lifted the hem of his robe, and slipped the stiletto from his right boot. It was a thin, well-balanced blade, and he flipped it over to grip it by the blade tip. The present…
There was a soft splash a few feet to his left. It was a small splash, like the first, as if the thing making the noise was trying not to make it. He saw movement in the moonlight reflected off the stream. There was a soft rustle in the grass on the opposite bank….
Angus rolled to his knees and threw the stiletto in one motion.
A high-pitched, angry chitter thundered through his mind as a rodent stood on its hind legs and tried to leap back into the water. But the stiletto had pinned it to the mud. It thrashed against the bank, trying desperately to work the stiletto loose with sharp little jerks.
Angus drew the second stiletto from his left boot and threw it effortlessly, burying it in the mud where the creature had been but a moment before. It had wrenched the stiletto from the mud and was dragging it into the thicket. The densely packed root and stem system—normally a place of safety for such a creature—was an impediment as the stiletto’s hilt became entangled in them. It pulled, and the blade gouged into the muscles of its leg. It squealed furiously, bit at the stiletto, and pulled more fiercely with its leg.
Angus jumped into the water, slogged over to the second stiletto, and pulled it from the mud. He edged toward the wounded animal. It saw him and struggled to get deeper into the undergrowth. The blade in its leg sliced through a tendon, and it finally jerked free—but too late. Angus thrust the second stiletto through its back, pinning it to the ground. It wiggled for a few seconds and then lay still. He waited until he was sure it was dead and then retrieved the stilettos. He rinsed them in the stream, dried them on the long grass, and slipped them back into their sheaths. Then he turned to the animal he had killed.
It was a small thing, no longer than his forearm and only a little wider than his hand. It had short, dark, thick fur and a scaly, hairless tail. Its spade-shaped paws ended with three webbed toes and flat claws suitable for digging. Its head was narrow, with a long, pointed snout, small ears, and large eyes. Its teeth were flat and dull in the front, but near the hinge of the jaws they became a sharp jagged ridge that could easily tear away strips of flesh.
He dipped it in the stream and held it under until the blood had washed away, and then went back to the edge of the knoll to sit down. He laid the animal across his knees, belly up, and took the stiletto from his right boot. Without thinking about it, he inserted the stiletto just beneath the skin of the hind leg and made a slit across to the opposite one. There was surprisingly little blood for a fresh kill, and he poked the stiletto into the stream bank before using his fingers to peel the pelt from around each of the back legs and tail. Then he flipped it over on its belly. He hesitated only a moment before grabbing the thing’s head with his right hand and the loose fur around the tail with his left. He pinched the tail between his knees, and pushed with his right hand. The thin, greasy layer of winter fat between the pelt and the flesh of its back made it easy for the two to separate, and he soon had his forearm inside the inverted pelt, as if it were a fur-lined glove on his hand and wrist. The carcass dangled beneath his forearm as he lifted it and used his left hand to peel the warm, pliable, sticky flesh from the skin of its belly. When there was a gap large enough for him to wedge his fingers between them, he wrapped his left hand around the belly until he had a firm grip on the carcass. Then he removed his right from inside the pelt and tugged on the slippery underside of the skin to enlarge the hole. It felt and sounded almost like unraveling an old vellum scroll that hadn’t been read in decades. He slid his fingers through the hole and slowly pulled the two apart until the pelt caught on its forelegs. He peeled each foreleg free, the tiny paws snapping against his leg as the skin around them ripped. One more tug brought the skin to the ears, and if he were planning to save the pelt, he would have used the stiletto to cut around them. But he was only interested in the meat. He twisted the head until the neck cracked apart and then pulled it off. He tossed it and the pelt attached to it into the stream and rinsed the carcass off. Then he held up the animal with the fingers of his right hand just beneath the forelimbs, with the belly facing him. He picked up the stiletto and made a shallow slit from the ribcage down to the anus, careful not to nick the intestines with the tip of the blade, and pried the flesh apart. He reached in with three fingers and pulled out the lungs, heart, and stomach. He thought about eating the heart, but it was small and uncooked. There was a small pop as the esophagus broke free, and he brought out his fingers, allowing the intestines to cascade out until the abdominal cavity was empty. A quick slit sent them floating downstream. He submerged the carcass and ran his fingers around the inside of the abdominal cavity to make sure there wasn’t anything clinging to the abdominal wall. He held it up by its hind legs and tail, inspected it as best he could in the dim moonlight, and nodded with satisfaction. Finally, he rinsed his stiletto off and put it back in its sheath. He stood up and retrieved his backpack.
