Brealoth Woodheart's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Brealoth left the barn behind and moved toward the deep hollow. The wood fought him. Panicked animals still broke through the brush, and every trail he knew was blocked by fleeing bodies or fallen limbs. He could not find a clear line. He climbed a rise to read the land and stopped cold. Below him stood an old ring of broken stone. Cracked seats climbed in tiers around a cracked floor. Crooked trees leaned over the walls. Animals lay scattered across the ground inside. A doe with a bolt in her flank. A fox dragging one leg. A tiny winged deer, its icy fur streaked red, one thin wing bent under it. They had run here and could run no farther. Brealoth went down the broken steps at a run. He knelt by the winged deer first. It shivered under his hands. Its blue eyes found his and held. He worked the river-forged knife under the bolt shaft and cut it free. The old blade slid clean. The deer breathed easier. A shadow crossed the arena floor. Brealoth looked up. A dark owl wheeled above the ring, wings ragged, ribs showing white through its feathers. It circled once and screeched. Then it dropped toward the wounded deer, talons open. Brealoth threw himself over the deer. The owl raked his shoulder and beat back into the air. He drew his bow, nocked, and loosed. The arrow clipped a wing. The owl shrieked and climbed over the wall, gone. A voice spoke behind him. "Move." Brealoth turned. A short, thick man stood at the arena's edge. He was bald, with a square red beard and a scar over one eye. His armor was black and crooked, built for a battlefield, wrong among the trees. He held a crossbow leveled at the wounded deer. "Those pelts are mine," the man said. "I've tracked three days. Step aside." "They're hurt," Brealoth said. "They came here to die." "Then they'll die worth something." The man raised the crossbow higher. Brealoth stood, knife in one hand, bow in the other, between the poacher and the wounded animals. "You're one of the diggers. From the hollow." The man did not answer. He aimed. Brealoth moved first. He flung the knife. The blade struck the crossbow stock and knocked the shot wide. The bolt cracked into the stone. Before the man could reload, Brealoth was on him, driving him back against the wall. The poacher swung a fist. Brealoth ducked, hooked a leg, and dropped him hard. He pinned the crossbow arm and pressed a knee to the man's chest. "The hollow," Brealoth said. "Where is it." The man spat. "Follow the fresh trail east. You'll wish you hadn't." Brealoth pulled the crossbow free and threw it over the wall. He hauled the man up and shoved him toward the trees. "Run." The poacher ran. Brealoth stood among the wounded and looked east. Now he knew the way.