The Woodcutter Read Online Free PDF
Author: Kate Danley; © Lolloj / Fotolia
sky.
He closed his eyes, willing away the urge to run, to run to the end of the earth and farther beyond, to do anything but to face the coming dogs.
Their snarls and growls drew closer. Closer.
Then he heard the hooves of the Raging Host, of their carnivorous horses trampling the ground. The beasts were ridden by the souls powerful enough to control them – a horde of male warriors chosen to ride the night sky instead of surrendering to the caresses of eternal sleep; a pack of bare-breasted Valkyrie women who intoxicatingly called people to their doom – a band of the dead who lusted for nothing but the Hunt.
He felt hot breath upon his cheek. He heard the metal jangle against the warm leather.
He opened his eyes.
Before him stood the eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. The eight-legged horse sired by Svadifari and out of Loki.
And upon him sat the Rider.
The Master of the Hunt.
The King of Valhalla.
Odin.
The god’s hawkish eyes stared golden and unblinking through the slit in his horned helmet. His hellhounds milled like moonlight fog at his feet, their shadow teeth brushed against the Woodcutter, waiting only for Odin’s command to rip and tear into such sweet smelling flesh.
The Woodcutter bowed in respect, but was careful not to bow in subservience.
The Rider tilted his head, “Woodcutter.”
“Odin.”
Their names were charged with magic. It crackled the air about them and caused the Valkyries’ mounts to dance.
Odin eyed the hanging body of the Huntsman, “A sacrifice.”
The observation was tinged with pleasure. Odin pointed his finger and the hellhounds stalked towards the corpse. But then they stopped, unable to pass beyond the ring of fallen fae. One turned and whimpered to his master. Odin pulled on Sleipnir’s reins and drew close. He looked down upon circle of pixie corpses.
The clouds began to rumble.
“Who would commit such an atrocity?” he roared as Sleipnir reared up against the night.
As the wind tore the words from his throat, the Woodcutter extended his arm and shouted, “Him that hangs from the branch. I have bound him to this earth for anyone who can mete out proper justice.”
The world became very still as Odin looked down upon the Woodcutter, “You are sly, my friend.”
And then Odin began to laugh. He laughed a terrible, horrible laugh that splintered the sky, “Indeed, someday I shall hunt you, but, tonight, your revenge shall feed the Wild Hunt.”
Odin barked a guttural command and the hellhounds’ noses shot to the ground. He turned back to the Woodcutter, his voice full of menace, “And now I name the price. There are those that meddle within my realms. One of my very own hounds refuses to answer my call.”
A cold grain of fear burned in the Woodcutter’s belly.
“Return to me my hound.”
It was a command, not a request. The Woodcutter bowed his head, feeling the weight of a million worlds placed like a yoke upon his shoulders.
“Do not look so down,” Odin laughed. “Afterwards, if you wish to Hunt, you can join the Ride.”
A mournful howl rose from the throat of a hellhound.
Sleipnir snorted fire from his nose.
“We Hunt!” Odin commanded.
The mounts screamed and the hellhounds cried as the wild magic broke like a wave upon the shore, led by Odin into the night.
A single Valkyrie grabbed the Huntsman’s corpse. She swung the body in circles above her head by the tail of the hangman’s noose as she disappeared between the trees.
Chapter 18
The Woodcutter watched as the Hunt’s noises faded into the chaos of the storm, a storm that would rage until dawn.
He looked around the clearing. The grass had not been touched by the hooves of the Wild Hunt’s beasts.
The circle of the fae seemed so small and sad, now that their purpose was done.
He
He closed his eyes, willing away the urge to run, to run to the end of the earth and farther beyond, to do anything but to face the coming dogs.
Their snarls and growls drew closer. Closer.
Then he heard the hooves of the Raging Host, of their carnivorous horses trampling the ground. The beasts were ridden by the souls powerful enough to control them – a horde of male warriors chosen to ride the night sky instead of surrendering to the caresses of eternal sleep; a pack of bare-breasted Valkyrie women who intoxicatingly called people to their doom – a band of the dead who lusted for nothing but the Hunt.
He felt hot breath upon his cheek. He heard the metal jangle against the warm leather.
He opened his eyes.
Before him stood the eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. The eight-legged horse sired by Svadifari and out of Loki.
And upon him sat the Rider.
The Master of the Hunt.
The King of Valhalla.
Odin.
The god’s hawkish eyes stared golden and unblinking through the slit in his horned helmet. His hellhounds milled like moonlight fog at his feet, their shadow teeth brushed against the Woodcutter, waiting only for Odin’s command to rip and tear into such sweet smelling flesh.
The Woodcutter bowed in respect, but was careful not to bow in subservience.
The Rider tilted his head, “Woodcutter.”
“Odin.”
Their names were charged with magic. It crackled the air about them and caused the Valkyries’ mounts to dance.
Odin eyed the hanging body of the Huntsman, “A sacrifice.”
The observation was tinged with pleasure. Odin pointed his finger and the hellhounds stalked towards the corpse. But then they stopped, unable to pass beyond the ring of fallen fae. One turned and whimpered to his master. Odin pulled on Sleipnir’s reins and drew close. He looked down upon circle of pixie corpses.
The clouds began to rumble.
“Who would commit such an atrocity?” he roared as Sleipnir reared up against the night.
As the wind tore the words from his throat, the Woodcutter extended his arm and shouted, “Him that hangs from the branch. I have bound him to this earth for anyone who can mete out proper justice.”
The world became very still as Odin looked down upon the Woodcutter, “You are sly, my friend.”
And then Odin began to laugh. He laughed a terrible, horrible laugh that splintered the sky, “Indeed, someday I shall hunt you, but, tonight, your revenge shall feed the Wild Hunt.”
Odin barked a guttural command and the hellhounds’ noses shot to the ground. He turned back to the Woodcutter, his voice full of menace, “And now I name the price. There are those that meddle within my realms. One of my very own hounds refuses to answer my call.”
A cold grain of fear burned in the Woodcutter’s belly.
“Return to me my hound.”
It was a command, not a request. The Woodcutter bowed his head, feeling the weight of a million worlds placed like a yoke upon his shoulders.
“Do not look so down,” Odin laughed. “Afterwards, if you wish to Hunt, you can join the Ride.”
A mournful howl rose from the throat of a hellhound.
Sleipnir snorted fire from his nose.
“We Hunt!” Odin commanded.
The mounts screamed and the hellhounds cried as the wild magic broke like a wave upon the shore, led by Odin into the night.
A single Valkyrie grabbed the Huntsman’s corpse. She swung the body in circles above her head by the tail of the hangman’s noose as she disappeared between the trees.
Chapter 18
The Woodcutter watched as the Hunt’s noises faded into the chaos of the storm, a storm that would rage until dawn.
He looked around the clearing. The grass had not been touched by the hooves of the Wild Hunt’s beasts.
The circle of the fae seemed so small and sad, now that their purpose was done.
He
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