A Vulture’s Trail

Hakon pressed his heels into the warhorse's flanks, urging it into a steady gallop through the frost-bitten landscape. The wind whipped against his face, stinging like needles, but he did not slow. The parchment in his belt—the contract signed under Lord Varic's seal—was proof enough of the warlord's involvement in the raids.

Varic the Vulture.

Hakon had known him once, back when they had stood under the same banners. A schemer, not a fighter. The kind of man who smiled to your face while planting a dagger in your back. When the warlords had fallen, Varic had not fought—he had survived, scurrying into the shadows like the carrion bird he was named for.

And now, he was growing bold.

The tracks in the snow were fresh—hoofprints and boot marks leading south. Hakon followed in their wake, his grip firm on the reins.

Hours passed, the frozen sun dipping lower in the sky. The land was deathly still, the only sound the rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves. Then, in the distance, he spotted movement—a thin pillar of smoke rising beyond the tree line.

A camp.

Hakon slowed his pace, guiding the horse off the path and into the cover of the trees. He dismounted, patting the warhorse's flank before creeping forward on foot.

Through the branches, he saw them.

Half a dozen men clustered around a fire, their armor bearing the mark of a black vulture in flight. Varic's men. One of them, a wiry man with a scarred face, held a map open across his knee, jabbing at it with a dagger as he spoke.

"Lord Varic wants the next raid before the week's end," the scarred man said. "Greythorne was easy pickings, but we'll need more hands for the next one."

A younger soldier, barely past his twenties, frowned. "We just took prisoners. Shouldn't we—"

The scarred man cut him off with a sharp glare. "They're not for us. Lord Varic sells them to the Iron Lords in the east. And if you want to keep your tongue, you won't ask questions."

The younger soldier swallowed hard and nodded.

Hakon's jaw tightened. Selling prisoners to the Iron Lords—slavers from the eastern coasts. It was a fate worse than death. Chained in the dark, worked until their bodies broke, sold like cattle to the highest bidder.

Varic was not just a coward. He was a parasite, feeding on the suffering of his own people.

Hakon reached for his bow. The mercenaries were too relaxed, unaware of the predator watching them. He counted six men. No sentries. They were confident no one would dare challenge them out here.

He would teach them otherwise.

Drawing back the bowstring, he exhaled slowly, steadying his aim. The scarred man—the leader—was his first target. He loosed the arrow.

It struck clean through the man's throat. He made a wet gurgling sound, clutching at the shaft as blood poured from the wound. Before the others could react, Hakon fired again, striking the younger soldier in the chest.

Panic erupted. The remaining four scrambled for their weapons, eyes darting wildly.

"Ambush!" one of them shouted.

Hakon did not give them time to organize. He slung his bow over his shoulder, drawing his sword as he broke from the trees.

The first man to charge him swung wildly with an axe. Hakon sidestepped, driving his blade through the man's side. He twisted the sword free and turned just in time to meet the next attacker.

This one was faster, lunging with a short spear. Hakon caught the shaft with his left hand, yanking the man forward and slamming his knee into his gut. The mercenary wheezed, stumbling, and Hakon finished him with a swift slash across the throat.

The last two hesitated, fear flickering in their eyes.

Hakon pointed his bloodied sword at them. "Run."

They did.

He let them go. They would carry word of what happened here, and fear would spread faster than fire through the ranks of Varic's men.

Hakon stepped over the dead, searching their belongings. The map the scarred man had been holding lay crumpled in the dirt. He picked it up, scanning the marked locations.

Another village. Two days south.

Hakon mounted his horse and turned toward the horizon.

Varic's men thought they were the hunters.

Now, they were the prey.