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Chapter 57: Student of Foxes
🕑 Added 2023-08-11 17:15:01 +0000 UTCLight bloomed behind Gunney’s eyelids, tearing him from the soft embrace of sleep. And he woke to a nightmare.
The revolting, sweet, blood and shit scent of death assaulted him before he even opened his eyes. Crows cackled and cawed and circled and fed.
The reddening leaves overhead might have been beautiful in the dawn light if they hadn’t served as such a prominent reminder of the crimson mess below.
His arm hurt, throbbed, ached, but worse than that was the itching in his fingers. He reached down with his other hand to scratch, but there was nothing there.
Finally, he looked down at the stump. At the tourniquet just below his elbow.
Ren was alive.
Gunney cast his gaze about the field of corpses. Where had the kid gone?
He recalled, now, in that delirious haze of blood loss and pain, a dark look in the forester’s eye. Gunney had never seen that look on his friend before. That was the look a man got before he spilled blood.
Movement. One of the bodies—or rather, another survivor—stood, arm clasped to her ribs, and tilted back a water skin. “Noor?”
She looked up and grinned. “I shoulda known they couldn’t kill you, ya bastard.” She knelt, pulled another water skin from a corpse, and limped over bodies till she reached him, holding it out.
Gunney reached for it with a hand that wasn’t there. After an awkward pause, he took it with the hand that he still had and drank. Beast’s blood, he was thirsty.
Noor gestured with her free hand to bandages securing her arm to her body, then to his tourniquet. “That friend of yours is a hell of a medic.”
Gunney nodded. Apparently, it wasn’t for nothing that Ren had studied that medical text book every night back in basic. “Any idea where he went off to?”
“No idea. You don’t think he…” she nodded to the woods the way the surviving bandits had departed.
His brow furrowed. “He couldn’t be that stupid.”
A twig snapped, leaves crunched. He grabbed a sword from the ground and stood on shaky legs.
Several footsteps. Too loud and sloppy to be sneaking.
Ren emerged, grim faced, painted from head to toe with blood, a piece of entrail wedged between his leg and belt pouch. Behind him came three women with faces that bore the beauty lines of labor, two huddled together, the third wide eyed, open mouthed, tracing hands along trees. All curiosity, like a newborn babe. Lieutenant Kareem followed with darting, bloodshot eyes, his fancy sword naked in his off hand, a bandage on the other.
When Gunney met his friend’s gaze the kid’s hard look melted into a soft smile, and shadows Gunney hadn’t noticed seemed to lift from his face, the rising sun now glinting in his eyes. Ren ran forward and wrapped Gunney in a crushing hug, that thankfully avoided his stump.
His eyes were wet when he let go. He looked to Noor. Then waded through the bloody field, pausing by a tree and looking down at a fallen soldier whose gut was wrapped in bloody bandages.
If they’d been in danger, Gunney was sure Ren would have been in a rush. Questions could wait, and the blood told a clear enough—if unbelievable—tale.
It was only going to get harder to tend to the dead the longer they waited. He made his way through the camp, pulling his fellows from the north free of the tangled mass of flesh, laying them flat on clear, clean ground and opening their eyes to the woods and sky so they wouldn’t travel forth blind.
#
“What if the others come?” whispered one huddled woman to the other.
“What’s that? What others?” asked Gunney.
“Umm…” the other’s voice was soft, and chirpy, like a scared bird. “Basher was working with other gang bosses from other cities to fight against the Golden Fang.”
Noor raised an eyebrow. “He just told you that?”
“No, it’s true,” said the first. “He’d never stop talking about it… after…”
“They’re going to get us!” sang the one with wild eyes, smiling.
“The others will come and get us,
and make us meat for the beast,
The boss told me he likes my teets
And when we die the crows shall feast.”
Her voice was actually beautiful. As was her face, Gunney realized. But not quite enough to make that song any good, or to make up for the crazy that wafted off of her.
“I think we should go,” said the Lieutenant, his voice devoid of the usual confidence or bravado. “I couldn’t find any communication talismans, so no help is coming.
“Should be two more days to the caravanserai,” Gunney said. “Let’s gather food and a tent for shelter.”
“What about weapons?”
Gunney smirked at the young officer. “What do you think this group is going to be able to do if we get attacked in our state?”
As if to demonstrate his point, the crazy girl jumped into a muddy depression where blood had run and mixed with earth, and started rolling about laughing.
“We travel light,” he continued. “We’ll rest often and off the road.”
Lieutenant Kareem merely nodded. No more fight left in the poor fucker.
Gunney walked off to get his friend, who’d wandered deeper into the woods to kneel over the body of Forester Hamsa. He put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “It’s time to go.”
Ren laid a knife on Hamsa’s still chest and stood. His face tensed and his eyes burned with fire. “Let’s go.”
#
Ren walked in numb silence. He still heard the screams, still heard the begging. Since seeing Gunney alive, he’d begun to feel like himself again. Gunney and Noor and Kareem and those three girls from the farm. They were alive because of him.
