He searched the ground for a sturdy stick and a few good throwing stones, and then Talen entered the wood.
Talen tried to keep himself from running. But the farther he got into the dark, old wood, the more he felt like a fat worm sinking on a hook into the water.
A fat worm that had already been worked over. He catalogued his pains. There were two spots on his head that hurt to touch them. There was his eye that was now almost swollen shut. His ribs smarted. His kidneys, he was sure, had been abused. It hurt his back to walk. Lords, even his toes protested. He looked down, saw a smart bruise on his left foot and realized someone must have stomped it.
But these were physical pains. They would heal. At least, he hoped they would, especially the blows to his brain. The Sleth, on the other hand, were different. And he couldn’t tell what would be worse: to be taken by the Bone Faces and forced into a nine-fingered enslavement or to be kept in storage like a living carcass, to be feasted upon or twisted into something unnatural. At least with the Bone Faces he’d die a man.
And how could he follow the bailiff’s suggestion and bring in the hatchlings, the children of these Sleth? A proper Sleth hunt required one hundred men. It required a Divine. Was he expecting the Koramites to field groups of hunters? But the bailiff had been looking at him. It had been clear he was suggesting Talen join in the hunt. Except, what could one runt do?
If he had his bow, he might be able to do something. That is if the Sleth didn’t know the arrow was coming. He’d heard once at an alehouse that Sleth could whisper to arrows. Even so, he didn’t have his bow. He was defenseless. What were a few stones going to do against Sleth? The thing to do now was get back to Da and the others as quickly as he could and alert them.
The hatchlings were somewhere in these woods. He tried to act calm-the last thing prey should do is act like prey. But then the distinct thock of a branch breaking sounded off to his right followed by a squirrel screeching out a warning.
His heart leapt up into his throat. But he told himself it was a falling branch, told himself to stand upright and walk like a man. He quickened his pace despite the twinge in his back.
Then came a grunt and high keening, something moving toward him, scuffling through the leaves on the forest floor.
You are not prey, he told himself, you are not prey, but try as he might, he could not be calm. Could not walk. Could do nothing but abandon all pretense, ignore his injuries, and run.
Not once did he look back. He dared not. Eyes to the front, he told himself. He couldn’t afford to smack into a branch or step wrong, or, most especially, see the face of the thing that surely was behind him. He knew if he saw the beast, his courage was likely to completely desert him. At that point it would be impossible to do anything but cringe upon the ground like a cornered rabbit. So it was eyes in front, even when the woods broke before him and he saw the river below and the farm stretching away from him on the far side.
Talen ran down to the river, stumbled through the shallow water of the ford, and scrabbled up the other side. Only when he reached the smoke shed did he stop and turn, and, with much panting, search the woods.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
The Sleth children, if there had ever been any, must have been one-legged pigeons. No regular monsters would have let him escape alive.
Of course, there probably hadn’t been a thing in those woods besides squirrels and mice. The sound he’d heard was most certainly somebody’s renegade pig.
Coward, he told himself, and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He was such a coward.
“Where’s the handcart?”
Talen turned. Da sat in the shady side of the barn, sharpening his scythe. Seeing that great horse of a man brought immense relief.
“Back at the bridge,” said Talen. He took a breath.
“Ah, that’s what I like to see. A boy who races home to work and leaves the chickens to fend for themselves.”
“Da,” said Talen. “The bailiff wants you.”
“We’re mowing the fields now. The bailiff can wait.”
Then he stopped and looked at Talen more closely. “Is that blood? What happened to your face?”
Talen poured out everything that had happened, including his run through the woods. As the story progressed, Da stroked the braids of his beard with increasing anger.
When Talen finished, Da set his scythe aside and stood.
“Are you going?”
“It appears I am,” said Da.
“Should we bring our bows?” asked Talen. “Or would billhooks be better?”
“Billhooks?” asked Da.
“In case we’re attacked.”
Da grunted. “You’re going out to glean. We’ve got a field that needs stacking.”
“But the hatchlings,” said Talen.
“The hatchlings,” said Da. “Son, did you not learn anything from your adventure this morning? Even if the children were Sleth, the greater risk is being mistaken for a Soul-eater by an idiot with hunt fever. We’re talking about two children, however ferocious they may be.” Da shook his head. “You said a Fir-Noy rider brought the message? That’s the problem right there.”
“Shouldn’t we at least give the warnings some credit until we find out otherwise?”
“Sparrow was a good man,” said Da. He heaved a great sigh.
Talen had not known the smith very well. However, he’d always wondered about his name. He’d thought it funny such a mighty man would be named for such a little bird. Talen, Ke, and Nettle were named after noteworthy ancestors. His sister was named so she might be granted all the qualities-the strength, life, purpose-of a River. But Sparrow? Talen had found out that the smith’s family had a long line of Sparrows, all named after an actual bird that had saved one of the family’s progenitors from drowning. He’d always wanted to hear that tale, but now he wasn’t so sure.
A great weariness seemed to descend upon Da. “You could search this whole land. You could search the whole Nine Clans, and not find Sparrow’s better.”
“But he was Sleth,” said Talen.
Da shook his head. “If Sparrow was Sleth, then fish swim in the deep blue sky.” He turned to Talen. “Do you still have the peppercorns?”
Talen nodded. He opened the small pouch hanging around his neck that served as his purse, poured out the corns, and handed them over.
Da took them with his large fingers and carefully placed them in his own pouch.
“Get out to the field and help with the stacking,” said Da. “I’m going to fetch us some hens and go talk to the bailiff.” Da turned and headed for the barn. “By the way, I found your pants wadded up under your bed,” he called back. “They’re lying on the table.”
“I looked under my bed,” said Talen.
Da shrugged. “They were there, plain as day.”
That was impossible. Talen had moved his bed out. He would have seen them.
Talen turned and went in to the house to get his old pants. These were stained, thanks to the Stag Home idiots, with blood and grass and would take an hour of washing to get them clean. When he came back outside, Da had Iron Boy saddled.
Da’s unstrung hunting bow stood in the leather bow bag strapped along Iron Boy’s side. He should have been taking his war bow. “I’ll be back before dark,” Da said. He secured what he called the Hog behind the saddle.
The Hog was an axe with a handle about as thick as four fingers and a shaft as long as Talen’s arm. The head was not broad like a timber axe, but short and narrow with a blade at one end and a pick at the other. But it was used for other things. An archer needed a weapon for close work. He needed something for when he exhausted his supply of arrows. The Hog could pierce armor when wielded by a man half Da’s size, and Da had killed three Bone Faces last year with it. But he did not reverence it as many men would: most of the time he used it to break up the bee propolis in the hives or to chop kindling.