Footsteps woke Skuggi. Not the quiet shuffle of someone moving through camp, but purposeful strides coming from outside the makeshift shelter he'd built against a fallen oak.

  His eyes opened. The canvas of leaves and branches above him was still dark, just the faintest gray bleeding through where dawn hadn't quite arrived. His breath misted in the cold air.

  The footsteps stopped outside his shelter. Then Torsten's voice, low: "Skuggi. You awake?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Get your things. We're hunting early today."

  Skuggi pushed aside the blanket he'd been using, a scrap of wool Materlyn had found in someone's pack from the group that enslaved them before Skuggi intervened. Crawled out of the shelter. The camp was quiet, most people still asleep. Only the watch fire remained, burned down to embers that pulsed orange when the wind touched them.

  Torsten stood with his bow already strung, a quiver at his hip. "Sun's not up yet, which means the deer will still be moving. And with that nose of yours, we can track them before they bed down for the day."

  Jurgen emerged from the trees, carrying two spears he'd been working on the night before. Egil followed, moving slower, his walking stick in one hand and a pack in the other.

  "Four of us today," Torsten said. "Aionel's staying back with the others. Someone needs to keep watch over the women and the boy."

  Skuggi collected his knife, the one Hilde had given him. Checked that the blade was still sharp. "What are we hunting?"

  "Whatever we can find. Deer preferably. Maybe boar if we're lucky and careful."

  They left camp as the first light touched the treetops. Moved in single file… Torsten is leading, then Skuggi, then Jurgen, with Egil at the rear. Their breath came out in clouds. Frost crunched under their boots where water had frozen overnight in the low places.

  After they'd walked far enough that the camp sounds disappeared behind them, Torsten stopped.

  "Alright. Show us what you can do."

  Skuggi stood still. Let his breathing settle. Then he opened his senses the way he'd been learning to do, not fighting the flood of information, just letting it come.

  Smell first. The obvious things: pine sap, rotting leaves, and the musty scent of fungus growing on dead wood. Torsten's unwashed shirt. Jurgen's leather vest, treated with some kind of oil. Egil's walking stick, fresh-cut oak.

  Underneath those, subtler scents. An animal trail to the left, marked by the particular musk of deer. The sharper smell of predator urine somewhere upwind… fox or a wolf, difficult to tell at this distance. Water, cold and clean, from a stream he couldn't see but could smell the mineral content of.

  "There's a deer trail northwest of here," Skuggi said. "Recent. Within the last few hours."

  Torsten's eyebrows lifted. "You can smell that from here?"

  "Yes. And there's a predator upwind. We should stay downwind if we don't want to spook anything."

  They adjusted their path. Moved through the forest with Skuggi leading now, following scent markers invisible to the others. He could hear them behind him, trying to move quietly but still making noise… the scrape of Egil's stick, the creak of Jurgen's leather, Torsten's breathing.

  The deer trail led to a clearing where frost still clung to the grass in white patches. Fresh tracks pressed into soft earth near the tree line. Skuggi crouched, examined them. Three deer, maybe four. Moving east toward the denser forest.

  Jurgen signed a question. Skuggi was getting better at reading them: how long ago?

  "An hour. Maybe less."

  They set up an ambush at a choke point where the deer trail narrowed between two large boulders. Torsten and Egil positioned themselves uphill with clear sightlines. Jurgen and Skuggi stayed low, ready to drive the deer toward the archers if needed.

  Waiting was the hardest part. Egil had said that yesterday, hunting was mostly waiting, staying still, letting the prey come to you. Skuggi's body didn't cramp or protest the stillness the way the others' did, but his mind wanted to move, to act, to do something apart from crouching behind a rock and breathing slowly.

  The deer came at sunrise. Four of them, exactly as Skuggi had estimated. Does cautious testing of each step before committing their weight.

  The lead doe stopped ten feet from the boulders. Her head came up, ears swiveling. She'd caught something… not their scent; the wind was right, but some other warning.

  Torsten's arrow took her through the chest before she could bolt. The other three scattered immediately, crashing through the underbrush. Egil's arrow went wide. Jurgen started to give chase, but Skuggi grabbed his arm and held him back.

  One was enough. Running after the others would just exhaust them and make noise that could attract attention they didn't want.

  The doe was still alive when they reached her. Kicking, eyes rolling. Jurgen knelt and cut her throat quickly. The blood came fast, soaked into the frozen ground, and steamed in the cold air.

