The Hafling: The Hafling's Saga, #1

Chapter 1

The Hafling

The Hafling squeezed a probing finger between his dirty neck and the thick iron-locked collar. It was a tight fit. He was starving thin, but despite his master’s efforts to stunt him, he was not only thriving; he was growing, turning more Hafling than a human.

No one knew exactly what he was, and no one really cared. He was a Hafling. Part human but enough hillcat to have a cat’s nose, a split upper lip, and whiskers adorning his face. He also had very strong claw-nails on the tips of his long fingers, which were covered with golden fur. His mane ended like a male human’s at the neck, but this could have been caused by the collar he’d worn since Marrkin bought him some four years ago. It had rubbed his neck raw. Within a year, he feared it would strangle him. Yet his master would not remove it.

Master Marrkin, a tavern owner, had traded with a locksmith for the collar in exchange for a night’s lodging, twice a year. For every year the Hafling survived and the collar stayed around his neck, the master would give the locksmith lodging. So far, the collar had cost him eight nights accommodations, and female company for the locksmith’s bed. The price of the rune iron collar that he wanted was not affordable. Besides, even if he had the silver to waste on a starveling, there was no smithy willing to collar a ten-year-old in iron, Hafling or no.

The collar was proof of Marrkin’s ownership. Everything Marrkin owned was collared or marked with his symbol. Except the barn cats. It was whispered that he had tried both, only to have a bloody failure. Cats would not be collared or marked.

So Marrkin let them roam loose in the village. To fight and breed. To scratch and bite. The Hafling did none of this, but he was allowed the freedom of the village. Freedom meant sharing food with the barn cats and the dogs while wearing whatever rags Marrkin threw his way; sleeping with them in the barn or in the small copse of nut trees and thorns because it was between the village and the deep much-too-dark woods, and therefore safe.

Whenever his master thought about his problems, he’d beat the Hafling until he was covered in an assortment of welts and bruises.

Blows and starvation were all the Hafling knew about life. He knew however, that others lived easier lives. Some no better for all their humanity, than he. Some were fed only the leavings of the master’s table, but there was promise in the width of bony shoulders in a human boy, but not in a Hafling. In a Hafling, it was a threat no one, especially his master, intended to feed. Therefore, he was all bones and dirt.

The Hafling had to fight the dogs for scraps, and lately, the biggest one was demanding his share first. Any who disagreed quickly felt his long fangs and the power of his massive jaws, and that included the Hafling. To the dogs, he was just another member of the pack, just another junior male to intimidate.

He was beginning to hate the beast as much as he did his master, but there was nothing he could do about either man or dog. The man kept him collared and so under nourished that, even if he got past the limits of the village, he’d die of starvation. Because no one would look beyond the collar to help him survive. If he dared to fight back with his own fangs and claws, the dogs would rip him to pieces.

There were times when he wondered if that wasn’t the easiest escape in a world filled with nothing but hatred and pain. Still, his stubbornness and a healthy fear of the dog’s teeth kept him obedient.

However, if he could scratch the collar off, he was going to try. He twisted his finger; found the old groove his carefully bitten nail had made in the greased leather and began to scratch.

It had taken a number of moonrises to make just a line in the nearly impervious surface, but now that he was there, the cut was slowly growing deeper. In a few days, he might make a scratch deep enough so only one night’s work on the outside of the leather would free him of the hated thing.

He concentrated on the difficult task, to block out the considerable pain and the threat of a truly severe beating if his master decided to inspect the collar before he finished.

The man would beat him once for trying, (as he had each time the Hafling had left scratches on the outside of the collar) and once again for being too smart for his own good.

Or at least that was what he said when he sent the boy sprawling. The Hafling didn’t understand, only that Marrkin expected him to cower in the dirt.

Gonna do it again? his master would scream, and the Hafling had answered with a howl, a shrill, meaningless no.

It didn’t occur to him that he was lying; he was no more acquainted with morality than he was with fairness. He had just learned that when his master asked a question, he had to have an answer. To the Hafling’s mind, no seemed to satisfy him. As the word was both the lesson and the desired result, fairness had nothing to do with either.

