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Chapter 2: Francis

681 P.F. 

Early summer

The Northern Forest

Crouch. Behind a thick bush. Ninebark. Purple ridged leaves. White flowers with yellow centers and too-thin finger-like hairs. Good concealment.

Grays. Moving. Visible through branches. Running. Four. Past the hide site.

Boots hammer the ground. Stop. Listen. Hear nothing but squirrels and butterflies. I am silence. 

They sprint again. Into the forest. Heave with exertion. Mouths open. Panting. Two stomp ahead. Trample the underbrush. 25 yards away.

Their eyes fly about. Look at everything. See nothing. Grass. Trees. Blackberries. Bright afternoon sun. Clear sky. They stand. Impatient. Searching. Look for a shadow. Look for me. I am invisible.

Breathe slow. Check the wind. Load an arrow. Stand. Aim. Clear shot. Fire. Flies to a hamstring. The target gasps. Buckles. Falls heavy to the knees. Arms flail wild. Drops flat, face first. Churns up forest dirt, hand hits a rotten stump, dislodges a shelf of mushrooms. The mushrooms fly through the air, concentric orange circles that get lighter and brighter toward the edge.

Move. Away from the panic. Find hard cover. An old oak. Healthy bark. Thick roots. Two trunks merged together. Twisted into one. The limbs spiral up, holding hundreds of acorns, waterfall of moss flows down the biggest branch. Three limbs twist back toward the ground, a rope made of wood. High up, at the source of the rope, a perfect platform next to the trunk, solid firing position. Better visibility, limited mobility. I stay on the ground. On the forest floor. No shot is open.

Shrieks. From the other three. Gallop to the hamstrung one. Encircle him. Chatter back and forth. The hamstrung one writhes. Flings debris and blood. Bellows. Reaches for the bleeding wound. The others stare. At the arrow in his leg, at the trees. Search for something. For me. Find nothing. One squats by the wound. The other two shout. Curse. 

Slip left. Move. Find a new hide site. Concealment, sword ferns rooted in hard ground. Cover, chunks of slate among the plants. Crouch, ready an arrow. Inhale.

They charge the previous position. Metal glints in the sun, through the ferns. Shiny shirt, tinware. An officer, the next target. Should have been the first.

Stand. Draw. Fire. Put an arrow through the target. Side of the neck, feet come off the ground. Body flops sideways, lands with a rattling exhale. Dead. Two remain.

Spin and howl. Swing weapons at nothing. Swear, spit, flash teeth, roll eyes. 

Put an arrow through an eye. Crashes backwards. Grasps at the arrow, moans, spasms in the dirt. Still alive.

One left. Sees me. Freezes. Turns, runs straight. No cover, easy shot.

Hit the neck. Flips, lands hard. Legs fling forward, spine curves too much. Feet touch the ground in front of the head. Grunts. Body convulses twice. Groans, dies.

Good hunt. Killed two. Crippled two. Screams may bring more. The two wounded make noise. Wait. Curl up next to the chunks of slate. The rock is cool through the undershirt, shirt, and leather jacket. The ferns dance, tickled by the breeze. Curled fiddleheads bounce up and down. Shroud the space in green. Pluck a fern leaf. Weave it around a sleeve. Fingers shake slightly. Battle rush. Close the eyes. Breathe. Count the inhales. Listen for more.

The one with the arrow in the eye howls. Look past him, to the clearing. Could have set a snare. A rigged dummy over a pit. Saved an arrow. Screams again, whimpers, sighs. Fades to silence. Dies. Three gone.

The hamstrung one shouts, cries, prays. Wait. Two squirrels scurry on the forest floor. Chasing one another. Prey clambers up a birch. Hunter follows. Jabber as they go. Round and round. Close my eyes and picture the animal’s path around the white and blistered bark of the tree. Picture where they are. Where they will be. Open my eyes the moment they will reach the lowest branch. Prediction’s off, a foot early. They run the length of the limb. Jump to another tree. Go up. Dart through the canopy. Sail from tree to tree. Come down. Chase vanishes. Into the underbrush. Leaves flung. Yarrow flowers swaying in the wake. 

No more Grays are coming.

