Dark Territory

by A. C. Cobble

  The pig was moving away from the creek. For a quarter bell, they stalked the hog. Ben was getting nervous. The furrows dug into the hard winter dirt were wide. From what he recalled about the hogs he’d seen, the tusks of a large animal would be a hand apart. These were a hand and a half.

  Ahead of them, the trees opened into a clearing. Creegan’s hand caught Ben’s arm. The woodsman pointed across the open space and Ben saw it. The hog stood about navel high. He guessed it must weigh twenty stone or more, twice his own weight.

  “I’m not sure we should…” he started.

  Creegan’s bow twanged. Ben groaned when he saw the arrow flash across the clearing and sink into the hog’s flank. The animal spun around in shock, looking for the source of its sudden pain. Creegan nocked another arrow. Before he could get it off, the hog saw them, pawed the ground, and charged.

  Creegan let it fly again. This time, the arrow soared two paces behind the approaching animal. The woodsman wasn’t a very good shot.

  There were two ways to spear hunt hog if you didn’t have dogs. The easy way was to sneak up on it and stab it in the heart before it realized you were there.

  They were going to have to do it the hard way.

  Ben stepped forward and set his feet, holding the wide blade of the spear in front of him. The hog was charging fast. Creegan nocked another arrow and fired again, missing by an even greater distance.

  Ben took a deep, steadying breath. Then the hog was on him. He jumped forward while the huge pig was still two strides away. He thrust with the spear, aiming for the bottom of its neck, hoping to drive the steel tip deep enough to pierce the heart.

  The hog slammed into the spear. The point buried into its flesh, but the momentum knocked the shaft out of Ben’s hands. He jumped to the side. The big animal smacked hard into his legs. It spun him into the air like a top and he landed hard on the frozen ground.

  Continuing the charge, the hog veered toward Creegan. The woodsman tried to jump out of the way. He wasn’t fast enough. The huge pig plowed over him, knocking him down and tumbling him underneath its hooves.

  The big animal passed and tried to turn its charge. The butt of the spear jammed into the ground. With a loud crack, the wrist-thick shaft snapped off.

  Ben leapt to his feet and swept his longsword from the scabbard. He could see the blade of the spear missed his intended mark by half a hand to the right. It was buried in the thick muscle of the pig’s shoulder.

  The hog saw Ben on his feet and charged him. It came slower this time, but still waving its tusks with enough force to tear Ben’s bowels out from his stomach.

  He was ready, and he had his sword. When the hog got close, Ben stepped to the side like he’d seen Saala do so many times before. He whipped his longsword up, cutting across the hog’s neck.

  The blade bit deep and he felt the razor-sharp steel smoothly part flesh. With a muffled squeal, the hog crashed down into the snow. Its legs kicked furiously for a moment then finally stopped.

  Ben looked to see if Creegan was okay, but the woodsman was already propped on one elbow, watching the end of the fight.

  “Not bad,” Creegan grunted through his thick beard. “Now, help me up. That damn pig nearly broke my leg.”

  Ben reached down a hand and nearly flopped into the snow when the heavy woodsman yanked on his arm. Eventually, the big man got back on his feet.

  Using the rope, they fashioned a rough harness to haul the pig.

  Ben dug his feet in, pulling on the rope, and they started back to the cottage. They trudged through the snow, each holding tightly to an end of rope wrapped around their shoulders. The huge animal slid across the snow behind them.

  Ben’s skin burned where the rope pressed into him. He groaned. Just a quarter bell more and they should be back to the cottage. He had attempted to bunch his cloak under the rope so it didn’t dig into him so painfully, but it was useless. The animal was heavy and awkward. He resigned himself to tough through it until they got to the cabin. They would clean and dress the carcass when they got there. It was enough meat for the three of them to eat for weeks. He was glad. Fresh meat would be a good addition to the stores Creegan had in his shed. The thought barely made the effort worth it.

  “That was pretty fine sword work,” complimented the woodsman, stepping over a fallen tree.

  “I got lucky,” replied Ben.

