ONE
Venick was not ready to die.
He lied about this often. To himself, to others. It was easy to believe a man like Venick did not fear death. He was tall, broad. A fighter. Built to die bravely, in battle maybe, or during the hunt. Venick battled and hunted often enough, but he always emerged the victor. He was sword-touched, people said. God-touched, too. Venick didn’t believe it. If the gods were watching him, he wouldn’t be where he was now: with his foot caught in a bear trap, the pain so bright it snagged his breath, turned his mind sharp and hot.
And the bear.
She was nursing. It was late in the season for it, but Venick knew the signs. Her cubs were nowhere to be seen, perhaps hidden deeper in the forest, lost somewhere in the thick brush. Not that it was any comfort. The snap of the trap had frightened the bear, but it was Venick’s knife that made her angry. There, stuck in her shoulder. It missed her throat by mere inches. If the gods had been watching him, they might have steadied his hand. Might have helped him see through the pain, helped him ignore the smell of blood around him as he hurled his knife in a desperate attempt tolive.
They hadn’t. The knife missed its mark. It riled the bear instead, her teeth barring in a sharp grin. Hell and damn. Maybe the bearwasthe god’s blessing. Maybe this was their mercy, to give him a quick death rather than let him bleed out slowly. Venick let out a laugh that sounded nothing like a laugh. He dug his nails into gritty forest earth. His bones felt tight and wrong. His whole body did, as if he was made of his injury, his entire being condensed into sharp iron prongs dug through boot and flesh. And a panic, too, that ran even deeper.
The bear reared and Venick was suddenly glad for the pain, the way it fuzzed things. It would be easier to die with a hazy mind. Easier to forget that way. He didn’t want to remember all the things he had yet to do. All the things he had done.
Memories came anyway, a tide of them all at once. The bay where he had spent his boyhood, where his mother still lived. The ocean, the salty smell of it. Later, the crags where he had been exiled. Those mountains, their rocky caves and keening winds. The feel of his toes over the edge, wondering if a banished life was worth living, imagining what it would be to jump. But there was no one to lie to on those cliffs, no one to pretend to be brave for. No one who cared whether he lived or died.
He had chosen life. Chose it again and again, every day since.
And now.
The bear roared. Lifted a massive paw to swipe. Venick’s eyes locked on the curved claws and he felt the first pulse of fear,truefear, the kind that warned of certain pain.
Certain death, you mean.
Death. But Venick was not ready to die.
The bear clawed the air and Venick ducked, then scrambled backwards. The trap dug deeper. Reeking gods. He imagined the clansmen finding his body, the humiliation of that. Caught in a bear trap. Killed by the bear. His cheeks heated even as he knew the people of the mountain would not think to look for him in these forests. He doubted they would come looking at all. Venick was not a clansman, would never be a clansman, no matter how many years he had lived and slept among those people. He was a lowlander, raised in a little city by the sea—and an outlaw, wanted for murder.
Murder. The word never failed to bring bile to his throat, a horrible twist in his gut at the reminder of everything he had loved and lost.
The people of the mountain didn’t know it. They didn’t ask who Venick had been or what he had done. He was an outsider. That was explanation enough. Ever since the day he stumbled upon their camp and begged for refuge, they tolerated him, but he would never be one of them. They would sooner launch a hunt for one of their missing goats.
But then, a noise Venick recognized. He froze. Listened.
A hiss on air.
A thud.
An arrow, right through the bear’s eye.
The force of it jerked her head and she stumbled, then fell. Leaves scattered, breezing over Venick’s boots as he stared, shocked. A moment passed, then another. The bear lay motionless. Dead.
Venick should have felt relief. He should have stood one-legged and greeted his savior, offered his life’s price, whatever that was worth. Maybe asked for a hand out of the bear trap, and did they have anything to stitch up a wound while they were at it? Except at that moment he spotted the arrow—green glass shaft, currigon feathers for the fletching—and he knew he had not been saved.
That was an elven arrow.
Reekinggods.
They came quickly, five, six in all, fully armored and armed. They were like ghosts with their milky skin, their moon-white hair, except ghosts did not carry weapons, ghosts did not glare with golden eyes. Venick remained motionless on the ground, thinking himself the hunter and they the skittish prey. If he moved too quickly they might startle. Might strike out of fear.
Except Venick was not the hunter here, and these elves were certainly not the prey. They surrounded him, a perfect circle. Or maybe a six-pointed star. Venick knew elves liked stars better, and liked circles not at all. They may not believe in gods, but every race had their superstitions. He touched the thin silver chain around his neck and thought of his own.
Concentrate, Venick.
On what? Their lean bodies perfectly honed for fighting? Their swords and seaxes forged in green glass that never chipped, never dulled? Venick met their eyes and felt the stirring of some old anger buried long inside him. He was in their lands. No matterwhy.It didn’t matter why. They didn’t care that Venick could not count on the clansmen to share the meat of the iziri goats they herded, that he had no choice but to hunt on his own. They didn’t care that aside from those herds, food in the mountains was scarce, that winter came early there, and so each season Venick was forced to go farther and farther south to hunt. They didn’t care thatsouthfor Venick meanthome, or that he was banished from returning home, so he must either hunt in the elflands or starve. Men were not allowed in these forests. They would kill him for it.
And indeed, the center elf gave the order.
“Ynnis.”Kill it.
