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Dog Eat Dog

The wind whipped defiantly between the boulders the company had chosen for shelter, as the faint heat of the God Flame was extinguished, and the chill deepened. Tamacti Jun moved carefully past the others, wedging himself between the stone and the campfire. Its warmth was inviting…even if the people around it were not. Everyone was quiet, trying to conserve the little energy left after a day’s journey in the dead of winter. Their supplies were sustaining, but hardly robust, and would have to last until they reached Pennsa.

For weeks, the former head of Queen Kane’s Witchfinders had been travelling with the group he once persecuted, including a witch and her guardians. In that time, he discovered levels of tolerance he never before had need of. It was the only way to handle people who would rather he die than help them. The Compass warrior Charlotte, and Paris, the presage of a tribe he had destroyed, were both sworn to protect the sighted against Witchfinders. They despised him for who he was, and what he had done, but as long as Princess Maghra considered these people her allies, he could not be their enemy.

Difficult as it was, he tried to stop thinking of the princess’ own daughter as a witch. Despite her sight, Haniwa seemed normal enough for her age, albeit with a keen desire for vengeance. He now understood that it was she who shot the Alkenny traitor who had given away her family’s location, as they fled from his Witchfinders. It was an interesting choice of targets, being mere inches from himself and a number of officers—strategically lacking, but apparently more satisfying at the time. It was a mistake she might have corrected the moment she saw him again, had Baba Voss not stopped her. He presumed she still had an arrow set aside for him, in the event her mother was not alive when they reached Pennsa—or perhaps even if she was.

As for the princess’ husband, Tamacti found he did not actually dislike him, even though the feeling was not mutual. He had learned much about Baba while stuck in the same Trivantian prison, and having listened to the man’s ordeal on the rack, he could not help but be impressed. Few could withstand days in the hands of Edo Voss’ torturers, and even less kept on fighting. Baba never begged for his own life, only for that of his daughter—or, more accurately, Maghra’s daughter. He might have advised him against that; torture was always more efficient when the subject identified exactly what they least desired.

Tamacti knew he would still be in that dungeon, awaiting the full attention of the Triangle interrogators, had Baba not accepted his offer to help find Maghra—but only after the man had made his expectations crushingly clear. Bruised ribs were a small price to pay for a strong ally, and the warrior had been easier to deal with after their escape, usually recognizing the value of his suggestions, sooner or later. That fragile trust was the key to getting anything done, as the others only followed their chieftain’s directions. Ultimately, it mattered little who gave the orders, so long as they went where he needed to go.

The greatest challenge had not been convincing his enemies to work with him, but maintaining a commitment to Maghra’s last wishes in the wake of his own increasing instability. Baba had begun to question his sanity, and he was not wrong to wonder about it. Much had changed in a short time, and he was no longer certain what he existed for. He could only move in the direction that made sense—towards the Kane family, and the one obligation he had left. Beyond that, he would do whatever was necessary to appease them.

They were never far away, the people whose lives he had taken, waiting just at the edge of consciousness. While near death, they had come to welcome him, sharing insights he could not cope with; being his own victim had been mind-rending. When they finally released him, he was left feeling like charred wood—outwardly holding together, but irrevocably altered, and dangerously close to crumbling. Sometimes, ironically, when the world was at its most peaceful, he could almost feel their touch, and the memories of all those final moments would flood through his mind, sweeping aside all rational thought, until he had to do something—anything—to make it stop. He could do little to keep them away, aside from filling his head with distractions.  

At times like these, he wished for the chatter of the group, but they seemed subdued, perhaps worried what fate awaited them in Pennsa. He did not envy Baba’s decision to endanger part of his family to save the rest. It would be a risk letting themselves be surrounded by the queen’s soldiers. And there were no guarantees he could do what he intended, which was to make them his soldiers once again. Baba had his assurance it would be to their benefit, but they both knew the word of a former enemy was worthless until proven otherwise.