As he’d walked through the field of bodies that had once been Cloud Company 7, he’d faced the truth. If he had shot that man at the first ambush, they’d all most likely be alive. The men and women who he’d trained with, eaten with, laughed with, marched with. The commander who’d treated them all fairly, who’d been willing to sacrifice himself for a lowly forester. They’d all died because of his mercy. His weakness.
Gunney would never fire a bow again. But as Ren glanced sideways at his friend, he saw the lead scout chuckle as he muttered something to Noor. His spirit was unbroken.
Ren pulled his blood crusted sword free of its scabbard. Softness had failed him. It was only when he’d given himself to great violence that he’d been able to save anyone. Maybe that was his path? His true nature.
He’d stopped resisting what lived inside him, stopped running from his rage—cloaked in those hungry shadows, he’d felt invincible. He’d done great and terrible things. He’d killed and he’d liked it.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to live in the light with the rest. Maybe he was meant to step into the realm of darkness and nightmare so others didn’t have to.
The blade didn’t so much as quiver in his hand now.
But he’d also nearly died because he charged blindly into danger. He’d let anger and pain drive his course, let the shadow control him, surrendered utterly to it. It nearly brought all his effort to waste.
With restraint, he might have saved the commander too.
Power without control was a liability.
Ren went to sheath the blade. It froze halfway in as they crested a hill and his eyed landed on a mass of shattered wood in the distance.
“Off the road,” he said, breaking his silence.
Everyone turned to face him. Gunney, no longer distracted by conversation followed Ren’s gaze to the wreckage and nodded. They dipped into the trees and began a whispered conversation.
“I’m going to investigate,” said Ren.
“I’ll come with you,” said Kareem, though the quiver in his lip said that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“No, I’ll go alone.” He wondered if the lieutenant was aware how obvious his relief was as color returned to his face. In spite of everything, Ren pitied him. Something had clearly broken in the man. “I need you to keep the others safe in case something happens.”
Kareem nodded, clasping his hand around the grip of his sword and puffing out his chest. Clearly taking advantage of the opportunity to save face.
The pretty lady with the wild eyes suddenly grabbed him and tried to pull him in for a kiss. Ren was so startled he nearly struck out in self defense, but he managed to free himself and step away instead.
“Make sure to look after her,” he said. What would months being kept as a prisoner in a place like that, used like that, do to a person? For the first time in a long time, he felt lucky. That was one experience he had no desire to discover for himself.
Noor placed her free hand on the woman’s shoulder, and guided her to sit down. “We’ll take care of eachother. You just worry about you, Ren.”
He nodded and headed out, passing from shadow to shadow in the trees along the road. Pausing. Listening. Scanning for tracks. Proceeding.
It wasn’t until he was close enough to the wrecked carriage he could have thrown a rock and hit it that he found a trail of padded paw prints. Large. Larger, in fact, than the Black Claw.
The trail was accompanied by blood that continued out across the road to the wreckage, where clumps torn from the hard packed soil told a story of struggle. The horses that must’ve pulled the vehicle were nowhere in sight. Something had pushed it onto its side and a pair of feet stuck into the air from what had once been the front of the carriage. Crushed to death.
The Silver Fox Meditation revealed further clues as he tracked the trail of blood, noting an ethereal, sweet, minty scent that lingered on the air.
Three humans had followed the creature into the woods.
Ren paused. Should he head back, try to go around?
More information was always better.
He followed the tracks into the trees.
About thirty paces in, he found the bodies. Two men and a woman. They all wore breastplates, vambraces, and pauldrons engraved with the image of a spear wrapped in a snake.
Their pursuit had ended here, but there was no sign of the tracks of their quarry. On closer inspection, their wounds were all inflicted by weapons—each other's weapons.
Even the enhanced cognition afforded by his meditation couldn’t unwind this mystery. They’d chased a creature into the woods then killed one another?
What was the bigger risk, returning without knowing, or continuing?
He pushed forward. Each step placed with slow deliberation, sliding under the fallen leaves that peppered the forest floor, sliping from the shadow of one tree to the next. Every rustle of his cloak, every crinkle from an imperfect step, every breath seemed to echo.
Panting up ahead, strong enough to alter the breeze. A mewling, tiny squeal. Two creatures.
Ren nocked his second to last raven-feathered arrow and shoved his back up against a tree.
The panting stopped.
His channels burned as he pulled shadow unto himself, desperately willing the darkness to mask his presence. In the touch of it, he felt the vast black that stretched between stars, the cold whisper of unending silence. He reached for it.
Then he was in a field. The sun was high, the breeze rippled an endless rolling field of wildflowers. He could still feel the touch of shadow in his spirit and on his skin, but the world glowed, inviting him to join the swaying grass, join the light. The darkness in him tugged.
Something was wrong.
But the field was so peaceful, so beautiful.
A rabbit limped ahead of him, a thorn sticking from its rear paw. It was fat, and vulnerable. It looked juicy and its coat glimmered invitingly.
His belly rumbled with hunger.
He drew back the bow and took a step forward only for his foot to hit something. A basket full of tubers and mushrooms. Some eggs atop the pile.
