Chapter 5 — Traps and Tricks
Itzima helped Arsanguir pack, her hands busy but her mouth never still.
"I think we can make it through one winter, don't you?"
"No, Itzy, we can't."
"Do you have to go?"
"Yes, Itzy, I do."
"What if we worked in the village centre?"
"Itzy, neither of us would be hired. And no one's hiring anyway. I won't be long. Just a few days."
He rarely called her by her full name. When he did, she knew the argument was over.
So instead of fighting more, she pressed something into his hand: her pendant. A chain of onyx, holding a shard of deep blue eggshell, segmented like it had once been broken. Her mother's gift.
He stared at it, then unclasped his own. A white shell with an albite chain, flecked with green and yellow like sunlight on water. He left it in her palm.
"Trade," he said.
Her lips tightened, but she nodded.
At dawn he entered the forest. He always used the same tree, stepping off the path where the roots twisted like a marker. From there he only ever moved east. That way, he could always find his way home again.
He climbed. Bark scraped his hands, branches creaked under his weight. Hunting from above made him less prey, more predator.
The woods near the village were messy—thin trunks, underbrush thick with nettle and bramble. Deeper in, the forest changed. Trees grew straight and tall, their crowns knitted together, the floor clear and open like a hall.
He listened. Always listened. The snap of a twig. The grunt of a boar. The low cough of something hunting.
Days passed in the canopy. He slept stretched along branches, ate sparingly, moved always above the ground. The light through the leaves painted him green, insects buzzed around his ears, birds shouted at one another across the crowns.
Then a snarl cut the quiet.
Arsanguir slipped toward it, silent on the branches. Below, a Yahash badger prowled, huge and low to the ground, fur rippling with green streaks that let it vanish against the undergrowth. It circled a mouse, growling. Yet it neither struck nor retreated—trapped in its own hesitation.
Arsanguir didn't hesitate. He dropped. Knife first. The blade drove through skull, into brain. The beast spasmed, collapsed.
Dragging it into the canopy nearly tore his arms apart. It had to weigh seven hundred kilos, maybe more. No normal man could shift it. By the time he managed, he was shaking, drenched in sweat, blood smeared across his chest.
He worked quickly. Skinning, gutting, cutting. Blood poured in sheets to the ground below, soaking the soil. The stink turned the air thick. Flies found him fast. He harvested teeth, claws, heart, fur—anything with worth—stuffing them into his pendant. The rest he let fall.
At last he sat back against the trunk, breath heavy, arms trembling. He looked down.
The mouse was still there.
It licked at the pool of blood, small tongue flashing pink against the dark.
Arsanguir frowned. Mice don't drink blood. He tried to recall if he'd ever heard of such a thing. Nothing came.
But it didn't leave.
One day passed. Then another. He worked, he rested, he moved further east. Still, the same mouse, lapping at the same spot.
Why?
He dropped to the ground, staring. The mouse didn't flinch. Just kept drinking.
He stepped closer. Reached a hand out.
The mouse leapt.
It burst mid-air, body unraveling into smoke. Thick, green smoke curling into the outline of a wolf.
Arsanguir rolled, feet tucked, kicked hard. His soles struck solid. The thing flew back. He scrambled up, knife ready, chest heaving.
The smoke didn't scatter. It swelled. Stretched. Ears, tail, eyes glowing emerald. The wolf loomed, each breath pulsing through the haze.
Then the form shivered, shifted. Bulk melting away. Legs slender, snout sharper, fur blazing green with dark stripes.
A fox now. A Behel. Trickster beast. Prey that lured predators, then fed on their bones.
And Arsanguir had just stolen its meal.
The fox's eyes narrowed, gleaming with something too close to thought.
Arsanguir didn't wait to see what trick came next. He ran.