He lifted himself up with a sigh, bending beneath the low cave roof as he went back into his pack, searching around until he found the small oilskin bundle that he wanted. Venison? he thought as he unwrapped the dried meat and gripped it between his teeth. Venison, he confirmed with a nod as he worried at it, saliva building as he chewed. You could never tell what the old man dried from one day to the next; some days you could wind up with squirrel or even bear but other days, worryingly, you simply couldn’t tell.
Oan chuckled despite himself, tearing off another strip before tightly wrapping what remained and placing it back into his pack. Picking up his wet clothes he wrung them out quickly and stuffed them in as well.
More out of habit than hope he cast his eyes skyward. The weather had begun to ease, much more to his liking, a shift in the clouds giving the afternoon sun a chance, albeit a small one.
An hour’s more light at most.
He hesitated, a contemplative scratch at the patchy blonde stubble that adorned his chin. The cave was the best shelter for miles in any direction, however small and ill suited, but perhaps he was dry enough to make the trip. His boots would still be wet of course, despite his efforts, but he could be back with the old man and his warm cabin shortly after dark if he hurried. It would have been quicker still if Thunder hadn’t run off, frightened by its namesake.
Oan spat out what was left of the dried meat. To the black pit of the Bleedin’ Heart with this. He hated to sit still anyway and already restless, with no fire left to speak of, it was going to be one long, miserable night. That was if he stayed of course.
The thought of a night in the cold clutches of the Wenches—as they were often called—settled it for him. Tugging on his boots with an audible squelch he slipped his hunting knife back into the sheath on his belt, pushed the rest of his belongings down into his pack and hastily retied it as he headed out of the shelter.
Snow dusted the rocky embankment outside the cave giving the jagged rocks a white scalp that had since turned to ice with the passing rain. Oan edged his way carefully from the mouth of the cave, across the uneven path that led to it and, hands pressed against the mountain face, edged his way downwards, ever wary of the dark ice that might secretly glaze the ledge.
Scree littered his path too, broken free of the mountain and iced into place by rain that left the surface more slick and precarious underfoot than when he had made the ascent. The little feeling that had returned to his hands was lost the further he descended; the cold rock he gripped to steady himself leeching away whatever warmth was left in them. He cursed silently for the fit of petulance that had cost him his gloves and more so for the distinct lack of good sense he had shown by failing to bring a second pair. Resigned to the consequences, he shielded his hands as best he could from the stabbing pains brought on by the wind, stopping halfway down to breathe some life back into the bloodless skin.
The Maidens began to protect him from the wind the lower he dropped into their bosom, the absence of the icy flurries allowing a fine sheen of sweat to build beneath his fresh clothing. The easing rain had made the descent bearable at least, but he still let out a grateful sigh when he finally reached the main trail that would lead him to the valley floor.
The scent of pine needles greeted him at the bottom, heightened it seemed by the passing storm that had left the ground damp underfoot. The odd mountain finch zipped between the trees as he moved, breaking the otherwise eerie silence of the storm ravaged valley. The soft brown cushion of the forest floor, carpeted with the discarded pine needles, felt good beneath his aching feet.
His progress improved dramatically once he reached the river. He knew the area as well as anyone and it wasn’t long before the valley began to open out. Isolated stands of trees expanded into the vast forests that carpeted the slopes of the great mountain range. Snow grew scarce the further he descended, giving way to clusters of bright bellflowers, blues, yellows, reds, purples; the colours of spring. It had been an unusually warm winter and it was nice to see the flowers out early for a change.
Wending his way along a narrow game trail that cut through the trees, Oan suddenly froze, stopping dead in his tracks, a tremor in the pit of his stomach. Something was out there, obscured by the dusk, hidden in the green canvas of the forest ahead and…waiting for him. A dead silence had gripped the forest, drawing across it like a curtain as he peered into the fading light.
Carefully moving off the track, he sought the shelter of the woods around him, his boots crunching on a thin shell of ice as his eyes raked across the small clearing ahead, his left hand loosening the long, flat-bladed hunting knife in his belt. He peered into the trees, searching. A bear?
Holding himself low to the ground he crept towards the gap in the forest, weaving his way between the boles of the trees that surrounded him. Reaching the brink of the clearing he stopped, crouching low in the cover of a juniper.
He frowned, eyes scanning the opposite tree line for any movement.
Nothing.
Sweat beaded on his brow. His heart hammered out a wild beat as he struggled to control his breathing; his chest, already tight with fear, laboured to force whatever air it could through his lungs. A wave of dizziness washed over him and Oan wanted nothing more than to flee but his legs failed him, locked in place by a fear that held him rooted to the spot as solidly as any of the trees around him. A flicker of movement to his right made his heart lurch, its wild drumming sure to betray him to whatever lay in wait.
He almost laughed at the deer that strolled timidly into the clearing, such was his relief, the slender animal oblivious to his presence as it nuzzled at the new spring foliage. Oan slumped to his knees. What in the name of the Gods was that all about? A deer should never have made him react like that. He had barely avoided pissing in his breeches and the accompanying twinge to his bowels would surely not have been caused by a simple deer. Would it? He looked up as the animal hopped into flight across the clearing, his eyes focusing more easily now without his fear trying to disable them.
It was a good size, he would have been tempted to take down the old doe except for the fact that his bow was long gone, having stayed attached to the saddle of his runaway horse. That’d shut old Ebon up. He watched in dismay as it legged its way into the trees opposite.
The trees exploded instantly into a cacophony of cracking branches. Oan flinched at the thunderous noise, instinctively grabbing at his knife as he rose to watch. The trees quickly settled, save for a few aftershocks that wobbled along the lower branches causing clumps of snow to slide from their perches and slop to the ground. His palm sweated on the knife, now drawn and firmly in his hand. It felt good to hold, little use against a bear but reassuring enough that his hands no longer seemed to shake as they had earlier. His pulse quickened as he remained motionless.
What?
It moved out of the trees slowly, the branches parting easily for such vast bulk as it pushed its way into the clearing. Oan immediately dropped low, terror making his eyes burn almost like they were boiling in their own sockets.
Fool! He silently cursed himself. Another quick movement like that and he was a dead man.
Shambling out of the mass of pine and spruce the creature came, easily over ten feet tall, its bent back would have made it taller still had it reared up on legs the size of tree trunks. Massive arms, thick with tendons the size of saplings, dragged long and heavy at its side, the carcass of the deer hanging limply from one giant fist, its lifeless head lolling from side to side, neck ruined by its killer who now lumbered ponderously into the open.
Oan sucked in his breath with a low hiss as the beast sniffed at the air, massive spine rippling outward as its body twisted skywards with a grunt. Fangs jutted up from its lower jaw like two great tusks, over-large head teetering almost curiously from side to side as its sunken black eyes studied the surrounding area. It hesitated a moment longer before straightening and with startling ferocity ripped the deer’s head clean from its body with a twist of its gigantic fist.
Quicklinks for The Broken by Stephen Ashworth - Prologue | First Entry | Latest Entry
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