“If my son gets hurt out there ...” Father said harshly.
“This wasn’t my idea, Foxglove,” said Radda. “You raised a good boy, and he just wants to do what’s right.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Father. “He’s just a new toy to you people.”
“Watch it,” said Radda, his voice growing firmer and more confrontational. “If he fails, my people die too. We’re still here, aren’t we? We’ll be on the front lines, fighting alongside you.”
“Then you’d best pray to your gods that he pulls this off,” growled Father. “Because if I lose my boy, you’ll wish the Desolata had torn you apart.”
The conversation stopped. Fox could hear Radda jogging to catch up to them, and after a moment the musician was keeping pace. “Armac and his people are moving folks into the mines as we speak,” he said. “Then most of the miners will be joining us. They’ve done their best, gathering whatever weapons they could find, but it’s mostly a collection of pickaxes and shovels, to be honest.”
“Well,” said Neil, “you’re certainly inspiring us with confidence. Will there even be a valley to come back to?”
Radda smacked Neil lightly across the back of the head and said, “Hush up and do your job. Let me worry about the valley.”
In theory, the Desolata should change their course to follow Fox, wherever he might go. And if he left the valley, it should remain untouched. But there was no way of knowing if they would take the bait. And so, a small militia of strong men, Shavid and Thiccans and even a handful of the refugees, stood ready to defend the valley. Fox had been against this part of the plan. He was much more comfortable with the idea of everyone hiding in the mines, Father included. But it was pointed out to him that even if every Thiccan survived, their lives would mean nothing if they all lost their homes. The farms, the Five Sides, the shops ... they were all worth defending.
The group stopped just before the valley square. “They need me at the tavern,” said Radda. “It’s headquarters, such as it is.”
There was so much Fox wanted to say. He wanted to say something comforting, or even to hear something comforting. He wanted to ask Radda to look for Lai, and to give her a message. But since he wasn’t quite sure what that message would be, he said nothing. Instead, he reached out to shake Radda’s massive hand. Briefly, Radda pulled him into a rough hug before releasing him with a firm pat on the back. And with that, they parted ways. Fox turned northeast, heading toward the deep woods that he and Father often trapped in, with Neil at his heels.
✽ ✽ ✽
The woods were thick with snow. It muffled their footsteps and wrapped them in a frozen silence, where nothing moved and every breath was swallowed by the trees. Roots and rabbit holes were hidden from view, and while Neil was not quite as sure-footed as Fox, he was keeping up rather well.
Even without Fox’s abilities, he could easily navigate the hidden forest paths. They were heading toward one of Father’s trapping cabins, and Fox had been there so many times he could make the trip in his sleep. The boys moved as quickly as possible, keeping their voices low whenever they spoke. Mostly, they were silent.
Fox wondered if Donlan had found the injured Hammon survivors. And then if he had made it back to the valley yet. What if the storm arrived early? What if the Desolata attacked during the blizzard, not after it? His whole plan was built on “ifs,” and with nothing else to focus on, uncertainties pelted him like frozen rain. The plan was simple in theory: lure the Desolata away from the valley, trap them in some of Father’s larger game snares. The thrown together militia back in Thicca Valley would be waiting out the storm at the tavern rather than the mines, ready to defend their homes should the Desolata not be drawn away. And Neil ... well, Neil was good company, and an extra pair of eyes. Fox would have preferred to carry out his mission alone, and had even convinced Father to stay behind, insisting that the valley fighters needed him more. And besides, what good would it do Mother if they were both killed? But as they traveled, even Fox had to admit that it was comforting having Neil around.
Father had several cabin outposts scattered throughout his trapping territory. Three of them were within a day’s journey on foot. This one was nearest. As the afternoon began to close into evening, they found the little hut tucked away carefully in the side of a small hill. Here, beneath an ancient canopy of forest, the snowfall was lighter, simply dusting the cabin and its grounds, rather than covering it. But even without the snow, Fox knew Neil couldn’t see it. After all, he didn’t know what to look for.
