3. HUNTED

The thin, yellow crescent of a moon leered down at Martimeos as he forced himself along, tired to the point of exhaustion, in the quiet stillness of night.

Upon realizing he had lost the mysterious figure in the chase, he had quickly made his way back to Praet’s home and the road, not wasting any time in setting out once more. The demon had not been lying. There was no way he could stay in a place where someone who was hunting him had spotted him.

Why, though? Why had they been hunting him? He had not been able to tell, at all, who the dark figure was. He had only caught a glimpse of their face, just a flash of pale in the darkness, and that was all. But there was something that filled him with fear. Their pointed, wide-brimmed hat. Plenty of travelers wore wide-brimmed hats to shield themselves from the shade, but that particular style of hat was worn, usually, to signify someone who practiced the Art. Not everywhere, it was true. Martimeos had never worn one, and neither had those who had taught him. But the further west you traveled, the more you saw them.

And it made too much sense. Someone who knew the Art could have the knowledge to conceal themselves, to stalk him unseen, to be difficult even for Flit to spot. He glanced down at his shoulder, where his familiar perched now, sleeping fitfully. Flit had argued against riding on his shoulder, but Martimeos knew his familiar’s pride would drive him to fly until he dropped dead of exhaustion, so long as it meant keeping up with his master. And he might have need of the little bird to fly and spot for him, yet. Better to let him sleep while he could.

And he didn’t want Flit getting too close to their hunter, either. Someone with the Art could bind him and drop him right out of the air. Someone with the Art could bring themselves upon him while he slept, bypass his words, and cut his throat. So why hadn’t they? Why were they following him?

Truth be told, even if he hadn’t spotted his hunter, he would have needed to flee. He wasn’t sure what happened to Coxton Praet, but he had to assume that there were more vulture-men than the dead one he had seen. Perhaps the hunter had gotten away. He wanted to believe that. But he could not have stayed at that place and risked their return.

He had no idea what the creatures were - he had never heard any mention of them, even in Congar where men lived right on the edge of the forest. Mother Pris had never warned against them either, and she knew of the Dolmec. There were fae that had animal features, he knew, but he did not think these things were fae. He had heard of men who took on the shape of beasts and eventually became more like them, but never as a vulture.

It did not matter. It could be that they were something else, something from the Outside, that had made its way into this world. Such things were not uncommon these days. His last teacher came to mind; he could still see the stout, scarred old man rocking in his chair, puffing away at a pipe. The world is tired, boy. It grows thin, everywhere. It fades, and the Outside slips in through the cracks.

Martimeos was glad for his caution. Not long after he had fled, once the darkness had settled in and the cold had begun to bite, he had heard echoing cries in the far distance. They sounded like the ragged, whistling screams of vultures. Though their sound had made his blood run cold, he had forced himself to listen closely. He was no master in the way of these things; perhaps someone more knowledgeable in woodcraft might have been able to do better, but he thought he could hear at least three calling to each other. Perhaps more.

He had pushed himself to a pace just short of running, trying to leave those cries behind. And the hunter, too. Perhaps the hunter, whoever they were, could talk with the vulture-men and had told them of his presence. He had spent so much time looking back over his shoulder, dreading what he would see, or even walking backwards at points to see if he might glimpse torchlight following him in the distance. All he had succeeded in doing was nearly tripping over himself. He barely had more than starlight to see by. Travel would have been hopeless, if not for the road.

It had been hours now since he had last heard the cries, and his pace had slowed. He had to stop, and soon, he knew. He was used to walking long distances, but his legs ached, and his feet throbbed in his boots. It would already be painful to walk again tomorrow, he knew, and if he drove himself too much he may not be able to move very far at all. His fear-quickened blood had left him, ever since those cries had faded away, and no longer kept his exhaustion at bay.

