“Where did you get all of these clothes?” he asked.
“I find them,” Sorrel replied. “Sometimes in markets. Sometimes hanging in the wind. Sometimes on the ground beside a man who is sleeping.”
“So you steal them.”
“No, no.” She pulled the cloak up and worked at tying it again. “It is like the rabbits. You put it down, you look away, it is not yours anymore. You deserve to lose it.” A third attempt at securing the cloak failed. Glancing up in frustration, she gathered together the ends of the cloak’s ties and gestured toward him. “You know how to do things like this.”
“That is stealing. You are a thief,” he said sternly. He tucked the garment under one arm, knelt beside her, and took the ties, deftly tying a slip knot.
“No, not a thief. A thief steals things for money. Men can be thieves. A malthrope cannot. A malthrope cannot sell things to men, and men will not sell things to a malthrope. So if a malthrope takes from men, it is not stealing—it is getting things in the only way that a malthrope can get things.” Not once did she sound ashamed, or even defensive. She explained it simply, as though it was just another lesson. “And a malthrope is not foolish enough to leave things where they can be found . . . most of the time. Why is this a problem for you?”
“I have always heard that malthropes were thieves. I had hoped it wasn’t true.”
“You hear this from men. Men find ways to hate malthropes.”
“Elves and dwarves, too.”
“Bah.” She flourished her hand. “It is the same. Short and hairy, tall and pointed ears, they are all men on the inside. When you put on that jacket, you should put the thin one over it. The thin one is loose, it will fit better over than under.”
He nodded and pulled off his slave tunic for the first time in far too long. A searing sting of pain and guilt speared his mind as he saw the dark brown stain left by a splash of blood. It was along the front of the garment, far from the whip-torn holes and the stains of his own blood. This was blood he had spilled with his own claws. The stinging in his mind turned to a blaze of anxiety when Sorrel spoke.
“What is this?”
“I . . . this . . . I . . .” He stumbled, his eyes locked on the stain.
“Not the blood. What do I care if you are messy when you are eating?” she dismissed, thankfully misinterpreting the origin of the stain. “This, on your chest.”
He looked down. She was indicating the mark over his heart, a black patch of fur among the cream that formed curve with a point between its two peaks. He had long ago forgotten it was there.
“Oh. I don’t know. It has been there as long as I can remember. I thought maybe all malthropes had it. You don’t?”
“If I did, you would not be seeing it, so do not ask,” Sorrel said with narrowed eyes. “Come here.”
He stepped closer and leaned low, near enough for her fingers to brush the mark.
“I have never seen a thing like this. Very strange.” She tipped her head to the side, and slowly her ears sagged. She dragged her fingers lightly across the remnants of scars old and new. They showed has narrow strips of hairless flesh, some pink and fresh, some white and healed. She glanced up. Leaning near enough for her to inspect the mark had brought his face very close to hers, so much so that with her head raised their noses almost touched. Something about the moment made her smirk. Finally, she shrugged, pushing him lightly away. “Bah. You are strange. This is not new, yes? Get dressed. I have had all the berries I care to eat today. We should go back to near to your little nook.”
Teyn slipped his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. They were a bit long even for him, but only slightly, and cuffing the ends solved that. Moments after putting it on, he felt warm without a fire for the first time since he'd entered the mountains. The sash and buttons that would have secured it closed were long ago lost, but even so it was a vast improvement. He picked up the tunic from the ground and made ready to pull it on, but he stopped, his attention once again drawn to the stains. Closing his eyes, he dropped his hand and let the unwanted reminder of that terrible day on the plantation fall to the ground.
“You will not wear it?”
“Never again,” he said.
“Then I will take it. It will find use somewhere,” she decided, leaning aside to snatch it from the ground. Rolled tightly, it disappeared into one of her many pockets.
“Now, we go, I—”
She was interrupted by a gust of wind. Something carried on the breeze was different, a foreign scent that caught even Teyn's attention. He was new to interpreting such things, but it had a musky, pungent smell, something heavily furred and either enormous or numerous. Whatever it was, it was enough to push all else from Sorrel's mind. Her eyes were pressed shut, her nose pointed in the direction of the wind, drawing a long, slow breath. Another gust from the same direction seemed to visibly shake her. When her eyes opened again, they gleamed with hunger and purpose.
“Come! Come, come, come,” she urged, her words almost silent.
He leaned low to help her to her feet, but she swatted his hand away rolled to her hands and knees.
“Down, get down now, this way,” she whispered intensely, crawling as best she could toward the leeward side of the berry thicket.
He crouched low and followed her. “What is happening?”
She reached up and clamped his muzzle shut with her hand, pulling him down lower and whispering in his ear. “You will be quiet. A thing is coming. To catch it, we must hide.”
With that, Sorrel released him and continued, ducking lower and moving with greater care with each passing moment. Teyn did likewise. When his teacher seemed happy with their new position, a small patch of ground where the bushes were sparse enough for her to nestle among them, she nearly flattened herself to the ground. Now she was lower even than the knee-high berry bushes, completely hidden from all but her student beside her.
“What is it? What is coming?” Teyn asked, his voice as low as hers had been.