The wail of a loon shattered the silence, so much like a wolf’s howl that everyone stopped what little they were doing to make sure. The answering call came back clear enough—just birds. When the echoes faded, he was left with only the crackling of the campfire as a diversion. Poking the logs with a stick, he listened to the hiss of lichens being engulfed as the flame climbed the branch towards his hand. When it began to bite at his fingers he released it, then repeated the process. It was a task to keep it low without letting it die altogether. Payan hounds might scent smoke from anything larger, and he did not need his army’s attention before he was ready for it. Getting into Pennsa would not be a challenge, but if they did not approach the situation correctly, he would have gone a long way just to give Sibeth Kane a chance to kill him again.

He heard a sudden rustling in the leaves at the edge of camp, swiftly followed by the sound of an arrow being released. Instead of silencing the scuffling, whatever it was went crashing in another direction. Haniwa crossed the camp in pursuit, going as far as what he assumed was the edge of the firelight, then returned to the site of the initial noise.

“Haniwa?” Paris enquired, a hint of concern in her voice.

“The shaft broke. It got away,” Haniwa explained.

“It’s wounded?” Baba asked.

“There’s blood,” she confirmed.

The warrior paused a moment, then said, “The light is gone, yes?”

“I’m sorry Papa.” She sounded dejected.

“Maybe it is not lost.” Baba turned, speaking in his direction, “Tamacti, you’re a tracker. Go find our dinner.”

He could not be certain if Baba was being serious. The man had been in better spirits since being treated by a healer, and there was growing evidence he possessed a sense of humor previously buried under pain and exhaustion. But it was also quite possible he meant it.

When he did not respond, Baba added, “It is not good to waste life.”

Tamacti doubted the animal would feel any more fulfilled dying for the noble cause of being eaten by them, or by worms. He also doubted Baba cared about his opinion, so instead of sharing it, he asked, “You want me to kill it, with this?” He clanked his Trivantian spear against a rock, a weapon more suited for skewering men than small game.

“Maybe you will get lucky and run into a boar.” Baba sounded genuinely pleased at the possibility. “Now that would make a feast!”

“For the boar,” Paris added caustically.

Tamacti smiled faintly at that. Like Baba, Paris had prevented his death, but the presage never missed an opportunity to express her loathing of him.

Baba’s attention shifted to the Compass guardian, who had seated herself as far from the Witchfinder as she could get. “Charlotte, go with him.”

“Why both of us?” Charlotte objected.

“It is safer,” he replied.

“For who?” she protested.

But Baba did not relent, further rumbling his request, like some pensive bear.

“Fine,” she said, getting up from the fire, her exaggerated movements making it clear it was anything but.

Tamacti understood her reluctance. He was finally starting to thaw out, and plunging back into the cold with a mortal enemy in tow did not make for an ideal evening. He wondered how much use he would actually be, given his chosen prey were normally larger…and two-legged. But having wished for a distraction, he would not turn it down.

Releasing the kindling, he grabbed the heavy-bladed staff, and went to the place he believed the arrow had struck. Turning to face Haniwa, he asked, “Here?”

“Yes. I think it was a rabbit. It was grey,” she offered, somewhat unhelpfully.

He knelt down, running his hands over the surrounding ground; it was composed only of rock and ice, nothing that would retain a print. The other thing he sought was also absent.

“Do you have it?” he asked, extending his hand towards Haniwa.

She hesitated a moment before realizing what he wanted, then handed him the broken arrow.

The remaining shaft was nearly an arm’s length, having shattered close to the point. Which meant the animal would not be slowed by the drag, only blood loss as the barb worked deeper in. His mind went to the Alkenny traitor, and the arrow that had been his end…after a bit of repositioning. It appeared he had another opportunity to finish what Haniwa started.

Giving the shaft back to her, he headed in the direction the noise had gone. Charlotte followed wordlessly.

