Out-Dweller

1. Fresh Kill

1

Fresh Kill

Baelin unstrung his bow and shoved it over his right shoulder, under the strap of his backpack, then crouched down and gathered the spoils of the day's hunt. It had taken a while to dress out the buck and he would lose the light soon; it was well past time to get back home. Ilsa would begin to worry if he tarried too much longer, to say nothing of the scolding she would unleash if he caused dinner to grow cold.

He smiled at the contradiction in her possible reactions - and he had seen them both before. But then that was the essence of woman was it not? Contradiction.

The buck was heavier than it looked, and it took a moment to get it settled over his left shoulder and balanced well. Baelin adjusted his brown hunting cloak a bit so that it settled better over himself; summer was coming to a close, and the evening's chill had grown bitter over the last week. Then he set off down the hill toward town.

The northern slopes of the mountains surrounding Glimmer Vale were covered in dense evergreens and he had to weave his way through a seeming maze of tree trunks as he made his way back toward Lake Glimmermere and Lydelton. Many a man with limited experience had gotten lost in these woods, called the Glamorwood by the locals. Some of the more gullible townsfolk told tall tales of spirits living amongst the trees. So with the exception of logging expeditions that never went in further than the edges of the forest and outdoorsmen like Baelin, most people from Lydelton and the town's surrounds did not venture here.

Which suited Baelin just fine. Most people were not worth dealing with, and the fewer who came here the more likely he was to be able to enjoy the woods in peace.

And it made venison more rare in town, which meant he could charge more for his take.

Baelin's smile grew a bit more broad at that thought.

The shadows were growing long now as the sun made its way to its resting place in the east, below the ridges of the Saddleback Mountains. Off to the right, a Night Thrush called out, breaking the silence with its ululating chirp. Baelin quirked an eyebrow; it was a bit early to hear that particular breed up and about, but the early bird gets the worm, or something.

He descended further, moving carefully to avoid tripping in the elongating shadows. After about a quarter of an hour he stopped for a moment. The buck was heavy. That was good, made for more meat. But it was growing uncomfortable carrying it as he was; the muscles in his left shoulder were beginning to shout in protest and he felt a cramp coming on.

Grumbling to himself, Baelin rolled his right shoulder and shoved the bow further down. Then with a huff he shifted the buck over to his right and rebalanced himself before heading off again.

A few paces later, a snort from off to his left stopped Baelin in his tracks. What was that?

He turned his head, peering around carefully and trying to ignore the sudden whisper of alarm that began to take shape within him. He had never heard a sound like that out here before, and he had tracked or hunted just about everything that lived in these woods at one time or another.

The snort came again, a bit louder this time. With it came a strange odor that seeped into the normal scent of fallen pine needles like a bit of dye dropped into a cup of water. He almost had not noticed it was there at all, subtle as the new scent was. Sharp and tangy, with an unpleasant undertone, like something rotten.

Baelin scowled, that whisper becoming more like a person speaking in a normal tone of voice now. He shivered from a surge of adrenalin. Something was not right here.

He stood there for a long several moments, his free left hand resting on the grip of his long hunting knife, where it was sheathed on his hip. His left was not his best hand, but he was not completely inept with it. And right then the feel of the weapon in hand was all that mattered.

The odor grew stronger, and a branch snapped somewhere behind him. Baelin turned quickly. The buck slid off his shoulder and landed on the ground with a muffled thud, but he paid it no mind.

He squinted, trying to see what was out there, but the light was going fast, and here beneath the canopy of the trees it was already getting on toward twilight.

He saw nothing, but that was no comfort. Something was out there. Something foul.

Calm down. You're not some tenderfoot, out in the woods for the first time and scared of his own shadow. It's just a hog.

The thought was logical, but Baelin's instincts rejected it out of hand. No hog ever smelled like this.

He looked around for another minute or so, the strange odor growing steadily stronger the entire while, but still saw nothing. Neither was there any other sound besides the tree limbs stirring in the breeze and the pounding of his own heart.

It was nothing. He just stumbled a bit too close to the remains of some predator's kill.

And speaking of which, he had his own kill to take care of, and it was well past too late to be out in these woods.

Baelin crouched back down and maneuvered the buck back onto his shoulder; his left this time. Straightening, he turned back toward town.

And came face to face with something right out of his nightmares.

His scream, loud and terrified, echoed through the woods for a long several seconds before it abruptly cut off in a strangled gurgle.

Then all was silent.