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Shortly after mid-day, Shell stood and stretched since there were still no signs of pursuit. A few minutes later he continued walking east, feeling confident that he was safe from them. The incident impressed upon him that not all strangers understood he wanted to be a hero, and his quest might be fanciful and perhaps silly, but standing in his way could get someone killed—or they might lose their huts to fire. He felt a grin spreading and suppressed it.

In no way, did he make light of the situation, or think it a joking matter. No, it put a stamp of seriousness on the venture that he probably needed because he hadn’t considered getting into any fights before he arrived in Breslau. He couldn’t thank the men who wanted to rob him, but perhaps he did owe them a debt for warning him of the hardships sure to follow.

The Raging Mountains that had seemed so much closer two days ago were still as far away as ever, or so it seemed. He was almost out of food and expected to go hungry for a few days, but fortunately, he had crossed several streams lately. A man can live without eating, but he must drink, and streams offered food.

At a trickle of a stream, late on the fifth day, he noticed a place where the bank had caved in long ago and left a shallow depression covered with sand. A small fire would be safe from discovery, especially if he dug out the sand and made his fire there where the flames would be hidden from direct sight. But the fire wasn’t the primary reason for stopping early at that location. The stream was.

As he approached the stream edge slowly, he looked in the deep water, peering into the rocky bottom and spotted crayfish scuttling about in the mud between the rocks. He gathered a fistful of the long dry grass and twisted strands until he wove four tube traps, all with wide openings where the crayfish could enter easily, but not escape.

He located periwinkles attached to rocks, a tiny freshwater clam in the mud, a grasshopper, and an earthworm. They were captured and placed in the traps as bait. While the bait worked, hopefully attracting the crayfish, he gathered firewood and scooped out a deep hole to help hide the fire from a distance, then built a ring of rocks. He wouldn’t light it until dark because of smoke rising in the clear sky telling anyone with eyes where he was.

When he checked the traps, he found more than twenty crayfish. Without a bowl or a way to keep them, he left them in the traps and reset them in the water before climbing the tallest hill and sitting at the top to watch, and make sure he was the only person in sight.

Later, he roasted the crayfish by setting them on the hot rocks surrounding the fire and wished for more to eat. The fire soothed his spirits as well as warmed his body in a way that had little to do with the chill of the night. But he had a reasonably full belly, and when the sun rose, he stood, eager and ready to walk a full day.

The mountains looked a little taller in the morning, and the snow-capped peaks higher, the air more invigorating. As he walked, the vegetation changed slightly, showing more green, and the shrubs grew taller. Shell became so relaxed he almost missed the footprints in the soft dirt that crossed his trail.

Shell pulled to a stop in mid-stride, eyes focused on the ground. Two footprints were visible in the soft dirt, both distinct and clearly fresh as if someone had just run across the path. His eyes flashed around, searching for the person who left them. When he didn’t see anyone, he took a knee to shield himself from their sight and measured the prints against his.

The footprint near his hand held sharp edges still standing upright, no dust or sand had blown inside, and it looked as fresh as those he’d left a few steps behind. The print was a little larger than his. Shell’s fingers felt for the pommel of his knife and hesitated. Instead, he slipped the bow he’d never used off his shoulder, strung it and fitted an arrow before standing slowly to reach a crouched position and look around. The bow seemed a better option than the staff because it would reach further, but he kept the staff near his left hand as a backup. He’d never used the bow but thought it might provide an advantage if distance became an issue.

He used all his senses trying to locate the maker of the footprints, a single person who must be very close because the prints were so fresh. The ground fell away from the path that wound around the side of the hill in the direction the prints led. An expanse of brown grass waved in the breeze all the way to a creek in the distance, where the upward side of another hill revealed itself. The grass stood almost waist high everywhere he looked. There were no trees, few shrubs, no large boulders, or ravines the stranger could slip behind or into, and anyone wading through the grass would leave a swath of bent plants behind, easy to locate.

But, the tracks were clear and fresh, and there was no sign of a person. Shell moved ahead slowly, following the tracks, looking for a place where the stranger could hide instead of looking for the stranger. As he moved, he decided a friend would greet him, but an enemy would probably hide and wait for him to follow so he could ambush Shell. I won’t fall into that trap.

He eased back into a crouch, ready to fight or flee, but remained still. If he didn’t follow, whoever was waiting for him down there would lose patience first because Shell didn’t intend to expose himself. He kept the arrow ready to pull and release in an instant. A tickle behind his ear drew his attention, but more than one person had lost his prey because of swatting a mosquito or scratching an itch.

The tickle came again. He ignored it and remained as still as a cat about to pounce on a field mouse. Nothing moved on the hillside below, and there seemed to be no hiding places, but there must be something. A man can’t vanish, but he can blend into the background like a fawn. Shell allowed his eyes to scan for anything that should, or should not, be there.

His ears strained for the slightest sound. The tickle touched his ear again, more insistent, and his nose caught the familiar scent of wood smoke. Not smoke from a fire, but the stale, leftover smell of campfires tinged with sweat. He somehow managed to control himself as he remained perfectly still.

Disgusted with himself for falling into the trap, Shell said, “Who are you?”

“A better hunter and tracker than you.” The voice came from directly behind the ear that had tickled.

Shell slowly turned. A smiling face greeted him from only two steps away. The young man dressed in leather pants and a shirt decorated with geometric designs held a switch with a feather poked into the raw end, the origin of the tickle to his ear. “My name’s Shell.”

“How did you finally know I was behind you?”

“You smell of wood smoke.”

“Good to know.” The young man backed off a step, his hands held away from his weapons, a long knife at his hip and a bow carried over his shoulder. He glanced meaningfully at Shell’s bow and the cocked arrow. When Shell relaxed the arrow and slipped it back into the quiver, the stranger said, “Shell? Like a seashell? That’s odd for a man of the grasslands.”

“There are other shells. Like a turtle, and snail.” His explanation felt as foolish as it sounded. His mother owned a seashell, a reminder of her younger days when she had traveled all the way to the Endless Sea, and his name came from that travel. Shell took the time to examine the other. The man was near twenty, taller than Shell by a little, and his hair was the color of sand. His eyes held green flecks embedded in light brown, and his hands were thin, with long fingers.

A twinkle in the man’s eyes belied his next statement. “I suspect seashell is probably right. You didn’t deny it; you just offered different options.”

“You didn’t give me your name,” Shell said as he squatted to be more comfortable.