  "Good shot," Egil said to Torsten.

  They spent the next hour field-dressing the carcass, working efficiently. Skuggi's knife skills had improved enough that he could help without ruining the hide. Jurgen signed encouragement when Skuggi made clean cuts and correction when his angle went wrong.

  By the time they finished, the sun had fully risen. They fashioned a carry pole, threaded it through the deer's legs, and started back toward camp.

  Skuggi carried the front of the pole with Jurgen. Torsten and Egil took the rear. The weight was significant but manageable. They'd done this enough times now that they knew the rhythm… how to shift when one person needed to adjust their grip, how to navigate obstacles without dropping their burden.

  They were maybe halfway back when Skuggi heard it.

  Footsteps. Multiple people, moving through the forest with less care than hunters would. Heavy treads, equipment rattling, voices too low to make out words but loud enough to carry.

  He stopped walking. The sudden halt made Jurgen stumble.

  "What…" Torsten started.

  Skuggi held up his hand. Listened harder.

  The footsteps were coming from the east, roughly parallel to their path back to camp. Ten people at minimum. Maybe fifteen. Armed… he could hear metal on metal, the particular sound of weapons shifting against armor or other weapons.

  "There's a group ahead," Skuggi said quietly. "Large. Armed. Moving the same direction we are."

  Torsten's face went pale. "Bandits?"

  "I don't know."

  Egil looked back the way they'd come. "We should go around. Get back to camp and warn the others."

  But Skuggi's mind was working through the possibilities. If this group was moving toward their camp, intentionally or not, the refugees were vulnerable. Aionel and the few able-bodied men there could put up a fight, but against ten or fifteen armed opponents...

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "We need to know what they are," Skuggi said. "If they're just travelers, fine. If they're the same people who captured us, or if they're hunting refugees..."

  "Then we're walking into a fight we're not prepared for," Torsten said. "We're hunters, Skuggi... not soldiers."

  "I know."

  Jurgen signed rapidly. His face was set, determined. Skuggi caught the meaning: need to check, need to know, can't run blind.

  "If we get closer, I can smell them," Skuggi said. "Tell if they're the same people from before. Tell if they're tracking us specifically or just passing through."

  Egil gripped his walking stick. "And if they are tracking us? If they're the ones who burned our villages, took us prisoner?"

  "Then we know what we're dealing with. We can plan instead of running blind."

  Torsten and Egil exchanged a look. Some silent conversation passing between them.

  "We're not fighters," Torsten said again.

  "I know. But Jurgen's strong. I'm..." Skuggi searched for words. "I'm capable. If something goes wrong, we can create a distraction. Give you and Egil time to fall back and provide cover with your bows."

  "Cover while you do what, exactly?"

  "Whatever needs doing."

  That answer clearly didn't satisfy Torsten, but he didn't argue further. They set down the deer, covered it with branches to hide it. Then moved toward the sound of footsteps, slow and careful.

  Skuggi led. His nose filtered through the scents: soil, bark, morning dew. Then, cutting through everything else, human smell. Sweat, leather, weapon oil. The particular tang of unwashed bodies that had been traveling hard.

  And underneath that, blood. Old blood, soaked into fabric and dried.

  They moved closer. The voices became audible… rough laughter, someone complaining about the cold, another voice telling him to shut up and keep moving.

  Skuggi dropped to a crouch behind a fallen log. The others followed. From this position, they could see the group through the trees.

  Fifteen men. Armed with swords, axes, a few spears. Poorly maintained weapons but functional. They moved without formation, spread out loosely, not expecting trouble.

  Brigands. Or soldiers from whatever force had burned through the region, taking prisoners and destroying villages. Either way, dangerous.

  But they weren't tracking anything. Weren't searching. Just moving through the forest toward some destination Skuggi couldn't identify from here.

  Torsten leaned close, whispered directly into Skuggi's ear. "We've seen enough. Let's…"

  The group ahead changed direction. Turned slightly north, toward a rock formation, Skuggi could just see through the trees.

  And then he heard it. Underneath the men's voices, underneath their footsteps and equipment noise.

  Crying. Children crying. Multiple voices, young, terrified.

  Coming from somewhere ahead. Somewhere these men were walking toward.

  Skuggi's hand clenched on the log in front of him. The wood creaked under his grip.