***

They had not gone far before reaching the animal’s last known location—it was a starting point. As he always did when seeking information, he cleared his mind of assumptions, and waited for something unexpected to fill it. It could be a scent, or sound, not always of the quarry itself, but of other creatures reacting to it, or being unusually silent. Tracking required no heightened abilities, only the right balance of patience, determination, and focus. All of which were lacking in his reluctant companion, who shifted impatiently nearby. He could detect only her scent, overlaid as it was with a potent mix of spices, the kind that choked if breathed too deeply—an appropriate warning, considering she had first greeted him with a garrote.

“Can you find it or not?” Charlotte asked tersely.

Ignoring the question, he used the spear butt to sweep the area around him, still not sure what he was searching for…until he found it. Rapping the staff sharply against a rock, the echoes confirmed there was a subtle break in the ground cover, extending outwards from where he stood.

“There’s a game trail,” he informed her. “Wounded things rarely stray from the route of least resistance, unless directly pursued.”

The base of the trail tapered to a gap no wider than his foot. By following it closely, he could just avoid scraping through the undergrowth. Charlotte crunched along behind him, before finding the narrow track for herself.

“Why did Baba make me go?” she asked, apparently still not over the imposition.

“Maybe he wants to know if we can be trusted,” he speculated.

“Trusted to do what?”

“Not kill each other?” he suggested, continuing along the path. “Rather like putting two dogs in a cage. If both are alive later, you know they can be used together. If not, at least you know which is stronger.”

She snorted loudly. “You had better pray we are never in a cage together.” Her staff stabbed the ground just a pace behind him. “And I don’t like dogs,” she added.

“A typical reaction, for a fugitive.” Her aversion was not uncommon; outside the nobility and military, few Payans had permits for dogs. A baying pack was rarely a welcoming sound, to anyone but the hunter. “But a hound would make this task easier,” he insisted.

“Why should it bring something to you, instead of just eating it?” she asked.

“Because they want to please their masters more,” he said, pressing further into the brush, branches snagging in the long-haired pelt he wore.

Charlotte’s grunt of frustration indicated she was getting equally tangled. “Then they’re even more dumb than I imagined.”

“They’re bred for ability and obedience, not autonomy,” he explained.

“So…just like Witchfinders,” she concluded snidely.

He frowned slightly, recalling the final thing Sibeth Kane said before leaving him to die. “I’ll admit, the queen was overly fond of that comparison, however flawed.”

“We Guardians don’t need animals to hunt for us. We use snares.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” he remarked, remembering her rope tightening around his neck. “But I assume most animals are not going to walk into one while you’re standing there.” He paused where the path was obstructed by a fallen tree, deciding whether to go under or over. He chose under—right into some overly resilient spider webs. His noise of disgust likely encouraged Charlotte to try a different way around. He heard the sound of dried vines breaking as she encountered another set of obstacles climbing over the log.

Having dragged her way through, she declared, “I’m tired, and freezing. How long are we going to be out here?”

“Only until it’s found,” he promised, brushing off the webs. He estimated they had already wasted more energy hunting the thing than it would provide. But the longer the chase went on, the more he felt he had a point to prove, beyond the actual purpose.

“We’re going to get lost,” she warned.

He found that amusing coming from a Compass member. “Don’t you have a map?” he asked.

“Not of every vermin path,” she answered.

“If you are truly concerned, we are still within shouting distance of—” He halted suddenly, the noise of something other than themselves catching his attention.

“Can you hear it?” Charlotte whispered loudly.

“Not over your voice.”

Failing to take the hint, she said, “If you were an ayura you could. I would not want to be one. Can you imagine hearing everything everyone says, everywhere you go? Wouldn’t that be annoying?”

“Very,” he said, struggling to recapture the location of the sound.

She continued thoughtfully, “I mean, I like the sound of a waterfall, but could I enjoy a waterfall if I heard that, plus hundreds of birds singing, a thousand insects buzzing, sap oozing, leaves falling, rain drying—”

“It’s a matter of training,” he said, cutting her off. “The greater their talent, the more focus it takes to keep from being overwhelmed.”