He walked downstream in the moonlight until he found a place where he could climb up the steep bank and clear an area for a cooking fire. He gathered some small branches for the fire and used a few of them to construct a make-shift spit. Once the fire was going well, he speared the carcass on the spit and set it over the fire. He banked the fire so it would burn with a low flame for several hours and sat down.
Almost at once, fatigue settled on him, and he lay down. But sleep was reluctant to join him; instead, his mind whirled from one unanswered question to another. When had he learned to throw a stiletto? He had never used one while he was with Voltari—there was no need for it—but it had felt as natural to him as the leather tunic he had on beneath his robe. And what about skinning the animal? He had not been the least bit squeamish about it, and his hands seemed to know exactly what to do even though he had no recollection of ever having skinned anything before. It was so cold, so dispassionate…. And what about the fire? He hadn’t built a fire like this before, either; Voltari’s tower held a constant temperature—except when spells went wrong. Why did he feel so confident and comfortable in the wilderness one moment and completely at odds with it in the next?
The answers didn’t matter for now; he was alive, and he needed to focus on staying that way. There were dangers in the wilderness, and not just bears and wolves. Other things more sinister than them could also be lurking in the darkness, and the sooner he made it to a well-traveled road, the better it would be.
As long as there weren’t any bandits….
It took a long time for him to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he was plagued by dreams of shadowy, smoke-like, vaguely human figures with glowing red eyes emerging from knotty maple trunks. They circled him, probing for weakness, stretching out sooty tongues that tasted of roast furnumbra….
He woke just before dawn, the fire little more than smoldering embers. He stirred it back to life and broke off one of the charred hindquarters. It was overcooked almost to the point of being wasted, but he gnawed at it anyway. It tasted mostly of maple smoke, but he didn’t care. While he chewed, he relieved himself and went back to the stream for a pouch of water to douse the fire. He ate the second hindquarter before turning to the flesh on the back, which had escaped much of the flame. It was tender and gamey, but there wasn’t much of it. By the time he had finished eating, there was only the tough, leathery flesh of the breast and abdomen left, and he cut it into thin strips, wrapped each one in a leaf, and put them in one of the pockets of his robe. Then he resumed his journey downstream.
He had only gone a short distance when the stream merged with another one and the water depth made it impractical for him to continue walking in it. The banks were steep, and he had to backtrack almost all the way to where he had camped before he could climb out of it. The maple trees now outnumbered thickets, and the going was easier. He made better time, but at a cost: by midday there were sharp pains in the soles of his feet, and when he stopped to remo
ve his boots, he immediately realized his mistake. When he had stepped into the deeper water, it had seeped into his boots. He had felt it, of course, but had dismissed it as a minor inconvenience. He was wrong. The water had softened the calluses on the soles of his feet, and they had cracked open. It wasn’t that bad, but he didn’t have anything he could use to tend to them. He also couldn’t wait for them to heal on their own. All he could do was dry his boots and hope for the best.
He built a small fire near a fallen log and draped his boots over the log so the heat from the fire could go into them. He watched it closely for several minutes to make sure the flames didn’t ignite the boots or the log, and munched on the last of the meat.
Later, when he tried to put his boots back on, he found his feet had swollen, making it difficult. The open wounds scraped against the leather as he forced his feet past the ankle joint of each boot, and by the time they were both on, tears were leaking from the edges of his eyes. His feet were throbbing. He had difficulty putting weight on them at first, but he had to keep going. He needed to get to a village.