  “I couldn’t help but notice,” added the woodsman, “you’ve got a mage-wrought blade. I’m guessing you didn’t need to get lucky.”

  Ben grunted without answering.

  “I gotta ask,” continued Creegan, “why didn’t you just use the sword in the first place? It’s pretty obvious you know what you’re doing with it. Certainly, you’re better with the sword than you are the spear.”

  Ben smirked. “You’re right. I’ve never spent much time with the spear, but I hadn’t spent any time with a sword until the last year. I guess I’m still not used to it.”

  “Knowing when to use your sword is just as important as knowing how to use it,” responded Creegan seriously.

  “A friend told me something just like that,” commented Ben, “but he was referring to knowing when to keep it in the sheath.”

  “You have to take it out sometimes,” advised Creegan. “That pig ain’t gonna to listen to reason. He’s going to charge you as soon as he sees you. It’s all he knows, to attack. Some men are like that, too. No sense trying to talk to them, no sense trying to make friends. They charge. You gotta defend yourself.”

  Ben walked on for a bit then replied, “I’m not really sure we should blame the pig for charging. We did stalk him for almost half a bell. Then you shot him with an arrow.”

  “I’m not talking about the damn pig!” exclaimed Creegan. “I’m talking about men. Bad men.”

  “Well, you said the pig wasn’t going to listen to—”

  “It’s a metaphor, you little pup,” interjected Creegan with a snort. “Ask your lady about that when we get back. Trying to teach you something and you get literal on me.”

  The woodsman trailed off and Ben let him. He thought the woodsman was finally starting to warm up to him. Five days with the man. About time.

  An angry shriek split the air, startling Ben.

  “What was…” began Creegan.

  “Demon!” shouted Ben. He shrugged the rope off of his shoulders and drew his sword.

  “There’s never been a demon around here!” argued Creegan.

  Another harsh scream and they looked to see a black shape bounding through the snow. Two more were behind it.

  “Run!” yelled Creegan. He struggled to untangle himself from the rope, forgetting his weapons.

  Ben ignored the panicked woodsman and faced the creatures. He knew running was futile. The demons had sensed them. With their powerful legs, they could outrun any man over a short distance.

  Behind him, Ben heard the woodsman trip over himself and crash to the ground. The demons drew closer. Three of them. Ben had faced worse.

  The sound of a strong wind was building in his head, but he refrained from using the magic of his sword. When he had used it against the hunters, the snow blew up in a blinding cloud. The demons could sense his life-blood and would be able to find him without sight. He needed the visibility.

  Violent screams shattered the peace of the forest. The creatures arrived in a wave of fury.

  Knowing they would have no thought of tactics and only of hunger, Ben ran forward then darted behind a thick-trunked tree. The demons changed course and charged, howling after him.

  The first one came sliding around the obstacle and earned the sharp point of Ben’s longsword in its eye for being in front. A second demon plowed into the back of its peer and scrambled over the falling body. Ben ducked under a sweeping clawed hand and slashed up with his blade, cutting deep into the neck.

  He retreated as the third demon circled the tree. This one was moving slowly, cautiously. It was also half again the size of the other two.
At only shoulder height, it was not a true alpha, but those muscular arms would have no problem ripping him to shreds.

  He heard a strangled cry behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder to see Creegan, twenty paces away, stumbling backward. In one hand, the woodsman held his hunting knife. The other was dripping with bright red blood. A fourth demon was quickly pursuing him.

  When Ben turned back, his demon was halfway to him, claws spread, and mouth opened wide. Ben slashed his sword in a blazingly fast pattern, cutting lacerations on the demon’s outstretched arms and coming a hand’s length away from its face. The creature, more mature and tactically minded than its brethren, fell back.

  Snarls and screams jolted Ben. He realized Creegan would last only moments with just the hunting knife for defense. Ben shouted a wordless battle cry and surged forward. The demon leapt to meet him, its wiser instincts overtaken by the base urge to feed.

  Sensing the creature had lost control of itself, Ben took a gamble and used the extended reach of his longsword to launch a powerful swing, cutting the demon open from neck to groin.

