Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

He waved both of them to silence as movement caught his eye.

Wynn’s wagon pulled out of the trees along the road, heading slowly through the plain. Chuillyon waited until it had nearly reached the plain’s far side. He could stop Wynn at any time, but he had no plans to do so—not yet.

“There’s the patrol,” Shâodh said, pointing.

Indeed, the Shé’ith guards emerged from the trees to the north and galloped along the forest’s edge. They pulled up in the grass, waiting. All three nodded in respect to him, and Chuillyon returned his acknowledgment as he urged his mount forward.

Formalities mattered to maintain an image of authority.

“Let them pass unimpeded,” he said.

The patrol leader nodded again. “As you wish, Domin.”

Chuillyon did not want to get too far behind tonight—just enough to let Wynn have her unwitting relief at being free to follow her purpose.

Wynn stirred in the wagon’s back and sat up, feeling groggy. A whole moon had passed since they’d left Lhoin’na lands. She rubbed her eyes and crawled out of her lean-to canvas shelter. Two facts hit her instantly.

First, she’d overslept. It was fully dark, and they’d normally be on the move by now, traveling during Chane’s waking hours. They’d made good time so far, as winter nights were longer than the days.

Second, she was alone, but this didn’t worry her. The others were likely out foraging again, as their supplies were more than half gone.

Even if Wynn hadn’t had her makeshift map, they couldn’t have missed the head of the Slip-Tooth Pass. Once inside the pass, navigation became unnecessary; they simply pressed south by southeast between the tall ridges on both sides.

No one appeared to use this pass anymore. There was little path to speak of, let alone an actual road. Their way was occasionally interrupted by a depression, a boulder field, or having to locate a place to cross the broad stream that ran along parts of the pass’s floor. Eventually this route would lead them to the northern side of the Sky-Cutter Range. Beyond the leagues and leagues of those immense mountains lay the vast Suman desert.

And they were nearing the end of the pass.

Crawling to the wagon bed’s back, Wynn looked around, hoping to spot Chane or Shade returning. She didn’t, and her thoughts drifted to the previous morning.

The wind had kicked up shortly after nightfall, channeled down upon them by the pass’s high sides. The gale was so strong that the wagon rocked and rain began pelting them. Then the rain turned into hail.

Chane spotted a stone outcrop on the leeward slope and drove the wagon in beneath it. They lost part of a night and the next day but were grateful for any shelter. After Wynn’s companions had gone to sleep, she’d stayed awake past dawn, listening until the patter abated. Then she crawled out in daylight to see what lay ahead.

In the hazy distance were the vast peaks of the Sky-Cutter Range. She’d studied those mountains, so great in size that it was difficult to judge how far they had to go. Finally, she’d settled down, curling up beside Shade in the small shelter on their side of the wagon’s bed, and slept away the rest of the day.

Now she’d awakened alone in the dark.

“Shade?” she called tentatively.

The dog didn’t answer. Hopping out, Wynn spotted pots and pans already laid out near a lit campfire, and both horses were munching oats from their buckets. She stumbled toward the fire, stretching out her aches, and her movements loosened an odor from her clothing.

Wynn wrinkled her nose as she picked up the teapot. She could barely remember the last time she’d had a decent bath.

Chane and Shade had taken to hunting as a team. Wildlife wasn’t abundant, and Wynn knew what they’d likely bring back. She should’ve been grateful, but she didn’t look forward to yet another roasted wild hare. That’s all they seemed able to catch. What she wouldn’t give for an herbed lentil stew with tomatoes, celery, and a bit of onion.

She dug through burlap supply bags in the wagon’s back. All the melons were long gone, though they still had some small apples and dried jerky. She was saving those for when they entered the range, where nothing else might be available. Pulling out another sack, she found their last few potatoes and a couple of limp carrots. Maybe she could try making a quick soup?

Wynn paused, pondering the fire.

It was already lit, and the horses had been fed. Ore-Locks wasn’t a hunter, so he’d taken to foraging for necessities like firewood. Had he already returned and was here somewhere? Bending over, she looked under the wagon.

He wasn’t resting there. Straightening, she looked about, and then spotted a flicker of light halfway up the sheer slope on the outcrop’s southern side. She barely made out a hulking form by that small torchlight.

“Ore-Locks,” she called. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. She noticed how high he held the torch, its flame well above his head, but she hesitated at being alone with him up there. Curiosity won out when he began climbing higher, and she raced for the slope and scrambled upward to follow him.

“What ... are you ... ?” she panted, closing as he reached the outcrop’s top. “What are you doing?”

Up close, he didn’t smell any better than she did. A focused intensity covered his face.

“The top did not look right,” he said absently, not looking at her. “This is not natural.... Too level.”

Wynn followed his gaze.

The hang of the rutted ledge they’d seen from below was indeed level on top. By torchlight, she made out a pile of huge stones near its outward end. She was still staring when Ore-Locks headed out over that unnatural level toward the stone pile near the precipice.

Chane followed a few paces behind Shade as they made their way back to camp. Though he carried a large hare from a successful hunt, he wished they could have found something—anything—else to bring back from this wild, rocky land. Wynn never complained, but he knew she was probably dreaming of lentil stew.

Creeks and streams were plentiful enough for water. A few were large enough to support fish, if he was given time for the lengthy act of catching them. Wynn normally wanted to forage and move on as soon as possible. Between him and Shade, the quickest meal they could catch was a flushed rabbit, or maybe a partridge, if they caught it asleep.

Chane was walking at a good clip when Shade suddenly stopped. Her ears pricked up, and at first he thought she had lost her way.

But Shade never lost her bearings.

He followed her eyes to beneath a sparse pine tree downslope. A downed deer lay there, and Chane stepped around Shade to check out their find.

When their supplies were still plentiful, he had replenished his stores of life with the feeding cup by dragging down a few deer or wild cattle. He had not seen either in nearly a moon. An animal this size would provide food for some time, and venison might be a welcome change for his companions. But how long had the beast been dead? Would its flesh still be safe to eat?

Shade rumbled softly.

“What?” he asked, as if expecting an answer.

She remained where he had left her and wouldn’t approach the carcass.

Chane dropped to his knees and found that the carcass was still warm to the touch. That gave him hope that it had not yet spoiled, but it felt boney and gaunt. He could not see it clearly and grabbed its hind legs to drag it out beneath the moonlight. It weighed almost nothing.

Once Chane saw it clearly, disappointment set in.

At first, he thought the creature had died of old age. Its skin was shriveled and stretched tight over its rib cage. Then he noticed that its antlers were short, barely nubs, where tines would eventually grow. The deer could not have been much more than a yearling, yet it looked old.