The Woodsman

The old man lay on the ground, bleeding. His eyes still worked well enough to watch his friends fly away. Somewhere in the trees a bear roared, and under it came the hooves of men riding off.

His stomach was open. He had killed enough men in his time to know what that meant.

He managed a laugh, and the dark took him.

“These fucking forest fights.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve been in a few.”

“True, but this one’s fucking huge.”

“Aye.”

“So are their numbers, Ruth.”

“Ruthgardt, we are losing.”

“Aye, but they are bleeding two for every one of us, Kaland, so stop your moaning.”

Ruthgardt, a captain in the Crown’s army, was a barrel of a man, and most men decided long before they saw him swing his sword that he was worth avoiding.

“As you say, Ruth, but there are five times them than us, and well—”

An arrow took Kaland in the eye, and he went down.

“Fucking cockwhores!” Ruthgardt shouted.

The red mist came over him and he went for the crowd of men. His blade sang, and the blood came off it in sprays. Heads landed in front of him; men slipped in the blood and went under his boots. His breathing was hard, laboured even, but his sword and body moved as one. His eyes searched for the bowmen, found them near the treeline, and he ran.

He didn’t feel the first arrow hit him, but the man who loosed it felt his blade rip through his shoulder and cleave him to the bone. The second arrow was more sting than wound. The third knocked the wind out of him, and Ruthgardt fell to the dirt.

Night had settled over the battlefield when Ruthgardt came to. Everything hurt. His right arm had stopped working as it should, his left leg was numb, and the pain in his chest made every breath a fight, but somehow he was alive.

A light flickered in the trees. Knowing his time would be short, he crawled towards it.

Four men stood in the clearing, poking at something tied to a tree.

“Go on then, stick ’im.”

“I will.”

“Yeah, but when?”

“I like to make ’em shit themselves first.”

They wore Crown armour. Ruthgardt tried to speak, but his voice was gone, and his strength with it, so he lay where he was, out of sight but not out of earshot.

The tree screamed.

It brought him back to his senses. The stink of burnt flesh reached him.

“I said do ’im and be done. We have another one over there to do after.”

“I am cutting his cock off.”

“You’re sick.”

“They do it to us.”

“Not sure they do.”

Half the time Ruthgardt couldn’t tell who was talking, but someone was dying hard. If these were men under his command, they would hang for it. He tried to turn over and look, but it was too far. Their armour stood out well enough as outlines; their faces he could not make out, however hard he tried.

The man screamed again.

“It took longer,” one of them said. “It was a bit small for me to hold and cut.”

The group erupted.

“At least he’s dead,” said one.

“You good, goody?”

“I am not. I just don’t like it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cut them like that.”

“I didn’t do anything, did I, boys?”

“No,” came the chorus.

“Bentley, what did you see?”

“You cut him up. You know you did.”

A scuffle.

“Let me go,” said the voice that now had a name.

Bentley. Shaking, Ruthgardt got out a scrap of paper. He had nothing to write with, so he wrote the name in his own blood.

The screaming started. Not the scream of a man in pain, but the scream of a man wild with fear. Something terrible was happening, and Ruthgardt lay there knowing the last thing he would hear before the long sleep took him was a man’s suffering.

A shadow fell across him.

“Here, we got a new one.”

“Us or them?”

“Us.”

“Bring ’im ’ere.”

“Captain, from the looks. Pretty fucked up, though.”

“Stellin, I said bring him over here, not chat about it.”

“Look, Mula, you ain’t giving me no orders. I will do him here.”

“I want to have fun with him first.”

“Fuck’s sake, Mula, you already had the one.”

“And Benni,” added a third voice.

“Shut up, Talska,” said Mula.

They dragged Ruthgardt to the tree, cut Benni down, and strung Ruthgardt up in his place. The pain flared through his body, and he could not hold his head up.

“Fine. Cut his dick off, stick it in his mouth, and let’s go. This place is shit.”

“Shut up. I know this cocksucker,” said Mula. “Not so fucking high and mighty now, are you, Captain?” He spat.

Ruthgardt didn’t move.

“Mula, come on. I don’t want to get stuck as a deserter.”

“This whoreson had me and a few of the men on long-drop duty for a month.”

“And?” said Stellin. “We all get that duty.”

“Yeah, but this cock put me on it, and now I got him.”

Stellin sat down on a log and shook his head. “Fine. Get on with it, then we go.”

A grunt came from behind the three men.

“Thought he was dead,” Mula said, with a nod to Stellin. “Go make sure.”

Stellin drew his dagger, left his sword, and moved off towards the bushes where he’d dumped the Order man’s body. On the way he kicked at the man’s cock, which had fallen from his mouth while Stellin carried him. It sailed through the air and hit a large brown tree.

