previously: we flashback to Fitcher, one of the villagers with Martin, during a hunt
and now: we are back into the Wilds, with Martin and the hunting parts
Night Intruder
Martin woke to the zweet tchuuu … zweet … zweet … zweet tchuuu of one of his wards. Its chirps were subtle, hardly noticeable amongst the nocturnal sounds of the forest. But the bird song was not what stirred him from slumber. He had felt a slight tugging where his right arm ended, as if the twittering ward were attached to its stump by an ethereal cord.
He dared not move, except to open his eyes, for fear of alerting whatever might have sent his ward a-fluttering.
Likely a curious raccoon, he hoped. Or maybe someone had to relieve themselves.
A half moon hung above, and the dimmest of light filtered down through the leaves. Martin laid there staring up at blue-gray patches of sky, listening, trying to pick out the sounds of movement. All he heard were the snorts and snuffles of his companions nearby.
He raised his head, slightly, to get a better view of his surroundings. He could make out four dark lumps sprawled out around the fire, which had burnt down to embers.
Who was on watch? he wondered, but the piles of blankets were indistinguishable from one another, muted by the darkness.
He was about to push back his blanket, so he could free his half arm and cast his awareness out into the night, but he felt a hand on his sholder.
"Don't move … something's close," Zilla whispered from behind him.
Martin froze. At least he knew which direction to focus his attention. The ward to his left was the one calling out to him, tugging at their bond. He thought he heard a deep huff mixed in with his ward's chirps and the sounds of his snoring companions. Then a familiar odor began to waft over him. It was the sickening stench he had noticed lingering throughout this part of the Wilds. Only now it overwhelmed his sense of smell. Oily sickness hung thick in the air, clogging his nostrils and worming its way down the back of his throat. It took a force of will for him to keep from coughing, from retching.
Next, Martin heard—or more like felt through the earth—the thump of heavy foot falls. The half moon did not provide enough light to break through the shadows of the forest, but he could make out a large, bulky shape, darker than the night on the edge of the clearing.
It snorted.
The creature, Martin thought, along with a hundred other notions that were trying to force their way through the fear.
Should I scare it away? he wondered. But knowing what he knew of the attack in the village, he was not confident the beast would flee from him.
Should I wake the others? Even though they had spears within arm's reach, they would not be quick enough to defend themselves should the beast attack.
Just don't do anything to provoke it, was the winning thought.
He hoped that Zilla would also decide not to react in any way to startle the bear or cause it to attack.
The creature snorted again.
A wave of hot, putrid air washed over him.
It took another couple steps into their camp.
Thankfully, all their food was in a pack, hanging from a tree a stone's throw away from where they had set up camp. The beast would not have a reason to rummage through their things or come closer, or so Martin hoped. He held his breath. Sensed that Zilla was doing the same. Could feel the tension in the air. The danger.
With one final huff, the beast turned and disappeared into the night. As the sounds of its retreat quickly faded, Martin tossed off his blanket. He rose to his feet and cast his awareness out into the night toward the fleeing bear.
He was not prepared for the strength of the stench that assaulted his senses, and he started to gag.
Zilla was quickly at his side. "Hush, it could come. back."
Martin covered his mouth with his good arm to muffle his coughs.
"Are you okay?" Zilla asked once they subsided.
"Yeah, it’s just the stench of that … creature," Martin said, not being able to call it a bear.
"It stinks of the Waste," Zilla said.
The Waste was what lay beyond the Wilds. It was the southern edge of their world and a vast swamp that no one in recent history had traversed.
"Should we wake everyone?" Zilla asked. "I'm sure Brann will want to know the bear was in our camp."
Martin was surprised that she was asking him, giving him that authority.
"There's nothing they can do now. We can't track the beast through the forest at night. So if the stench doesn't wake them, let them sleep."
Zilla snorted softly.
"What?" he asked, worried he had said something wrong.
Then he realized she was laughing. "At first, I thought that stench was one of you …” she motioned toward their sleeping companions. “You know … while you were sleeping.”
“Umm …” Martin wasn’t sure what to say. Whether to laugh, to make a comment about the beans Renkle served them for supper, or just move past what she had said. That later would be what an acolyte of The Arm had been taught to do. To ignore childish prattle, as the preceptor would call it.
“Get some sleep,” Martin told her. “I’ll take the last watch.”
Zilla tilted her head as she looked at him, her lips, slightly parted as if she wanted to say something. But instead, she gave a slight shake of her head, and then went to curl up in the spot on the ground that he had vacated.
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Now I'm excited to hear more about The Waste. It sounds like the perfect place for an adventure.
Well done.