“Never mind. They will be here soon, you need to be ready. When they come, stay low. Head low. Ears flat. Look at them through the leaves of the bushes to see. They are very strong and very fast, but if you can take one, it is food for days. You have to surprise it, get onto its back, and then go for its throat. Pick one small, do not pick one with the . . . eh . . . with the . . .” She pointed frantically at the top of her head. “Head . . . sharp things.”
“But what is it?” he asked, propping himself on his elbows and craning his head.
In reply, she glanced through the bushes and became suddenly rigid, eyes glassy and intent. She reached up and planted her hand on his head, forcing him to the ground. Without raising his head, he peered through the waxy green leaves of the bushes and was just able to spot motion weaving among the trees in the distance. The minutes crawled by, Sorrel utterly rigid and motionless, Teyn doing his best to imitate. The forms drew nearer. Now he was certain that there were many. The scent was washing over him in waves, sparking ancient instincts. He felt his muscles tensing, ready to spring forward, even though he didn’t know why.
Now they were at the fringe of the clearing, cautiously edging toward the berry bushes farthest from the hiding place of the malthropes. Finally, Teyn got his first good look. On the plantation, Jarrad had frequently brought one or two creatures such as these back from his rare hunting trips. He’d called them thorn elk, and a single look at one of the large males made it clear the name was an apt one. Overall, they resembled a larger, shaggier deer. Their pelts were gray, with patches of pure black and pure white near the belly. The females might have been chest high if he was standing beside them, but the one adult male of the herd was noticeably larger.
Projecting back from its broad head were cruel, barbed antlers. Each forked once or twice, spreading out to the side, and each was covered with short, stout spurs. It stood with its head high, eyes wide and watchful. As the others of the herd approached the bushes, nibbling at the berries and leav
es, it watched, its breath leaving in billowing clouds in the chill air. There was an alertness to the group, the sense that they knew danger was near.
Teyn was awash with instincts that had never found use before that day. He found himself scrutinizing the way they moved, trying to pick out some sign that one was a better target than another. His limited vision slipped first to the possible prey, then to their defender. His heart was beating faster, his hair standing on end. Deep inside, he knew that this, the hunt, was the reason he was born. For the first time, he felt the beginnings of what it must be like to truly be a malthrope.
One of the young bulls of the herd wandered a bit farther from the group. The beast was a shade smaller than one of the females. Antlers that would one day soon be formidable weapons were for now little more than bristling nubs. And there was something else—a hesitant step here, a stumble there.
Sorrel's eyes darted first to Teyn, then to the creature. Somehow her glimpse alone seemed to radiate the insistent, primal knowledge that this was the creature, this was the moment. There wouldn't be a better chance. Teyn drew his legs silently up beneath him until he was coiled like a spring, one hand planted on the ground to steady himself, and every sense on fire. He bounced his leaf-obscured vision first to the prey, then to the defender. The instant its vigilant gaze swept way from the bushes, Teyn made his move.
His legs and back straightened and he burst from his hiding place. The world around him seemed to slow. His leap took him in an arcing path, higher than the lowest branches of the pines around the bushes. The whole of the clearing was an explosion of motion. Each member of the herd broke into a bounding, fearful run, disappearing into the trees. The young elk panicked and bolted, its eyes wide and sweeping, but Teyn had chosen well. It lacked the steadiness to move quickly and the experience to choose its motions properly. He came down upon it, his clawed fingers raking across its haunches, but desperation and fear gave his prey just enough strength to wrench itself away.
The terrified creature bounded toward the trees, Teyn not two steps behind it, when the air rumbled with a vengeful bellow. The male was thundering toward him, trampling a path through the bushes and nearly flattening the still-concealed Sorrel. Teyn's mind pulled itself from its task, switching suddenly from pursuit to escape. The charging bull was faster than him by far, closing the gap between them in mere heartbeats. Thinking back to Sorrel's attempts to evade him when they'd first met, Teyn took one last step and landed hard on his heel, springing to the side just in time to avoid a razor-sharp antler scything through the air behind him. The move only bought him a few steps, the hissing breath of the stampeding elk already hot against his neck.
Ahead were two pine trees growing near enough for their branches to weave together. He shifted his sprint toward them and, pouring all of the strength he could muster into the motion, heaved himself through the gap between. The elk's hooves plowed up a stretch of frosty earth as it skidded to a stop. Teyn did not slow, rolling once and landing on his feet at a full run toward the base of a stout, ancient tree. He reached it and scrambled high among the branches as the monster behind him recovered. Below him, the elk pounded up to the foot of the tree and peered up at him, fury in its eyes. It reared onto its hind legs and came down with all of its strength, butting the trunk the tree, but Teyn held firm. Once, and again, the bull whipped its head, striking the tree hard enough splinter the bark. Finally, it seemed satisfied, plodding back into the woods.
Teyn remained high in the tree until long after his heart had stopped pounding and his breathing had slowed. He was still there, clinging to the branches and trying to calm his nerves when he heard a voice echoing through the woods.
“Teyn!” Sorrel called out, thumping along with her crutch.
