Garec sighed. Maybe the deer would die before the others got there. The Bringer of Death, the deadly bowman, an archer so skilled that a Larion Senator has ordered him to Malakasia to rain death upon enemies foolish enough to wander within striking distance: here he was, this fearsome warrior, waiting for a defenceless deer to bleed to death or drown in its own blood. He had killed any amount of game in his lifetime, but he could not remember ever sitting idly by and waiting for an injured, suffering creature to expire. A dull throbbing pain began thumping at his temples; he resisted the urge to drop the bow and massage his head.
The waiting was exacerbating Garec’s headache, so he decided to brave the brush and finish the deer off himself. If it charged and gored him with its antlers, so be it.
The forest shone, intensely bright, where the sunlight refracted through the raindrops. Garec imagined this was what the realm of the gods must be like; he drew a strange confidence from this as he crept closer to the edge of the thicket. With his bow fully drawn, he crouched down at the spot where the deer had dived for cover beneath the underbrush and peered through the tangled branches.
The deer was there, lying motionless, quite dead. Garec watched it for some time before relaxing his bowstring and returning the arrow to its quiver. ‘I hope your suffering was brief, my friend,’ he called and began peeling off his cloak before crawling through the dense, thorny foliage.
‘Garec!’ someone shouted from the trail.
‘I’m here,’ he called back, squinting against the morning sun as he watched his friends approach, ‘and I’ve organised breakfast.’
‘Outstanding!’ he heard Gilmour cry. He smiled and turned back to the task at hand. Stripping the quivers from his back, he placed them beside his longbow and drew a short hunting knife from his belt. He would need to clear a path into the thicket to be able to pull the animal out.
Something moved. The faint rustle was too large to be a bird or a squirrel.
‘Bleeding whores,’ he exclaimed and rolled back on his heels. Kneeling in the mud, he could see the deer had not moved. It was still dead. Something else lay hidden inside the thicket. He reclaimed his bow, quickly nocked an arrow and stabbed three into the ground, fletching skywards, for easy access should he find himself in need. Painstakingly, Garec moved along the periphery of the thicket, squinting through leaves and branches to spot what he assumed was a carefully camouflaged foe.
Then it was there: an unnatural-looking hump protruded from the ground in a lazy curve too smooth to be a rock. It was covered with autumn leaves, but Garec’s well-trained eye caught sight of man-made items half-buried there as well – a boot sole, a patch of fabric, two fingers from a leather glove – they, and the telltale stains of blood, told him his instincts had been correct.
He climbed to his feet and motioned for his friends to stay back. Sallax ignored him and came on, his battle-axe drawn and ready.
‘What is it?’ He knelt down where Garec had been and tried to see through the undergrowth.
‘An injured man, but I can tell it isn’t Versen.’
‘How badly is he hurt?’
‘I’m not sure, but I can see dried blood. It’s maybe two or three days old… old enough not to have run in that rain yesterday,’ Garec kept his bow trained on the stranger.
Sallax stood up and called into the thicket, ‘You in there! Either come out on your own, or I’ll have my friend here fire a few arrows into your broken hide to motivate you.’
The leaves covering the injured stranger moved and Garec heard a distinct snarling, like that of a cornered mountain lion.
‘Horsecocks! It’s a Seron,’ he cried and double-checked his aim.
Sallax contemplated the mound a moment, looked around for Gilmour and ordered, ‘Go ahead, Garec, kill it.’
‘No,’ Steven interrupted, pushing his way to the front of the group. Mark looked over at him questioningly, but Steven repeated, ‘Don’t kill it. If it dies, fine, but we should not kill it.’
He joined Garec and called to the injured creature, ‘Seron. Do you understand me? We do not wish to kill you, but we will do so if you make any move to attack. Do you understand?’ There was a low growl in response. Steven searched the brilliant hues of the forest morning for an answer, then grimaced. He looked apologetically at Mark and announced, ‘I’m coming in. Do not touch me or my friends will kill you. Do you understand?’
‘Steven, don’t be a bloody idiot,’ Mark began, but Steven cut him off.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said as he groped in his pocket for his hunting knife. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he continued, trying to convince everyone, himself included. He turned to Gilmour and added, ‘You said they were human once. Just because Malagon has turned them into animals doesn’t mean they can’t respond to human compassion.’
Even Gilmour raised an eyebrow at this proclamation, but Steven was determined.
‘At least take the staff,’ Mark implored, ‘or let me come with you.’
‘The staff won’t work on this one. That’s how I broke it last time. Come if you like, but I’m going now.’ Steven dropped the staff, brandished his hunting knife and pushed his way clumsily inside the thicket. Mark followed.
The Seron had scrambled back against a tree trunk and was emitting a low growl as Steven made his way to the deer carcase.
‘Just keep an eye on the Seron, will you?’ he asked Mark and crouched by the deer, using the knife to hack off one hindquarter. It was a hard, bloody task and he was soon covered in the still-warm bodily fluids.
‘I’d give up hopes of retraining as a coroner if I were you,’ Mark joked, but he couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. ‘Can’t we just drag the deer out and let Sallax do the butchery?’ He was convinced that he and Steven would have been breakfast for the Seron if the creature hadn’t been so badly wounded; as it was, he still felt uneasy.
While Steven struggled to free the deer leg, Mark got a closeup view of the misshapen hulk Malagon used to assassinate his enemies in Rona. The Seron looked like an exceedingly large man with huge muscular arms, very hairy: but only in his mid-twenties, Mark guessed. The forehead sloped backwards at an exaggerated angle; the bearded chin protruded out. Mark thought the most striking difference was in the Seron’s oval eyes, which were black and lifeless, devoid of all colour. They looked as if they had been inked out by a frustrated creator. Mark wondered if all Seron had such dead eyes. He imagined the torture it must have endured to end up like this and suddenly felt sorry for the beasts. He was glad Steven had decided to give the warrior a chance at survival.
As the Seron cowered in a corner, Mark noticed it was favouring one leg. Nudging Steven, he motioned towards the injured limb and Steven nodded. ‘Don’t shoot, Garec,’ he called out in low soothing tones. ‘Everything is fine in here.’
‘I can take him at any time,’ Garec replied. ‘Just give me the word.’ Behind him, Sallax and Brynne watched in silence. Gilmour cleaned his pipe.
With great effort, Steven finally managed to separate the deer leg from the corpse and, wiping blood from his face, turned to look at the Seron. ‘Food,’ he said, just above a whisper, and tossed the deer leg carefully towards the Seron.
The Seron gave an inhuman snarl and moved awkwardly behind the tree trunk. Neither Steven nor Mark moved as they waited to see what it would do next. After what felt like an eternity, the soldier reached out with one hairy arm and gripped the deer leg with curled grey fingertips.
Steven tried again. ‘Your leg is injured.’ The Seron cast the two friends a menacing glare, but Steven was not to be dissuaded. He pulled a waterskin from his shoulder, drew the cork and poured a thin stream of liquid onto the ground.
‘Water,’ he said quietly. ‘You need water.’ Instead of throwing the wineskin, Steven, maintaining eye contact with the Seron, crossed over and placed the skin at its feet. Again he was rewarded with a low growl and an angry snarl. Steven quickly backed away to deter the soldier from pouncing on him despite its injuries.