by Kyle Tolle
Rounfil joined him, apparently having taken a lantern from someone else. “Can you shine it over here?” Hantle could not stand still, even though he was sure there was a thorn in his foot. “There’s bound to be a print where the leaves are thinner.”
“Take it easy,” Rounfil said. “You’ll tromp on a print if you don’t calm down.”
“Then come over here and help. Come on!” He gestured wildly with a hand. “We’re just seconds behind it, but we have to go now. The thing moves fast as hell.” The light made the trail apparent. “Yes. We’ve got it now.”
“I’m not sure it goes through,” Rounfil said.
They had been searching for hours with nothing to show, but even the faintest of hints deserved to be followed. The rest of their party was spread out, similarly occupied.
“Oh well”—Hantle shrugged—“we need to be certain.” He tossed his musket to Rounfil and waded into the undergrowth, ripping apart tangled branches and vines to clear a path. The ground below gave way to a hollow that Hantle did not see. He lost balance and, while planting a foot to catch himself, impaled it on a cluster of thorns. He hollered, frozen with the pain. Damn it all! Aided by a hand from Rounfil, he extricated himself. When finally free of the mess, he tested the foot but found it too tender to bear weight.
“Here,” Rounfil offered. “Steady yourself on me.”
Hantle gripped his shoulder and leaned over to inspect the damage. Rivulets of blood ran from multiple points. “Just a few thorns,” he said. Wincing, he extracted what pieces he could, tossed them aside, and wiped away the blood. A few other welts looked to contain splinters embedded too deeply to remove with only his nails. “This ground is harsh.”
“You’re barefoot, what do you expect?”
He was in no mood for jokes. “Shut up.” Letting go of Rounfil, he put weight on the foot but hopped off it and sucked air through clenched teeth. “Ah, something’s still shooting fire.”
Rounfil shook the lantern and looked at the oil level. “Your foot’s shot and the lantern doesn’t have much time left in it.” Hantle knew where he was going before he said it. “Maybe we should head back.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “That would be giving up. We’re this close to picking the trail back up.”
Rounfil paused for a minute. Was that pity on his face? “We have been out here for hours, Hantle. We started with a trail, but now we’re grasping at straws.”
That was not true. They’d found plenty of leads. “Do you have something to suggest, or are you just going to complain?”
Rounfil huffed and opened his eyes wide. “I’m complaining? It’s you who’s not thinking. You’d be better off by getting your foot fixed up and waiting for daylight. Then we go back to the start, where we found all the blood. Start fresh there. We probably mistook the path somewheres back.”
Fine. It was true. They were scrambling, and had been for a while.
“Plus,” Rounfil continued, “I don’t do my best work when I’m exhausted. Couple hours of sleep though, and it’d be a different story.”
Yes, Hantle knew he was right, but something still felt wrong to him. But what? It took a minute, but he found the root of it. “Feels like we’re leaving them for dead though.”
Something clicked for Rounfil. “Oh.” He nodded at first but changed it to a shake. “The difficult truth is they’re likely already dead. Honestly, they’d be lucky to be, so many hours on.”
Hantle conceded. “All right, you bastard, let’s head back. But we’ll be out shortly after sunrise.” He shifted and a jolt of pain shot up his leg. “Eh. Help me out, will you?”
The search party returned to Founsel, grouped together but quiet. Coming out of the forest, Hantle saw the outhouse charred and smoldering, like a monument to his failure. He hung his head and the butt of the musket scraped across the ground.
Rounfil, on whose shoulders Hantle still leaned, said, “Someone’s got to tell Olyul.”
“Yeah,” Pirram said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Be delicate, sir,” Hantle said, his recklessness subsiding. “We aren’t yet certain what’s happened to them.”
“’Course, of course.” Pirram gave a knowing nod and split off.
Without further discussion, the group disbanded and, as individuals returned home, Hantle, aided by Rounfil, hobbled to his door. He leaned against the doorframe. “Why didn’t I shoot?”