With a gentle prod, he woke Flit, and asked him in a low whisper if he might fly up one last time tonight, up high, to see if he might spot any signs of someone following - lights in the distance, anything. His familiar was clearly annoyed at having been woken up - he had not wanted to go to sleep for the stain on his honor, but now he did not want to be awake - but shook himself and took off into the sky.

As he did so, Martimeos staggered off the side of the road, into the woods, searching, and it was not long before he found what he was looking for - a suitable hollow, in the gnarled trunk of an old beech tree, and the ground thick with dried leaves. He had spotted it from the side of the road, and had hoped that it might make a good hiding spot. He would have preferred to go further into the woods, at least until the road was completely out of sight, but there was no way he could have made his way safely through rougher ground very far when the night was this deep. He barely had enough light to scratch his sigils into the dirt, the wards that would warn him if anyone approached him in his sleep.

Flit returned, with no news of lights or anything in the night that suggested he was being followed, and settled himself into the branches of the beech. Martimeos settled himself in between the roots, covering himself in the dead leaves, and then worked a glamor that would serve to keep him hidden. He had some talent at such things; it had always come naturally to him, though he was untaught - his last teacher had not known much of it, and instead had taught him the use of sigils, the forging of the Art into symbols, such as he used to set his wards, or the circle he had used to keep the Dolmec at bay.

A glamor, though, could be a simple, subtle thing. The secret to them was that they worked best when they played to what people expected to see. When people saw a pile of leaves, they did not expect to see bits and pieces of a wizard poking out from underneath them, they expected to simply see more leaves. All the glamor did was tell them that yes, they saw what they expected.

It worked best when you could see the person you were trying to fool. Yet there was a way to make it so the enchantment would work for anyone who looked upon it. You whispered to the world itself that the glamor was the truth. Martimeos had heard that such works were the path to ever greater secrets of the Art, but all he knew were rumors, with no certainty of what was truth.

It would be a fine protection. Unless the hunter who was after him really could work the Art. Then they may very well be able to see through it. It would have to be enough. Martimeos was so exhausted that even the fear of what might be out there, looking for him, could not keep him awake. His black-furred cloak, wrapped around him and kept warm by the Art, felt all the more comforting for the brisk chill he had been walking in. A few hour’s sleep, Martimeos thought, and then a good breakfast, and a full day’s march again, to bring me as far as I can be from the vulture-men…

He did not even finish the thought before he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

===***===

He awoke staring up at a pale gray sky. The sort that might clear in an hour, or which might darken into thunderstorms. His legs felt leaden, and he knew it would take fresh blood driven by movement before they’d lessen their aching.

He listened for a moment to the sound of his familiar singing greetings to the daylight. Sleep-fogged as he was, it took him some time before he realized that was not what Flit was doing. He was saying something, with his twittering.

He was saying there was a vulture-man approaching down the road, and it would be here soon.

Martimeos froze. He whistled back to Flit that he had heard him, and that they ought to be quiet. Who knew if this creature knew something of the bird tongues? It looked to be part-bird, after all. Slowly, and remaining as still as he could, he picked up his crossbow from where he had set it down beside himself, and loaded a bolt into it.

He held it to his chest, straining his ears to listen. From his position, he was hidden from the road by the trunk of the beech tree he sat against. The terrain had sloped down from the road and quickly gone through thick brush. Even if he did not have the glamor to protect him, he didn’t think anyone would spot him from the road. At least, he wanted to believe that was the case. They can’t be following me. Hunting me. Fortune has truly damned me, if they are. Please, let them pass me by. Or better yet, turn around and go back the way they came.

No matter how hard he listened, he did not think he could hear footsteps. He could hear nothing but the wind rustling the leaves, and the distant cooing of a dove, and the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. Is it still coming? Flit certainly would have spoken up if it had turned around.

And then all at once, he knew it was there. A sense of wrongness filled him; like having a cut in his mouth that he could not stop tonguing at, or a burr in his boot that he could not remove, or listening to someone pluck the wrong note on a fiddle as they played a well-loved song. There was the sense of something out of place, of something that simply shouldn’t be there. The crossbow shook in his hands. Let it pass by.