“That’s gotta be hard when it’s a steady stream of nonsense,” she said.

“Quite hard,” he agreed, stifling a sigh. Whatever made the noise chose not to make itself obvious again. The trail itself remained surprisingly well-defined, and it was likely larger things besides small game used it. Even so, he began to suspect it would not lead them to their quarry, there having been a chance it had cut away from the trail before they could hear it, or returned to a burrow to die. At some point he would have to give up—but not yet. He had made a career of following things to their miserable conclusions, and old habits were hard to break.

He tried to press on, but there were a number of things catching at him. Whatever used the path would have run into the same briars encroaching on the trail. Unhooking himself from the vines, he ran a hand gingerly over the barb-covered stems, seeking a particular source of information—to no avail—his perception was dulled from the cold, and he registered little beyond scratches. He cupped his hands to his mouth, catching the warmth of his breath, and awaited the return of sensation before trying again.

On the second attempt, he found it: a tuft of fur caught on a thorn. It was dry and not matted, indicating it had been deposited recently. Pulling it gently from the brambles, he rubbed it between his fingertips. The hairs were not overly long, and from the texture, he knew it was not a hoofed animal, or a bear, having worn such a skin enough years it had nearly become part of himself. But neither did it feel as soft as the fur of a rabbit. Which left a wide assortment of possible creatures. The army provisioners could have told him the exact source, but he had little need to discern those details himself. The fact he did not smell any blood on it was also inconclusive, as only a scentier could detect it in the smallest amounts.

Charlotte came up beside him as he knelt to check for signs of burrows. “Just admit you can’t find it, and we can go back.” She leaned towards him, breath grazing his ear. “Your reputation is safe,” she added reassuringly, “because you’ll be no less of an asshole if you fail.”

“I’m just trying to follow orders,” he said, only somewhat sarcastically.

“Is that what you always told yourself?” she asked, her tone prickly as the surrounding bushes.

He knew she referred to his past deeds, and while not far off the mark, there was no point responding. No one outside the military understood the burden it imposed, and he did not care to defend the indefensible. He stood without a word, and continued down the trail.

She fell back behind him, remaining on the attack. “Was it as simple as that?” she asked, as if something had just occurred to her.

He missed what she was referring to. “Was what simple?”

“The princess didn't want you murdering her own children, so she changed the rules. What's different about these kids versus all the rest you Witchfinders burned over the centuries?”

That question had been assaulting his sanity ever since Maghra returned. Never before had he questioned the creed taught to them—that sight had nearly destroyed the world, and must be prevented at any cost—until the princess told him to ignore it all. It was unlikely she would have been so certain, had the twins not been hers.

Instead of supporting Charlotte’s doubts with his own, he replied, “The circumstances under which they were born are less than ideal, but the fact remains these children are Payan royalty. Which means our goals have converged. It doesn’t matter what either of us think of that.”

“So it was that easy,” she said, ignoring his attempt at a truce. “Could have done that two hundred years ago.”

“It’s not my responsibility to change history,” he stated firmly. “My charge is to find the princess’ family. Once they are reunited, I am hopeful she will do what needs doing.”

“And that would be..?”

“To rule,” he answered simply.

“But aren’t you sworn to serve the current queen?” she asked pointedly.

“My oath to follow Sibeth Kane’s orders was till death. As far as I’m concerned, that obligation has been met.”

She was silent a moment, as if weighing the truth of the assertion. “Then you will do whatever Baba’s wife says?”

“More or less,” he replied. It was a question he had not fully answered for himself. He must commit to Maghra’s choices, no matter what path it lead to, or else leave the service entirely. He prayed the decision, if it came to that, would be a clear one.

“If she becomes queen, and she’s married to Baba, won’t that make him your king?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes…” he paused, noticing the sound of running water just ahead, “…assuming she recognizes him, officially.”