  If it had tried to defend itself and he hadn’t gotten a killing blow, the thing would have been on him. He would be defenseless against its strong arms and teeth. Instead, its heavy corpse crashed into him and sent him sprawling on the snow. Not taking time to let himself feel the force of the blow, he rolled to his knees and yanked out his hunting knife. He hurled it at the demon on top of Creegan then snatched up his sword.

  A lucky throw and the blade stuck into the back of the creature. It looked up and snarled at the new attacker, giving Ben time to close the distance. He swung wildly, catching it under the neck and neatly severing its head. The mage-wrought steel passed cleanly through meat and bone. Ben staggered a few steps and fell over, off-balance from the force of his swing.

  The woods were silent. Only his heavy breathing broke the quiet. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees to Creegan. The man’s thick furs obscured his injuries, but he was covered in blood.

  Ben knelt by him, leaning close to feel for breath or a heartbeat. They were there but faint. Quickly scanning and prodding the body, Ben saw a brutal bite on Creegan’s shoulder was the worst of the injuries. He also had several other lacerations that were likely from the demon’s claws. Those appeared superficial.

  Ben grimaced and stripped off his outer layer of clothing and the tunic underneath. Immediately, the bitter cold stung his bare skin. He yanked his knife from the body of the demon and cleaned it the best he could with a handful of snow and the sleeve of the tunic. He cut the rest of the shirt into strips and pushed Creegan’s thick fur coats out of the way.

  The demon’s fangs left deep punctures. The flesh was torn where it had tried to rip a bite out of the woodsman. A demon’s bite was designed to inflict maximum damage and cause as much bleeding as possible. The demon would slurp down that blood as it pumped from the victim. The bite had been effective.

  Wincing, Ben stuffed a wad of shirt around the bite wound then tightly bound it with the strips of shirt he’d cut. He glanced at the other injuries and decided they would have to wait. They were bleeding freely, but if he didn’t get the shoulder taken care of soon, Creegan wasn’t going to make it. The woodsman was pale, the color leaking out of him with each beat of his heart. Ben had to get the man back to the warmth of the cottage where he could clean and tend to him properly.

  He untied the rope around the big hog and looped it under Creegan’s arms. The difficulty he had shifting the big man’s body to get the rope under him wasn’t a good sign for how easy it would be to drag him half a league to the cottage.

  Ben cleaned and sheathed his sword, gave one last look around the clearing, then settled the rope over his shoulder. He leaned forward. With one difficult step, he started dragging the big woodsman through the snow. He staggered and nearly fell to his knees but rose up and churned forward, digging his feet into the hard dirt.

  Ben glanced back at the man. The binding around his shoulder was holding. The rest of his body lay limp, unconscious from either the pain or loss of blood. As Ben walked, the snow slid under his feet. The frozen ground offered little purchase. Step after step, Ben struggled with Creegan’s dead weight. The woodsman didn’t react to the bumpy ride, even when Ben hauled him over fallen logs or against hidden rocks. Ben hoped it was just dead weight, and the man himself wasn’t dead. After he got moving, Ben didn’t stop to check.

  Keeping in Touch

  With blood pounding in his head and gasping breaths rattling his chest, Ben stumbled into the clearing around the cottage. His legs were on fire from the effort to haul Creegan through the snow. The pressure from the rope had rubbed deep creases into his shoulders, which was made worse because he’d given up his tunic to bind Creegan’s wounds. He was exhausted, near the point of collapse. He knew he wasn’t done yet.

  Hoarsely, he called out to Amelie. She couldn’t help him move the woodsman, but she could open the door and clear space for them to tend to the man.

  Amelie poked her head out and let out a startled yelp when she saw Ben and Creegan lying behind him.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  Ben, lurching forward, gasped, “Demon attack.”

  Amelie nodded curtly and disappeared back inside, the door hanging open. She unhooked the stew pot from where it hung on the wall. She moved cautiously. She could handle an empty stew pot, but with her broken collarbone, she couldn’t lift much more than that.