But it didn’t. The feeling lingered, for a long, miserable moment. And then he could hear it. Not footsteps, no, but a chittering, clacking sound it must be making with its beak. Go, you damned, wretched thing, Martimeos thought at it, as if his wishes might change facts. Motherless blighted bastard, Fortune pluck out your heart, just go.

But it did not. The feeling did not leave, and the chittering sound did not leave, and there was another sound, now, that made his heart twist in his chest. The sounds of footsteps now crunching through the leaves. Flit cried out in wordless alarm, and took off from his tree branch. The creature had moved off the road and was now coming towards him. He dared to move, then, inching around the gnarled trunk to get a better glimpse of the thing.

And there it was, standing not very far from him at all, among the tangled and dead underbrush. Like its companion, it was dressed in skins where it was not covered in dull gray feathers. Its back was to him, and its beak was held high, scenting the air, watching the path Flit took as he flew off, chittering to itself. That was how it found me, Martimeos thought grimly. He could make a glamor to fool the eyes, but he did not know how to make one to fool the nose.

Seizing the opportunity, he quickly raised his crossbow and aimed. He had meant only for a glance, but there was no getting out of this without killing the creature, and it had its back to him. But in the moment that he paused to steady his breath and his aim, the back of the creature’s head opened up, between the molting down, and a bright yellow eye stared directly at him.

Martimeos jolted in shock, nearly dropping his bow, and the thing whipped its head around, pinning him with its gaze. How could he have ever thought the eyes of these demons had looked human? It could only have been true in death. Living, a madness and a wild, feral hunger burned in them that was not human at all.

It screamed, a vulture’s scream, but with something just a touch more about it, something that made it sound more than a mindless animal’s screech and more a howl of rage. And then it was tearing through the brush at him, and Martimeos only just had time to bring his crossbow up and fire. Fortune smiled at him, because the demon grabbed at it throat and gurgled, and its mad sprint slow, but that did not stop it from crashing into him a moment later.

For a moment, all was scuffling chaos. He was down on the ground - he didn’t even remember falling - and the creature was on top of him. Its beak, dripping blood, was snapping open and shut so close to his face that he thought he’d lose his nose. With one hand, he pushed that face away - one wide, staring eye, burning with hunger, stared at him - he put his thumb in it - the demon screamed so loud he thought his ears might burst - he groped for his sword with his other hand - pain roared through his side, once, twice -

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

And then the creature shook, and all strength seemed to go out of it. Martimeos realized he had his sword in his hand, and its blade was in the demon’s chest. He couldn’t remember how that had happened. He pushed it off of him, wrenching his blade free, and it lay there, gurgling, its eyes telling him that it hated him to the last tin penny’s worth of its soul, until he put his sword through its face and it jerked and twisted and finally it was still.

“You had to, of course,” Martimeos told the corpse, as he pulled his sword free. “You had to have an eye in the back of your filthy head.” He hated the awful thing right back. Even dead, something about it just evoked such revulsion in him, more than one might expect just from the simple fact that it was a demon. He did not know why.

Flit returned, winging low to settle on the ground next to the creature’s ruined face, and he sang a song of victory, dipping his beak in the blood. He considered the death of this demon a fine thing indeed, apparently; he was insulted by its mockery of the avian form. For such a little bird, his familiar could be very bloodthirsty. “We aren’t out of trouble yet,” Martimeos told him. “Go on and scout and tell me if you see any more nearby. We cannot stay here.”

Watching Flit flutter off, he straightened, and then groaned as pain shot through him. He was covered in blood, and not all of it belonged to the vulture-man. The demon held a long dagged in its hand, wet with red blood, and Martimeos could feel the blood dripping down his side from where it had scored him. At least, he thought the wounds were not that deep. He hoped that his leathers had caught much of the blow.