Stellin stopped. “That tree just fucking sniffed!”

Talska stood, then reeled backwards as Stellin’s body came flying through the bushes, followed by the largest brown bear Talska had ever seen. Stellin rolled on the ground, his brains spilling from the open wound. Talska, still half on his feet, was next. The bear hit him so hard he flew into the nearest trunk, and a broken branch took him through the head.

Ruthgardt hung limp.

Mula had his sword in hand and faced the bear. “Stellin!” he shouted. “Get up, you cock, get up!”

Stellin lay still.

“Talska!” Mula looked to his friend and found him hanging just off the ground, head pinned.

A dark stain spread down the front of Mula’s breeches, and the bear came running.

It pulled up short at the hanging man and sniffed at Ruthgardt. His head did not move. The beast roared in defiance and dropped onto all fours.

Mula bolted. The bear saw him go and followed.

“Fuck off! Leave me alone! Go eat him!”

His lungs gave out before his legs did. He stopped, breathing hard, sword in hand, and turned to face the animal. It walked after him, unhurried, now and again swiping at a tree or battering a log.

“Fuck it,” said Mula, and charged.

Ruthgardt woke to a great weight on his chest. A paw the size of a dinner plate rested against him, and every breath came hard. Above his face was a licking sound, muffled, because he was buried in fur. His head was held up only by the bulk of the bear pinning it there as it licked at something in the tree above him.

Then it pushed off. As it dragged itself down the trunk, one outstretched claw caught the rope, and the rope came free. Ruthgardt hit the ground and lay there, waiting to be finished. His mouth still didn’t work, so screaming was not an option. His mind shouted it for him: just do it.

The bear moved off. As it went, a bees’ nest dropped beside him, the last strands holding it to the tree giving way. The bees were long gone. The bear was too big a foe for them.

The dark came back for him.

His eyes opened to a shaft of light through the trees. His arm still didn’t work, but there was some feeling in his leg. His vision was blurred. He put a hand out and pulled it back, stinging. It came away sticky, and he sniffed it.

“Honey?”

He tried a lick, and his mouth exploded with sweetness. He wiped his hand on his chest and winced as the wound bit like a hundred angry bees. His fingers stuck to it, so he smeared them clear of the gash, leaving a sticky mess of honey and blood, fresh and dried.

The ground was the most comfortable place he could be. The moss had made him a bed, and bits of it clung all over him. A maggot wriggled out of his arm wound. He made to flick it off.

“Let them eat, you old coot. I hope you’re right, or I’m getting eaten by bloody white crawly things.”

He grabbed a handful of moss and pressed it hard over the wound. Water ran out of it, reddish, darker than blood. He slumped back.

Something breathed close by.

Not the trees. Not the wind in them. A wet, dragging sound, the kind a man makes when breathing has turned into work.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing came back. He said it again, and the breathing changed.

Ruthgardt rolled onto his belly. The world swam and settled. He pulled himself towards the sound with his good arm, a hand’s length at a time, and twice he stopped and lay with his cheek in the leaf mould until the swimming stopped again.

Two men lay in the bushes. One had been dead since the night, and what they had taken off him was still in his mouth. The other turned his head.

They had made a mess of him. Ruthgardt did not look twice.

“You’re the captain,” the man said.

He knew the voice. He had heard it in the dark, telling three men they had done a thing they should not have done.

“You’re the one who spoke up.”

“Aye.” A sound that might have been a laugh. “Lot of good it did me.”

Ruthgardt got himself onto his side and lay there, a foot from him, and neither of them said anything for a while.

“There’s honey,” he said at last. “Back there. A nest came down.”

“I can’t get back there.”

“No.”

He crawled to the nest and crawled back with a comb of it in his hand, and it took him most of what was left of the afternoon. He put it to the man’s mouth. Most of it went down his chin. Some of it did not.

“That’s the best thing I ever had,” the man said.

“It’s the only thing I’ve had.”

The light started to go. Somewhere off in the trees a bird was working its way through the same three notes, over and over, and getting no answer.

“Are you dying?” Ruthgardt asked.

“I think so.”

“Aye.”

“You?”

“Not yet.”

Above him the branches rubbed against each other in the breeze, squeaking. The dark crept in at the edges of his eyes, and he fought it. The squeaking took on a voice.

“I told you, Ruth. Swing high to low, like—”

The voice went as the darkness won.

He blinked awake. Something was snuffling. I’m still alive. How? The wounds had a puffy look to them, and the white bodies were fatter than before. A pig walked out of the bush and wandered past him, snuffling for something he couldn’t see.

He faded again.