“Ha!” she exclaimed, pounding the ground with her staff. “He’ll make your life a living hell.”

“That would be redundant,” he said truthfully. He suspected the former slaver understood the horrors running through his head, because so far, Baba had been satisfied leaving it attached to his body. It was not mercy which drove that decision.

“At least he will be a good king. Better than Paya deserves,” she said scathingly.

“Perhaps,” he replied. Baba’s bravery was undeniable, as was his commitment to Maghra, but he was also fiercely impulsive. The role of king required patience over blades and brawn, and he found it hard to imagine the mountain man presiding over ceremonies, and sitting through audiences, without it resulting in casualties. Still, Maghra’s husband was no fool, and—Tamacti could not help but think it—at least he was not an unfaithful witch, unlike Haniwa’s real father.

He halted where the ground dropped sharply away. The sound of the water indicated the stream transecting the trail was shallow, but the bank was steep. He threw the spear, listening to it crunch into the gravel at a distance roughly twice its length below. Roots protruding from the rock made it an easy climb down. Balancing on a stone at the water’s edge, he turned to wait for Charlotte, but instead of following behind, she had gone further along the top of the bank.

“Honestly, if I were Baba, I wouldn’t want to be king of a bunch of murderers,” she called from a point midway over the stream. The fallen tree on which she stood provided a bridge across the gap.

Tamacti realized he had been slightly too direct, missing the more convenient route; deer likely jumped the distance, but the rest would have taken her log. Retrieving the spear, he used it to pick out a path of raised stones, being mostly successful in avoiding the frigid water. Fortunately, the slope proved gentler on the other side. Reaching the top, he found where the trail continued.

Charlotte rejoined him on the far bank. “I’ve been wondering,” she said, her tone conversational, “did they make you general because you were the biggest bastard of them all?”

“Not entirely,” he replied. “I was simply the most efficient at getting what is required from everyone else.” He left out that it was not always willingly.

“You won’t get anything from me,” she asserted, the charms in her hair clinking as she shook her head forcefully.

“I need nothing from you,” he assured her, “besides what you were already prepared to do.”

“You mean kill all the Witchfinders? Now that I’ll be happy to do!” She sounded genuinely excited by the prospect.

That was a concern. He could ignore the minor annoyances of life—a category into which the Compass guardian squarely fell—but letting a homicidal hen loose in the fox den might not turn out well, and he could not allow her to ruin his plans. The pursuit of their prey momentarily forgotten, he turned towards her. “Hate me all you like, but I don't want to fight you.”

“Obviously. You don’t have soldiers around to do it for you,” she said scornfully. “I don't need an army.” Her tone implied she would prove it if given the least incentive.

“Well, I do,” he admitted. “It will require more than five of us to successfully overthrow the queen. The more people on our side, the better.”

“The better the people, the less you need,” she countered.

“A valid point,” he acknowledged, “but you’re useful for something besides killing our potential allies. If you are tasked with Haniwa’s safety, that is one less concern for me.”

She laughed. “Nice try, but you can’t order me to do a job I was born for,” she said, pushing past him to continue down the trail.

He allowed her to take the lead. His focus had begun to fray, and he was growing almost as weary of their fruitless hunt as she was, but her comments brought questions to mind. “How many of you Guardians are there?” he asked, still wondering how a group of heretical female warriors had escaped the notice of the Witchfinders for generations. Hiding their location by falsifying maps could only have done so much.

“I’m sure you’d love it if I told you all about us,” she said, nearly pummeling the ground with her staff as she walked in front of him, “but I won’t betray my sisters to a nosey Witchfinder.”

“Why is the responsibility only passed from mother to daughter?” he asked anyway, but she stayed uncharacteristically silent. He always had more talent at interrogation than conversation—getting answers from someone was easier when they were bound, and forced to trade their knowledge for his mercy—but he remained undeterred. He knew some of the cues the ayuras listened for when probing for truth, even if he could not hear something so subtle as a change in heartbeats. And it was no mystery that people talked more freely the angrier they became. He felt confident more information could be shaken loose with a few baseless accusations. “Are there no sons, or do you kill those?”

