Hugh and Crae

So, first time posting in a while. This is something i will probably work on later on, currently though I'm occupied with other things. Tell me how this works out as a first scene. Hope you like it!

~ED     

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     Hugh fitted an arrow to the string. He paused as the slender deer raised her head. A beautiful creature, masterfully crafted. With a tawny red coat and white specks dotting her glossy quarters. An elegant beast, intelligent in its own way. Hugh drew the string with respect. He fitted the webbing onto his chin, touching the tip of his nose. The deer lifted her jaw, scenting the air, and then bent gracefully back down to the green heath. The distance, Hugh had judged, was about forty paces away, a short distance in the exposed moors and crags of the highlands. A moment passed and the tiny, subtle shifts in his position were made. Hardly noticeable, and yet entirely determining his accuracy. His hand relaxed its grip, he held his breath. Now one with the bow, his fingers were ready to roll off the string when the silence of the valley was broken. It was the bay and call of herding dogs. Hugh heard it often enough, but wondered why the herders had brought their flocks to this part of the mountains so soon this year. At any rate the deer hadn’t bounded off at the noise, so all was not lost.

     The deer pricked her ears up and stood stock still, head turned back in the direction from where the sound had come. Hugh felt a slight strain in his shoulder and upper arms. His stance had been unsettled by the noise, but he quickly found his position again and released the arrow. The arrow quivered through the air, whistling softly. The deer had been distracted by the distant dogs and had not noticed its hunter’s movements. A second later and a red fletched arrow was protruding from its heart. Hugh watched as the deer bounded two steps and fell motionless, only then did he relax with a sigh. He walked up to his catch, glad that its death had been short and painless. To find a red deer this far into the range was a rare occurrence, and his success would be greatly valued. Hugh worked the arrow out and cleaned it, sighting down its shaft to ensure it was still straight. The arrow itself, though an instrument of death, was a thing of beauty. Crafted wood smoothed by a careful hand, and with a tediously carved nock. It was made from the Roe Wood, and so a deep red. It was unadorned, but one could not deny its excellence. Hugh had died the feathers red with the brush weed available to him. He had spent many hours ensuring each of his arrows perfection. Though the shaft was nicked and marred in places, it still flew straighter than anyone else’s. Except, perhaps, his father’s. Hugh knew he would have been proud to call him his son.

     Hugh set his bow and quiver aside and began to work. His bone knife, with its flinted edge, worked easily through the hide. Soon Hugh had finished, leaving as little as possible to the rooks. The meat he had packaged neatly in loose cloth and stashed away in his pack. Hugh stopped for a brief rest after this. After washing his hands from his water skin, Hugh climbed up a short incline and stood with his bare feet on one of the cool, blue hewn rocks. He scanned the surrounding ridge lines which rose up all about him. It was a gray day, as usual, and a veil of mist shrouded everything, clinging to the land like a heavy blanket. Hugh breathed deeply, to the bottom of his lungs, and was completely refreshed. It was here in these dismal hills that he had been born and raised; it was a part of him now, and the deepness of the rolling fog brought him comfort in his solitude. He listened and could hear the cry of an eagle far above, and the wind as it brushed over jagged rocky crests. He had nearly forgotten about the herding dogs, but now he heard them again. They were certainly early this year, Hugh wondered what had urged the herders to drive into the mountains when the possibility of being stranded by a wet spring snow still lingered. Hugh listened a moment longer, but the heard was still too far for him to hear either the bleating of the sheep or the herder’s voices. Hugh shrugged them aside and returned to his pack. With a heavy sigh, he set to struggling the pack up onto his back. That finally accomplished, he started out for home. As he walked the mist started to clear a little, and once he had ascended to the top of a particularly steep ridge, it had dissipated enough so that he could see the crisp white peaks of the distant neighboring mountains.