Ignoring the pain in his middle, which was probably only a reaction to the overly dead rat that had recently filled his empty belly, he focused his body’s attention on the scratching finger and let his mind loose to wander free. This was a trick he had perfected, and it pleased him out of proportion to its usefulness. When his body was trapped, his mind was free to roam. His mind crept, as he had, into the dark shadows behind the pile of stones, which passed for the village inn. The Hafling had been drawn there one winter’s day when he noticed that the snow swirled around what looked like jutting stones and when it touched them—it melted. A glance upward had shown him that the haphazard rocks were the inn’s smoking chimney. He had crept closer, drawn by the promise of some slight warmth, and if he listened carefully, with his ear against a crack, he could hear the men recite old lies and even older tales.

Once, he had even heard a real Singer talk of a dragon, and as best he could, he hoarded the words for moments such as these.

Of course, he had no idea what a dragon was, only that it was a huge creature that could set fire to an entire village with one breath. This had appealed so much he had almost howled aloud when the King’s Ranger killed the beast.

Instead, he crept away, grumbling softly to himself, and later, had tried to eat fire. Luckily for him, it was only a dying ember on the end of a green stick or he would have done more than singe his whiskers.

The experiment had disappointed him, but he let his mind repeat as much of the tale as he remembered, always hoping it would supply him with the dragon’s name.

The Hafling had become aware, slowly, that he had no name. A Hafling was what he was, not what he was named, though that was what he was called. Since the word was as much a curse as dragon, he decided to borrow the creature’s name. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember it. The sound was there in his mind, like the hiss of a snake, but like a snake, it slithered away whenever he tried to catch it.

All that was left in his mind, was the Ranger’s name: Harrell. The Hafling certainly did not want the accursed name. He wanted to burn the village, not save it.

He also tried, only to learn what he already knew; stones do not burn, no matter what Singers tell on long, cold winter nights.

Suddenly, the claw stopped its work, and the senses that had kept him alive for all his ten years snapped his mind away from dreams of dragons and destruction. The Hafling straightened. If he could have, he would have flicked his slightly pointed, tufted ears forward to focus his hearing. As it was, the sensitive hairs along the back of his neck rose. His hand fell to his side, fingers curving in response to the unknown danger announced in a woman’s scream.

Screams were not an unknown occurrence most any night, but this was the shrieking wail of discovery rather than of pain. The Hafling wondered what she had found to produce such a noise, but he didn’t much care. The women of this village were more open in their hatred of him, and whenever one screamed, she was usually screaming at him. If he wasn’t out of her sight by the time she drew another breath, she would pick up whatever was handiest and throw it at him. Worse, she’d sic the dogs or men on him. Since these same men were the ones who silenced a screaming woman with a beating, the Hafling had come to the obvious conclusion that the men had not only the right to defend what was theirs, it was theirs to use as they saw fit, whether spouse or Hafling slave.

He straightened out of his crouch and lifted as high on his bare toes as he could stretch. The woman’s shrill screams had become an undulating wail rising over the deep grumbles and complaints of the men the way smoke rose over the filthy village. Uneasily, he shifted from one foot to the other. Every instinct told him to run from the dark, mind-numbing anger that he felt growing in the men. Although his mind skittered like a rabbit, he couldn’t think of a safe place to run and hide. He couldn’t go farther into the forest. There was no help for anyone in its dark depths, let alone for a young Hafling, but he didn’t dare sneak back to his master’s hovel. No matter what had set the woman to screaming, if the men found him in the shadows, they’d vent some of their anger on him. He was Master Marrkin’s property. The Hafling knew the men of the village hated his master, though he did not know why. They did, and if not for the dogs, they would have found the daring in a cask of beer to carry their anger to his door. Instead, they had to be content with muttering insults as they passed the stone walls that fenced in his yard. Occasionally, they would add their own offal to that of the dog’s in the barren enclosure. When this happened, Marrkin let the dogs loose to foul their lanes and gardens.

The Hafling wondered if he was going to turn them loose now or keep them penned and barking. Slowly, he crept out of the tiny glade. Still unable to see anything, he climbed upon the low rock wall, which marked the separation of the woods from the village, and he padded carefully to a clump of hedge trees. He would have liked to stay in their darkness, but a combination of curiosity and fear drove him out, on all fours, to cautiously walk the wall. It rose slowly, a dangerous footing for someone not used to the traditional by-ways of a cat, to end some two feet below the level of the lone wall. Here, the Hafling crouched, before rising just high enough to see over the rocks.