“We're not sick devils like you,” she said.

“Sell them?” he prodded. “You must have been getting support from somewhere.”

“We’re not Trivantians either.”

He tried a different angle. “Would you commit your own daughter to the cause?”

“Never had any,” she answered dismissively.

“Don’t you feel an obligation, to keep your order going?” he asked.

She paused a moment too long before answering. “I never found anyone worthy of my love.”

He snorted, unsure if she was being sarcastic or not. Either way, the hesitation told him what she refused to—her regret was obvious. “You know,” he said reprovingly, “love isn’t a prerequisite for creating life.”

She turned about so suddenly her staff collided with the end of his spear, the crack of metal against wood echoing through the forest. “And that’s what’s wrong with life,” she said sharply.

He had clearly struck something vital, though he would not have taken her for such an idealist, given her fondness for choking the life out of people. He waited until she resumed walking.

“Plus,” she continued, turning back to the trail, “there’s no guarantee children will turn out the way you wish. Imagine if mine ended up becoming a slaver, instead of a Guardian. Now that would be awkward.”

“That was never a problem in Kanzua,” he said matter-of-factly. “There were only two options available to every young man or woman. They could join the army willingly…or they would join anyway.”

“Then I assume yours joined the Witchfinders,” she concluded. “Shame I didn’t get to kill them myself.”

If she expected a reaction, she must have been disappointed. Not long ago such a comment would have resulted in the addition of her murder to his abundance of sins, but where anger once resided, there was only a void.

“So you have none of your own,” he said, getting back to his point. “You compensate for it by being overprotective. Same as Baba.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“Haniwa.”

“That’s because…it’s my duty…to defend the sighted,” she explained slowly, as if to a fool.

He ignored her tone. “There’s a difference between protection and suffocation. What happens when you can’t be there?”

“I’ll find a way to be there,” she promised. “As for Baba, that’s his daughter. How else is he supposed to feel?”

“Technically, she isn’t,” he corrected.

“He raised her. He’s earned the right to be protective,” she argued.

While she might have been right, he continued as if she had said nothing of importance. “If you treat her like she is helpless, she will become so,” he warned.

“Haniwa isn’t helpless,” she said shortly, her pace faltering a moment.

“Not yet, but she has weaknesses,” he insisted. “Don’t aggravate them.”

“You’re aggravating. Just like this stone in my boot,” she complained. Leaning on a rock next to the trail, she removed the offending pebble, and tossed it into the bushes. “Wish I could get rid of you as easily.”

He heard something else besides the stone. A breeze whined through the trees, but he felt certain it was more than just that.

She began walking again. “How come you’re suddenly concerned about how she’s being raised, after you spent—”

“Quiet!” he barked, his focus reverting to their original goal. He searched the ground for another stone, then threw it close to where the noise had been…and was slightly surprised when the thing spooked, climbing a tree next to the trail. He was even more surprised when Charlotte nearly shoved her staff in his face.

“Hold this,” she ordered.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she had already begun ascending the tree in pursuit. He leaned against the rock, trying to listen to her progress, but she was nearly silent. He had a feeling she spent more than a little time in trees, waiting to ambush her enemies.

“Almost there,” she called from a distance several staff lengths above the ground.

It impressed him how quickly she could climb, but he was not about to admit it. “Careful,” he cautioned, “if you break your neck, they’ll blame me.”

“That might almost be worth it,” she replied. “It’s cornered…just have to grab it….”

He heard the sound of small branches snapping overhead as she moved suddenly, followed by a guttural hiss—then her cry of pain.

“Everything fine?” he enquired.

She growled in irritation. “I had it…until it bit me.”

“Will you live?” he asked.