  Jurgen heard it too. His head snapped up, eyes wide. His whole body went rigid, coiled.

  They followed at a distance. The armed men led them to a cave entrance, partially hidden by an overhang of rock and scraggly bushes. Two more men stood guard outside. The group filed in, disappeared into darkness.

  The crying intensified for a moment, then muffled. Like someone had silenced the children by force.

  Skuggi crept closer. Used the rocks and vegetation for cover, moved silent as death. Got close enough to smell the cave entrance: human waste, fear sweat, and blood. Old and new.

  Close enough to hear.

  "...market in three days. These ones should fetch decent…"

  "...keep them quiet or I'll…"

  "...youngest might not make it but the others…"

  Slavers. Taking children to sell.

  Skuggi crawled back to where the others waited. His face must have shown something because Torsten immediately asked, "What? What did you hear?"

  "Children," Skuggi said. His voice came out flat, controlled. "They have children in that cave. They're going to sell them."

  Jurgen's hands moved fast. Too fast for Skuggi to catch all the signs. But the meaning was clear from his face, from the way every muscle in his body had pulled taut.

  Rage. Pure, barely contained rage.

  He started to stand. Started to move toward the cave.

  Skuggi's left hand shot out, grabbed Jurgen's arm. Held him in place.

  Jurgen's head whipped around. His eyes were wild, unfocused. He tried to pull free.

  Skuggi held firm. "Wait…"

  Movement. A whisper of displaced air.

  Skuggi's right hand came up without thought. Fingers closed around something thin and moving fast.

  An arrow. Six inches from his face. The fletching still vibrating from the sudden stop.

  He looked at it. At his own hand holding a projectile that should have gone through his eye and into his brain.

  Then looked in the direction it had come from.

  A figure in the trees. Bow drawn, another arrow already nocked. The guard from the cave entrance, finally spotting them.

  The man shouted. More voices answered from inside the cave.

  Jurgen ripped his arm free from Skuggi's grip. This time Skuggi didn't try to stop him.

  "Torsten, Egil," Skuggi said, his voice still eerily calm despite what was about to happen. "Find cover. Shoot anyone who comes out of that cave that's not us or a child."

  He snapped the arrow in his hand. Let the pieces fall.

  Then stood and started walking toward the cave entrance.

  Jurgen was already running, spear raised, making a sound somewhere between a roar and a scream.

  Behind them, Skuggi heard Torsten curse. Heard Egil say something about this being insane.

  But they found their positions. Arrows started flying.

  The guard who'd shot at Skuggi went down first, Torsten's arrow through his throat. The second guard ran inside, shouting warnings.

  Men poured out of the cave. Fifteen became twenty. Some had been inside already, Skuggi realized. More than he'd counted.

  Jurgen hit the first one like a battering ram. Drove his spear through the man's chest, twisted, ripped it free. Moved to the next target without pausing.

  Skuggi pulled his knife. It felt inadequate. A tool for cutting vegetables and field-dressing deer, not fighting armed men.

  He'd have to make it work.

  The first slaver to reach him swung a sword in a wide arc. Skuggi ducked under it, stepped inside the man's reach. Drove his knife up under the ribcage, angled toward the heart. Felt the blade punch through leather and skin and muscle. Pulled it free and moved before the body finished falling.

  An axe whistled past his head. He pivoted, caught the wielder's wrist, twisted. Bone broke. The axe dropped. Skuggi's knife found the man's throat.

  Somewhere behind him, arrows flew. Men screamed. Jurgen's spear made wet, tearing sounds.

  A blade caught Skuggi across the shoulder. Not deep; his movement had pulled him mostly clear… but enough to draw blood. Pain registered distantly, filed away as information rather than a threat.

  He grabbed the man who'd cut him. Pulled him off balance. He drove his knee into the man's stomach, then his knife into the base of the skull when the man bent double.

  More came. Skuggi lost count. Stopped thinking in terms of individual opponents and just moved…knife work and grappling, using strength that shouldn't be possible and speed that made him challenging to track.

  A sword came at his face. He caught the blade with his bare hand and felt it slice his palm open. Ripped it from the wielder's grip and drove it through the man's chest. Left it there, moved on.

  His knife found throats, hearts, and kidneys. The senses they had implanted in his subconscious had taught him where to cut. How deep. How to make death happen fast.

  Despite his wishes, he became what they'd made him to be… a monster…

  And it felt like breathing.

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

  How was it??