Stand. The ferns wave. Search the dead. The leader, covered in tinware. Gather the trinkets, drop them in the pack. One has a knife, balanced for throwing. Heavy, well made. Take that. Nothing else.

Collect the arrows. One broke. Shot to the eye was foolish. Ricocheted off the skull. Broke the shaft. Take the arrowhead. Two salvaged arrows. One recovered arrowhead.

Walk to the last one. Sitting up, on a rock, arrow through the leg. Eyes dart, unfocused. Kneel down. Examine the wound. Won’t walk soon. Will never sprint again. Permanent limp.

Shake out my hands. Relax the shoulders. Breathe. Change to their language. Dedic. “You have food? Water?”

Tears pour from his face. “Take it. Yes… yes… you want water and food? In my bag.” Wheezes. “Gold too, take it. Coins. Take it all. It’s yours. Take it. Whatever you want. Spare me, please.”

Stand up. Walk away. Leave the arrow. Good arrow, still intact, could salvage it.

He talks more. Thanks me. Babbles prayers. Keeps talking.

Head south. Deeper into the forest. Far enough away. The voice fades.

Find traces of more people. Broken branches. A trampled trail of hurried boots. 5? 6? Slow my pace. There they are. Up ahead. Slightly down a slope.

See them. Count. Six. Unis. One I know. From the battle at Laomai. Slick. Officer, yellow arm bands. Big mustache, short man. Walks tall, strong, athletic. Another walks proud. A Tough. The others slump, skulk. Two more Slicks and two more Toughs.

The trees are older here. Mostly pines. Thicker, taller. Canopy filters the afternoon sun. Gather a handful of green needles. Stow them in a pocket.

Slow. Let them move ahead. Noisy group. They spread out. Two pay attention, the mustachioed one and the Tough. The rest look down, at the roots, rocks, dirt. Their eyes swollen. Stumbling, tired. One has a slight limp.

Keep pace and watch. 

A buck appears. Up on a ridge. 10 point, deep black eyes. Flicks his tail. Sees the humans, tracks their movements. Stops. Ears perk up, flick and turn about.

The mustachioed one spots the animal. Gives a hand signal. The Tough and one other, a Slick, notice. Pause. The other three slosh onward, oblivious. The mustachioed one takes out his bow. 

I pad up behind him. He reaches into his quiver. Takes an arrow. Pulls it halfway out. I take it from his hand. Bronze point. Lightweight. Poor quality fletching. His hand grasps at empty air. I push the back of his knee with a boot.

“Fuck all,” he shouts. Falls. Rolls. Springs up. Empty bow in hand. Spins around. Drops the unloaded weapon. Draws a knife quickly. From his belt. Looks at me. Blinks. Frowns. Stops. Sighs. Shoulders relax. Sheathes the blade. The other five freeze. The buck bolts. Vanishes. Behind the ridge.

They lurch. Draw weapons. Three pairs of long knives, two bows. 

Move close to the mustachioed one. Nose to nose. Use him as cover. 

“Fucking Francis.” Pushes me. On the shoulder. Go with the momentum. Stay close. “War is not the time for fucking practical jokes!”

Stay close. “No joke. A reminder. Pay attention. I’ve been following you. Watching you. Your soldiers are lost. Full of fear and remorse..”

Picks up the bow. Puts it away. Looks me up and down, frowns with drooping mustaches. “We didn’t see you because you’re gussied up like a fucking forest. Ever consider saying hello? Announcing your damn presence? Wearing a proper uniform and not some shambling tree costume? Respecting an officer?” Turns. Faces the others. “Stand down. This fool may be dressed like its festival time, but by the Fox’s hand he’s on our side.”

“Our side?”

“Hilarious Francis. Pure comedy... a regular clown’s corpse swimming with maggots.” Eyebrows tighten. “You don’t even remember my name, do you? You filch my arrow, trick me out of dinner, and shove me to the ground for some shit slapstick in front of my people but you don’t even remember my damn name?”

“This arrow is useless.” Hand it back. “A target practice round… wouldn’t have killed the animal. Too light.”

Sighs. Stows the arrow. “What are you now? The Master Craftsman? Thanks for the unsolicited gear assessment.”