                Hugh plodded on at an even pace, stopping only once to give his shoulders a break. He was moving on like this, when he noticed that he was curiously heading towards the herders. He puzzled at this, wondering how they had managed to circle back around, and why. Unless of course, they were heading out of the crags and into the plain. Hugh could not work it out. And as he drew closer, he began to note the absence of any sounds of sheep. He could hear muffled voices drifting up from beyond the next ridge, and an undeterminable sound of metal now and then, and once the nickering of a horse. Hugh by this time, decided they were not herders, but whatever the strange company was, he could not tell. He found himself creeping up the edge of the ridge cautiously. He peered over the crest and stopped. They were not herders, of course, but a company of coarse men who had stopped in the valley and made camp. Hugh shook his head. With nearly two more hours of daylight left, there was no reason for them to have halted their progress. They were down the hill about two marks from him, and he could hear their voices rise and fall, but could not make out the individual words. There were five of them, one was tethering the horses while another took the bridles and stowed them away. Another man, hefty and with a dark beard, was bent over an open saddle bag, pouring over the contents. Hugh watched as he removed several pieces of light armor and a crued sword in its scabbard, then various other things of value. The third man was lighting a fire, and a fourth was dragging something towards it. It took him a moment, and then he realized that it was a sheep, its white fur darkened with blood and mud. The man carelessly deposited the carcass, now a bit stiff, and began to butcher it. Hugh was disgusted at his haphazard, sloppy method of work. After watching them for another moment, Hugh crept back down from the edge and altered his course to skirt around the valley. They were thieves, of course, rough men without morals or convictions. A few sometimes strayed to the craggy mountains, often running from the law. Hugh detested their kind, and steered well clear of them. He let them be, never allowing them to detect his presence here in his own home.

                But today was to be fated. As Hugh carefully picked his way down the steep sloop, shouldering the weight on his back, he caught a glimpse of something dark and fast darting towards him. There was a low howl, and the deep panting of a powerful creature, and it was sprinting for him. Hugh reacted instinctively, dropping to his knees to slide off the pack and grabbing his bow. He fitted an arrow to his string just as the snarling jaws of a great black dog clamped down on his ankle. The beast was soon joined by a mate, a brown patchy thing with only one eye. Hugh had completely forgotten about the dogs, so absorbed had he been with the other things, and now he was to pay for it dearly. He dropped his bow in order to fend off against the fangs coming at him. He beat frantically at the dog’s head, succeeding in the release of his ankle. Hugh crawled backwards up the hill, gaining an advantage of height over his adversaries. Perhaps most terrifying about the struggle was not the snapping fangs which threatened to take pieces of his flesh, but the utter silence of the two beasts. There were low snarls and growls in their throats, but they never yelped with pain, nor did they bark or howl. They were predators, turning in a strange twist of nature against man their master. Hugh fought viciously, desperately, and was matched in strength by the two dogs.

                Hugh was vaguely aware of another being running up to meet them, he was focused now entirely on fending of his foes. But a man ran up to what would be Hugh’s rescue.

                “Hi! Get back from him!” he continued to call to his dogs and they finally responded, leaving Hugh and bounding back to their master. “You mangy beasts.” he scolded. Hugh grabbed his bow and shot to his feet, wincing as he placed weight on his mangled ankle. He stared at the man, panting, not sure whether to accept him as friend or foe. The dogs began to bark excitedly, lunging at the air. They were incited at the taste and smell of blood. Hugh had only the arrow currently on his rest; he slid his fingers forward and they curled around the nock, which calmed him a little. The man sized Hugh up, and Hugh was not sure he liked the beady slant to his eyes.

                “Oi, Gib, what have yi got there?” A voice said behind them. It four of the other men, come to see what the commotion was about. Hugh drew back the string in an instant, pointing the tip at Gib’s chest. Gib narrowed his beady eyes and scowled, revealing yellowed teeth. Hugh’s bow hand was shaking a bit, and he was breathing heavily, but his message was clear. “Stay back or I’ll hurt your friend.” The men behind him stopped, one swore heavily at him. The tension began to mount in the air. Hugh could feel those behind him creep around to surround him. He shifted his stance a little to take weight of his injured ankle. The dogs were whining and pleading to attack, but the man did not budge.

                “There now lad, no need to make us all enemies. Put down your bow.” Hugh made no reply. He was hedged in now, cut off from his quiver, and dangerously out numbered. One of the men had a club, one carried a hatchet, and Gib could release the dogs again with a word. A minute inched bye, then two, with no sign of the standoff ending. But Hugh’s ankle stabbed with pain. He gritted his teeth, ignoring it. Soon he felt the slight strain on his muscles, signaling the time to release. But Hugh held his ground. His arms began to throb, no one spoke a word. Then Hugh heard a rustling to one side. He turned just in time to see that the fifth man---the one with the beard, had crept up with his bow. Hugh fired just as he fired, and then there was a flurry of action. Hugh’s arrow had found its mark in the bearded man’s shoulder. He screamed with anger. The other men moved in swiftly. Hugh tried to fend them off, and managed to land a punch on the hatchet wielder’s jaw before the club came crashing down. He managed to dodge, taking the full force of the hit on his shoulder. But it grazed his forehead, and the world went black.