The light came and went on the first day, and he moved more than a few times. The next two saw him lying in his own piss, too far gone to know it, more a thing of the forest than a man.

“You stink, Captain.”

“I know it.”

“I’d move away, but I can’t.”

“Neither can I.”

The sun came through in pieces and moved across them both while they lay there.

“What do they call you?” Ruthgardt said.

“Bentley.”

“I heard that part.”

“My friends call me Benni.”

“Some friends.”

The man laughed and it cost him, and Ruthgardt laughed and it cost him too, and for a while the pair of them lay getting their breath back like two old dogs in the sun.

“Stellin carried me out here,” Benni said, later. “Laid me down gentle as you like. Said he was sorry. Said I should have kept my mouth shut, that I know what Mula’s like.”

“He came back with a dagger.”

“Aye. I heard him coming.” A long breath. “Then I heard the bear.”

Ruthgardt looked up at the trees.

“Why did you speak up?”

Benni took a while.

“He’d stopped shouting. The Order lad. He’d stopped shouting and he was just making a noise, like a gate does. And my mouth went before I did.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I’m not a good man, Captain. I just didn’t want to hear it any more.”

In the afternoon he stopped answering, and by the time the light went there was only the one lot of breathing in the bushes, and it was Ruthgardt’s.

He got the paper out and looked at the name he had written in his own blood, and he left it as it was.

“Benni, then.”

He could not sit up, let alone dig. He told him he would come back for him, and then he lay in the leaf mould beside him and the dark took them both, one of them for good.

When he woke it was raining. His lips sucked at the wet, and it was torture: enough to moisten them, never enough to drink. His arm had slowly come back to some movement, but it was still as useless as before. Birds fluttered past, their colours filling his vision, and the colours weren’t right.

He rolled over and his chest exploded with pain, so he rolled back. A crust like crystal had formed over the wound. He tried to sit up, and the dark took him again.

The light was there before he opened his eyes. He put his hand out and stopped. I remember. The nest. He tried to roll. The wounds complained but held, saving the lash for some other time.

He got to his knees, his hands working so very slowly to help him up. The world spun. He struggled to bring it into focus, and in the end it came. The first step came with a stumble.

He pressed his hand to his leg, then his chest, and sniffed his fingers, blinking at the lack of rot. He did the same for his arm and felt something hard. His fingers wiggled and pried at it until it came loose. The arrowhead dropped into the dirt and finished up under a leaf. Fresh blood ran from the wound.

Ruthgardt stumbled back to the moss, sat, and rolled the hive over. There was more honey beneath it, gone to crystal. He broke the crust, and inside was more of the runny stuff. He wiped some on the arm wound and sucked his fingers.

The effort was more than enough, but for the first time in days he did not pass out. He lay listening to the birds and the trees, and amongst all that symphony he heard a trickle. There was water somewhere near, or his ears were playing some cruel trick.

The thirst hit him. Until the sound of water he hadn’t given thirst a thought; now it was everything. He willed himself to move but could only manage a crawl of sorts. Small branches on the ground became walls. Each pull of his arms sucked away whatever strength the few licks of honey had given him.

His head started to swim. Not again. He bit his hand, and the pain brought a new energy. The crawl moved faster. When the feeling began to fade he bit harder, but it did little. His vision blurred again, and he dropped his head to the ground.

It hit something that splashed. His face was wet. He opened his eyes.

He was face to face with the smallest of streams, little more than a seep. A little further on, a bump in the ground made the sound he’d heard. He opened his mouth and lapped at the water, then splashed a little on his face. He managed to roll onto his back, laid his head in the water, and sleep took him.

Ruthgardt sat upright. He couldn’t tell how long he had slept, but he was wet and cold. The battle had played through his sleep, and Benni with it, or the Order man; the dream could not decide which. Parts in his mouth, ears gone, and other men laughing at him. I know a face. His mind reached for it, but it stayed out of reach.

He flexed his arms. Both responded, if slower than they should. He tried his leg, and it held. He stood, and something pinched in it. He felt around the spot, and his nail caught on something small and round. He picked at it. The pain was tolerable, and fresh blood followed. His nail caught again, and he had it: a shaft, still in his leg. He let out a breath.

The wind had picked up, and the voices were in the treetops again. He didn’t feel alone when the trees talked.

“Keep it up, friends. I dare say you have much to discuss.”

An odd sound came through the talk, in a language he knew: the clash of swords. He shambled towards it. The sound grew louder, until the glint of steel showed through the trees.

“Hello?” he called, his voice weak.

The clashing carried on. He dropped and crawled forward, afraid to speak again in case it was a battle. Though two swords make a poor battle.