The others move in, knees bent, slow movements. The one who had his eyes up, steps forward, long knives still out. “What in the hells are you supposed to be?” He’s loud.

The rest wait. Watch. Two yards back.

“I am the wind.”

Face scrunches. Laughs. “Wind?” Points at me. With a knife. “Look more like a tree that’s been infested with black mold to me.”

“And you, a noisy child holding tools meant for a man.”

He steps forward. Puffs his chest. Lowers his weapons. Bumps me. Stands up tall on his toes. I squat down. Step forward. Push him back with my head. Scoop the leg. Drive the femur toward the hip. Twist slightly. Dump him on his back. Blades clatter to the dirt.

He stares up from the ground. “I thought you said he was on our side, Antenor! What the hells was that?” 

“Another reminder. Don’t posture. If you’re going to attack, attack. We’re not hens in a cage, fighting for pecking order. We’re soldiers in a war, killing for victory.”

The mustachioed one steps between us. Holds up his hands. “Like a regular fucking burbling brook of wisdom, Francis. We’re well aware that this is a war but can we recall that we’re on the same side, please? Maybe not kill each other or lecture each other about how to soldier?” Sighs. ”By the Archer’s spit, put your damn weapons away.”

They stand down. Except the loud one. He’s up. Twitching. Blades still on the ground.

The mustachioed one rubs his face, frowns, points at me. "This here is Francis and I swear under the fiery Eye that he’s killed more Grays today than you will in your entire dalliance as a Tough with the backing of an entire division.”

The loud one gathers the long knives, sheathes them. “I killed three Grays in the battle at the river and wounded six more.” Folds his arms across his chest.

The muchtaced one opens a palm toward me. “How many today, Francis?”

“Twelve dead. One wounded.”

The loud one exhales, chest caves. Arms fall limp, to his sides.

The mustachioed one raises both arms, palms up. “Why one injured? Didn’t the wily Fox bless you with perfect aim?”

“I left one wounded because it costs the Grays more to treat a wounded animal than to bury a dead one.”

“Why kill any of the bastards, then?”

“The heat of battle often makes that choice difficult.”

“So wise, Francis. So wise.”

The loud one retreats. Jacket covered in sheaths, pants too. Fourteen knives total, decent quality, some throwing, some stabbing. Another throwing knife obscured, in a boot. Spikes on a leather bracelet. Five inches long, threaded through loops.

Point. “What are those?”

“Throwing spikes.” Pauses, hands on hips.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen Francis so damned pleased except when standing over a Gray corpse and salvaging one of his own damn arrows so he can kill with it again. By the frigid fucking Eye, is that a smile on your face?”

Point at a maple. 15 feet away. “Throw one at that tree.”

The loud one swells, chest pops forward. “My brother is a smith, creative as the great Poeisis. We came up with the design. He forged it but we came up with the idea together.” Pulls a spike from the bracelet, palms it. Smiles.

“Your brother makes your weapons?” 

“I wouldn’t use anything else. He’s a genius in the forge.” Throws the spike. No spin. Straight path, sticks in the tree.. 

Walk over, inspect the result. Two finger widths deep. “Enough to pierce flesh, but not armor.” Pull out the spike. Lob it back.

He catches it. Decent reflexes. Stows it, nods. “I’m Glaucus. These are my men, Alastor and Laodamas.”

One has a limp. A hip injury. Recent.

“Where are your arm bands?”

“Took them off when we ran. Made me feel like a target.”

“What’s your rank and division?”

“Sergeant with the 71st.”

“Where are the rest?”

Grimaces, blinks hard. “Dead. Scattered. Captured. Wounded.”

Turn, face the mustachioed one. “And the men you led? Where are they?”

Points at the other two. Slicks. Weak looking bows, shoddy arrows, boots full of holes. One has a white bandage on his shoulder. No blood. Old wound.

“After the retreat, we got separated. There were three more with us but they were in a bad way. No mender. They couldn’t keep running and the bastards were on our heels. They gave themselves up and surrendered.”

The loud one snorts. “They should have fought and died like soldiers. Take a few out before you die, that’s what I say.”

