The Moon of Rebirth.
A time when the earth slowly recovers from the cold and from the Aydra raids. The forests flare up with new colors, and the beasts that survived the long hibernation cautiously emerge into the open.
The snow has already melted and, together with the dried blood upon it, has soaked into the soil. A season of renewal. The beginning of something new. For humans — perhaps. But certainly not for Shriel.
Warmer weather, fewer hindrances, more food — which means the Exterminators will double their patrols. And why, one wonders, can’t they just stay home? His life would be a hundred times easier. He wouldn’t have to leap up at the first rays of dawn like a madman and rush from place to place day after day.
But there is no choice. Either this — or his head would have long since been mounted on a pitchfork, adorning the walls of Dukrest.
Shriel awoke to the sharp cry of a falcon rushing past and nearly slipped from the branch where he had been dozing. The sun had not fully risen yet, only brushing the sky with soft, golden hues.
Glancing around and making sure there was no immediate threat nearby, he let out a heavy sigh. Letting one leg dangle, he tilted his head back and rested the back of his skull against the dry, rough bark. He didn’t want to get up — his body ached with exhaustion — but he had to. Who knew when those little bastards would decide to comb through this very stretch.
Rising, he took his bow, quiver, and satchel from the bough, slung them over his back, and silently dropped to the ground. He hadn’t lit a fire — which meant there were no tracks to cover. A rare blessing.
The plan for today was to venture into the Forest of the Lost and gather berries: his supplies were running low. A frankly terrible idea. Going there was dangerous. Though… starving to death was an even less appealing prospect.
He headed toward a small stream nearby to wash his face and, at the same time, rinse off his scent — let the dogs have a harder time picking up his trail.
Reaching the water, Shriel dropped to one knee, plunged his hands into the cool current, and splashed his face. Shaking the water from his fingers, he lifted his gaze — and froze.
Between the trees, on the opposite bank, a figure flickered into view. For a heartbeat — and then vanished, as if realizing it had been seen.
"Damn it.." Shriel hissed under his breath, instantly straightening and stepping back.
But the moment he turned around, he nearly collided with a horse. Not a wild one. Well-groomed. Tame. That was far worse.
A patrol was nearby.
He bolted onto the path, ran several dozen paces, then sharply veered into the thicket. The Forest of the Lost was very close — people wouldn’t dare go there — he only needed to—
CRACK.
A branch snapped beneath his foot, and in the same instant a taut rope coiled around his right ankle and yanked upward. The world flipped. Shriel was left hanging upside down, arrows spilling and scattering across the ground along with his bow and dagger.
Somewhere nearby came the barking of dogs. The sound made him shudder.
"Mehercule, quanta hodie infortunia," he breathed through clenched teeth, stretching out his arm and desperately trying to reach the dagger to cut the rope.
Too far.
Human voices sounded very close now. Many of them. He was only a few centimeters short of the saving blade.