“Longer than you,” she retorted. “And don’t worry, I’ve still got enough fingers left to pull a noose tight.”

“Good to know,” he replied.

There was a faint whistling sound, followed by the impact of her weighted rope colliding with the creature. It dropped from the tree into the bushes, then made a halting attempt at escape. “Don’t let it get away!” she shouted, beginning to climb down.

“I know where it is.” He could hear the animal hissing again, and then the sound of something larger stirring up dead leaves as it moved to intercept their quarry. “Except I’m not the only one,” he added, right before the two noises converged somewhat violently a dozen paces ahead.

She halted in her descent. “If that’s a boar, stab it all you want, but I’m not ruining my rope on its teeth.”

They both heard a deep growl from the newcomer, which, he surmised, had just stolen their prize.

“That’s no pig,” she said, concern creeping into her voice.

“No,” he agreed. “Wolf.” The acrid scent of their markings was suddenly very apparent. “We must be on the edge of their territory.”

“Wolves. Great,” Charlotte groaned. “They’re even worse than dogs.”

He kept his voice low. “We’ll leave, but not before I take what is ours.”

“How many are there?” she asked.

“One,” he replied.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m still standing,” he reasoned. Survivors’ tales told how packs of wolves would test a man before committing to an attack, and once down, there was no difference between a person and any other prey. But they were not as brave on their own. “A lone scavenger won’t be hard to deal with,” he said confidently.

“I’ve heard they can sense fear,” she warned.

“Then you had better stay back.”

“If you need help, I’ll be way up here,” she offered.

“Right,” he said with disinterest.

“Someone needs to explain how you died,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

The wolf’s steady growl was punctuated by choking snarls in response to any shift in his position. Working with dogs and horses taught him how reactive sighted things were to movement, but dealing with predators was exceptionally instructive. There were accounts of Witchfinder warriors who fought with bears just to hone their skills against sighted enemies—a few even lived to share those lessons.

He knew dogs had a system to keep order among themselves—which men exploited for their own benefit—but if the old knowledge were true, wolves did as well. Theoretically, one only had to convince them who was dominant and they would back down, while any hint of weakness could do the opposite. Just as with people, attitude was everything.

Leaving Charlotte’s staff by the rock, he took his spear in both hands and strode up to the wolf. The growling intensified, deeper than any disobedient dog he had ever known. He drew close enough to feel the vibration of the beast’s voice inside his chest, while the hair at the back of his neck rose in response. He willed himself to ignore it; by default the body was instinctual, but reason could always be more powerful. A man was capable of inflicting far more terror than any animal, as he had proven time and again.

Gripping the spear tightly, he considered his next move. Stabbing with the unwieldy weapon could miss, and the resulting over-extension would initiate the predator’s attack, but the weight was good for something else.

He lowered the blade to his side, hearing the wolf’s warning change tone. Then, momentarily sacrificing the advantage of height, he dropped to the level of the animal, and swung the spear in a half arc. He felt the muffled impact of metal against furred flesh, as the growl was cut short by a piercing yelp.

The wolf bolted in a spray of leaves and ice.

“You get it?” Charlotte shouted from her perch.

He reached across the frozen ground until he encountered something warm, covered in wet fur—the heart was still, its neck having been broken by the wolf. Picking up the dead creature by its long hairless tail, he carried it back towards the rock, trying to ignore the scent of sickly musk, likely the animal’s last defense against its killer.

“I had some help,” he admitted, waiting for her to climb down.

As she dropped the last length to the ground, he found where he left her staff, tapping it against the rock before offering it back.

She took it from him, then sniffed at the dead creature. “What is it?”

“Inedible, if you ask me,” he said with genuine distaste. He barely wanted to carry it back, much less consume it.

“Is that really what we’ve been chasing?” she said skeptically. “It smells like it’s been dead for days.”

He turned the body in his hands until he located the arrow. “Yes,” he confirmed, pulling the point free, “unless there are more sighted archers hunting in the middle of nowhere.”

