But the arrival of twilight confirmed his worst fears—the sheep had not come to drink that day. Bitter with the sense of his failure, he tried to ignore the gnawing in his belly as he gathered more water and made the return to the ledge, arriving just as full darkness settled around them.
Had the sheep seen his trap? Had the flock moved on to some distant valley, following the course of some winter migration? He could not know. All he could do was try the same plan tomorrow and hope he lived long enough for the effort.
Sithas had to lean close to Kith-Kanan just to hear his brother’s breathing.
“Please, Kith, don’t die!” he whispered. Those words were the only ones he spoke before he fell asleep.
His hunger was painful when he awoke. Once again the day was clear and still, but how long could this last? Grimly he repeated his process of the previous day, making his way to the stream bank, settling himself in with his bow and arrows, and trying to conceal any sign of his presence. If the sheep didn’t come today, he knew that he would be too weak to try on the morrow. Exhausted, despairing, and starving, he passed from consciousness into an exhausted sleep.
Perhaps the snow insulated him from sound, or maybe his sleep was deeper than he thought. In any event, he heard nothing as his quarry approached. It wasn’t until the sheep had reached the water hole that he woke suddenly. They had come! They weren’t twenty feet away!
Not daring to breathe, Sithas studied the ram. The creature was even more magnificent up close. The swirled horns were more than a foot in diameter. The ram’s eyes swept around them, but Sithas realized with relief that the animal did not notice his enemy up close.
The ram, as usual, drank his fill and then stepped aside. One by one the ewes approached the small water hole, dipping their muzzles to slurp up the icy liquid. Sithas waited until most of the sheep had drank. As he had observed earlier, the smallest were the last to drink, and it was one of these that would prove his target.
Finally a plump ewe moved tentatively among her larger sisters. Sithas tensed himself, keeping his hands under the snow as he slowly reached forward for his bow.
Suddenly the ewe raised her head, staring straight at him. Others of the flock skittered to the sides. The elf felt two dozen eyes fixed upon his hiding place. Another second, he suspected, and the sheep would turn in flight. He couldn’t give them that opportunity.
With all of the speed, all of the agility at his command, he grasped his bow and arrows and lurched forward from his hiding place, his eyes fixed on the terrified ewe. Vaguely he sensed the sheep spinning, leaping, turning to flee. They struggled through the deep snow, away from this maniacal apparition who rose apparently from the very earth itself.
He saw the ram plunge forward, nudging the ewe that stood stock-still beside the water hole. With a panicked squeal, she turned and tried to spring away. As she turned, for one split second, she presented her soft flank to the elven archer. Even as he struggled to his feet, Sithas had nocked his arrow. He pulled back the string as his target became a blur before him. Reflexively he let the missile fly. He prayed to all the gods, desperate for a hit. But the gods were not impressed.
The arrow darted past the ewe’s rump, barely grazing her skin, just enough to spur the frightened creature into a maddened flight that took her bounding out of range even as Sithas fumbled with another arrow. He raised the weapon in time to see the ram kick his heels as that great beast, too, sprinted away. The herd of mountain sheep bounded through the deep snow, springing and leaping in many different directions. Sithas launched another arrow and almost sobbed aloud in frustration as the missile flew over the head of a ewe. Mechanically he nocked another arrow, but even as he did so, he knew that the sheep had escaped.
For a moment, a sensation of catastrophe swept over him. He staggered, weak on his feet, and would have slumped to the ground if something hadn’t caught his attention.
A small sheep, a yearling, struggled to break free from a huge drift. The animal was scarcely thirty feet away, bleating pathetically. He knew then he had one more chance—perhaps the last chance—for survival. He held his aim steady, sighting down the arrow at the sheep’s heaving flank. The animal gasped for breath, and Sithas released the missile.
The steel-tipped shaft shot true, its barbed head striking the sheep behind its foreleg, driving through the heart and lungs in a powerful, fatal strike. Bleating one final time, a hopeless call to the disappearing herd, the young sheep collapsed. Pink blood spurted from its mouth and nostrils, foaming into the snow. Sithas reached the animal’s side. Some instinct caused him to draw his sword, and he slashed the razor-sharp edge across the sheep’s throat. With a gurgle of air, the animal perished.
For a moment, Sithas raised his eyes to the ledge across the valley. The ewes scampered upward, while the ram lingered behind, staring back at the elf who had claimed one of his flock. Sithas felt a momentary sense of gratitude to the creature. His heart filled with admiration as he saw it bound higher and higher up the sheer slope.
Finally he reached down and gutted the carcass of his kill. The climb back to Kith-Kanan would be a tough one, he knew, but suddenly his body thrummed with excitement and energy.
Behind him, atop the ridge, the ram cast one last glance downward and then disappeared.
13
Sithas cut a slice of meat from his kill on the valley floor, tearing bites from the raw meat, uncaring of the blood that dribbled across his chin. Smacking greedily, he wolfed down the morsel before he carried the rest of the carcass up the steep trail to their ledge. He found Kith-Kanan as still as when he had left him, but now, at least, they had food—they had hope!
The lack of fire created a drawback, but it didn’t prevent Sithas from devouring a large chunk of meat as soon as he got it back to the ledge. The blood, while it was still warm, he dribbled into his unconscious brother’s mouth, hoping that the warmth and nourishment might have a beneficial effect, however minimal.
Finally sated, Sithas settled back to rest. For the first time in days, he felt something other than bleak despair. He had stalked his game and slain it—something he had never done before, not without beaters and weapon-bearers and guides. Only his brother’s condition cast a pall over the situation. For two more days, Kith’s condition showed no signs of change. Gray clouds rolled in, and a dusting of snow fell around them. Sithas trickled more of the ewe’s blood into Kith’s mouth, hiked down for water several times a day, and offered prayers to Quenesti Pah.
Then, toward sunset of their seventh day on the ledge, Kith groaned and moved. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around in confusion.
“Kith! Wake up!” Sithas leaned over his twin, and slowly Kith-Kanan’s eyes met his own. At first they looked dull and lifeless, but even as Sithas watched they grew brighter, more alert.
“What—how did you—?”
Sithas felt weak with relief and helped his brother to sit up. “It’s OK, Kith. You’ll be all right!” He forced more confidence into his tone than he actually felt.
Kith’s eyes fell upon the carcass, which Sithas had perched near the precipice. “What’s that?”
“Mountain sheep!” Sithas grinned proudly. “I killed it a few days ago. Here, have some!”
“Raw?” Kith-Kanan raised his eyebrows but quickly saw that there was no alternative. He took a tender loin portion and tore off a piece of meat. It was no delicacy, but it was sustenance. As he chewed, he saw Sithas watching him like a master chef savoring the reaction to a new recipe.
“It’s good,” Kith-Kanan said, swallowing and tearing off another mouthful. Excitedly Sithas told him of stalking his prey—about his two wasted arrows and the lucky break that helped him make his kill.