  “Get him settled then fill this with fresh snow,” she instructed. She scurried about, rifling through Creegan’s clothing, probably looking for material she could use as bandages and bindings.

  Ben got the big man inside and placed him atop his sleeping pallet by the fire. He didn’t want to risk jostling the woodsman more than necessary. Getting him into the actual bed or on the table could hurt him worse than it helped. Besides, Creegan was already starting to feel cold and clammy. By the fire was the best place for him. Once satisfied the woodsman was as comfortable as he could make him, Ben rushed outside, filled the pot with snow, and carried it back in.

  “Hang it over the fire. We need hot water,” said Amelie. “Then get more firewood. I’d like to build this fire up. He’s freezing, Ben.” She was kneeling by the Creegan, trying to strip off his thick fur jacket with her one good hand.

  “Let me strip him down first,” suggested Ben.

  With her arm still in the sling, it would take Amelie half the afternoon to uncover all of the man’s wounds.

  Ben started peeling off the man’s clothing. Creegan’s torso was covered in a thick mat of red fur. It mirrored his bushy beard. Shirtless, he looked more bear than man.

  “How any claws cut through that mess,” muttered Amelie, probing at the exposed wounds. She gave a cursory glance at the injuries on his arms, and one Ben hadn’t seen on the man’s back. They would require cleaning and stitching but weren’t deep enough to threaten his life.

  The bite on his shoulder was another case. As soon as she removed the wadded shirt that Ben had tied around it, blood started leaking freely from the open wound. She poked near it with one finger and grimaced at as the blood flow increased. Ben built up the fire and checked on the water while Amelie located needle and thread.

  “This stuff is coming in more handy than I expected,” she muttered. “My sewing tutors in Issen would be proud.”

  Ben nodded tersely. She’d stitched him and Corinne, and now had a new patient.

  The water began to boil and Ben removed it from the flame. They spent a few minutes ripping Creegan’s clothing into strips then began to work. Under Amelie’s instruction, Ben poured hot water from a ladle over Creegan’s injuries. She said they needed to rinse any foreign materials out of the wound before sealing it.

  She heated the needle to sterilize it then handed it to Ben. Gesturing to her collar, she remarked, “You’ll have to do the sutures this time.”

  “I thought you would…” he trailed off. Sh
e was right. She couldn’t stitch one-handed.

  Ben swallowed a lump in his throat and set to work. He wasn’t much of a seamstress, but he’d done minor repairs on his clothing back home. He kept telling himself that knitting flesh wasn’t so different. Amelie eyed him closely, offering suggestions and encouragement when he hesitated.

  For a bell, Ben sewed an ugly patchwork of patterns across Creegan’s body. He stitched the man’s shoulder first, then his back, and finally his arms, about seventy stitches in all. Luckily, the man remained unconscious for all of it.

  Ben sat back on his heels and met Amelie’s eyes. “What do we do now?”

  “I try to heal him.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Ben asked. She needed her energy to recover from her own injuries. “Should you heal yourself first?”

  “If I don’t heal him, I don’t think he’ll make it,” she replied flatly, “and I cannot heal myself. That energy is already at work. Amplifying it would be, unpredictable. The body is complicated and frankly even the most skilled healers in the Sanctuary do not understand it well. Manipulating one’s own energy is just as likely to make the situation worse.”

  Ben looked at Creegan. The man was pale and his chest was barely moving with each labored breath.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Ben asked.

  “Not right now.”

  “Don’t overextend yourself,” he warned.

  Amelie nodded then knelt by the woodsman, placing one hand on him. She closed her eyes. For half a bell, she sat there silently. By the end, Ben thought Creegan’s breathing had improved, but the man remained unnaturally pale. His skin was still clammy to the touch.

  Amelie’s eyes flicked open and she mumbled, “Help me to the bed. I need to rest.”

  Ben helped her up by her good arm. She shuffled to the bed and lay down, fully clothed.

  “Will he be okay?” asked Ben.

  “I don’t know,” she answered sleepily. “He’s lost a lot of blood. If he wakes, he may have a chance. He’ll need food, water, vegetables, and fresh meat if you can find it.”