“Don’t get my hopes up!” she said.

He shook his head, still unable to comprehend her overwhelming enthusiasm for the sighted.

She turned around, re-locating the path with her staff, and began to follow it back. “Well, don’t think you’re leaving it for me to cook. I’m not even hungry. Soon as we get back, I’m going to sleep,” she informed him. “But I bet Baba will eat it, cooked or not.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he agreed.

***

The corpse had already cooled by the time they returned to camp, but the camp itself was surprisingly warm. Tamacti could tell by the scrape of gravel underfoot that the snow had melted well beyond the range of what had been a modest fire. Someone must have fed it all it could eat while he was gone—clearly Baba was more concerned about freezing than attracting guests. At least, he thought, if they were to be murdered in their sleep by his own Witchfinders, they would die cozy.

“Have a nice romp?” Paris asked from her seat on the ground.

“He almost got eaten by wolves,” Charlotte said, as if she had just missed something special.

“Wolves?” Baba turned towards him. “You lose anything…important?” he asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

It had been a wolf, but Tamacti decided not to correct the exaggeration. “I’m untouched. But our dinner bit her,” he said, redirecting their attention to Charlotte.

“It’s nothing,” she said, far too swiftly.

“Come here, child,” the presage invited, but the Compass guardian remained where she was. “Come on,” Paris ordered, “I’m not gonna lose you to some senseless fever.”

“Jackass,” Charlotte hissed in his ear, as she brushed past him to get to the wise woman, who had already begun crushing herbs. 

Tamacti said nothing, but the corner of his mouth tightened briefly into a smirk. He might have argued it was only out of concern for her well-being—but he was not one to waste breath on lies.

Haniwa moved to follow Charlotte. “Let me see,” she said, as if her sight might cure the wound.

“Seriously, it’s no big deal,” CharIotte insisted, suffering through the unwanted ministrations. “It just...had more teeth than I expected.”

“What...oh…” Haniwa said, apparently just noticing the body dangling by his side.

Knowing she was watching everything he did, Tamacti turned to face her. “I have something of yours,” he said, holding out the gore-encrusted arrow point. Having been made of Trivantian godbone, he assumed it could still take lives if re-hafted…possibly even his own. “Wouldn’t want you to run out.”

Haniwa hesitated long enough that he wondered if she would refuse it.

“Thanks,” she said at last, taking it as carefully as an animal stealing bait from a trap.

“So, what menacing beast are we eating tonight?” Baba asked, sharpening a roasting stick.

“You tell me,” Tamacti replied, holding the creature out to him.

“Oooh, possum,” Baba said, taking it by the tail. “Maybe, with enough spices, it won’t taste as bad as it smells.”

“Maybe,” Tamacti said, utterly unconvinced.

His head turned sharply as Paris made a startled noise of protest, like an agitated jay.

“Stay out of my herbs, you big bear!” she admonished her chieftain. “You know those are not for cooking.”

“Of course, you must save them, to season my wounds,” Baba chuckled, returning to the fire. “Good work, brave hunters, for providing food…and kind healer, for keeping us alive.”

Tamacti’s brow furrowed, suddenly recalling what he had told Charlotte about dogs and their masters. He was not certain if praise from the warrior had been his goal or not, but at least they had accomplished the objective, without anyone dying.

“Don’t you kind healer me, Baba Voss,” Paris chided. “You go get your own herbs.”

“I’ll make Haniwa get them,” he proposed instead.

Haniwa groaned. “Papa, it’s still dark.”

“Still?” Baba teased.

“Yes,” she replied, with mock exasperation.

Tamacti knew their conversation would continue like that for a while. It was a vague comfort, knowing there was still humor to be found, even within the lives he had nearly destroyed.

Making a new place for himself around the fire—his old spot having been claimed by Baba—he closed his eyes, letting their banter dull the discord in his head, and hoped to be asleep by the time dinner was ready.