Rounfil looked uncertain. “What?”
“When I saw the wolf, I gave chase instead of shooting it. I had a chance to kill it but wasted it. Why?”
“For all you knew, it had Trissol or Couveim.” Rounfil retied the robe’s sash at his waist. “Look, you weren’t out there alone. The wolf escaped us all.”
“I hate to tell Lorenca that, is all.” The thought churned in his belly like spoilt milk.
“Not for lack of trying. We’ll pick up the search in a few hours.” As he backed off the porch, Rounfil tilted his head to Hantle’s foot. “Get that fixed up.”
The door creaked open and by candlelight Hantle saw the fury on Lorenca’s face. She wrung the dishcloth until her knuckles were salt-white. Then she launched it at him and stood, shouting, “I can’t believe you just left me like that. Do you know how terrified I’ve been?”
The cloth struck him in the face, which he knew he deserved. He sat the musket aside and limped forward, holding his hands out in supplication. “I’m sorry,” he said as she backed farther away. “I didn’t mean to scare you. The beast took Trissol and Couveim.” He was surprised to find hot tears streaking down his cheeks. “I wanted to save them, like I couldn’t save—” He had to swallow down his own terror. “Like I couldn’t save our boys.”
Lorenca broke into a sob, took a step forward, and looked at his wounded foot. “Why’re you limping? Where’re your boots?”
He gave her a sheepish look and said, “Left them behind. Caught a thorn or two.”
“Sit down, you idiot,” she said, thickly. “Let me see.”
He crumpled into his chair at the table. All energy was gone from his system, leaving him lethargic, sluggish. He heaved his foot up and Lorenca leaned close with the candle. She gave a disappointed sigh and moved to a trunk nearby. After rummaging for a moment, she pulled out a needle and held it in the flame. When the metal glowed red, she pulled it out and let the color dull. Then she fell to work on the splinters. He flinched and held his breath.
With a huff, she said, “You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t fester.” She dug in with more force than he thought necessary, but he suspected he deserved that as well. “Well,” she continued, “are you going to tell me what happened out there?”
CHAPTER SIX
HANTLE YAWNED, raised his head to look past Lorenca, and saw it was light out. The bed creaked as he crept from under the covers, but Lorenca did not stir. In the kitchen, he flopped into his chair, which rocked with the impact, and inspected the bandage wrapping his foot. No blood, which boded well, but his body felt heavy. He was more tired than he had hoped he would be. It was dawn, though, and time for them to resume the search. After he pulled his boots on, he tested the foot, and, while not enough to render him immobile, it did hurt considerably.
The sun was still below the treetops, so when Hantle entered the street and saw a group of people standing near the cove, all he could make out was their silhouettes. On any other day the sight would have been innocuous, but today it was ominous. He uttered, “Oh no,” and grimaced. Closing in, his hunch was confirmed. He plunked down to the street as hope rushed out and despair swept in to replace it. It was Couveim and Trissol, undoubtedly. Their two heads lay face down in the middle of the street, tilted toward him. Tongues—swollen and purple—hung out of the mouths, and spines trailed down from there, all surrounded by blood-drenched cobblestone. Worse than the scene itself was his mind reverting to the vivid, ghastly discovery of yesterday. Grief rose from somewhere deep and its swell broke upon frayed nerves. Couveim’s face was replaced with a h
ellish projection of Lorenca’s, and Hantle crept forward on hands and knees, transfixed. Flies walking across the waxen flesh finally brought him out of his reverie. He waved them away.
He looked to the group around him, noticing several of his coworkers and Pirram. Why were they standing here, staring at this gruesome scene? Were they stunned, or, more disgustingly, fascinated? He asked, “Has anyone told Olyul about them or gotten Yilrouth?” Blank faces turned to him, seemingly just realizing his presence. “Why has no one even taken the most basic of actions here?” He pushed himself to his feet and turned to Couveim and Olyul’s house. “I’ll talk to her.” His gaze was drawn to a faint wisp of smoke rising from the outhouse wreckage. He locked up. Were he to take another step toward it, the outhouse would collapse, opening a hole that would widen and swallow him.
