Oswin Merrick's Arc

Chapter 9 of 9

Two days into the uncharted forest, Oswin stopped guessing. He knew Voss traveled ahead. He did not know how far. A day? A week? Every wrong guess cost him time he couldn't spare. He needed a fresh read on the man's trail, and the trees gave him nothing. He crouched over a bare patch of ground and pulled his father's brass compass from his coat. He set it flat and watched the needle swing to true north. Then he laid Mara's copied bearing beside it. "Voss took the wide ground," he said. "Wagons. Wagons leave ruts. If I can find where his route crosses ours, I can tell how old the tracks are." Garret knelt and studied the dirt. "You need higher eyes than mine." A laugh came from above. A young woman dropped from a low branch and landed in a crouch. Her leather jacket was scarred and patched, her goggles shoved up on her forehead. Oswin's hand went to his sack. He'd met no friendly strangers in these woods. "Relax," she said, grinning. "You're the ones tramping through my forest. I'm Petra. I scout for the outpost back that way." She nodded at the compass. "You're tracking somebody." "A man with wagons," Oswin said. "Harlan Voss. He's ahead. I need to know how far." Petra's grin faded. "Voss. Big party, hired hands, two heavy carts." She pointed east. "They passed a ridge yesterday. I watched them from a stag I ride. Their carts bogged in soft ground. They lost half a day digging out." Oswin's chest went tight. "Yesterday. How far is the ridge?" "Half a day for me." She looked at the tired beetle, the sagging parrot. "Longer for you." He held the compass steady and did the sum he'd been afraid to guess. Voss was one day ahead. Not a week. One day, and the man had wasted half of it in mud. "I can take you to where his tracks cross the game trails," Petra said. "Show you the ruts myself. Then you'll know for certain." Garret watched her. "Why help us?" Petra shrugged. "Voss's men chased me off a lookout I've used for years. I don't like him." She whistled low. Brush cracked, and a towering stag stepped into the clearing, antlers spread wide, its frame built to carry a rider. They followed her to the ridge before dark. Petra pointed at deep wagon ruts pressed into drying mud. Oswin knelt and pushed a finger into a groove. The mud had crusted on top but stayed damp beneath. A day old. No more. He stood and let the truth settle. He knew now. One day behind, no guessing left. But knowing changed nothing about the ground ahead. Voss had the wide route and rested hands. Oswin had a spent beetle, a scout he'd just met, and one day to close. "Then we don't stop tonight," Oswin said.