He hoped, because he had to, he realized grimly. He could not afford the wounds to be deep, because again he could not stay here. He was still stiff with exhaustion from marching day and night, his wits dulled from lack of sleep, bleeding and wounded and he could not stop to rest still, because he had to assume this creature had companions that would come looking for him. He had to move again, and soon. He realized, distantly, that this was what being harried to death must feel like. How quickly fortunes reversed themselves. It was only just yesterday morning that he had awoken with hope in his heart that he might find a bed in Coxton Praet’s home that night. Now, it seemed as if he may very well not make it out of the One-Road Wood alive.

No, I can’t die here. The Dolmec said I would be in Silverfish, and so I shall. It was a small comfort, and one that Martimeos found a little funny. That it should be the words of a demon so wicked that lightened his heart. But it was true; Martimeos did not know much of Telling, but he knew that a Dolmec was supposed to be very strong in the talent. Did that mean that what it said was much more certain to be true? How far could that be pushed? Could he throw all caution to the wind, knowing that he’d be guaranteed in Silverfish?

Martimeos did not want to test that theory at the moment. His blood ran hot and quick from the fight, and while it burned enough to dim his sense of exhaustion he meant to take advantage of it. He quickly gathered his crossbow and his satchel, and wiped his sword clean of blood on his black-furred cloak before sheathing it. He did not wait for Flit to return with a report; his familiar could find him. Unwrapping a piece of stale, dry trail bread and a hunk of hard cheese, he wolfed them down even as he walked, leaving behind crumbs scattered on the corpse of the demon he left behind.

===***===

As vigorous as he might have felt when he started out, with his blood hot from battle, it did not last long. His body betrayed him.

The dull ache of overworked muscles and the wounds in his side grew stronger as he walked, and the fear faded from him as he went further and further without hearing the cries of the vulture-men in the distance. He should feel afraid, he knew. That one had found him could very well mean that they were looking for him, specifically, hunting him; that he did not hear the cries of any pursuers now did not mean they were not following him - perhaps they had heard their companions' death cries and remained silent now to not give away their presence.

He could think of a thousand reasons why he ought to feel fear and why it should lend his feet wings, but he could not make his body feel it without something visceral to remind it. No, it seemed as if his body could only feel the exhaustion. Oh, if death was charging straight at him, he thought he still might find some reserve. But he was also well aware that if he did not manage to get any rest, soon he might not even have that.

He staggered along, forcing his legs to move against low, dull, painful stiffness with each step, his leathers and underclothes rubbing against his wounds and ripping sharp pain with every strike his boots made upon the ground. His wild hair, knotted with leaves from his sleep, was soaked with sweat despite the chill of autumn.

Flit reported back to him that he could not spot anyone following him, and yet what solace could he take in that? He still had the other hunter to worry about. They could very well be working with the demons; if they practiced the Art, it could very well be the case that they had called the demons to their service. And if they could conceal themselves with the Art, surely they could conceal their servants, and they would do it all the more carefully now that he had already spotted them once. He was assuming the worst, but that was just prudent to do when your life was on the line.

So it was that he spent two days walking like this, pushing himself on to the edge of his endurance, staying on the road until evenfall and never daring to light a fire at night, sleeping lightly wrapped in glamor and surrounded by wards, his sword and crossbow nearby. He did his best to clean the wounds in his side, which did not seem that deep, and yet at the same time were deeper than he would have liked - his constant movement kept breaking through any scabbing, reopening them. Flit he kept at the rear guard, watching out for pursuers, and for two days neither he nor his familiar saw or heard any sign of them. At least, though the skies remained gray, it did not rain much beyond a drizzle, and he was grateful for that.

Finally, on the dawn of the third day, as he awoke from a broken sleep beneath the cover of the branches of an old, collapsed tree, he gave in. He allowed himself to hope. Perhaps he had outrun his pursuers, the demons and his peculiar hunter both. If they were keeping pace with him, surely they would have fallen upon him by now. Wouldn’t they?