Neil would only see a hillside. Thick, twisting tree roots snaking across the ground. Rocky outcroppings and decaying, fallen logs overgrown with moss and late winter mushrooms. But if he looked carefully, he might begin to notice a pattern at the heart of the tree roots. An archway, almost like a door. And from there, the rest of the cabin might begin to come into focus, as it had for Fox so many years ago, on his first trip with Father. The gentle curve of the earth, creating a natural roof. The stone overhang that jutted out over the front door, and a second one to the left, just where a kitchen window might be. Once you saw it, you simply couldn’t un-see it. The thick moss like a welcome mat, the outdoor workbench that was a simple, stone slab. Even the fallen logs started to look like wood-post fences once you noticed it.
There was a thick knot on one of the archway roots, just where a doorknob should be. Fox reached out and pressed his hand to it, then pushed hard until it sank all the way into the earth behind it. And then he grabbed hold of the root and pulled, swinging open the hidden cabin door and slipping inside, Neil right behind him.
The cabin was full of a soft, warm glow from a handful of firestones embedded in the ceiling. In the half-light, it was clear that they were directly inside the hill. The ceiling dipped and rose in unlikely places, and twisting tree roots wove in and out of sight along the walls. Storage niches had been carved out, just like at home, and the single room sprawled back quite a ways to accommodate the many traps and supplies Father had stored there. But Fox didn’t have time to take inventory. He already knew what he was looking for.
Father didn’t catch bears often. The pelts were difficult to move across country, and they took up valuable space in the caravan packs. But every now and then, when he had the time and the resources, he could provide Thicca Valley and the surrounding areas with bearskins for rugs and cloaks. Fox’s own parents had a massive bearskin blanket on their bed.
There were five bear traps hanging on massive hooks along the back wall. Huge, metal jaws that Father had collected over the years. They were deadly and powerful, just like the beasts they captured. In fact, the traps could be just as dangerous to the trapper as to the prey if they weren’t handled correctly. And so, last summer when Father taught Fox how to use them, he made sure his son was drilled in trap safety over and over. Now, Fox could set them in his sleep.
But it was Neil who had to carry the heavy traps back out into the forest. Fox simply wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own. Instead, he led Neil a little ways out from the cabin as the snow began to fall thicker around them. He could smell the Desolata all the time now, even without trying to. They were coming faster, and he knew exactly which direction they’d be coming from.
Fox could almost see their path in his mind. It was like a hunter’s trail. Wolves or bears, or even him and Father. Every predator tracked its prey, and could be tracked in return. No matter how strong or barbarous the Desolata were, they were still predators. And Fox was the one prey who knew they were coming. All five traps were set quickly and quietly, with Neil placing them where he was told and Fox doing the actual rigging. He didn’t bother covering them with leaves and earth as he normally would; the snow was already beginning to hide them perfectly. Instead, he set them as fast as he could while still being extremely careful. And then, backing away from the trap sites, he turned and headed straight back to the cabin for more supplies. He wasn’t taking any chances.
With Neil watching in amazement, Fox began t
o fill the woods around them with traps. Nets, rigged to haul their prey high up into the trees. Snares to break legs and deadfalls that would bring heavy logs crashing down on them, snapping the necks and spines of whatever was below. Neil helped as best he could, but mostly he stayed out of the way. Fox barely noticed him as his instincts took over. By the time night was fully upon them, the wind was whipping shards of ice into his face, and each of his traps were hidden by snowfall. He scampered back to the safety of the cabin, expertly avoiding his own traps, and slammed the cabin door tightly shut, locking them both in for the night.
“And now?” asked Neil.
“Now,” said Fox, “we wait.”
The cabin was built for waiting. Waiting for a catch, weathering out a storm. And once, several summers ago, waiting for Mother to let Father come home again after a fairly tempestuous fight. Fox had waited along with Father during hunting trips, and once during a heavy rain. He’d even headed out to the cabin while Father was isolated, lending him some company while they waited for Mother to start speaking to him again. But never had Fox thought he might be waiting out his own death.