The clashing was right on top of him, but he saw no one. Slowly, he looked up. Above him, two armoured men hung from a limb. At his feet lay a gauntlet. A thump came from behind him, and he turned as quick as his body allowed. The other gauntlet.

The clashing went on as the bodies knocked against each other. He was too tired to move on, so he sat, rested his back against the tree, and put his legs out straight.

He came to with a jump. The branch holding the armoured men had given up and snapped, and they came crashing down a short way from him. He looked at his legs. He had wet himself.

Blinking out the sleep, he moved across to them. One had a dagger in his side. Ruthgardt pulled it out. It came easily enough, and the body released a foul smell after it.

Well, I’m alive, which is more than I can say for you two poor buggers. Poor way to die.

He took a step. On any other day it would have counted as weak, but as things stood it was the best he had managed in some time. The birds around him had gone quiet.

“No need to be afraid of me, little ones.”

He took another step, then another, and before long he was walking, after a fashion. Is this the best I can do? Captain Ruthgardt of the Crown’s army, once able to run and jump, cut down to a limp. No, not even a limp. He hawked and spat, gritted his teeth, and kept going.

The woods thinned, and a smell hit him. There were bodies all around.

They had been there long enough that the birds had eaten the soft parts. The eyes. The lips.

He went to a man who must have been a giant in life. A spear jutted from his back, and his hand still held an axe with a broken handle.

“Sorry, friend. I need it more than you.”

He pulled, and the arm came free. Maggots spilled out.

“Guess they were too late.”

Broken or not, the axe was heavy, and the haft was long enough to chop with one-handed. He moved from body to body, Crown and Order alike. Men lay where they had fallen, commanders among the rank and file.

One of the bodies moved. Ruthgardt’s hand closed around the axe, and he went to the stricken man.

“Friend?”

No reply came. It was an Order man, face down, his body twitching in spasms.

“Here, friend, let me help.”

Ruthgardt rolled him over, and a rat scurried out of the man’s chest. The smell and the speed of it caught him off guard. Water flooded his cheeks and he heaved, but nothing came; he had not eaten real food in some time. He heaved again, and his stomach turned to real pain.

He let the man go. The helmet fell off and rolled towards the tree where the rat had gone.

Ruthgardt propped the man on his side and pulled some of the gore from his guts into a pile. He tore strips from the man’s clothing, twisted them into a rope of sorts, looped it over a branch, and hung the big helmet above the guts. Then he took the end of the rope and waited.

With his stillness, the birds came back. To while away the time he listened to their songs and squabbling, and when the wind picked up, the trees joined in. High in the branches, two squirrels danced and chattered at each other. In all his years of marching, fighting and loving in the woods, he had never once heard them like this.

The rat poked its head out of the bushes, sniffed, and headed for the guts. It stopped and stood on its hind legs, sniffing, then vanished into the body. Ruthgardt flinched. The rat came out again and looked about. He let the rope go, and the helmet dropped over the rat, but the rat toppled it as it went and scurried away.

“Fuck you,” hissed Ruthgardt. “I am not being beaten by lunch.”

He set it up again, this time close enough to pounce. The squirrels, as far as he could tell, were squabbling over a single nut one of them had found.

“My fucking nut, you shit eater,” he said, as one squeaked.

“No, it’s mine, you robbing prick.”

“No, I found it, I’m gonna keep it.”

“No, and while you’re at it, you’re in my tree.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

He chuckled at their antics, then caught himself talking aloud, and likely scaring off the rat.

This time the rat came more cautiously, by a slightly different path. It didn’t go inside the body, but stayed outside, picking at what it had dropped. Ruthgardt waited. The rat sat chewing on something he didn’t want to think about.

The helmet thumped into the dirt.

“Gotcha.”

He pressed down on it and felt it quiver under his hands.

Axe in hand, he lifted the edge to get at it, and the rat was gone into the bushes before he had the blade up.

Ruthgardt threw the axe to the ground and shouted in anger.

“Fuck you.”

He sat where he was, looking at the man’s body. If the rat can, why can’t I?

“You’re fucking sick, man.”

No. I’m starving.

He moved to the body, clutching the axe, and took hold of the dead man’s arm. He sat looking at it for some time. Then he dropped it and backed away.

All right. Try again.

This time he held the helmet in his hands and waited. The rat came back and sat at the edge of the bushes. Ruthgardt kept still. It crept to the body and circled it, tempted by the free meal. He brought the helmet down.

Steel crunched on rat, and a little blood spattered out. He jumped up and cheered, then winced as his wounds bit. He grabbed the rat and shouted at it.

“Now I’ve gotta cook you, you little fucker.”

He stood holding the rat, and his thoughts turned to fire. His flint and steel were in his pack; this had been a battle, not a camp. How the fuck do I make fire from air?