He thought he had an idea of what had happened. A coven must have claimed the One-Road Wood as their own, or at least a stretch of it. He had heard tale of such things, and the stories, of course. Every person who practiced the Art was always held somewhat apart, if not always feared. But there were those who had truly forsaken their fellow man, who lost themselves and hid in the wilds to practice black craft, necromancy, and consorting with demons and other Outsiders. Of course, Mother Pris - she was certainly only half-human. Perhaps the coven had been the one that her mother had belonged to. But did that make sense? She had seemed friendly with Coxton, and the huntsman would have also almost certainly been killed by the coven as well.

Martimeos shook his head. Perhaps the coven and Coxton had once had an understanding that had somehow broken, recently, or perhaps something else had happened. Likely he would never know. But if he had been in a coven’s territory, then Fortune loved him, that he had escaped. If he had, yet. He had. He must have. He so badly needed to rest.

That day, as he set out, he still kept Flit spotting at the rear, but he did not push himself nearly so hard. When midday arrived and he was still safe and unfollowed, he allowed himself a break to do some hunting, and bagged a good-sized rabbit with his crossbow. His spirits lifted; with this, he could have a feast tonight, or at least, such a feast as one could manage on the trail. Hardtack bread, salted cheese, pickles and roasted rabbit was not bad at all.

That evening, he stopped well before the light of day had died. He was sure he had not traveled even half the distance he had the day before, but his sharp ears had picked up the sound of a creek nearby, and he thought it would be good to make camp where he could refill his waterskins and bathe. It was a good choice besides, as here, off the road, the terrain dropped off sharply, and he was able to find a little hollow beneath a shelf-like overhang of rock, brushing aside dangling tree roots. He would be well-hidden here, from the road, even if he did make a fire.

He built a ring of rocks and gathered wood for the campfire he would make, his eyes scanning the sky for Flit. He had not seen his familiar for a while, but he was not so worried - it was not unusual for the cardinal to be gone for many hours at a time, unless he saw something he thought Martimeos needed to see. And he knew that the pace he had been setting had kept Flit on the wing very often, and was harder on him too, though the proud little bird would never admit it. Perhaps he could find some berries for him.

Leaving the rabbit and his satchel behind, Martimeos set off after the sound of rushing water.

It was further away than he would have thought, from the sound of it, and larger, a wide, shallow, slow-moving creek that moved smoothly over soft silt and flat rock, long strands of water weeds waving lazily in its current as it passed by. Golden-leaved willows leaned out to touch the current with their drooping branches, and the soft murmur of the water was a welcome caress to a heart that had so often been seized by fear these past few days.

Martimeos filled his waterskins, then stripped to bathe, a jolt running through him as he first stepped into the creek. The water was very cold. But it was also soothing, and his skin was caked with grime and dried blood.

He washed his clothes at first, as best he could; they were filthy as well, and stiff with demon blood as well as his own. The water he wrung from them came out a dirty brown. He whispered to them with the Art, the same way he whispered to his cloak at night to keep it warm, that they might dry quicker. Such a secret was his greatest talent with the Art that he knew, as yet, and he had met those who were jealous of it. It was not uncommon for a wizard to have some control over flame, but the difficulty came in the fine control of it. Flame - at least, when Martimeos worked with it - could feel like a devouring beast, a hunger that grew the more it was fed. It had taken practice to find the fine balance necessary so that it might warm his cloak, but no more.

As he washed himself, he winced as his hands passed over the wounds in his side. He still did not think they were too deep, but they still bled when the scabbing broke, and the flesh around them felt tender and hot. He did not have much knowledge of herbcraft or healing, and he could only hope that it did not become infected.

A gentle rain broke out. The patter of raindrops against his skin felt soothing. Ripples spread across the surface of the creek, and a sense of serenity and calm filled him. The woods had such moments of grace. It was a shame that they were so dangerous, now. They had not always been so, the road was testament to that. But there were only the most dim memories of a time when the wilds had not been dark and terrible, now. Even in the best of times, merchants traveled with a heavy guard. And this was not the best of times.

