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A full nine-day ago, one of the monitors, a Scribe from earth clan, had finally picked up the briefest flash of energy through the ground, enough for them to place the cell not far from the hills. Gauvain had masterminded the heist, then, from his tower in Orlan.
The Aura had returned shortly after, and the next day Bryar and Kiril struck out for Borgonne.
Crossing the hills was no fun, Bryar thought as he plodded onward, despite the spectacular vistas and relatively easy trail. Eerie mists pervaded the valleys; giant birds unknown in the Midland sailed over the peaks, their bone-jarring cries echoing from the hillsides. Nothing overtly threatening, but unnatural just the same. With his Entrée cut off by Ezra’s renewed weave, the feeling was attenuated but still noticeable, a constant reminder that however benign the scenery, undefined threat surrounded them.
Despite traveling together with only themselves for company, Bryar had developed no fellow-feeling for Kiril. Filthy and unshaven, they walked for hours, mostly in silence. Hunted, cooked, slept, walked some more.
On the eighth day, they pitched a camp alongside the trail on a gentle slope about halfway up a hill. The trees were sparser here as the rolling terrain opened into meadowland. After an unsuccessful hunt, Kiril studied their store of waybread and dried meat from the Motherhouse kitchen, grimaced, and said, “Not if I can help it. There’s got to be game around here somewhere.”
“It’s not so bad. The meat cooks into a reasonable soup.”
“Yeah, then you soak the bread so you won’t break a tooth. Get a fire going. I intend to find us a decent supper.”
Kiril took off uphill from the trail. Bryar watched him go until one of the numerous rock outcrops hid him from view, then started shaving curls of wood from a branch to kindle the fire.
Nothing glorious about this quest.
No one promised glory. In fact, quite the opposite. Bryar scoffed at himself; he had told too many mythical stories about heroic adventures. The reality was very different.
The pile of shavings had just caught when he heard the shout, abruptly cut off. After a moment, a cry rent the air.
He abandoned the recalcitrant blaze, snatched up his knife, and ran.
Another cry.
He followed the sound until he rounded a giant boulder and skidded to a halt.
Growling, a huge, drooling, lizard-like creature with a long neck and gray-brown scales pinned Kiril down. He had thrown up an arm to protect his head. With its enormous jaws, the beast savaged it, pointed teeth sunk into Kiril’s flesh.
Bryar bellowed and threw himself at the animal’s back, ramming the knife into a flank. A greenish, slimy substance squirted from the wound and drenched his tunic. The lizard released Kiril and turned on him, lashing out with a viciously clawed foot. Bryar felt a slash rip his tunic at the hip as he rolled and sprang away.
Strings of saliva dripped from the lizard’s mouth. Its golden eyes held no intelligence. A mindless killer, it took a step toward him. Freed, Kiril staggered to his feet and reached for his knife.
Bryar slashed, catching the animal on the shoulder, then stumbled back. Kiril drove at the beast’s face, cutting the tip of its nose.
The lizard shrieked, a high, unearthly cry, and wheeled on Kiril. Bryar attacked again, this time sinking the blade into its belly from the side. With another furious call, it spun and lurched toward Bryar, two paces, three, before its short legs gave out and it pitched forward. Stumbling in from behind, Kiril sank his knife up to the hilt into the beast’s eye.
In the sudden stillness, Kiril sank to the ground where he stood, his head in his hands. Bryar turned away and retched bile at the stink from the viscous liquid oozing from the animal’s wounds. He kept one hand on the boulder as he straightened, until he could muster some strength in his shaking knees again. Then he supported Kiril back to their campsite.
Both men dropped by the now-dead fire, chests heaving. They reeked of sour sweat and blood, and stench from the dead animal.
“Your arm?”
“Not bad.” Kiril tried, and failed, to flex the arm, now covered in the beast’s thick saliva, and fingered the shredded sleeve.
“Don’t lie to me. Puncture wounds can be dangerous.” Bryar took hold of the arm, grimacing at the slime, and studied the wounds. The beast had torn Kiril’s flesh half way to the bone.
For once Kiril didn’t protest. He looked pale, but he hadn’t lost his insouciant humor. “Excellent hunting, in terms of weight anyway. You want to cook any of that?” he gestured with his head in the direction of the carcass.
“I don’t think so. You?”
“No way.”
With a sigh Bryar started a new fire, regretting his missing Aura-based skills. Fire stones worked but weren’t efficient, especially with trembling hands. “We’ll need to boil our clothes,” he said. The smell still caught in his throat, making him gag.
“Or throw them out. You ever see anything like that before?” Kiril asked, his voice unsteady.
The fire caught. Bryar added water from his flask to their cookpot and cautiously positioned it, taking care not to extinguish the struggling flame. Then he pulled his tunic over his head, cringing at the foul ooze coating the front. He ripped it in two and tossed the polluted half downslope. With the remainder, he began cleaning his knife, noting that the slash on his hip had not bled heavily. A superficial wound, with any luck. “Never. What happened?”
“Damned if I know.” A spasm crossed Kiril’s face. He shifted his arm carefully to ease it. “It came up behind me, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground with the air knocked out of me.”
Dal had provided a supply of medicinal herbs, with instructions. As the water reached a simmer, Bryar found the packets he wanted and added a measure of herbs to the cookpot. He pulled the pot off the heat and covered it. “This steeps until it’s lukewarm. In the meantime, we’ll use alcohol.”
Kiril shuddered. “What if it was rabid?”
For the first time Bryar detected fear in the other man’s voice. “What’s that?”
“You get it from infected animals. It kills you without the right medicine.”
“You’re probably safe. I’d be more worried about infection. But... by the Sustainer. That thing-”
He let the thought go as Kiril’s tunic followed his own into the brush. He used clean rags to doctor Kiril’s puncture wounds, saturating them with their limited supply of alcohol. Kiril grunted, then was silent, braced against the sting. When the herbal concoction was ready, Bryar used it to swab their cuts and scratches. Then he made a poultice from the herbs in the pot and tied them to Kiril’s arm. “This will help. It’s not ideal, but we’re short of options. Nobody ever predicted this.”
Night fell quickly in the hills, accompanied by a wind that whistled through the peaks. They hastily donned spare tunics and huddled in their bedrolls for warmth, although Bryar doubted either of them would stop shaking any time soon.
“Personally, I’d rather push on,” Kiril said. “This campsite...”
“I agree. But moving wouldn’t be smart. It’s already too dark, and we’re both shaken up.” He placed the blade of his knife in the fire to sterilize it, then held out his hand. “Want me to do yours?”
“Thanks.” Kiril handed over his gory knife.
After a silence that lasted too long, given the dark, the dead beast in the meadow, and the susurrating wind whistling above them, Kiril said, “Suppose it has a mate.”
Sustainer, please not. Lighten up, he told himself. Don’t give in to the fear.
“Remind me to invite you to tell ghost stories some night. The kids love them.”
Kiril managed a brief chuckle. “Except when they’re real.”
“Yeah.”
Neither ate. They both slept with their knives in hand, but met with no further disturbance.