Tomas Edel's Arc

Chapter 4 of 17

The road forked ahead. One branch ran straight to Duskwood, past the first row of houses. Tomas stopped. Regan stopped beside him. His broken arm throbbed against his chest. Behind them, wood still cracked in the ruined house. The wendigo was almost free. He looked at the near path and understood the trap. The thing tracked scent. If he walked home the short way, he would drag its nose past every door. Regan read his face. "It follows you," she said. "So don't go where people are." She was a teenage girl in a bloodstained uniform, a silver stake strapped to her arm. She had killed things before. Her hands did not shake. Tomas trusted her more than he trusted the road. He nodded once. But he could not lead the wendigo through the village to warn it. The warning meant nothing if he brought death behind him. Tomas knelt. He gripped the bloodhound's collar and unclipped the leash. The dog pressed its wet nose to his hand. Tomas rubbed his palm over the animal's coat, over his own torn sleeve, mixing his scent into the fur. Then he pointed the hound away from the village, toward the far tree line and the old stone wall. Regan understood. "You want it chasing the dog." He met her eyes and nodded. His throat worked. "Go," he said to the hound. His voice cracked on the word. "Go." The bloodhound bolted. It ran low and fast, carrying Tomas's scent into the mist, away from the houses. The dog bayed once, loud, dragging the sound behind it like a lure. The house door burst open. The wendigo spilled out, thin limbs bending wrong. It lifted its head and turned. For a moment its blank face pointed at Tomas. His heart stopped. Then the hound bayed again, far off. The creature snapped toward the sound. It dropped to all fours and tore after the dog, into the trees, away from Duskwood. Tomas breathed. His hand was empty where the leash had been. He had raised that dog from a pup. He had traded it to buy the village one clear road. The mist swallowed the last flash of brown fur. Regan touched his good shoulder. "It won't last," she said. "The dog can't run forever." He knew. But the near path was open now. No scent trail led to the first house. He could reach the people and say the word he had carried so long. Wendigo. He started walking, faster, toward the lit windows ahead. Behind him, deep in the trees, the baying stopped. Tomas did not look back. He climbed the road to Duskwood alone with Regan, the warning finally close enough to speak. But the wendigo would find the dead dog, lose the trail, and start hunting his scent again from where it ended. He had bought minutes, not safety.