Lost in thought, Martimeos found himself staring across the creek, to the opposite bank. There, the forest gave way to maples, their leaves a brilliant, striking red, their trunks appearing almost black in comparison. They carpeted the forest floor, as well, brighter than the brightest paint, seeming so vital even in death.

The more he stared, the more strange that forest on the opposite bank seemed to be, and yet the more he realized that it had the touch of something familiar on it. The black trunks of the maples seemed almost like columns, like they formed paths.

“Who gave you leave to bathe in Lob’s creek, boy?”

Martimeos jumped, and almost fell over. He glanced sharply, back and forth, trying to find the source of the gruff voice, but could see nothing. “Who’s there?” he called, backing up towards the bank, where his sword and crossbow were.

“Don’t you go a-running, now. Answer the question.”

Finally, Martimeos spotted who it was that was speaking. On the opposite side of the bank, squatting on a rock, was a little man. He could not have been much taller than a young child, but his features were warped, knotted hard as tree roots. He wore a hooded cloak as bright red as the maple leaves on his side of the creek, and pinpoint eyes burned over a knobbly nose and a snow-white beard.

Martimeos stopped moving, weighing his words. “I…didn’t know that this creek belonged to Lob. I’m sorry. Would you bring word of my apology to them?”

The little old man bristled, baring yellowed, warped teeth. “Lob is me, you addle-brained natter! And you’d better be sorry. Lob saw you a-fouling his pretty little creek with all your muck. Filthy boy!” He gnashed his teeth and stamped his foot, and then a sly grin crept across his face. “Maybe Lob will teach the filthy boy some respect.”

Martimeos swept with as formal a bow as he could manage while naked. “My apologies to you, good Lob,” he said, his voice dripping honey. “I am Martimeos, the wizard. I did not intend any insult. I have had a few day’s hard travel, and I only meant to wash myself in your creek, ignorant of your ownership. Had I known, I would have asked permission.”

The unpleasant smile on Lob’s face quickly turned into a pained grimace. “A wizard, a wizard,” the goblin muttered to himself, stroking his beard. “A wizard. Bah! At least you have some manners about you. Lob forgives you.” The way he said this last, it sounded as if it was being pulled out of him under torture.

Martimeos backed up towards his bank, and began to dress. His clothes were still a little damp, but with the Art he had worked on them, they would be dry soon enough. “And might I ask permission for my familiar to bathe, and take drink from your creek, as well? He is a cardinal, by the name of Flit.”

Lob snarled, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Lob allows it,” he snapped. “So long as you are a-staying on that side! This side belongs to Lob.” And then the little man leapt like a frog, and Martimeos never saw him land. He was simply gone. But not his voice. One last cry of, “Stay out!”, and then silence.

He let out a long, relieved sigh. This, at least, was not entirely unexpected. He had heard the One-Road Wood was fae-haunted. Though that alone told him little; the fae could be many things, in many forms, some of which looked very human, and all of them tricksome. But Lob seemed to fear the Art, as many of the fae did, and he did not think the little goblin would be dangerous so long as he did not go out of his way to anger it and abided by its rules.

Still, he considered if maybe he ought to move his camp. He would have preferred if he could sleep tonight without worrying about a nasty little fae nearby. Ultimately, though, he decided against it. He did not want to take the trouble of finding a new spot; the bath had soothed his bones, and his stomach was rumbling. He wanted to cook himself a fine meal, warm himself by a fire, and for once, in days, get a good sleep. Lob would leave him be, so long as he did not cross the creek.

He was still wrapped up in this musing when he made his way back to his camping spot, and it was not until he had brushed aside tree roots and stepped beneath the overhang that he noticed the figure, in a dark wide-brimmed hat, deep in the shadows, grinning at him.