He sat down, the rat hanging from his fist.

“Lost my kit once.”

“And?” Ruthgardt had said.

“Cheeky prick. I’m teaching you.”

“Sorry, Father.”

“Lost my kit once in the northern woods. Used the back of my knife and a hard stone, struck it till my fingers bled. Bloody useless it was, too, until I remembered the spark isn’t the fire. You’ve got to give it something to burn.”

“Yes, Father.”

Something to burn. Hard rock and I get fire. It’s no different to before, but how on earth do I make the sparks? Clever old git never told me that part, did he?

Steel. He took the gauntlet from the dead man and smiled to himself. All right. Something to burn.

He moved about the nearby woods and found old man’s beard hanging in the trees, an old bird’s nest, strips of birch bark peeled off a dead trunk, and lots of very tiny twigs. More. Get more. He bundled it up. Captains don’t make their own fires, do they?

“I bloody will from now on.”

The squirrels started up again.

“You two could tell me if I’m doing it wrong, couldn’t you?”

He built a large bundle of tinder and struck the axe against the gauntlet. Sparks came, small and yellow, and went out as quick as they came. He struck faster. More little globs of orange flew, and nothing took. He threw the gauntlet on the ground and sulked.

“You take the steel and hit the stone, but remember, the stone takes from the steel, not the other way around. You’ll wear out the steel long before the stone.”

Ruthgardt sat against the tree, his back wet with sweat, and his father’s voice ran on.

“Hunger will drive a man to lose his mind. You must make sure you deal with water, then food, then shelter. After all, son, your skin will keep you dry enough.”

“What about cold, Father?”

Nothing answered.

Ruthgardt looked at the dead rat lying on a slab of stone.

“I got you all right. Last laugh’s on you, though.”

His eyes went to the gauntlet where he had thrown it.

“Oh, you fucking idiot.”

He bent, picked up a stone and struck it with his dagger. The stone broke. He threw it aside and picked up another; that one broke under the strike too. He went down to the little stream and waded in, looking for a black, shiny stone. He found one and struck it. Nothing.

The trees started rubbing together and brought forth their usual chatter.

“Yes, I know, I need to cook it. You could lend a hand rather than telling me how you’d do it,” said Ruthgardt.

The trees carried on. He rubbed the stone dry on his leggings and struck it again. A very bright spark came off it. He did a double take and struck again, and again the spark came, and a third time.

He jumped out of the stream, ran to the tinder, and struck the stone. The spark came, reliable now, and soon the fire was lit and the rat lay across it.

“I did it.” He looked up at the trees. “I did it, see?”

They kept on moving, and the squeaking grew louder.

“No need to shout. I know. I’ll eat well, no thanks to you.”

The meat sizzled as it gave up what little fat it had. He craved it, but he forced himself to wait until it was overcooked.

“Ruthgardt, you must be hungry. You know what it’s been eating.”

Don’t think about it. Just make it black and chew.

Ruthgardt stood with his back to the tree for support. This was visit number three.

“All right, you were right. Hunger makes men stupid.”

The trees were still talking. He looked up.

“Yes, I am stupid.”

He grunted as the foulness came out of him like water. His legs started to shake, and then it was time to vomit.

“Fucking rat. Should have gutted and skinned you.”

The vomit came again. He made his way weakly to the stream and flopped into it. By now he was naked; whatever else, it wasn’t worth the mess in his clothes.

He sat with the water barely covering his legs, cool as it flowed around him.

Water dripped off his beard. It itched, and the feeling was odd.

“I need to do better.”

“Why do we do it?” he asked.

The trees carried on, and the squirrels chattered at each other.

“See, you argue, but you don’t do that.”

He sat still. Very small fish were coming around him to feed on the waste washing off him.

He got up, took the helmet, and stopped at the pile of waste he had made earlier. He put a small handful inside, then went back to the stream and sat in the water with the helmet between his legs. The rim sat above the waterline, so he dug a hole until it sank beneath, and he waited.

His hands grew numb in the cool water, but that was all right. The small fish came to feed, and he lifted the helmet in a rush. Inside were four small fish, each about the size of his thumb.

“A few more of these and I have real food.”

He set the helmet down gently so as not to tip them out, and went to find something to cook them in. He came back shortly with a pauldron, one end shaped almost perfectly to hold water. He filled it from the stream, set it on the fire, and dropped the fish in. They moved for a while, then their eyes went white and they floated.

He left it cooking a long while, his stomach still complaining from a few hours before.

“I need to eat, no matter what you feel,” he said.

