Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Those who were to be part of the hunt started gathering near Tom. Colin felt the exhilaration prickling against his skin. When Karen touched him, a tingling sensation raced up his arm, and he jumped.

Karen grinned. She nodded toward where the men were gathering. “You’d better get over there, or you’ll be stuck here watching the little ones.”

Colin grimaced. “I can’t use the bow, and there aren’t enough horses for me to ride.”

“But you have your sling, and they’ll need men to help drive the animals. You can shout, can’t you?”

Colin straightened. He doubted he could take one of the strange deer down with his sling, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

Grinning madly, he sprinted for the wagon where he’d tossed his satchel, retrieved his sling, and tied it on as quickly as possible, eyes on the men. Karen rolled her eyes and shook her head, as if asking Diermani to explain the stupidity of men. Colin ignored her.

Sling secured, stones thrust into his pockets, Colin dashed toward the group of men, arriving just as Arten barked an order and those on horseback spun their mounts and took off toward the plains at a trot.

His father gave him a curt nod, then addressed the group that remained, all on foot, most carrying bows. “All right. Arten and the others will drive the animals toward the fold in the land over there.” He pointed toward where a depression in the land narrowed down to a small gap between two banks of earth. “We’ll set the archers on the banks. You can shoot down into the depression. The rest of you need to line up to either side. Try to get them to funnel down into the opening. We don’t want them rushing up the banks and overwhelming the archers.”

“How do we do that?” someone asked. “We aren’t on horseback.”

“Grab something to wave or flail about, make noise, yell and shout. Anything you think may startle them and get them moving in the right direction.”

The men nodded and then broke for the banks and the gap between them, spreading out. A few ran back to the wagons, returning with long sticks, one bringing a length of bright cloth, another a blanket. Others simply removed their shirts, wrapping the sleeves around their hands so they could wave the material overhead.

Colin jogged across the rough ground, stalks of grass lashing his legs as he moved. He watched the herd of animals, saw Arten and the group of horses break apart, the workhorses spreading out to form a wedge pointed toward the dip in the land where Colin and the rest were settling into position. Arten and the Armory banked away, cutting around the herd. Some of the animals-singletons that roamed on the outside edges of the main group, like scouts-raised their heads, watching the horses as they circled around behind the herd, their gently curving horns sweeping back over their bodies. The plains were dotted with shifting shadows as scattered clouds moved overhead, and far to the north, black storm clouds darkened the horizon, moving east. They flashed an ethereal purple as lightning struck inside their depths, but the herd and the expedition were too distant to hear thunder. A thick slash of gray cut down from the dark clouds to the plains, where it was raining. The storm was moving away from them though, and after the storm at Cutter’s and the few showers they’d experienced since reaching the Bluff, Colin felt a mild relief. He’d grown accustomed to the strange heaviness in the air over the past few days, but when it was raining, especially when there was lightning, the air seemed to sizzle, to shift and flow around him like water.

Colin shuddered, and thoughts of Cutter suddenly made him wonder where Walter was. He scanned those nearest to the depression in the ground, then turned toward the wagons.

Walter and Jackson were both standing in front of the wagons, hands raised to shade their eyes from the sun as they watched the activity, the two isolated from the rest of the members of the expedition by a significant distance. Jackson pulled something from his satchel, then sat down in the grass, scribbling madly. Walter pulled a waterskin out and drank, his gaze turning from where Arten and the others had begun to cut into the herd toward where Colin and the rest waited.

He caught sight of Colin and lowered his waterskin with a grimace, as if the water had suddenly taken on a bitter taste.

Colin jerked his attention back to the hunt, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. He spat to one side, but the acridness in the back of his throat, like bile, didn’t go away. His hand kneaded the leather pocket of his sling, the ties biting into his forearm as he flexed the muscles, and he forced himself to stop with effort.

On the plains, a purple arc of lightning flashed from cloud to cloud in the far off storm, and a whistle pierced the air. Arten’s group cut sharply to the left, angling into the herd of beasts. As soon as they shifted direction, the sentinel deer snorted and stamped their feet.

Nearly every head in the herd rose, ears and tails flicking.

Arten’s group didn’t falter. They bore down on the herd fast, the hooves of their horses a low, grumbling thunder.

Before they’d covered half the distance to the herd, the lead animals bolted. The herd hesitated half a breath, maybe less, and then every creature in it turned and sprinted away from the horses.

Directly toward where the workhorses stood.

One of the men waiting in the depression began to whoop and holler, and Colin turned to glare at him, saw the man nearest motion him to be quiet. The noise of Arten’s group was drowned out in the sudden thunder of thousands of hooves as the strange deer picked up momentum, charging toward Colin’s position, their sleek forms bounding forward, leaping hidden stones, small ridges, heads laid back and straining forward. Colin tensed, slid a rock from his pocket into the sling, held it ready as the deer closed in on the wedge of workhorses.

At the last moment, something startled the deer in front-movement from one of the workhorses, or the wild barking of the dogs who’d been tied up at the wagons-and with a flash of their white tails, the charging herd banked, streaked hides glistening. Arten cut sharply to the right, trying to cut them off, but the majority of the herd rumbled past the mouth of the funnel, tearing their way out toward the center of the plains.

But not all of them. A large group at the rear of the herd split off, thundering through the wedge of workhorses. The riders began shouting, slapping their horses’ flanks, the deer shying away from the sounds, bolting toward the other side of the wedge, where the second line whooped and roared, sending them back. Panicked, the deer raced down the center, heading straight for the safety of the gap in the two banks, down into the depression where Colin and the rest stood. Everyone was yelling, bellowing at the top of their lungs, swinging their shirts or their blankets overhead, slapping their sticks into the ground or their hands to their thighs. Colin cupped one hand over his mouth and shouted out nonsense words, then began laughing, his heart pounding in his chest, an echoing roar to the sound of the hooves, to the feel of their movement through his feet, the ground around him shaking. The strange deer skittered away from the noise, and he began swinging the sling overhead, still laughing, tried to pick out a single deer in the mass of bodies, found it impossible with all of them moving so fast, the tans and whites blending into each other. He realized their colorations were a form of protection, that he couldn’t pick out individuals in the crowd And then the first arrows shot down into the depression. The deer had made it to the gap, were within the archers’ range. He couldn’t hear the twang of the bowstrings above the roar of the herd But he heard the first animal scream. A raw, terrified sound that made him wince back, that made his stomach twist inside him. The sound was repeated as more arrows struck into the heart of the herd. Colin cringed beneath the sound, felt it grating along his spine, and he let the swing of his sling lapse.