Chapter 4: 04 : The Hunt

Will woke before the sky thought of light.

The camp still smelled of last night’s drink—sour fumes drifting from the up-ended brandy jug by Garret’s bedroll. Ash coiled in the fire pit, orange at the heart but greying fast. Will eased from his blanket, every rib bruise protesting, and set about the chores in silence: bank the coals, pack the cook-pot, refill canteens, lay out salt pork and black bread for breakfast. By the time he finished, dawn was only a bruised line behind the trees.

Garret stirred. A grunt, then a low curse as he hauled himself upright. His eyes were slit coins in a swollen face. He sniffed the air like a tracker, then reached for the canteen swinging from a stump.

Will laid a tin plate beside him, bread already sliced.

Garret bit off a chunk, chewed twice, spat it out. “Stale.”

Will kept his head down and ate standing. One mouthful—two. He was lifting the last piece to his lips when leather slapped his cheek. The blow wasn’t hard enough to bleed, just sharp enough to spark.

“Why do you have that rag-heap bow with you?” Garret’s voice rasped raw from drink and sleep. “Thought I told you—string the yew, not that toothpick.”

Will blinked the sting away, then saw the problem: the old ash bow half-exposed where he’d tucked it beneath his satchel. A mistake. He swept the flap closed, stooping to retrieve the bread that had flown into dirt.

Garret rose unsteadily. “You best pray we find meat today. Your life’s as lean as our larder, boy.” He staggered toward the tree line to relieve himself, talking as he went. “Three days out and nothing to show—Osric’ll skin us. Mark it.”

Will chewed the filthy bread anyway. Hunger hurt worse than pride. When Garret returned, he was already draining the canteen. The sweet odor of spirits drifted back on his breath.

“Gear,” he said. “Now.”

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The forest seemed to pull away from them at first light—branches knitting overhead, moss swallowing footfalls, every living thing holding its breath. Garret trudged behind, armor of grumbles and drink shielding him from cold. Will walked point, scanning ground for sign: a hoofprint pressed into loam, a snapped fern, dew brushed off berry leaves. Nothing spoke.

He kept both bows lashed across his back—Bram’s unstrung yew beneath worn ashwood. Habit placed his fingers on the familiar grip when he needed reassurance. He imagined Bram’s fury if the new bow returned scratched, and Garret’s if it returned unused.

Hours passed. The sun climbed, smearing thin gold through the canopy. Game trails meandered but never freshened. Even birdsong stayed distant, like the woods had shifted breathlessly aside.

Behind him Garret’s boots dragged. Every dozen steps the canteen cork squeaked and clinked back. Will didn’t look, but he heard.

By midmorning Garret broke the silence. “Where’s all your forest lore now, orphan? Thought you tracked rabbits by ear.”

Will crouched to study a tuft of fur caught on briar—weeks old, brittle. “Ground’s quiet,” he offered.

“Ground’s cursed. Same as you.” A swallow. “Keep moving.”

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The land dipped without warning—a leaf-hidden slope slick with last night’s frost. Garret’s boots lost purchase; he lurched, arms pinwheeling, then vanished over the edge with a crash of brush.

Will spun, heart stuttering. Down the incline he slid on hands and heels, kicking small stones that pinged off trunks. At the bottom, Garret sprawled near a pond the color of tarnished silver.

“Damn sodden roots,” Garret muttered, levering himself upright. No blood, only mud. “You go first next time.”

Will bit back the obvious—it had been his idea to skirt the ridge entirely before Garret refused. Instead he scanned the water.

A perfect mirror. Then a ripple. Then another—concentric rings widening from the center though nothing touched the surface. Will leaned, eyes narrowing.

Fish, he reasoned, but the rings were too large, too even. As if something vast exhaled just beneath.

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Garret staggered beside him. “Staring won’t fill a pot. Move.”

Will forced himself away, but unease clung like cobwebs.

They tracked around the pond’s edge. With each step Garret’s complaints grew—about dead mothers and dutiful wives, about sons who weren’t sons, about kings demanding coin while their peasants starved. Will let the words skim off his armor of silence. It worked until Garret’s tone sharpened.

“You smell it?” the man asked. “Rot. That’s you, boy. Bad luck rotting on the hoof.” He sniffed theatrically.

“Should’ve left you in that muck where we found you, save us both.”

Heat flared behind Will’s eyes, but he said nothing. He adjusted the straps across his chest and walked on.

