Her steps silent, she adjusted the set of her bow on her back and continued deeper into the woods. She kept the river to her right, between her and the mountains to the west. She didn’t want to be out here once the sun set behind those peaks.
There was a creek ahead. Though she wouldn’t stop for water, she angled in that direction to see if there were any tracks in the muddy ground. Following along its banks, she did find some, but they hadn’t been made by her doe.
She studied the deep impressions with a frown.
Horses. At least six of them.
There was no sign of a cart, so they weren’t traders. And brigands avoided the woods unless they were being chased.
Brigands avoided these woods even when theywerebeing chased.
Whoever they were, they couldn’t possibly be up to anything good.
Unfortunately, her doe seemed to have crossed at the same place. The flecks of blood, still wet, blended now with the disturbed leaves from the horses and the occasional pile of shit. Stupid doe to follow this trail. Had she no sense of self-preservation?
Ignoring the hoofprints for the moment, she followed the blood, which grew increasingly easy to see. She still didn’t see the animal. The ground was hillier so near the river. If it had bedded down here…
Rowan stopped, staring at the blood puddled on the ground beneath her feet. Had the arrow shifted and nicked an artery? She looked around her. Still no sign of the deer. The blood trail widened from that spot, leading deeper into the woods, but itlooked more like something had been dragged away from this spot.
Kneeling, she touched two fingers to the blood. Still wet. After a moment’s hesitation, she licked it, grimacing as the taste of iron hit her tongue.
She had to know.
She expected the blood to show her the deer. She hoped it had dragged itself off and was dying just out of sight. But it wasn’t the deer she saw.
It was a man.
A dead man, or nearly so.
He wasn’t far away. The blood tugged at her, pulling her toward the river. He’d dragged himself there for some unknown reason. His pain and fear rushed up the link of the tracking spell, and she spat out the blood. Grabbing for the leather skin at her hip, she poured the last of her water into her mouth and spat again.
Fuck.
Shaking, she stood and looked around her, noticing for the first time how still the woods had become. It seemed suddenly darker though she knew it was not yet close to sunset.
There was a watchful anticipation to the air that chilled her blood.
She should turn back. She wanted to turn back. Her legs trembled with the need to run.
No one would even blame her. Something or someone had injured that man and it could just as easily happen to her. If she got hurt out here, no one would come for her.
The man was a fool to come out here anyway, and fools deserved what they got.
But through the panic, she could hear her mother’s voice. Kind. Gentle. And so brave that Rowan sometimes hated her forit. There was someone who needed help, and she was the only one who could give it. A man would die if she walked away now.
Damn it.
She walked to the creek, refilled her leather skin, and dropped a charm into the water to purify it. She’d need a lot of clean water for a wound leaking so much blood.
Tracking him was easy. The blood was dark and tacky and stuck to the leaves that were churned up as if he’d dragged himself, injured, through the forest. There were more hoofprints, too, the further she walked. Why hadn’t the other men helped him? Unless they were the ones who’d hurt him in the first place. But then, why not finish the job? He was still alive. The blood told her that. But she didn’t hear anyone else about. Hopefully they were long gone.
Stretching out her senses, she flinched at each small sound. A crow cawing in the distance. The crunch of the leaves beneath her feet. Goosebumps rose on her arms. The woods, eerily silent on the best of days, seemed to hold its breath.
She passed through a spot where the trees grew closer together and half scurried, half slid down an embankment to the river. She saw the horse first. Beautiful and placid, it nibbled daintily at the grass near the river’s edge. It was still saddled with fine leather bags and a bedroll strapped to its back. There was a dark smear of blood on its flank, but it didn’t appear injured.
For now, she ignored the horse and followed the blood trail until she spotted the man, half hidden by a fallen log. Sprawled flat on his back, she would have thought him dead if not for the slow rasp of his breath. There was no one else here. No footsteps in the mud around him other than from the horse. It was like he’d tried to escape into the water, but his will had given out at the last minute.
He was young, she saw, as she moved cautiously forward. Clean-shaven, with a streak of mud across his face. His hair was honey blond and cut short in a city style. Just long enough for a lock of it to curl at his temple. There was a discarded sword in the dirt near his hand, and she kicked it out of his reach before she bent to examine the wound on his chest.