The fish offered something the rat hadn’t: taste. It wasn’t the best meal, or the largest, but it tasted perfect. While it cooked he had rinsed his clothes in the stream and pulled them back on, still damp. He patted his stomach, and his hand hit something small and square in his pocket. He took it out. The scrap of paper.

He smiled and unfolded it. It held a single word, written in blood.

Bentley.

Looking at it brought it all back. The screaming in the dark. A man laid out in the bushes with honey running down his chin, saying he was no good man, that he had only wanted the noise to stop.

Ruthgardt turned the scrap over in his fingers.

“You should have kept your mouth shut.”

His mind started talking to him in a way he had never had use for. Giving or following orders left no room for second guessing. Now, alone, with nowhere near the strength he once had, second guessing and voices in his head were all he did have.

How can we do that?

You did.

I never did. Not once.

When the red mist comes, you don’t know what you do. You’ve killed men, sure. Men. But boys? Did they deserve death?

Yes. They were the enemy.

Whose? Yours? Why so?

They were on the other side.

So were you, Ruthgardt. So were you.

He saw the archer he had cleaved. No more than eighteen summers. Probably his first war, following orders.

He didn’t even shoot your friend, I doubt. He might have, he might not have. All I’m saying is, why do we do it, really?

It’s orders.

So if you were ordered to kill a woman, or a child, would you?

Would I? Would I kill innocents if ordered?

He shivered. Lost in his own turmoil, he didn’t feel the cool air seeping into his bones.

I would like to think I’d do what was right.

For who?

For… well, for…

He pulled himself away. “Stop, Ruth. Just stop. You can only do as you’re told when you’re in the army.”

What if you’re not?

“Ruth, stop.”

“What if you’re not in the army? What if you hid?”

“I’d be a traitor. A deserter. And I would hang.”

Only if they found you.

They would find me.

They can’t even be bothered to find their own glorious dead. Why would they find you?

Because… well, because…

The desperate bleat of something in trouble came out of nowhere and roused Ruthgardt from his argument with himself. People. Hunters. He forced himself to stand, and his feet were eager to help at the thought of getting out. The bushes kept parting as he walked, a man on a mission. The bleating grew louder until he could tell it was a deer.

He thought of Benni tied to the tree as he walked. The deer’s bleating and Benni’s screams were not so different.

He came to a small game trail and saw the deer. It had given up and lay on the ground, still bleating, but quieter. Ruthgardt pulled the dagger and struggled over to it. He took the animal by the head and pulled it back to slit its throat. The deer’s eye caught his, and he stayed his hand.

“Look, I am hungry. I have every right to kill you.”

His eyes went to the snare, its cord looped around an old log. Plants had grown over it. It had long been forgotten, or maybe its owner was dead.

“Look, I am sorry, but I need to eat.”

You did just eat some fish.

“Yes, but this would last for days.”

The deer bleated again.

You were hurt, and the forest gave you safety. Remember?

“Well, yes. I am still hurt. How do I know this isn’t another gift?”

Perhaps it is a gift.

“Perhaps.”

He dropped the knife, and the deer kicked a little.

“Hold still.”

Ruthgardt freed the snare from the deer’s leg, but instead of running, it stayed put. He stroked it, and it trembled.

“You were terrified, Benni, I know that. They were bad men, you knew that, and still you stayed. Why?”

The deer stood, quivering.

“Go. You’re free.”

He tapped it lightly. It didn’t run. It stood with its head down, trembling harder. Ruthgardt hit it harder on the rump.

“Go, you stupid fuck.”

The deer took a step and collapsed, panting.

“I don’t understand.”

He moved to its side and laid a hand on its chest, feeling the rise and fall. The big brown eye was wide. Fear, maybe, but then why hadn’t it run?

“What are you doing? I am a bad man for you. If you stay, I will eat you.”

The deer blinked. He stroked it, feeling its warmth.

“I think I understand.”

The deer closed its eye, kicked a leg, and was gone.

Ruthgardt sat for a moment. The rise and fall had stopped. A tear escaped him, and then the grief came in a wave.

“Why? I let you go. Did you give yourself for me?”

Benni.

“You did the same. You just didn’t know it. Or did you?”

Ruthgardt got to butchering the deer. The first thing out was the liver, and he bit into it raw. The blood and meat put strength in him at once. He chopped and cut more like a murderer than a butcher, but the job still got done.

He didn’t have the strength to carry it all back in one trip, so he took the best parts: the heart, the backstrap and a leg, plus the half-eaten liver. The rest he hid.

Heading back to his little place, he turned it over. He might need a little more time out here alone, time to think. Going back was still the plan. He was growing stronger with the food and water, but his body hadn’t quite caught up.

Time. It was nice here. Perhaps he could get strong, get better, then head back once he was fully healed. Perhaps he could take a bit of time and bury the fallen.