“Follow that bird-brained opinion far enough and it turns our retreat into a damn...”

I put a finger to his lips. Point with my other hand. North. “Grays coming,” I whisper.

Tap the loud one on the shoulder. Take a spike from his bracelet. Point to a nearby fallen tree. “Wait for my signal.” The three Toughs dive behind cover. Squeeze themselves against the trunk. 

Tap the mustachioed one, point to the right. A copse of oaks, more cover. He jogs. His men follow. One stumbles, bounces off a tree, grunts. They settle, hide.

Inhale. Sprint. Feel the breeze. Slip left. Should have been surveying the terrain. Not talking. Always observe. Memorize, plan, predict. 

Find a position. Decent hide site. Slightly obstructed view of the trail, opposite the copse.

One of the Slicks, clearly visible. Brown face clashes with green leaves. I rattle a bush, flash my teeth. The Slick turns, sees me, gets the message. Disappears behind a trunk. 

Move further. Five yards. Better hide site, berry bush. Puffy white fruit like chunks of cloud. Not edible. Birch to the left, tuck myself between. 

Listen, watch. Open field of vision to the trail. A bluejay squawks. Wings stir, feathers on the throat puff. Head swivels quickly side to side. Flies away.

Footsteps. Ten or twelve people. Moving fast. Wearing metal. They are bells ringing in the forest. We are silence.

Take out an arrow. Deep breath. Unsling the bow. Exhale. Notch it. Observe. Two figures crest a small hill. Grays. Wearing leather jerkins, white pants, no helmets. Bows out. Heads and legs are open targets. Their eyes active, alert. One covered in tinware. Officer. Mark as the target.

Two more enter. Stop, survey, kneel down. They think they know, looking. They see nothing. We are the forest. They see the past. Remnants, tracks, the trail made by the Unis.

The officer goes prone, takes cover, signals the others. Three stalk forward. Arrows knocked. Eight more appear, infantry. Swords drawn, small round wooden shields, thick leather jackets, breastplates, full face helmets, leather skirts. Necks and legs are open targets. They squat down. Around the officer. Inaudible conversation, whispers.

A group of ducks wobbles into view. Seven of them, six little ones. White, black, and gray feathers. One big one, chest puffed, eyes scanning side to side, at the front. 10 yards away. Between me and the Grays. They bob through a tuft of yellow flowers, buttercups. The big one, looks in my direction. The little ones stumble on. The line accordions, each bird plowing into the one in front of it. The leader doesn’t budge. Stares at me, blinks. I blink back. The march resumes. They emerge from the cluster of flowers and vanish into the underbrush one by one.

The three Gray archers move. Toward the old log. Bows loaded. Strong, quiet, alert. Veterans. One missteps on a mushroom pile. Slips. Recovers quickly. They stop. Check for movement. Wait. They draw back on their strings, sight down their arrow shafts. 

I count my breaths. An army of ants climbs. Up the birch. Carrying white specks to a hole in the trunk. Follow it down to the ground with my eyes. The trail marches under leaf and root, over twig and stone. The start of their route and the source of the white specks is hidden. 

The Grays move again. Slow walk forward. Bowstrings relaxed now. Ten yards from the log. 

Palm the throwing spike. Feel the angle of the breeze. Sight the target, clear shot. Blackberry thicket, 25 yards distant. The Grays will turn to the sound, backs to the Toughs. Easy ambush. 

The Grays creep forward. Look for signs. One points at the ground, where I dumped the loud one. They stop. Whisper, see the evidence of the fight. Five yards from the log. 

Inhale. Stand. Throw the spike, hit the blackberries. Load. Draw. Sight. The prone officer. Fire. Exhale. The arrow buries deep, kidney shot.

The target screams. This position is now untenable. Too much action. Missiles sizzle through the air. Voices shout. Toughs below me, knives out. Grays facing away from them.

Circle wide, run. Sound consumes the forest. Blades entering flesh. Screams of pain. Shrieks of death. Shouts of confusion.

Trees obscure my view. A semi circle of sapling firs, dwarfed in the shadows of two mammoth maples. I follow the trunks up. The sun filters through the canopy here, forcing the eyes back down. Stop running. Control the breath.