There was something unusual in her voice, a tone he hadn't heard before. When she called again, he realized that it was concern.
“Teyn, you are near, I smell it. Answer when I call you!” she called again, this time the more familiar tones of anger tempering her voice.
“Here,” he replied, finally digging his claws into the icy bark and climbing from his perch.
“Ah! A tree. Smart. This was a good thing to do. Come here!” she yelled, hurrying as best she could to the source of his voice.
She reached the foot of the tree a few moments after he reached the ground.
“Let me see you. Turn around,” she ordered, scanning him up and down.
He did as he was told, and once she was satisfied, she placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her. “Good. It is good, you are not hurt. You thought fast, and you acted fast, and you ran fast, and you were not hurt. You are learning to be a proper malthrope!” As she spoke, she swept the pine needles and flakes of bark from his sleeves, punctuating the comment with a slap to his chest. “Come. You drew blood. The path will be easy to find.”
“You . . . you want me to try again? After what happened?”
“Pff. Nothing happened, Teyn. You are well, your prey is not. That is how hunting goes.”
“But the male! The bull will come after me again. Those antlers could have cut me in half!”
“Antlers! Yes, that is the word!” she proclaimed. “Do not worry. You have gotten away once. You will get away again. Once or twice more and you'll have the one you were after. Quickly now. You did not strike so deep. The thing will not be slowed much. It will take time to follow.”
“I can't do it.”
“Bah. You can. Come. We cannot allow the forest to serve up a meal like that and then let it walk away. We would spit in the face of fortune. You will finish the hunt.”
“I can't do it.”
His voice quavered with his final words. At the sound, Sorrel looked him over once more, seeming to finally notice that though his body was none the worse, he was badly shaken by the experience. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were flitting here and there, ears twitching and turning at every sound. He had, perhaps foolishly, allowed himself to believe he was safe here. After reluctantly allowing the constant fear for his life to drop away, to have it thrust upon him again was devastating. It brought back powerful memories of his flight from the plantation, and of the final days there.
“Listen, Teyn,” Sorrel said, clasping his shaking hands in hers. “You are afraid. It is right to be. You could have been killed. But you were not. This is a victory. You did as you should. It is a good thing to be afraid of that thing. It is bigger and stronger. Around a thing like that, you need to be alert and fast. Fear gives you these things. But you are not so big, and you are not so strong. There will be many things bigger and stronger, so you cannot let the fear stop you, or you will never start. You take the things fear gives you and refuse to give the things it tries to take away.
“There are many ways to beat something. You can be bigger or stronger. You are not. You can be faster. You are not. You can be smarter. You are not, yet. But there is one thing always that you can do to beat something, no matter what it is and no matter what you are not. You can keep trying. Try and fail, try and fail. Maybe many times, but if you continue to try while the others do not, then you will win. So never stop trying. Life will be hard for us, Teyn. We are malthropes, that is the way of things. But so long as we never stop trying, we will find our way. If you learn nothing else from me, learn that.”
Teyn listened to her words. Again, there was a tone behind them that he hadn't heard in her voice in the short time he'd know her: sincerity. Other things she'd taught were things that she knew, things that she'd learned. This was something she believed, a piece of herself that kept her going in the face of the endless trials of her life. He took strength from her words—but, more than that, he took comfort in her touch. She held firm to his hands while she spoke, and looked him directly in the eye. Something about it, about physical contact that was not the back of a hand or the heel of a boot, made the words more real, more meaningful. He'd had her to keep him company for days, but this was the first time that he truly felt
that he wasn't alone. His trembling slowed, and Sorrel smiled as she saw in his eyes that the fear was drifting away.
“Good. Good. Now come. I will show you where to follow the path. Soon, we feast.”
#
It took more than a day and a half and three more close calls, but Teyn finally managed to catch his prize. The young elk was enough to fill their bellies for three full days.
From the moment of that first true success, things changed. It was as though seeing the prey, tracking it, stalking it, had awakened a part of him that he'd been forced to keep tucked away. The lessons began to take root even more quickly now. He was eagerly seeking out each new scent and gaining as much insight and wisdom as Sorrel could provide.
Just as his skills grew, however, game grew more and more scarce. The meager offerings that the barren mountainside could provide nearly vanished as the knowledge of a dangerous predator spread among the prey. The pair found themselves traveling farther each day to find a meal, and coming back with less to show for it each time. Worse, all of the travel was very hard on Sorrel, who, despite his continued insistence, refused to give her injured leg any real rest. As a result, it had barely improved at all.
A few weeks had now passed, and Teyn was hot on the trail of a strong scent. Sorrel limped behind, a near-constant grin of pride and amusement on her face as she watched her protégé put her teachings to use. He'd always trusted her advice before, and it had yet to be proven wrong, but this time his confidence was wavering.
“It . . . it doesn't smell fresh at all,” he said with concern.
“Do not worry about that. There is nothing wrong with claiming another creature's kill.”
“But it smells rotten. It smells like there are many rotten things nearby.”
“Only rotten things?” she quizzed him.
“No . . .” he replied, sniffing again. “Some fresh meat, too.”
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 163