The Singer had been right after all. Rocks burned.

Master Marrkin’s house was the tallest in the village, taller even than the inn with its lofts full of sleeping pods. It could be seen from almost any place in the village, even without the flames leaping from its thatched roof. The Hafling rose, stunned by what he saw. All around the burning house, dogs and men were racing, scrambling uselessly. The dogs were in the inside of the walls, flinging themselves wildly at the wooden gate, while the men thrust poles and burning sticks, even pitchforks, through the openings. Neither seemed to be aware of the fire.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. Like the bullock he resembled, Marrkin burst through. The dogs immediately stopped their frantic racing to converge upon him. He only kicked them away, bellowing. Behind him, like fat white chickens, came his spouse and daughter. They came to a halt, uncertain whether to be more terrified of the fire over their heads or of the snapping, howling dogs at their feet. They clutched at each other, crying for Marrkin. If he heard them over the flames and the dogs, he ignored them.

Raising his arms as if to rip the gate off its hinges, he advanced, only to stop and stare in disbelief at the prongs of not one, but two pitchforks and the sharpened end of what had been a clothesline pole. All three were sticking through the wooden slats.

To the Hafling, Marrkin’s words were unintelligible roars, which momentarily silenced the dogs, but failed to gain the same obedience from the men. Yet all three men drew back. The pitchforks were almost yanked out of their owner’s hands when they forgot to twist the prongs sideways. Marrkin’s roar became a howl of triumphant laughter. His hand was on the latch when his face contorted in fearful surprise. Clutching his belly, he staggered backwards. Protruding obscenely from his hand and belly was the clothesline pole.

Both men and dogs were silenced, surprised by the violent act, then Marrkin screamed as his weight yanked the wooden spike out of his gut, which quivered in the air, almost alive, before falling to the ground with a clatter and a twist that allowed the pole to slip through a crack.

Then everyone went mad.

The Hafling hunched down to huddle against the wall, too stunned by the horror for his mind to fully grasp what he had seen or tell him to run. Pieces of burning thatch fell into the yard, and screams from the dogs, the women, and the men filled the air. Whimpering a little, he covered his sensitive ears with his hands, and for a long while just trembled.

Slowly, his mind sifted through the fire-lit horrors to pounce on the most important part: his master was dead. Or as good as dead. This was both an important and comforting fact, but the Hafling couldn’t force his mind to tell him what this meant. To him. To the outside part of him that hungered, hurt and obeyed the prodding of the inner self. The mind.

It told him to see what the men were doing, so he carefully lifted his eyes above the wall. The thatched roof had fallen in and was burning the wooden floor and supports.

The men were still outside the walls, most of them silent. A few were on the roof of the nearby cottage or handing up buckets of water.

Of the two women there was no sign, but they could have been out of sight, pressed against the walls along with most of the dogs. A few of these, including the Hafling’s tormentor, were at the gate, snarling at the men and glancing uneasily at the fire.

The Hafling sank back on his haunches and let the other, surer, part of himself decide what to do. That part of him remembered the hedge trees, and he rose high enough to creep down the wall on all fours.

There ‘e be, someone yelled.

The Hafling broke into a run, his bare feet sending flat rocks to the ground. He ran without thinking, letting his feet find their own way while his mind dictated his direction. He crashed through the hedge trees without pausing or even feeling the whip of the thin branches or the scratch of the thorns. Then it was just run, full out, heedless of the wobbling stones, hearing only the thud of boots as the men ran the path along the wall and gained on him.

He left the wall without breaking stride and streaked for the old oak that marked the boundary of the deep woods. If he gained its dubious protection, he knew the men wouldn’t follow, either behind the ancient oak or up into its thick branches. He did not know why, but he knew the men feared the tree and anyone who dared climb its branches or shelter in its massive roots.

Something wrapped around his ankle, and he fell so suddenly he had no time to prepare himself. The leaf-littered ground came up to knock the breath out of him. As he lay senseless, his arms and legs were yanked in all directions at once, and he sucked in enough air to scream and struggle.

Hold ‘ im, someone ordered, and the punishing grips increased until the Hafling cried out in pain. Hold still, the voice ordered again as if the Hafling could do otherwise. He lay trembling in the dirt and forest debris while someone ripped pieces off his threadbare rags to tie his wrists together. The bonds were so tight his fingers began to feel numb.