And so, with nothing else to do but wait, he and Neil talked. As the storm worsened outside, they sat by the fire and swapped stories. Neil told him all about his childhood in the desert, and Fox clung to every word. Father had never traveled that far before, and Fox was fascinated. He interrupted almost every five minutes with a question, and Neil answered them happily. In return, Fox told him more about life in Thicca Valley. The more they talked, the easier it was to forget about the Desolata, and ignore the howling winds outside. They might have been safe at the Five Sides during deep winter. In fact, it was easy to imagine that any minute, Borric would come thundering in, offering to refill everyone’s drinks. Fox could almost picture Lai skipping through the common room, clearing tables and singing along with the fireside songs, her long black braids bouncing off her back. He could almost smell Picck’s cooking, and feel the warmth of a dozen other bodies pressed around him, all waiting out the dark winter.
That image got him through two days. Two days of talk and simple chores to pass the time. Two days of whittling and tending the fire, careful to ration the supply of firewood stacked along the wall. He taught Neil some of the lighter trap maintenance and repair, and they fell asleep late each night when their voices were raw. And always, on the edge of Fox’s senses, were the Desolata. Their smells were mostly almost hidden in the smells and sounds of the raging storm, but he knew they were there.
It was during their third night that Fox suddenly awoke, completely alert. The fire had burned to embers, and the winds outside had slowed. He could hear the trees moaning, protesting the weight of the snow and ice. He could hear Neil’s light snores as he slept on, and the creak of the roots that surrounded the cabin. But there was something else. Footsteps racing through a heavy snow. Tree branches being snapped and pushed aside as a predator hunted. No, as nine predators hunted.
He could smell them all now ... they were close enough. He could pick each one’s scent out of the group, distinct but all deadly. Fox scuttled across the cabin floor, pressing his back against the wall. He pulled his hunting knife out of its boot sheath with one hand and gripped it tightly, holding it close. He breathed as slowly and quietly as he could, but even those breaths sounded like roaring winds. He wished his heart would beat quieter. He was sure the Desolata could hear it pounding as clear as a miner’s hammer.
He wished Neil would wake up, just so he would have someone to talk to. But he couldn’t bring himself to make any sound that might wake the older boy, sure that the Desolata would be able to hear him. And so he sat, waiting.
His fingers found the hibbin fur that Father had sent with him. With his free hand, he began to fiddle with it, clutching it tightly and rubbing his thumb up and down the soft, warm surface. He remembered the story Father had told, about the pirate god Farran. And with Neil asleep, and no one else to talk to, Fox found himself whispering quietly into the darkness.
“You’re the god I heard my father mention most recently,” he said. “I don’t know exactly how this works, but the way I figure it, mentioning is about as close as you get to worshiping in our parts. What with no temple and all. So I’m asking you to help me, Sir Farran. Help me make it through this. And if I get out alive, well, then I’ll start mentioning you too.”
And then, he heard it. The snap of metal jaws and the inhuman, raging shriek of a trapped creature. The bear traps were a ways away from the cabin itself, but Fox could hear the sounds of the struggle as though they were sharing his fireside. Five sets of steel teeth clamped onto five pairs of running legs, bringing the trapped Desolata crashing to the ground. If they didn’t manage to free themselves, that was five down. Four to go.
Fox pressed himself as far back into the wall as he could go, wishing to simply disappear into the earth. He closed his eyes, listening harder than he’d ever listened in his life. Tracing the footfalls of the remaining four, hoping they didn’t change course. Praying they stayed on their path, where more traps were lying in wait.
Two of them were caught in the net trap. He could hear them shrieking their anger and gnawing at the ropes, but he knew it would be nearly impossible for them to tear their way through one of those nets. He’d woven them himself, using some of the finest, most stubborn greenery in the whole Highborn range. A knife couldn’t cut through it without dulling the blade to beyond useless.
The last two seemed to have slowed almost to a stop. Fox held his breath, trying to make himself as silent as possible. Don’t turn, he thought desperately. Don’t change course. Just come and get me. After a moment, there was an angry cry that almost sounded human for a moment. Fox shuddered. The deadfall. It was meant to crush the skull of waiting prey, killing it instantly. But from the primal cries now echoing through the woods, Fox was sure that the creature trapped beneath it wasn’t dead. Not yet.