He didn’t need the rabbit if he had all this food. He eased tension out of the bow.
Kill it.
Meat would make his meal even better. And he was oh so hungry. Ren pulled again, readying his shot. A baby rabbit bounded from the tall grass to nuzzle its mother.
Kill it.
He released his hold on the shadow, feeling the warmth of the sun as if it was the first time. Dropping his bow, Ren approached the two creatures. They froze, staring up at him. He knelt down and grabbed the injured leg, plucked the thorn free, and let the rabbit go.
Reality slammed into him, and Ren found himself out in the open without his weapon facing a giant fox. Its outer coat was a silvery eggshell color, the undercoat a creamy lavender. Violet eyes bored into him, piercing his mind, his spirit, brushing his soul. The presence of the beast was magnificent in a way he’d never felt, existence seemed to wrap and eddy around the fox like a river around a stone.
The mewling sound rose up again, and the fox turned to attend to a tiny cub curled under her belly.
His eyes traced the majestic beast, from its gleaming teeth, and the crimson strings of drool that hung from its mount, to the old, festering wound in its side that seemed to suck light, and finally to the five tails that wrapped down and around, swaddling the baby fox.
For such a being to be so hurt felt wrong. Like a part of the world itself was bleeding through that wound. “You’re hurt.” The words left him before he had time to think.
The five tailed dream fox regarded him. “The shadow has not taken your heart, little hunter.” Her voice was the blooming of flowers, the singing of the moon, and it buzzed warmly in his chest. “You extend your care to the denizens of the wild?”
The pain in her voice poured into him. Betrayal. Loss. Sadness. Loneliness. He drowned in it and found no air to form words.
“There was a time, young one, when your kin and my kind walked beside each other. I smell the blood of of the Arasaka Isles in you.”
He nodded, still unable to speak.
“My apologies, child,” her presence pulled back, and with it, the pain of her heart. “Why didn’t you kill the rabbit?”
Why hadn’t he? He’d wanted to.
Was it the law of the wild that stayed his hand? Some teaching of his parents? One of Osai’s lessons?
They were all a part of it, all threads in the woven fabric of the learning that came from living. But the words that came to him were, “The fox knows when to kill and when to wait.”
She smiled and the world smiled with her, light dancing and laughing off leaves and branches. “I thought I felt the Silver Fox teaching in you.” Her smile faded, and her spirit pulsed and quaked, nearly knocking Ren from his feet. “This world is dangerous and I have not the time left to shepherd my daughter to adulthood. I have not the strength left to teach her to find her own power. As a follower of our ways, I ask you to take her and keep her safe till she is strong enough to stand on her own.”
“Me? But-”
“Yes, you.” She hacked up a gob of dark, bloody saliva. “Will you vow to protect her?”
“But I-”
“There is no one else.”
He watched the little cub nuzzle deeper into her mother’s fur, her own coat pearly, golden eyes flecked with lilac.
“I- I’ll do my best.” A weight clamped down on his heart, then released.
The dying mother relaxed, her presence shrinking as the dark stain in her side spread, withering her coat. “The old man was right. I was right to come here. This is how… it should be…. I give my little Amira’targatha to your keeping…”
Her voice trailed off into a rattling exhalation. As the infection traveled her length, down her tail, Ren lifted the baby fox and stepped back from what was now little more than a withered and dessicated husk.
The fox cried and reached for its mother, and Ren realized he too was crying.
He ran his fingers through her fine coat. “I know it hurts. But from now on, neither of us shall be alone. You’re with me, now, little one.”
A tear fell from his face and landed on her fluff head.
Shit. The others were still waiting.
Comments
Something I'll admit, is that as I look at these chapters again, they feel rushed to me. In the moment of writing, and even on my big editing pass, I think I was just so burnt out and relieved to be almost done that I didn't let myself see it. I intend to flesh these things out for the eventual ebook version (and to make sure I learn as much as I can so the next book is stronger). I'm currently in the process of really diving in to all the feedback I've gotten so far so I can keep learning, as one does. Could you be more specific about which trope is rubbing you the wrong way in this chapter? (and if possible, what rubbed you the wrong way) The challenge for me, is that when I write, I'm just writing. Sometimes it flows other times I have to force the words out (I'm imagining these are some of the moments that feel rigid), but I'm never consciously writing a trope, I'm just writing the scene as I see it. The closest I come to intentional use of tropes is in the outlining stages when I'm lining up the major beats that I need to cover to get where I'm going. So when someone says "oh god, this trope" it is hard for me not to just think, that is just what the character chose to do. Sure, every story event has occured in some form in some story at some point, but that is unavoidable. I do think that when readers are bothered by a trope/event (and it isn't informed by pre-loaded prejudice against that specific trope) it is often an indicator that something feels off. So if you have specific moments that felt off to you that would be helpful information.
Thanks! I used a different process for importing the chapter and thought I caught all these.
A⊄Pow(A)
>laughed [] with >her [] own Two instances of random linebreaks.
Leonard Marchant
You write tropes with a heavy/rigid hand, I'd like to see your own flavour of events more often. Good work in any case