Up. He was yanked to his feet by muscular arms and punishing hands and shoved toward the village. For a long, terrifying time, he thought he was going to be dragged back to his master’s house and thrown into the yard with the dogs.

Two men lifted him like a sack and threw him headfirst into a small cage.

Chapter 2

Caged

The Hafling hit one of the wooden bars with his nose, and it instantly gushed such copious amounts of blood he nearly choked trying to breathe.

That’ll hold ‘im, someone said.

‘Til what? Eh? ‘Til what? another demanded.

Slavemaster’s due, the first mumbled.

Oh, aye. Sell the beast, is it? With no paper and ‘im belongin’ to Marrkin. Where’s ‘is sign, eh? That’s what yer Slavemaster will be askin’.

There was a loud crack, and the Hafling stopped choking long enough to see Brandt the Miner knock Jungher to the dirt.

None’ll ask if yer yaps keep shut. He stepped closer, raising his hand.

Jungher cowered.

How was he to sign, eh? Died in a chimney fire, he did. Swear it.

I swears, Brandt. The man waved hurriedly in the air to ward off another blow.

Brandt kicked him. Naught says that one survived.

But... His foolish henchman worried. The other two stayed in the shadows, wise enough to understand that as long as they did whatever Brandt demanded, they would receive something for that night’s work.

Look at ‘im, Brandt ordered.

The Hafling cringed into himself, flinching when the man’s boot hit the sturdy bars.

A dirty animal, it is.

We...gonna sell...an animal? Jungher asked.

Since there was enough admiration in his voice, Brandt didn’t kick him again. Why not? Ain’t that what it be? Brandt laughed.

Yeah. Jungher tried a smile and when it was not slapped away, he crawled slowly to his feet.

Brandt shoved big fists into his own hips and glared equally at all three men. Marrkin’s dead. Bein’ free o’ him and ‘is filthy dogs should be enough ter keep everyone quiet. Yer think?

Uh. Yes? Jungher had not learned the same lesson as the Hafling: when in doubt say no. That was the best chance of being right.

Yer two?

They nodded since that answer hadn’t gotten Jungher knocked back to the ground.

No! He threatened all three with a balled fist. Ain’t enough. So we keep shut ‘n’ sell ‘im. To some’un goin’ north.

The Hafling saw the three go white under their dirt. None of them said a word against Brandt’s plan. Even if he understood their sick fear, he knew there was no sense in voicing his own protests. Left to Jungher was the comment, Ain’ like it be human. Which earned him a shove away from the cage. The men followed.

The Hafling gathered his arms and legs to him and pulled himself up to sit against the corner of the cage. Aware of the claws tipping his fingers, he gently explored his swelling nose. It was thoroughly clogged. Blood was beginning to dry on his upper lip. Carefully, he pursed the oddly shaped upper lip, to flex his stunted whiskers. They felt stiff and sore. One was broken.

If he could have breathed while he cried, he might have. No matter how hard his life was, it always managed to get worse. Often times it was all he could do to keep from howling his frustration and pain. Instead, he curled into a tight ball until his muscles ached and he was forced to ease out of his corner and himself.

The Hafling’s cage was once used to transport large, vicious boars. The men hunted them with snares like the one that had tripped him. The animals were then netted, caged and sent off to some Lord’s fire. Understandably, the cage was made to be strong and yet so temporary there was no loss if the cage did not return. This particular cage had been used to hold one of Marrkin’s dogs, for it bore marks of the animal’s teeth on the wooden bars and the tight, dry rawhide bindings.

The Hafling eased closer to finger the thongs. They were dark with age and the constant rubbing of the previous occupants. The dog, however, had managed to dig his fangs into the thick knots. He had been taken out before the thongs burst, and his saliva had wet the strands, so no one had noticed the cuts. The Hafling tested the knot with his claws, then bent closer to gnaw on it with his fangs. Maybe a cat could have bitten into it, but his too-human mouth was meant for chewing food, not biting leather. Frustrated, he attacked the knot with his claws and his snarls, and two strands parted. Encouraged, he continued to scratch.

The cage makers had tied the bars with dry thongs to hold them in place, then wet them so when they dried, they were tighter than any man could pull them. Furthermore, there were a number of thongs, so even if one broke, the entire knot would not unravel.