Close my eyes. Listen. The Toughs are finishing off their targets, the Slicks have stopped firing. The battle is over.

I double back. The swordsmen. They will be fleeing. Backs turned. Sprint to the bush with white berries. I spot them. Scattering. Three groups of two. One alone. Spreading out. Like deer from a fire. No shot. Too many branches, too many leaves. The hunt is over.

Walk down to the arrow. The target sits upright. Still breathing. Jagged inhales. Coughs blood, looks up. Tries to stand. Can’t. Twitches. Doubles over. Raises his hands. Bleeds on the ground. Shaft and fletching stick out the low back. Next to him, a swordsman. Dead. One arrow in the leg, another in the chest. Eyes open. Glazed, empty. Chest still. Sword and shield on the dirt. Thick pool of blood on his lap. Two more broadhead arrows. Broken. On the ground. Two dents in the breastplate. Wasted shots.

The Slicks arrive. Search. Ready for more violence. Find nothing.

Put away the bow. Draw a knife. Kneel down. Slit the officer’s throat. He gurgles, spits, tries to speak, dies.

“The fuck, Francis! That was an officer. He had his hands up. You know what that means, right?”

Roll the corpse over. Retrieve the arrow, intact but bloody. Wipe it off. “Surrender.”

“So you knew he was surrendering but you casually murdered him anyway? Fucking brilliant. I can’t tell, Francis. Do you deliberately flip between unhinged and murderous, or are you just stuck on murderous?” Shakes his head. “Didn’t you say a maimed one costs the Skirts more than a dead one?”

The Toughs arrive, loud one in front. Wipe blood off their blades.

Pull the tinware off the dead man’s uniform. Put it in the pack. “He was bleeding out. That was mercy, not murder.” 

The loud one grins. “No room for prisoners anyhow, right Francis?”

Wipe the knife clean. My hands shake slightly. I watch them, will them to stillness. Stand up. “Where are you headed?”

The mustachioed one crosses his arms. Surveys the corpses. Takes a step back. “Now? After your ‘mercy killing’ of that prisoner? The hells out of here, that’s where we’re fucking going. It’s afternoon and the Skirts sure as shit know where we are now. Those swordsmen that ran off with their tails between their legs are sure to tell this delightful story of the merciless Unification army and you bet they’ll send a bigger group next time, if not a whole damned division and a few Fancies.”

“Yes. This is not ground to meet them on. We will find a better spot.”

They all flinch. The mustachioed one pales visibly. “That’s fucking madness, Francis! We… Our entire army, lost the battle, remember? We’re supposed to be retreating. We were ordered to retreat. You know those words? Orders? Retreat? It means moving away from the fighting, not towards it. You know, regrouping and meeting back up with the main column?”

“There is no need for any of you to stay with me.”

The loud one steps forward. “You got orders from command to fight them like this? Sneaking through forests and picking them off?”

The mustachioed one steps past me. Searches the corpse. Opens the backpack. Pulls out a piece of parchment. Scans it. “You read Dedic, or just murder surrendering officers?”

I read the paper. “His orders.”

“And they say what?”

“To find the black death. To kill the assassin who lurks in the woods.”

The loud one laughs. Doubles over. Slaps his thighs. “That’s you, buddy! They’re already on the hunt for you. Gave you a cute name too. They talk any more shit in there about you?”

“It says to look for the tree that moves.”

Group laughter. The mustachioed one turns. Walks away.

They head south. I follow. Watch for pursuit. None appears. Sun sinks below the horizon. Set up camp. Quiet night. No fire. Cold food. Stale bread. Salted pork. Spoils from the Grays. 

The Toughs did well. Killed all three targets clean. The Slicks got one. Should have gotten six. At least. They shot four arrows at one target. Wasteful. Only two stuck and the leg shot was superficial. I killed one. Retrieved the arrow. Should have stayed put. Taken more shots. Weak hunt.

Find a tree. Tall. Old. Sturdy pine. Climb up. Sit on a strong fork. Clear view. Thin crescent moon. Waning. Two days til a new moon. Watch the sky. Clouds coming from the north. Rain in a few hours. Some stars visible. Constellations are up: the Mountain, the Wolf Mother, Eryx. A wispy gray cloud floats by, smearing the stars. The lights blink, fade, then reappear.