Thoughts like these made the walk back feel like a quick step.

The fire was smouldering but not out, so he set about blowing on it. After a few attempts it grudgingly came back, coughing and spluttering to life. It wanted fuel, and there was little of it.

“It’s all right, friend. I’ll feed you.” He chuckled to himself. “Damn me if I ain’t talking to a fire.”

He pushed a few mid-sized twigs in, and the fire crackled under the damp wood. He pushed a stick through the rest of the liver and set it over the flames, where it dripped and hissed at once.

The smell from the bodies wafted over. It was high time to move them. He pushed on past the tiredness of his morning’s adventure and went to the armoured men, stripping them of their armour and keeping one eye on the liver.

No chances. I don’t care how burnt it is, I will not get ill again.

He burped and tasted blood.

Yes, yes, I know it was a risk, but I’m cooking it now, aren’t I?

With the armour off, their colours showed: one Crown, one Order, hanged from the same limb. He held up a breastplate from each.

“Good quality plate, this... Plate?”

“Yes. I have a plate and a cooking slab.”

He left the bodies and hurried to the fire, which was still burning, along with his liver. He snatched it off the stick and laid the first breastplate over the flames. They shrank at once.

“Air.”

He turned it the other way, so only the narrow part blocked the top, and left it there a short while. The overcooked liver went on the second breastplate.

“I have a plate.”

He sliced a small strip of backstrap and laid it on his makeshift hotplate. It sizzled.

“Oh, yes.”

Then he remembered the men he had left.

That night his leg reminded him there was still pain to be dealt with. He had tried to kneel, and the cloth holding the moss to his leg pulled tight. The arrow still in there pushed a little deeper. It needed to come out.

He pulled down his breeches. The wound was still open and angry, while the others he had tended were well on the way to healing. He held the dagger over the fire and heated the blade until it sizzled when he spat on it. He put a thick, freshly cut branch in his mouth and bit down hard.

He cut into his leg. The meat sizzled, and the smell was nasty, but he hit the shaft, and there was little blood. He got his fingers around the short length of arrow and pulled. It didn’t move. He pulled again, and his head swam. It didn’t move.

He spat the branch out. “Fucking cunt, come out.”

He yanked as hard as he could, and passed out.

The fire was out when he woke. His eyes stung. He sat up. The forest was alive with birds and trees and insects, every one of them clear. He touched his leg, and pain shot up into his head, but all it did was make the woods sound clearer.

The arrowhead lay on the ground beside his dagger.

“All right. It worked last time.”

He pulled some moss, pressed it against the wound, and tied it off with old cloth he had robbed from one of the men.

“Ah, fuck. The meat.”

It was still there, but dark. Then he remembered what he had left at the kill.

“Well, the foxes will eat well.”

He tested his leg. It bore his weight, though it grumbled at having to carry him so soon. He picked up the meat he had cooked the night before and took a bite. It tasted all right, so he devoured it. The liver he left. He picked up the leg. The flies had found it in the day’s warmth. Spoiled.

The moon had been up and full when he first saw the hanging men. It was a sliver now.

“Nothing goes to plan, does it?”

He picked the tips off the ferns, though they were long past their best, and boiled them in the pauldron. They went to snot in the water, and he ate them anyway. Not sweet, and a long way past enjoyment, but they worked.

The nettles he left alone until his father spoke up again.

“Not the new growth, the older stuff. Boil it into a tea.”

He had not believed a word of it as a boy, certain his mouth would come up in lumps. He picked a handful and boiled it, and there was nothing but a little tingle on his lips.

“The young leaves are best, mind.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

Time to rest up again for a while. Then bury them, collect the stuff, get some more fish. I need a roof for the short time I’ll be here. I can’t keep lying out overnight.

How long are you staying?

As long as this takes to heal.

You’re burying them all?

Maybe.

Why? They’re just food for the animals now. Let’s face it, it’d be nice for them to get their own back on us.

Don’t talk silly. Bury them, collect their stuff. I can sell it, and perhaps I can start somewhere else. I’m tired of killing for no reason.

Is that why you let the deer live?

I don’t know. I think it is. Well, it’s dead now, and some of it’s in my guts, and some of it’s in another animal’s guts.

It does kind of feel like I’m giving back a little. This place has kept me alive. The moss, the maggots, food, fire. When you think about it, what more can a man ask for? It’s more honest than killing for a king who doesn’t even know my name.

The second pauldron and a spear tip had worked well enough to loosen the ground for digging. It still took a good few hours to bury the two men. One hole and a shallow grave would have to do.

He stood over them.