The Hafling worked them until his fingers ached and his claws were bloody and broken. However, only one thong was loose, and he had exhausted himself in the process. Sick with it, he leaned his forehead against the unmoving bars and simply breathed until he fell asleep.

Chapter 3

Escape

The slam of a distant door awoke him. He snarled in surprise and fear. Brandt came forward and laughed at him. Then he dumped the contents of his pail through the top of the cage. Pieces of garbage rained on the Hafling, and he tried to dodge the mess. When he snarled at Brandt, exposing his fangs, the man kicked the cage. Instantly, the Hafling cowered in a corner.

Teach yers, Brandt muttered and undid his breeches. Brandt was a mean drunk and the same beer which fueled his temper filled his bladder. Laughing, swaying a little, he pissed into the cage. The Hafling tried to get out of the way, but there was nowhere to escape the stream or splatters. He could only hunch in the corner.

When he was finished, Brandt stumbled away, his exposure completely forgotten. The Hafling listened to his wavering steps grow softer before shaking himself out of the corner to carefully sift through the dirt for an edible meal. There was an old rotting bone with some flesh on it, two field apples, a number of unidentifiable leaves and old wads of tea. He put these aside and began to gnaw on the bone. Once again, he had trouble biting, but what he could hook with a claw, he could catch with his teeth and pull off the bone, which he could suck dry. He also ate one root.

The second root he carefully stored between the flooring bars. Roots attracted mice and rats. Either of them would be better to eat than the bait. He stuffed the wad of tea and a few leaves into his mouth to chew on them. The tea and leaves would quiet his stomach and make his mouth water until he was convinced he was no longer thirsty. When there was nothing left but a well-chewed wad, he would plaster it onto one of his cuts.

He went back to the thongs, his jaws working as hard on the tea leaves as his claws worked on the knots.

Brandt’s kick had been accidentally well-aimed, and the bar was not only loose, but it was also cracked. The Hafling attacked it, too, until one long splinter came loose. After that, the bar nearly fell out.

Now he worked with a desperate fear that Brandt or one of the others would return. More than likely, Brandt was going to fall into bed and sleep through the entire day, but if he had been drinking, so had the others. The beer might give them the courage to disobey his orders. The Hafling had seen this strange, usually mean, sort of courage overtake men more than he cared to remember. Mostly because the target of their meanness was himself.

He worked on the thongs and bars all day long, napping only when he was too exhausted to continue. Finally, when the sun was making red stripes through the trees, he freed two more bars. With a great deal of squeezing and scraping—which cost him both rags and skin—he worked his shoulders through the narrow opening until he was free. His legs ached. One of the splinters had gouged a hole in his thigh, and his hands were bloody, but he was out of the cage. Trembling, he crept past the old stone pigpen while glancing around so nervously he could barely walk, but when he crossed the empty field and reached the edge of the wood, he began to run.

His legs gave out so suddenly he collapsed, almost fainted, and lay there unable to move. His throat hurt and his lungs seemed to collapse every time he took a breath. The rest of his body screamed in protest, but he forced himself up onto all fours. He crawled a few more feet to the safety of a low bush, and there he collapsed and passed out.

He woke to birdsong and the dawning; the dreaded night had passed. Slowly, like an old aching grandfather, he forced himself to climb to his feet and stumble on.

He found a clear stream, jumped in, and choked down mouthfuls of water then fell across a wet rock, thankful he hadn’t drowned. The water gurgled around him, trickling through his rags until he was thoroughly soaked yet far cleaner than he had been in years.

He clung to the rock for a long while, gasping lungfuls of fresh air. Finally, he stood and tried to climb out of the narrow stream bed, but the steep bank defeated his efforts, so he had to wade downstream to find a low bank where a large rock paused the flow, momentarily, as a crowd of ripples waited to slide around the rock and flood a bed of watercress. The Hafling disliked them, but he combed out a handful with his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth. With his belly sated, he splashed out of the pool and continued to stumble away from the village and the men who would soon be hunting him.

Chapter 4

Underground

It wasn’t long before the Hafling heard the sound of men’s voices behind him. His heart pounded so loudly he truly could not hear himself think. The deep grumbling voices seemed to be all around him, as did the sudden smell of fire. Terrified, his mind recalling the screams and smell of his master’s burning house, he raced away from the sound, which seemed to spring out from behind the trees to grab him. Once, when the long fingers of something inhuman