Open the backpack. Belt myself to the branch. Take the blanket out. Wrap up. Sleep.

Wake to rain. Climb down. Rummage through the captured gear. Eat some food.

The others stir. Gather. Silently eat.

“Headed southeast today.”

The mustachioed one squints. Brushes stale bread from his face. “I know you’re the tree in the forest, Francis, but the retreat orders couldn’t be any damn clearer. Fall back to the hills outside of Leontius, to the southwest. And unless the Fiery Eye rose up different today than it ever has before, I’d say that’d be that way.” He jabs his finger at the air. “Which also happens to be southwest, and while that ain’t the opposite of southeast… it sure ain’t fucking south east either.”

“I will go southeast, skirting the main trail. A large army will have to take the main trail. A small group, however, is not limited to the path and can flank the larger force.”

“Flank? You want to flank them? Seven fucking men flank the whole damned northern arm of the Gray army?” He looks up. “Do you know the difference between suicide and strategy? Do you comprehend how being dead would reduce your value as an army asset?”

“I will not tell any of you what to do.”

“Sure, except you were here when the fucking Fiery Eye blinked over the horizon, sleeping in a damn tree right by our camp. If you wanted to go alone, you would have left.” Swings his arms. “Losing one battle was enough for me. If any these fools want to join your suicide flanking maneuver and ride toward stupid, well then that’s up to them.” He turns, walks away. Gathers gear.

I look at the remainder. They hesitate. I wait.

The loud one grins. “Hunt Grays instead of tucking tail? I’m in.”

One of the archers looks up. Careful, slow, deliberate movements.“No use running away only to lose another battle.”

The others say nothing. Turn. Break camp.

The mustachioed one walks back over. Jaw chews at nothing. Points at the cautious one. “Do you know what you’re doing here, Thaumiston? Do you? Sure, it’s all very fucking heroic and very damn impressive. But the payoff is pretty simple. Banishment. Shame on your family and your division. Shame on your mother and your brothers. Loss of pay. Loss of the funeral payout for your family if you’re killed in action while being very daring and exceptionally damned disloyal.”

The loud one spits. Walks closer to the mustachioed one. “Orders don’t matter much  if the bastards burn the city. We’re all banished and out our pay at that point, aren’t we?”

The mustachioed one bumps chest with the loud one. Fists clenched, voice strained. 

“That’s exactly when orders fucking matter, Lieutenant Glaucus. Orders are how an army works, you know that, right? We follow orders and we work together to stop the city we were born in from getting turned into a pile of fucking ashes. Or, you assholes prance off and go get dead in the forest with this madman.” He points at me.

I squeeze in between. Wait. They both step back. “If command asks, tell them we got separated in the forest. During the retreat.”

The loud one laughs. “The truth makes the best lies, don’t it?”

“The truth bent is better than the truth broken.”

The mustachioed one relaxes. Drops his shoulders. “Pithy garbage. See you dipshits in the level hell reserved for idiots.”

“Which means you’ll be there too, Antenor?”

“Hope you die slowly.” He and the other three walk away.

We head southeast. 

When the loud one starts to speak, I interrupt. “Words cloud observation.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “What if I see a whole unit of Grays charging toward us? Can I say something then?”

“I’ll hear them before you see them.”

He laughs. “What if you’ve gone deaf?”

“I’ll see them before you see them.”

“Deaf and blind?”

“I’ll smell them before you see them.”

They both laugh.

The careful one scratches his head. “What’s it called when someone loses their sense of smell?”

Silence. Keep moving. 

“What if you couldn’t see, hear, or smell?”

“I’d feel the vibrations of their footsteps through the ground.”

He laughs. “Alright, I’ll shut up then.”

We walk. A scrub jay hops across the trail, crest bouncing along with the legs. It lets out a series of short, sharp calls. Flies to a pine. Lands. Watches us.

The careful one stops. Smiles. “Anosmia.”

No one responds.

“That’s what it’s called when you can’t smell.”

