When Leif ambles over, breaking my concentration, I show him the area across the stream, noticing a partial boot print in the smoothed soil. Why would Cohen clear part of the dirt but not all?
Before I can figure it out, Captain Omar is beside me, keenly studying the ground. “Headed for the main road,” he murmurs to himself, a question in his tone about Cohen’s change in direction.
The captain stands and tells Leif to set up camp and then turns to me. “Britta, you’re going hunting.”
I figured one of us was going to have to hunt soon, since our rations are meager.
“How can I hunt when I have no weapon?”
“Watch your mouth,” Captain Omar clips.
I press my lips together, frustrated that I always manage to say the wrong thing.
The captain commands me to hunt under Tomas’s supervision. Upon hearing this, Tomas’s expression sharpens; he’s a starved mountain cat ready to pounce on injured prey. I stifle a shudder at having to be alone with him, keeping a mask of calm on my face as the captain hands over the bow in its quiescent position. How I’ve missed the comfort of its easy weight.
The smooth bends of the horn-and-sinew recurve bow fight against me until wrangled into place and the string is set. A pluck to test the tension emits a tenor note that captures all three guards’ attention. Leif’s brows lift like a charmed child’s at Midsummer’s Tide.
“Seeds and stars, that was fast.” Leif’s appraisal is short-lived, cut when the captain pulls out my blade and two hands grasp for it at the same time. Tomas snags it for the win.
“You didn’t think he meant it for you, did ya?” Tomas says with relish. He tosses my dagger in the air and then catches it, hand bouncing to test the weapon’s weight. “I’ll use this to keep you in line.”
My knuckles whiten around my bow. Tomas’s threat will never be anything but empty. I’ll never let his slimy hands molest Papa’s blade. Especially not against me. The rat guard doesn’t know the damage one arrow loosed from my bow can do.
When the captain leaves, I point south. “We should go that way.”
“Jumping at the bit, are ya? We’re not gonna walk any which way. A little scouting first.”
Leif shoots me a sympathetic look.
“Scouting for tracks?” I ask Tomas. I point to the cluster of small pebbled dung a few paces south. “Like that?”
Leif lets out a snort. His broad shoulders curl inward, jerking with laughter. “Looks like a decent place to start to me.”
“Nobody asked you, filly. Go bludger off,” Tomas goads him.
I nod a silent goodbye to Leif and stalk into the woods.
Tomas trails behind with the grace of a bull stung by a bee. He snaps branches and sets off a cacophony of sounds. I put a finger to my lips and hold out a hand.
“What?” he mouths.
I point to the game trail beaten into the earth. At his bounding pace, he would’ve missed it. In the dirt there’s a cloven print that is two knuckles long. A fawn’s print. I wish I hadn’t stopped. Papa and I never hunted animals still in their youth. They’ve not lived through their purpose, he’d said.
I suggest we take cover and wait for the animals that will surely be making use of the game trail, since the rain has stopped. Thankfully, Tomas agrees.
Hardly any time passes before the soft pad of the fawn sounds. I hope she’s not alone and she’s come with a bigger kill. Only, that’s not the case.
The thought of killing her doesn’t sit right with me, but I consider the situation. She wouldn’t be alone unless her mother was dead. Winter’s approaching. Without a caregiver, the fawn has little chance, so perhaps a kill is a reasonable choice.
The twang of a bow—?
A sudden slice of air—?
And the choice is stolen.
A horrible bawl breaks from the animal’s mouth as it jumps once and kicks its back legs before darting away. Beside me, Tomas fumbles for another arrow.
“Stop!” I screech. “What have you done?”
He’s not looking at me, so I swipe my dagger from his belt and start for the tortured fawn to end the animal’s life.
Tomas crashes through the brush, chasing. “Did ya forget how to hunt?”
The entire forest rattles around me. I blink once and then realize the motion is coming from me, shaking with anger and sorrow as I focus on the gleaming red trail.
“Please stay here,” I beg Tomas.
He opens his mouth to argue.
“You’re too noisy. She’ll hear you coming and keep running. If you want to eat before tomorrow, please stop. I’ll finish the job.”
Resentment flares in his eyes. But he stays.
Daylight is on its way out when I spot the fawn bedded in the grasses. Fear and pain waft from her like smoke from a fire. At the sight of the arrow protruding from her guts and the blood gathering beneath her, shame floods me.
This isn’t how I do things. Torture is never how I kill.
I should slit her neck. But my approach would need to be slow and all the while she’d be suffering. I draw an arrow, ready my bow, and shoot the fawn in the neck.