Into the Deep Wood

It was raining.

They’d stopped for the night, a single tent between them, even the waxed canvas and leather barely keeping the water at bay. There was not to be a fire to warm themselves and no shelter to be found in the plains.

He convinced her to go to sleep, although she fought him on it as she always had.

The heavy downpour meant that nothing could smell or hear them here. At least there was that.

Pulling his hood further over his face, Marat sat fiddling with the hunter's knife. He oiled it before they left the cave, knowing that there was a real possibility that he would have to use it.

Somewhere, lightning struck, and the sound rolled out in a turbulent wave.

All Father help him, but he hated rain.

Another sound… but it was brief and violent and had not come from where the clouds were darkest.

He stood, picking up All-Father’s Reach, sliding his hands across the grip to rid it of water. Even in the dark, he could see the large black void some ways back from the direction they had come.

“Fuck…” He whispered, but his words did not even reach his own ears.

That far away, the creature would have had to be the size of a bull up close.

He sheathed the hunter's knife and took off running toward it. He could not let it reach the campsite.

There was no use trying to hide; there was nowhere to hide. The thing must have known so, too, because it made its way toward him in plain sight.

A stalker, Marat thought, must have caught their scent near the cave. Surely, it had been following them for days. It was nothing short of a miracle it did not attack while they were at the Iron Gates. Something there must have scared it away.

He prepared to fire the second it was in range. He’d never come across one before. This was a creature of the Western Wound. He only knew it by the accounts of others.

He hoped he was not wrong. He had no fire if that was what it took. And steel could not always slay the Nothing-touched. All he could bet on at that moment was pure luck.

A bellow, starting low and drifting off into a screech. The thing sensed him coming near.

And then, to Marat’s horror, the dark shape split.

There were two.

“For fucksake, All-Father’s grace…” He stopped, pulling the hunter’s knife from his belt and biting down on it instead. If it were not for the bow and they came close…

But they would come close. He could not get them both.

And he was but one man.

Thunder, again, and flashing light. In its momentary clarity he saw how close the monsters got.

Nock. Draw.

Through the head. He had to get them through the head.

He was unpracticed, but the bow felt natural in his hands. Iros had not lied; it was crafted specifically for him.

Aim.

He saw the gleam of teeth.

Release.

The arrow whistled, and the long-forgotten kick of the bow vibrated through him. By the All-Father, how long it had been.

The shot disappeared into the darkness, but a short, guttural yelp told him it had hit.

But, the creatures did not stop their advance.

Nock.

Draw.

Aim.

Release.

He felt his muscles tense with the memory of the motions.

Nock.

Draw.

Aim.

Release.

One of the shapes misstepped, falling forward, the slight tremor of the earth following the impact of its weight.

It did not rise again.

Nock.

Draw.

Aim.

Release.

It was his last; although the quiver was still nearly full, the monster was too close now.

A bull would have been an understatement for its size. In the limited reflecting light, he saw its muscles ripple underneath soaking wet fur, shifting heavily with its long strides. This close, when it opened its maw to growl, he felt the impact of the sound hit him in a trembling gust of air.

All-Father’s Reach was thrown behind him to the ground, the hunter’s knife in hand. The shortsword may have been light, but there were very few hides it could not pierce. The only disadvantage was that one had to get close enough to try.

He dove at the same time it did, but to the side. Its heavy weight landed where he was but a moment ago. He heard the sharp snap of its teeth.

The thing twisted, revealing an exoskeleton protruding from its chest, covering the normally softest parts underneath any beast.

So much for weak spots…

He pushed off the wet ground, accounting for the slip of his boot. Marat meant to strike at its neck but missed, lodging the blade into the meat of its shoulder.

The thing twisted toward the source of the pain and sent him flying to the side, still holding the short sword. He landed on his shoulder, dropping the blade. It was upon him fast, its jaws snapping at his face.

It caught his hood, pulling at it and thrashing him by the collar –until it ripped away in its teeth.

The red mark that spread across Marat’s throat went unnoticed as he scrambled for the dark earth where the hunter’s knife had fallen.

A flash of lightning and his hand closed around the metal of the blade so fast that it cut into his palm. The creature was behind him, looming above, its jaw loose in a growl.

A heartbeat and its weight would come crashing down.

But in that heartbeat, he allowed his hand slide to the grip, and as the beast came down, he drove the hunter’s knife from below its jaw –the blade entering halfway up its throat and out through the back of the skull, it's head jerking to the side with a crunch as metal met the vertebrae in its spine.

The head still fell on his chest, and he groaned at the impact that he was sure fractured his ribs.

The warm, egg-yoke like liquid poured from where the hilt was lodged into its flesh. It dripped over Marat’s hands and forearms.

He did not move, breathing hard, praying that he had the strength to dislodge himself from beneath the meaty flesh. The remnants of the rain fell over his face, his closed eyes, and into his mouth - mixing with the still steaming blood of the beast on the ground. Soft vapors rose from it, and it already began to sting where it touched his skin.

Managing to pull himself loose, Marat stumbled toward where the other dark heap lay in a puddle. He held his ribs, every breath sending rips of pain through his body.

The second stalker lay with all four arrows having hit their mark—two, one of them split, in the curve of the eyesocket, although there were no eyes. He dislodged them from the soft, spongy flesh, and the arrowheads squelched as they slid out. Bits of fat and sparse fur still clung to them.

Marat let out a shallow breath.

Two stalkers.

And he was but one man.

He'd changed his clothes by morning, discarding the ripped and acid-singed ones from the night before. He wiped his hands of the viscous mess. The red band across his throat, where the clasp of the cloak had nearly beheaded him, was neatly tucked in the collar of his shirt. The hand he cut on the hunters knife was bandaged, although not very neatly. He could still smell the wet, putrid fur and blood on his hair, but there was little he could do about that now.

There was a stirring in the tent, and Val's sleep-veiled eyes and frizzy hair peeked over to where he sat.

"Are those new clothes?"