We walk. Off the main trail. More ivy here. More evergreens. Abandoned Unification camps. Most two day olds, some three. Lots of gear left, abandoned in haste. No arrows or weapons.

Gray skies. Can feel the sun, can’t see it.

Shoot three rabbits. The careful one misses two. Recover all the arrows. Lunch. Find an old campsite, relight the fire. Skin and cook rabbit. Gather pine cones. Pine needles.

The loud one scuffs the ground with a boot. “Can we talk now?” 

“You did.”

He looks at the pine cones. “You know you can’t eat those, right?” Scratches his head. Looks at the careful one. “Can you?”

The careful one says nothing.

“You can. Won’t taste good.” Throw one at a tree, bounces off, makes a thunking noise. “Probably want to boil it first.”

“So we’re not eating pine cones?”

“I’m not.” Throw him one. “You’re welcome to.”

“Good way to start a fire.” Tosses the cone in the fire. “But the fires already started so what the hells you planning to do with those cones?”

Pull out a sewing needle. Thread. Take off my shirt. Sew on a pine twig. Remove some oak leaves. Add pine cones. Put the shirt back on. Eat rabbit.

“What about the pants? You gonna sew anything on those?”

“Tonight.”

Shakes his head. Laughs.

Put out the fire. Resume walking. More ivy. More pines, a few dead from ivy. Choked. Some halfway toward dying. There are logs, snags, stumps, all covered with ivy. Take some down, wrap it around my shoulders. Shoot four squirrels. The careful one misses three. Recover the arrows.

Night falls. Make camp. No old sites within a mile. The moon is nearly gone, reduced to a sliver. “The Watching God is closing his eye.”

No response.

Cook the squirrel. Sew ivy onto the pants.

The careful one gathers rosemary. Puts it in the pot. “Will you teach me how to shoot?”

“You already know how to shoot.”

“I mean I want to shoot like you do. Can you teach me how to shoot like you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you?”

“Yes. Here, sew some ivy onto your pants.” Hand over a needle, thread, handful of ivy.

Nods. Starts sewing.

The loud one kicks a pine cone. “What about me?”

“I’m not teaching you to shoot.”

Laughs. “Pass me a needle and thread, tree that moves.”

Pass the gear. We sew.

Wake up. The others are still asleep. Hunt, shoot two squirrels, recover the arrows. Find some roots and greens. Make breakfast, the smell wakes the others. Tell them we’re headed north.

The loud one smiles. “We’re charging into them?”

“Behind them.”

We move. Slow, quiet, on the prowl. The others are too loud. Stop, tell them to walk soft. They’re still too loud. Tell them to stay behind. 10 feet, still too loud. 20 feet, still loud. 30 feet, better. Still loud. Good scouts will hear them, spot us.

More pines and ivy. Good cover. Plenty of animals moving. Squirrel, shrew, mice, crow, sparrow, woodpecker, rabbit. See an oak stump. Covered in shelf mushrooms. One orange clump at the bottom. Mushroom ridges a dark red, lightly frayed, dried by long summer days. The center is a creamy white. Crouch down, behind the stump, hide. Wait, listen.

Noise. Humans, coming closer. Two sets of footsteps. Whispering. Next to my site.

“Where did he go?”

“Francis? Where the hells you get off to?”

Silence. Stand silently, creep behind them. They are lost. I am the leaves on the tree, moving with the wind. They are helpless. Push them both in the back. Bark, like a dog.

They scream, stumble. I reach my hands up. Empty, to the sky. They spin. Freeze.

“There will be Gray scouts soon.” Put my hands down. “Looking for us. For anyone.”

The loud one brushes dirt off his hands. “Ever killed anyone that way? By scaring them like the Grim Goddess is coming for their souls?”

“Not paying attention will get you killed.”

“That doesn’t answer my…”

The careful one interrupts. “How do you know there will be scouts?”

“Big army. They’ll send scouts.”

The loud one scans the trees. “And why the hells would they go this way?”

“We’ll invite them.”

Laughs. “Antenor was right. You don’t remember names, do you?”

“Everyone ends up dead.”

“Cheerful thought. Well mine is Glaucus.” Thumbs at the careful one. “You planning on dying?”