Thankfully, Pirram intervened. “Don’t worry about Olyul, Hantle.” He patted his back. “I’ll go talk to her again. Why don’t you get Yilrouth? Afterward, I’ll start on the coffins.”
It was only when Hantle turned that his bated breath escaped in a drawn-out sigh. Yes, he could manage that. He went to the southern part of Founsel, where the doctor and his family lived, to deliver news of the grim discovery. Yilrouth gathered his bag, left his half-eaten breakfast behind, and followed Hantle. Rounfil exited his house and Hantle told him of the finding as they returned to the cove. The rising sun brought out more people, who milled about and talked in hushed voices.
Before approaching the bodies, Yilrouth surveyed the scene. The sun beat hot already; he huffed and dragged his sleeve across his forehead. “Oy,” he said. “One doesn’t get used to this kind of carnage.” He pulled two lengths of cloth from his bag, tiptoed through the surrounding mess, and crouched down to wrap the remains. Rounfil stepped in to help as he had yesterday, and Hantle averted his eyes. He could not stomach watching. His thoughts turned, instead, to what he should do next. What chance would he have of discovering a trail that led to the wolf itself? Surely, after having left behind the bodies of Couveim and Trissol, it would have roamed far and quickly. Tracking it had been difficult enough when the trail was fresh. Though perhaps it slept and rested rather close to Founsel; its proximity may have been a large factor in why it attacked the village. He knew little of the habits of wolves outside of the sort of general knowledge of them one picks up as a child.
“Hantle?” The sound of Shec calling his name brought him back from his rumination. She held out a brush. “Care to help scrub?”
He wordlessly took the brush and watched her empty a bucketful of water over the gore on the street, then return to the cove for another. Yilrouth had already started toward his house, white bundles in arm. He dropped to his knees and scraped the horsehair bristles over the stones. Beside him, Rounfil took up a brush and knelt. The water turned to crimson in the brush and snaked away through the cobblestones. Liova, her face creased in thought, walked from the village square, where others set out hay bales and chairs for the funeral.
“It’s not normal, is it?” Hantle said to the group at large. “Not normal for a wolf to attack people like this, I mean.”
“No,” Rounfil replied, “it is not normal. They’re fearsome predators, but around humans they get skittish.”
“Unless provoked,” Shec said. “They’ll aggressively guard their young or food.”
Rounfil nodded. “Sure, but I’ve not heard of them doing what this one has.”
“This,” Liova said, “goes beyond aggression. It’s vicious, calculated.” Her shoes scuffed as she looked about. “Something’s strange about this creature.” She paused, then pointed a bony finger. “This feels like a tableau. Meant to be found.”
Hantle set the brush aside and stood. “You think it left them here on purpose? To make a point?”
“One cannot be certain of intent.” Her shoulders rose with a shrug. “But I would guess that, yes.”
“What kind of point?” Shec asked.
“Terror, for instance.” A rasp in Liova’s throat accented that first word.
Rounfil looked to Hantle. “It did have to bring them back after we chased it off. That took effort.”
A shiver ran down Hantle’s spine and he inspected the forest edge. “Would it be watching us? To see how we reacted?”
“Doubtful,” Liova said. “Wolves cannot tolerate the daylight. Which, disconcertingly, means it knows how we’d react.” She crossed her arms and started away. “I’ve a eulogy to prepare.” Hantle heard her muttering, “Strange, very strange,” until she was out of earshot.
He whispered to Rounfil, “Have you heard that about wolves not tolerating daylight?”
“Yes,” he said, “from my father when we used to hunt together. She’s more learned than he was, though. Went to the college in, where, Bansuth?”
“I think so.” He ought to be certain: he had heard her mention those scholarly days many times while growing up, but, instead of listening, he had always tuned her out. “Maybe she’s right then.” But what he could do with that information, he was not sure.
