In time he reached a low-lying area of tall whipgrass that looked promising. Knifewing pheasants were migrating south across the Inner Sea, and the birds roosted in whipgrass, feeding on the seeds, grasshoppers, and crickets. He’d seen a flock earlier in the day. They would be grounded for the night.
The birds were notoriously keen eared, so he knew he would not be able to sneak up on one and take it while it nested. He’d just have to be ready when they went airborne. Taking a shot in the dark would be difficult, but the moonlight, feeble as it was, would help. And Tymora smiled on the brash.
He started forward into the grass, holding his bow in one hand, two fowl-tipped arrows in the other. The ground softened as he advanced and he sometimes skirted puddles. Moving slowly, he imitated the pheasants’ ground coo-his father had taught it to him as a boy-and listened for a response. Eventually soft coos and a rustle of wings answered him.
Three, maybe four knifewings were near.
He moved closer to the sound, gliding through the terrain like a ghost, and nocked both fowling arrows. He eyed the sky. The moon lightened the clouds enough to provide some contrast with the rest of the darkness. Estimating the location of the pheasants, he circled around to give himself a shooting angle against the light part of the sky.
Ready, he gave a sudden, sharp whoop that sounded perilously loud in the dark.
Wings flapped and five startled knifewings launched into the air. He took aim, the two arrows each held between a pair of fingers, tracking their motion. He waited for the birds to rise high enough against the sky to give him a clear shot. When they did, he targeted two near each other, adjusted his finger pressure to alter trajectories, and let fly. The arrows hissed through the rain and struck. Feathers flew and both birds spiraled to the ground while the other three vanished into the night.
Grinning, and pleased to have lost none of his accuracy, Gerak kept his eyes on the exact spot they fell and hurried through the grass. Despite the darkness, he found them after a short search. He’d hit both in the body and both had died instantly. No need to wring necks.
He carefully withdrew his arrows from the carcasses, wiped the small amount of blood clean on the grass, and replaced the arrows in his quiver. He carried only four fowling arrows and could not afford to lose them. Grabbing both birds by the neck, he stood and tried to get his bearings from the fire.
He didn’t see it. Fear tightened his chest. Thunder rumbled, closer now, and a light rain started to fall. He imagined the precipitation putting out his fire, leaving him stranded on the plains until morning, and the fear he felt threatened to turn to panic.
He cursed, turned a circle, the birds dangling futilely from his fist. He wasn’t sure which direction his camp was. He’d gotten turned around when he’d angled himself to take the shot and now he wasn’t sure.
He needed to get to some higher ground and to do so fast. The rain was picking up. He eyed the terrain, spotted a rise capped with the twisted, malformed trunks of mature broadleaf trees, and tore off for it. As he ran, he nearly lost a boot to the muck.
He climbed the rise, heart racing, and looked around.
There! He saw the glow of his fire, maybe two bowshots distant.
He did not realize he had come so far.
He sagged with relief, hands on his knees. His heart started to slow, his breathing to grow more regular. His legs felt watery under him. And that was when he noticed it.
The rain had sputtered out and the plains were quiet as a grave. Even the night insects had fallen silent.
His breathing sounded loud in his ears, too loud. He remembered the whoop he’d used to startle the pheasants. The sound must have been audible for half a league.
He cursed in a whisper.
He edged toward the broadleaf, wanting to put something at his back, feeling terribly exposed atop the rise. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, remained still, and focused his hearing.
Nothing.
A breeze from the east kicked up, carrying the faint scent of putrid meat-a dead animal, maybe, or so he hoped.
How had he missed it before?
Because the wind changed.
“Damn it,” he said. A rotting animal would attract predators.
Thunder rumbled again, a promise of renewed rain. He looked at the glow of his fire and considered making a run for it. A natural predator would avoid a fire.
But not all predators on the plains were natural.
The wind gusted, causing the whipgrass to whisper, the leaves of the broadleaf to hiss, the limbs to creak.
A deep-throated bellow sounded from out in the darkness to his right, a wet snarl that reminded him of a rooting pig. His heart leaped against his ribs and the sound of flapping wings sounded from all around as two-score startled knifewings rose into the air. He found it hard to breathe. His muscles failed him, left him standing still in the dark, exposed, alone atop the rise. Sweat ran in cold rivulets down his back.
Whatever had made that sound might be able to see him, to smell him.
Move! His mind screamed. Move!
He felt heavy footsteps thudding into the sod, out there in the dark. He had no idea what it could be, but his mind summoned nightmares. He knew that aberrant creatures stalked Sembia’s plains, horrors that no man should see. A second grunt carried through the darkness, closer this time, and punctuated with wet inhalations, the sound of a creature with a scent.
His scent.
It had him.
Terror freed him at last. Fueled by adrenaline, he turned and leaped, grabbed hold of the lowest branch on the broadleaf, and scrambled up. The sound of his boots on the trunk, his soft grunts of exertion, sounded like shouts in his ears.
The creature heard him, for it bellowed loudly, and the heavy tread of its footsteps bounded toward him. He climbed a few limbs higher, frantic, awkward, catching scrapes and cuts in his haste, then froze, afraid to make more noise. He was not safe in a tree, not for long. He knew that.
He got his feet as steady as he could on a thick limb, clutched his bow in a sweaty palm, and fumbled for one of his arrows. His breath would not slow down. It was loud, too loud. His heart thudded in his chest so hard he swore he could hear it through his ribs.
A large form lumbered out of darkness on two legs, a misshapen bulk half again as tall as a man, and thudded into the broadleaf. The impact caused the tree to shiver, sent a shower of leaves and seed pods earthward, and nearly dislodged Gerak. He caught himself only by firing his nocked arrow wildly as he grabbed for a limb. The creature seemed not to notice the pointed shaft that stuck in the earth near its feet.
In shape, it looked vaguely human, and Gerak wondered if it weren’t some kind of troll. Folds of flabby skin drooped from its obese arms, legs, and mid-section. Torn, muddy rags covered skin the sallow yellow of an old bruise. Long, lank hair hung from the creature’s head, a head far too small for the rest of the bloated body, like capping a bucket with a sewing thimble.
It circled the base of the tree, sniffing the ground, raising its face to the sky to sniff the air. Small, dark eyes looked out from a pinched face. Its mouth looked malformed, the lips stretched and hugely swollen.
Gerak hoped that the foliage and the darkness hid him from the creature. He dared not reach for another arrow, not with the creature right below him. It would see the movement.
Another low growl. The creature’s stink, like spoiled milk, made Gerak wince. It fell to all fours and sniffed the bole of the tree where Gerak had gone up.
Gerak’s breath came fast.