height and middle age, lean and brown, with a streak or two of grey in his thick dark hair. He wore a plain shirt and trousers of deerskin, and low boots made from some more sturdy leather. A keen-bladed knife was belted at his hip, and in one hand he carried a long, slender pole, with a sharpened and fire-hardened point that identified it as a spear. And he moved through the forest with an easy, smooth stride, almost noiselessly despite the carpeting of fallen leaves, seeming perfectly at home.

As he did so often, Josh felt grateful – not to any one in particular, just grateful. That the wilderness gave of its bounty so generously. That he had the skills that were needed to live off that bounty. Of course, it meant a busy and often hard life for him, since the entire village depended on his skills for the fresh meat that they needed to fill out their diet. And, in a way, that set him apart from the rest of the villagers.

But that rarely troubled Josh. They were small-minded, often mean-minded folk, stuck into the patches of dirt that they scraped at to help feed themselves, not knowing or caring what lay beyond the edge of their village – too scared of their own shadows ever to want to know.

Well, maybe not, Josh thought, to be fair. It wasn’t their shadows that they feared, but the shadow that lay over the whole world, the shadow all mankind feared. Or what was left of mankind.

But it was no time to think about fear and shadows, on a beautiful October day when the hunting had been so good. It was a big country – Josh knew more than most people how big it was, for he had wandered a bit as a young man, even though it was considered a risky thing to do. He had seen for himself how far the wilderness stretched – wilderness that was only occasionally interrupted by one of the small, huddled villages which were all that remained of man’s presence. A man could live his life in peace – safe from shadows, from fear – in that wilderness. Unless his luck turned bad, or he did something careless or stupid.

And while Josh Ferral had taken a few risks in his time, he was never careless or stupid.

At the moment, for instance, though he seemed to be ambling idly through the trees and the lush undergrowth, Josh’s eyes never stopped moving. Not a leaf stirred, not a twig shifted, but those sharp eyes looked, examined, carefully assessed. There was always the chance of meeting a bear, wildcat, even a rare wolverine. But Josh knew that most times even those animals will leave men alone, if men leave them alone. And Josh was normally willing to go out of his way to do just that.

So when he skirted a tangle of fallen logs and briars, and saw the bush, with its ripe burden of bright red berries, being shaken violently by something unseen, he stopped in his tracks.

Not a bear, he thought to himself, after a silent moment of careful study. Too small, down too low. Maybe a raccoon. Maybe it won’t mind if I take some berries back to Myra.

He moved forward, soundlessly, poising the crude spear just in case. With its point, he gently parted the branches of the bush. And both his mouth and his eyes opened wide with astonishment.

It was not a bear, not a raccoon. It was a baby boy.

Somewhere between two and three years old, Josh reckoned. Chubby, healthy, and bare as the day he was born. Dirt-stained, berry-stained, and not in the least troubled by the fact that he was all alone in the middle of the wilderness.

The child saw Josh, and stopped its greedy snatching at the berries to stare with round, curious grey eyes that showed not a scrap of fear. Josh moved closer, kneeling down to look into the small, berry-smeared face.

“Now, by all that’s livin’,” he whispered, half to himself, “where’d you come from, young fella?”

At the sound of his voice, the baby smiled, and held out a small fist, filled with mashed and dripping berries.

“That’s mighty nice of y’,” Josh said, smiling in return. “Y’ seem to be lookin’ after y’rself real good, for a little ’un.”

He glanced round. In a narrow gap within the berry bushes there was a pile of dry leaves, which Josh could see had not come there naturally. And a fragment or two of leaf caught in the child’s tangled thatch of straw-coloured hair showed that the leaves had served as a bed. Josh shook his head, mystified. Though the boy had clearly spent a chilly autumn night stark naked, with nothing but leaves to keep him warm, he showed no ill effects. But had he gathered the leaves for himself? Had he been naked when he got there? And just how did he get there?

Watched intently by the child, Josh made a quick scrutiny of the ground around the berry bush. His skill showed him a sign or two where a small bare foot had left a trace. But there were no other signs. If the ground wasn’t hiding some secret from him, it looked like the boy had just come toddling along, till he found himself a place to nest.

A thought struck Josh, like ice sliding down his spine. He glanced up at the clear sky. Could the boy have been dropped into the forest, by Them?

But the thought made no sense. They didn’t put humans into the forest – they took humans out. And yet the boy’s presence also made no sense. But he was there – and Josh was not going to walk away and leave him.

He held out a hand to the child. “C’mon then, little mystery man,” he said with a smile. “You’n me better get on home – an’ see if Myra c’n find some clothes for y’.”

For a moment the child gazed up at him, the clear grey eyes grave, as if weighing him up. Then he grinned and chuckled, and held up both arms to be picked up.

Josh laughed, and swung him up, settling him against his hip. As he did so, he noticed the odd mark on the boy’s left arm, up near the shoulder. A group of small, dark dots, standing out clearly against the fair skin – and seeming to be arranged in some kind of pattern. But the pattern meant nothing to Josh.

He rubbed a thumb thoughtfully over the dots, and again, for no reason at all, he felt a chill along his spine. But the boy chuckled, untroubled, bouncing up and down as if eager to be on their way.

So Josh turned and strode off through the forest towards home. This’ll make a few people nervous in the village, he thought wryly. But I reckon Myra’ll take one look at him an’ make up her mind t’ keep him. An’ then we’ll have to start worryin’ that his real folks might come along lookin’ for him.

But he knew that was not too likely. His village hadn’t been visited by a stranger in years. And the nearest village to his was more than fifty kilometres away – much farther than most people those days would dare to travel.

“So I reckon, young fella,” he said aloud, “y’ got y’rself a new home an’ new folks. An’ y’ll be welcome. Me an’ Myra, we been hopin’ t’ have kids, but we ain’t been lucky so far. I reckon now we got us one – even if it’s a sorta peculiar way t’ do it.”

He smiled down at the boy in his arms, who was gazing with bright-eyed fascination at the forest around them.

“An’ I’ll bet y’ anythin’ y’ like,” Josh continued, as he strode on, “that Myra’ll want t’ name y’ after her old pa. Finn. That suit y’? Finn Ferral …”

A STRAY FEATHER of wind rattled the topmost leaves of poplars, adding its sound to the birdsong and insect hum among the shadowed branches – the sounds of the forest’s perpetual murmuring to itself, as it drowsed in the mid-morning sun of an early summer day. From the crest of a tall pine, a hawk rose to make a splash of red and brown against the sky’s unblemished blue, before arrowing away westward – where the wilderness marched on to the horizon, farther even than the hawk’s keen eye could see. And below, on the sun-dappled edge of a glade, a small deer with new antlers still half-velvet stood warily still, nose lifted, ears swivelling.

Downwind from the glade, a young man moved through the leafy dimness among the trees – moved at an easy, unhurried pace, but in complete and uncanny silence, so that not even the nervous deer was aware of his presence. Yet he had noticed the deer, just as he had glimpsed the hawk, just as he was able to single out, and identify, each one of the mingled sounds of the forest.

The young man was compactly muscled, lean and lithe as a healthy wolf, with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and grey eyes beneath strong brows. He wore a simple deerskin jerkin and leggings, and low soft boots; at one hip hung a heavy knife, at the other, a deerskin pouch. And around his left wrist was wrapped a broad strip of darker, sturdier leather.

He was not yet twenty years old, yet by profession he was the huntsman for his village, which lay about two kilometres away to the east. But he was not hunting today. He had been briefly tempted at the sight of the deer, so that his right hand had strayed to the rawhide wrapping. . .