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By noon the forest opened to an old logging road, ruts frozen, ridged and slick. Deer prints crossed once—shallow, days old. Garret kicked them apart, swearing.

Clouds thickened overhead—flat iron sheets dimming what little warmth the sun provided. Will’s breath fogged as he exhaled softly, soft enough not to carry. He scanned tree trunks for scratch marks, droppings, anything.

Nothing.

Past mid-afternoon they came upon a cluster of uprooted birches toppled by a past storm. Will froze, raising a hand—boar sign at last: earth gouged by tusks, bark peeled. He knelt, pressing fingertips to churned soil; cold, but fresher than any track they’d seen.

Garret misread stillness for failure. “More empty? Figures.” He stumbled closer, kicked the sapling Will balanced against. Dirt collapsed inward.

A hollow clunk answered underground. Boar had rooted a burrow here, but they’d long since moved on.

Will sighed. Hope shrank to a pinhead.

Garret noticed the tracks finally, squinting. “You said near Orlin Creek the hogs feed heavy.”

Will pointed west. “Creek bends half a mile. We reach before dusk.”

Garret’s lips peeled in a mock smile. “Lead on, prince of pigs.”

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They reached Orlin at last—just a ribbon of black water threading marsh grass—but night swallowed the bank before any game dared show. The hush grew heavier than mud. Will strained ears until they rang; no grunt, no splash, nothing.

Garret slumped on a fallen log, shoulders sagging.

“Well?” His voice was quiet now, too quiet. “Whole day and not a flea to boast. What’s the ledger, boy?”

Will glanced away. “Tomorrow we circle south ridge—”

Garret surged to his feet. “Tomorrow Osric’s one day closer. Tomorrow my pockets lighter.” The sword he always carried rasped partway free—an unconscious twitch—but the sound iced Will’s spine.

Garret noticed, smirked. “Afraid?” He sheathed the blade. “Good. Fear keeps a cur from biting the hand that feeds it.”

He turned back toward camp, footsteps weaving. Will followed, a shadow lengthening behind.

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They reached the clearing after full dark. Garret collapsed beside the cold fire ring, pawing coals. Will struck flint, kindled a reluctant flame, built it with pine chips until the circle glowed. Sparks drifted upward like captive fireflies.

Will produced a heel of bread and two strips of salt pork. Garret snatched both, tore into the meat without heating it. Grease ran down his chin.

“You don’t eat,” he said around the chew. “Not after the day you gave me.”

Will’s stomach cramped, but he nodded. Hunger was easier to bear than a broken jaw.

Silence rolled in, thick as wool.

At last Garret muttered, “String the yew. You’ll need it come dawn.”

Will reached for the bow, hands steady in the glow. He slid the bottom tip to his instep, bent the stave, looped the bowstring over the nock in one smooth motion. The yew thrummed alive—a note pure and unfamiliar. Too tall for him, too stiff.

Garret watched, eyes oily with drink. “You miss once, and I’ll have that skin off your back for a new bowstring. Clear?”

“Clear,” Will whispered.

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Garret rolled into his blankets, snoring within minutes. Will sat across the fire, knees drawn up, old bow resting on them like a guilty secret. He shouldn’t have brought it—knew that now—but the grip fit his palm as if carved for it, worn smooth where his thumb sat. It reminded him of practice afternoons with Miriam—her gentle corrections, the way she never scolded a miss.

His stomach growled. He ignored it.

A breeze crossed camp, stirring embers and carrying with it a scent—damp earth and something faintly sweet, like crushed lilies. Will turned toward the dark trees. Nothing moved. The pond lay somewhere beyond those trunks, hidden now, but he felt its hush reach him. Felt the unseen ripple.

Memory of the dream pulsed: hill of bone, silver chain, twin skeletons. Fight.

He rubbed his arms, shivering despite heat.

Something cracked out among the brush—maybe a branch settling, maybe more. Will’s hand slid to the yew. He rose, crept to the edge of firelight. Eyes adjusted slowly, parsing shapes into trees. Nothing.

When he turned back, Garret still slept, mouth slack.

He retreated to his bedroll instead, laying the unfamiliar bow beside him, the old bow tucked within blankets out of sight. Above, clouds parted enough to reveal a single shard of star.

Will stared until his lids sagged. Sleep found him in fits

When dawn arrived, it would bring blood. He could feel it in the marrow of the dark.