That left only one. As Fox took a deep breath, trying to smell him out, he was sure that the Desolata was doing the same. It was the leader, he knew it. While the others had all smelled like death and fear, this one still smelled like a man. Tainted with death, yes, but he wasn’t all beast. He could still reason, and he was being careful now. Careful, and silent.
Fox couldn’t smell him anymore. Nor hear him. He felt blind and helpless, sitting in the dark cabin, waiting to be caught. Every now and then he could still hear an anguished cry from one of the trapped, injured Desolata, but try as he might, he couldn’t hear the footfalls of the leader.
And then the cabin door was hit with such a force that it shook the frame. Neil jerked awake and scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly. The force struck again, and Fox tightened his grip on his knife. Neil ran to his side, pulling him to his feet and whipping out his own weapon, a curved desert short sword. The glow of the firestones washed it in a shining, reddish light, making Neil look like a warrior from legends.
Another crash at the door. It sounded like the Desolata leader was throwing himself at it, determined to break it down. The cabin had withheld winter storms and summer rains, but even the strength of the earth had its limits. And then, as dust and dirt began to shake loose from the ceiling, Fox broke away from the wall, rushing toward the door. Neil tried to grab him, but Fox dodged away. He slid to his knees several feet into the center of the room, and dug his knife directly into one of the floorboards, levering it out of place and throwing it away. There, tucked safely in a secret floor nook, was Father’s spare bow. It gleamed softly in the firestone glow as Fox pulled it from the hillside and dug around for spare bowstrings. He found one, fraying but serviceable, wrapped in an otterskin pouch.
As he began to string the massive bow, Neil understood. “Arrows!” he called.
“Five boards to the left from the fireplace!”
The bow was taller than Fox was, and stiff from disuse. He could hear Neil tearing out the floorboards behind him as he grunted, summoning all his strength to string
the massive weapon. His own bow he could string and have aimed in an instant, but this one took more work. He didn’t have any idea how he managed it, only that it was done. And Neil was by his side, handing him two arrows.
Fox looked up at him desperately.
“These were the last two,” said Neil as another crash shook the whole cabin. And with a look, they knew. Neil was stronger, but Fox was the better shot. Fox grabbed one of the arrows and put it to the string, took a deep breath, and then raised the bow, aiming it at the door.
They waited, each crash a little louder as the Desolata leader flung himself at the door over and over. Fox’s arms began to shake with the effort and sweat began to trickle down his face. He shook his head, trying to keep it out of his eyes, and in that moment a gap splintered in the doorway. Without thinking, Fox released his arrow, straight through the hole. A cry told him that he’d struck home, and for a moment he breathed. But then a hand clawed at the opening, tearing chunks off the door in fury. He grabbed the second arrow, strung, and raised the bow again, his arms on fire from the weight. Beside him, Neil was poised and ready, sword drawn in a fighter’s stance. He was muttering what sounded like a prayer in his native tongue. Words Fox couldn’t quite understand, though he caught what might be a name of one of the desert gods Neil had told him about. And, sending his own desperate prayer skyward, Fox said, “Farran, give me strength!”
The Desolata had torn an opening big enough for his torso, and Fox could see the shadowy form fighting his way inside. But still he held off. He needed a clearer shot. Neil seemed to know what he was waiting for, and he sprang forward with a warcry, drawing the creature’s attention for just long enough. Fox pulled back on the string, drawing it past his ear, and as he did, his arms suddenly steadied. His head was clear, and he held the weapon with a strength and sureness that was not his own. And then, with a slow exhale, he released.
The Desolata’s cry was cut off abruptly as the arrow shot clean through its throat. It collapsed in the doorway, hanging half in and half out of the gaping hole it had battered. And Fox, his temporary strength sapped from him as quickly as it had come, sank to the floor, letting the bow slip from his shaking fingers and clatter beside him.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 12