“My friends,” Liova said, “we come together to recognize and remember two more of our neighbors: Couveim, a father, known for his skill with snares and a musket. Trissol, a son, bright in his studies and eager to help others.” She laid a lily on each of the coffins, across the chiseled names. Several feet away, Olyul clutched her daughter, Jiumsa.
“We know that life in the Far Finger is fraught with danger, but we still struggle to understand how something such as this can happen. Deep pain rends our hearts, much like how, during the Cataclysm, the Void rent the All.” Beads of sweat ran down the sides of her face to drop onto her blouse. Hantle felt the sunlight sink into his black, pressing him toward the ground. “Out of that turmoil, however, we have arisen. And we resonate with the music of the Song. I encourage us all to bear the memory of those we lay to rest, and honor that memory by focusing our love and compassion onto Olyul and Jiumsa, so that we might amplify one another, each a note to be heard.”
He did not much go for the layers of meaning that people often put on top of the Mechanisms, but this time, the idea of amplifying one another struck him. After all, he was a member of Founsel—one part of the greater whole. Only with the support of the village did any of them make it through a day. He reached over and gripped Lorenca’s hand. Without her, how—
“What will we do now?” someone shouted from the back. Hantle spun in his seat and watched Douth throw his hands up and continue. “We must prevent the beast from bringing hell for the third night running.”
Muffled sobs escaped Olyul. She had slumped forward, head buried in her hands. Did this bastard not see her pain and heartache? Hantle’s muscles tightened and his brain worked as he prepared to respond, but Liova beat him.
“You have cause to be upset,” she said, “but this is not the place to voice it. Be seated.” She pursed her lips and pointed to his chair, like he was a child.
After a breath, Douth nodded begrudgingly and resumed his seat. Hantle turned forward again. He swallowed and pinched his eyes shut to contain the energy loosed by Douth’s desecration of the funeral. However much he felt them justified, a retaliatory yell and thrown punch would be equally profane. Liova more easily set the disruption aside and picked up the ceremony where she had left off. Hantle, though, kept replaying the scene in his mind, trying to come up with a satisfactory reply.
After the villagers cleared the mourning meal and led the grieving family back to their home, the day drew on to evening. Answering a call from Liova, Hantle assembled with a group in the now-empty square. Still offended by his prior outburst, he maintained a distance from Douth.
Liova approached from her house and spoke to them as she neared. “When I was a child, my family migrated to Bansuth. It was the first settlement on the Far Finger. People had just discovered the area’s rich resources, and my parents thought they could better provide for us children there. We joined three other families and traveled from our home on th
e far eastern plains of the Fist.” She stopped in the middle of the group and looked not at them but through the mountain range of the Knuckles and decades back.
Why had she called them there to share her childhood? He shot Rounfil a questioning look, only to receive an unknowing headshake in reply.
“During a night in the middle of our journey, a group of bandits raided our camp and raped a woman. My father caught and killed one of the men, while the others escaped. Before our trip, I’d heard people telling my parents that the road passed through dangerous lands, but, until that night, I had no idea what they meant. We were preyed upon by creatures of convenience.
“On the following nights, we avoided fires past dark and the adults took turns standing guard. I can remember just how exhausted my mother and father were. Thanks to their sacrifice, though, we traveled from there on without incident.” Her look turned from the far-off to the group. “They showed me that when you take away the opportunity, you take away the threat. Maybe Founsel needs a night watch.” She raised her hands and looked expectantly for their opinion.
“So she had a point,” Rounfil whispered.
Hantle chuckled, then straightened his face as Liova looked to him. Douth’s eyes flitted away instead when her gaze moved across the people gathered. No one spoke, and the quiet dismissal dismayed him. It was easy to be outraged, but was it easier yet to sidestep responsibility? “I’ll do it.” He stepped forward, resolved. “How could I say no to an opportunity to protect my wife and home?”
“Good.” Liova gave him an approving nod. “Unafraid to take action, you’re the perfect fit for this.”