“No.”

“Alright. Then his name is Thaumiston.”

“Nobody plans on dying. Happens anyway.”

Keep moving. Find a site. Sloped, loose dirt, hard to climb, good cover, good concealment. Patch of blackberries, copse of firs. Make two dummies from sticks and blankets. Make camp. Sleep. Eat. Wait for sunset. 

Darkness comes. Start a fire at the bottom, near the copse. Throw in green wood, leaves. Make extra smoke. An invitation.

“My shot is the signal. Do not fire before then.”

Climb to the high point, behind a lone pine, clear line of sight to the fire. Put the slick 30 feet to the left. Place the Tough near the blackberry bush, halfway between the two archers, slightly lower on the slope. Solid positions. Wait.

New moon. No clouds. Constellations are clear. The source, the mountain, the mother, the five cubs. North of them, the golden goddess, Rhetra, holding spear and shield. In front, her brother, Leontius. Bow drawn, arrow knocked. Hunting Eryx, the fox, the goddess of mischief, their cousin. She is below the horizon for now. 

Night wears on. The divine siblings move through the sky. Leontius leads. Twinkling point of his arrow in front, lighting the way. Walk down twice, feed the fire. Wait silently, on the high ground. I am the Cold Eye.

A thump, below, near the fire. Arrow in a dummy. Then another, into the second. Two archers. Different angles. Quiet movement. Two more shots, one in each, again. Close to the previous shots. Tight groupings. Middle of the torso. Decent skills.

Stand. Picture the opponents. Scouts. Lightly armored. Leather jackets. See where they are, where they will be.

Inhale. Exhale. Notch an arrow. Broad head. 45 yards distance. No wind.

Three figures step out. From the trees. Approach the fire. Triangle formation. Two with bows, in front. One in back, unarmed, short. A child? Not enough light. Stars only. They creep forward, toward the fire. Long shadows from the flames.

Clear view. I take the shot. Arrow flies. Hits the upper chest. Knocks the target flat. Onto their back, dying fast.

Scream, from the blackberries. The loud one. Leaps out, charges.

The one below turns, takes aim. Is hit from the left, by the careful one. Just below the rib. Buckles, wounded, not dead. Our position was excellent. The third figure, unharmed, dives to the ground, goes fetal.

The loud one reaches the bottom, stumbles with excess speed. Finishes the wounded one. 

The careful one steps out. He and I walk down. Thaumiston. His eyes are wide. Breath shallow, quick, up high in his chest.

“You made your shot. I made my shot. An easy hunt, but still a good hunt.”

My hands are shaking.

“How did you know they were Grays?”

“I didn’t.”

Walk to the bodies. The arrow went through. Hit the shoulder blade, snapped. One kill. One lost arrow.

The smaller figure, aboy. Still alive, mumbling, now sitting up. Wiry arms. Dressed in furs and homespun clothes.

The loud one, Glaucus. Kneels next to the boy. “Looks like the bastards were using this kid as a guide. He’s a local, says he lives in the forest.”

“See what he knows.”

12 years old. Stutters. Stares at me as he talks. Tells us his family are prisoners, the Grays have them. Not far. The Grays are encircling an army. Doesn’t know how many.

“Sounds like some of our Uni boys are trapped. Nothing like a last stand to bathe the earth in blood and honor... and then later, some beer soaked poet will make a song about it.”

“We’ll get the Unis out of there.”

The loud one tries to talk but is laughing too hard.

The boy tugs on my shirt. “You’re him, aren’t you? The black tree? They told us… the men from the purple tent, they warned us about you.”

Salvage the Gray’s arrows from their quivers. Low quality ammunition. Too light. Hand it to the careful one. Leave the dummies. Leave the arrows in the dummies. 

The loud one’s laughter stops. Turns to a cough. “Damn, Francis. You’re famous, you hear that? I mean, hells, how could you not be? You’re the fool who thinks he can defeat a whole army with two men and a boy.”

“Not defeat. Distract. It simply means applying pressure in the right place.”

The loud one continues laughing. “Right, easy as plucking out the God’s Eye.”

I turn to the boy. “Lead us there.”