He had slept only a short while when a new sound intruded upon him, gradually tweaking away the sleep until he brought it more fully into his consciousness. His body lay perfectly still, the heartbeat and breathing unchanged, but his mind was utterly focused, listening intently for the disturbance to repeat itself, trying desperately to identify the source of the sound. But there was only the murmur of the stream as it trickled past, the sound of wings flapping, the distant screech of a night bird. He had nearly convinced himself that it had been another nightmare when he heard a splash in the water near him, to the right. It wasn’t the arrhythmic melody of the stream, either; something had dropped softly into its waters.
Another splash, this time closer.
Something was approaching his little knoll, but what? To what end?
His left hand slid down to his belt, reached for the dagger hilt. But he couldn’t catch it in his grip; the robe was in the way. Stupid, he thought. I should have put the belt over the robe, like Voltari does. His self-recrimination was brief; whatever was on the knoll was working its way through the grass, toward the other side of the knoll. He eased up to a sitting position, 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….
&
nbsp; 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 remove 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. He could rest there. He could heal there.
Still the body, he thought, feeling an immediate sense of comfort from the mantra. Still the mind. Still the body…
Ten minutes later, the pain was still there, but it had settled into the background as a manageable bit of static that he could ignore. It helped, and he made good time for the rest of the afternoon. But when he sat down for the evening and let the mantra slip from his mind, it was all he could do to keep from screaming as the repressed agony flooded through him.
He fainted.
He slept.
He dreamt a dragon had caught him; it was dangling him upside down over a pool of crystal clear water. In the reflection, he saw the dragon—a fierce-looking, scaly blackish-red brute—snorting thin streaks of fire across his feet, its forked tongue flicking out to see if they were done….
7
It took Angus four days to reach the first village.
Still the body.
He was limping severely and leaned heavily against a makeshift staff.
Still the mind.
He was feverish and only vaguely aware of his surroundings.
Still the body.
But he was alive.
Still the mind.
He had made it to the village. Did it have a name?
Still the body.
Fellwood. That’s what he decided to call it.
Still the mind.
Did Fellwood have an inn?
Still the body.
Yes. That was his goal. An inn.
Still the mind.
He needed to find the inn.
Still the body.
He wandered through the village of Fellwood—a small patch of perhaps a dozen thatch-roofed houses—as a scattering of villagers stared at him.
Still the mind.
Why were they staring? They surely must have had visitors before.
Still the body.
Pain shot up through his leg, and he blinked away the questions, the eyes of the villagers.
Still the body.
Still the body.
Still the body.
They were distractions.
Still the mind.
What was he doing?
Still the body.
The inn. He needed to find the inn. How could he do that?
Still the mind.
One of the villagers approached, said something. He ignored it. It wasn’t about the inn.
Still the body.
An inn would have a sign.
Still the mind.
That was what he was looking for: a sign. A sign like an axe cleaving a slab of meat? Yes, that would be the inn. Food for woodsmen. Beds….
Still the body.
He turned toward it, and the villager—a young, stout fellow taller than himself—put his arm around his back, his hand circling under his armpit.
Still the mind.
Angus turned to him. He was supposed to do something, wasn’t he? What was it?
Still the body.
The villager guided him toward the largest building in the village, one that had two stories and a slate roof. It was the one with the sign, so he followed where the boy led.
Still the mind.
He frowned. He wasn’t supposed to let him do that, was he?
Still the body.
The villager opened the door, yelled “Nargeth!”
Still the mind.
A foreign language? It sounded like one. But then he yelled it again, and a doughty old matron waddled quickly to his other side. Together, they led him to a chair at a table near the door and helped him into it.
Still the body.
“Can you help him?”
She touched his forehead. She wasn’t supposed to touch his forehead. He was supposed to do something. What was it?
Still the mind.
“Fever,” she tutted, shaking her head. “Find Ulrich.”
The inn. He needed to find the inn. He tried to stand up— Still the body.— but she gently held him down.
“Quickly!” she said. “He’s addle-minded.”
He smiled.
Still the addled mind.
His mantra slipped, but the pain did not overwhelm him.
Still the broken body.
The pain had become so much a part of him that he simply accepted it as if it were a pair of comfortable boots: always there but seldom noticed.
Still the idle mind.
He blinked and shook his head. Addle-minded? Who’s addle-minded? He could help them.
Find the addled mind.
He looked around the room, trying to find the addle-minded one. He tried to rise again.
Still the body.
“Now you be still,” the old matron said.
Still. Still. Still the mindbody.
She was at least fifty if a day, her face plump with concern.
Still her rattled body?
“I am looking for the inn,” Angus said, his voice calm, clear, and drained of energy. “I need rest.”
Still the tired body. Tired….
Her eyes were brown, the kind of milky brown that you could find in a not-quite-ripe walnut. He smiled at her.
Steal her body?
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “This be the inn,” she said.
Steal her mind?
He reached into a pocket and brought out a gold coin. He held it out to her. “How long?” he asked.
She barely hesitated before snatching up the coin.
Will she mind?
She smelled it, licked it, pinched it, and nodded. “Long enough,” she said. “You need mending.”
Mend the body.
He chuckled softly. The sound was hollow and weak at first, but gradually bloomed into a full-blown
guffaw that left him so exhausted that he slumped forward.
Mend the mind.
He would have fallen to the floor if Nargeth had not caught him.
Mind the body.
He sagged against her shoulder as the world slipped quietly away….
8
Angus rolled over on the straw mattress, the dry stalks grating noisily against each other. He sighed. It was warm in the comfortable little cocoon he had hollowed out from under the coverlet, and he wallowed in it for several minutes before sitting up.
He frowned. This was not his bed or his room. Everything in Voltari’s Tower were drab shades of black and gray, and the coverlet was a lively array of homespun wool squares dyed indigo, forest green, and red ochre. It was beautiful, and if it hadn’t been made from wool, he would think it ostentatious. Voltari was strictly practical with his adornments; he had no aesthetic sense whatsoever.
Where am I?
He eased his feet out from under the warm cocoon and set them on the cold floor. A slight twinge of pain ran through both soles, and he gasped. He looked down at them and discovered they were covered in bandages.
He lifted his right foot to his lap and gingerly tested its sole. It was tender, but the pain was little more than a reminder of what it had been. The inn, he thought. I must be in the inn. He tested his left foot and frowned. How long have I been here?
He began unwinding the bandage—but stopped almost immediately. He wanted to find out how bad his feet looked, but if the bandages were ready to be removed, whoever had put them on would have already removed them. Besides, what could he do about it? He was no healer. He gingerly let his foot fall back to the floor. Still the body, he thought, slowing his breathing and heartbeat. Still the mind. He wanted to reconstruct his memory of what had happened, and needed a clear mind to do it.
His feet had been injured in the stream. He remembered that much. It was a foolish mistake, one he vowed never to make again. Then he compounded the mistake when he had kept walking. He should have waited for the soles to heal instead of aggravating them. But he hadn’t. He had kept walking, and the wounds had gotten infected.
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 3