“You were brothers from different factions, sent to fight and die for other men who didn’t know you and likely didn’t care. To fight and give your all in the name of honour. But which of you was fighting for the right honour?”

He bowed his head.

“I didn’t know your names, but I know you both well, for you were me and I am you, and we are all meat. Ahhhh, fuck it. You’re both just rotten meat and can’t hear me, so this is for me, not you. Sleep well, brothers. Sleep well.”

There was one more he owed a hole to.

He took the axe and went back the way he had crawled, and it was no distance at all on two legs. The bushes were where he had left them. So was the smell.

I said I’d come back for you.

Something roared off through the trees.

It was not far. Close enough that the sound came up through the ground and into his boots, and every bird in the wood shut its mouth at once.

Ruthgardt stood with the axe in his hand, a grown man, a captain of the Crown, and could not make his legs carry him the last twenty paces. He waited for the shaking to stop. It did not.

The roar came again.

He went back to his fire, and he did not look behind him on the way, because looking would have meant admitting there was something to look at.

“Tomorrow, Benni.”

He went at first light, before he could talk himself out of it.

Something had been at the body in the night, and not a small something. Parts of him had been dragged off into the bracken and parts were not there at all. The head was where it had been. So was the middle of him.

Ruthgardt stood over what was left and waited to be sick, and found he was not.

“For a man who took too much,” he said, “I suppose giving some back isn’t the worst finish.”

It took three trips to gather what he could find, and he did not hunt hard for the rest. The ground beside the other two was already broken, so he widened the hole and laid him in with them, and covered him over, and pressed it down with his boot.

The others he had buried without names.

“Benni.”

That was the whole of the service.

The woods were deafening in their silence. He sat back against the tree, chopping small pieces of cooked liver.

He chopped more.

What more do I need? I have food. Well, not really, but I can get it. I need shelter, but I can do that. I don’t have men telling me what to do here, and more importantly, no one is trying to kill me. Except me, when I eat the wrong thing.

He chuckled.

He moved his arm in a circular motion.

And it won’t work as well as it did any more. I don’t have a ton of fighting left in me, do I? I will bite it sooner or later.

“What are you saying, Ruthgardt?”

He pushed the chopped liver to the side of the plate and took some, putting it in the helmet.

“I guess I am saying I have a choice.”

He picked the helmet up and sat in the stream as before, the helmet under the water.

“I am no deserter.”

He tested his arm again.

It will take time to heal, and if I go back I will be rotated in again as soon as I can hold a sword.

“Fuck it. I will build something here, something small, and stay until this is healed, then go.”

He watched the fish swim in and lifted the helmet in a swift motion. Three this time.

“Right. Time to work.”

The shelter, if it could be called that, was little more than two sticks holding up a bunch of other sticks, covered over with moss and leaf litter. He had cut hazel for the frame because it bent without breaking, and he had learned to look before he grabbed at a pile of leaves. The holly had taught him that, twice. No red on it yet. It had a back, two sides and a roof. The front was open to the elements, and the fire sat just beyond it. To one side lay a small collection of armour and chain mail, and a few weapons: a bow with no arrows, a short sword, an axe and three small daggers. He had found another body, though that one was a mess from the animals.

The leaves were turning, and the once dry mornings had given way to damp. The frost would come soon enough. Give it a few weeks.

None of that was on his mind. What was, was the howling of a bear. It was in pain, that much was certain. In a man, a wail like that would have meant death was close, but bears were made of tougher stuff. Bear fur would also make a nice warm blanket.

I should go and see. That hide would be useful.

Living is better, man.

Yes, but that thing is finished. You can tell.

Oh, a woodsman now, are you?

“Fuck off. I’m going.”

He stood, and his leg wobbled. No harm in being slow. It gives the beast time to die off.

The howling and thrashing grew louder as he came on. It had taken him half an hour so far, and his mind had berated him the whole walk.

As the trees opened out, a smell caught him. Musty, old, wet. The growl sounded like it was right beside him, and then the bear moved. He jumped back and ran through his choices. The one winning out was going home and letting time do the work for him.

The bear was lying down, and something was sticking out of its rear. He peered at it from as close as he dared and saw a long shaft. Something about it reminded him of the deer.

The bear’s noise changed from a howl to a whimper. He took a few steps more. The bear just watched him.

Ruthgardt wiped his face with his hand. “You dying over there?”

The bear lay watching, breathing hard.

“I just want your fur.”

He sat down in front of it, still out of reach, its eyes never leaving him.

“Oh no. I ain’t getting closer. I can’t help you. I ain’t like the horse masters.”

The bear let out a whimper, the pain plain in it.

“For fuck’s sake. You’re going to eat me if I help.”

He put his hand down on the ground, and there was the same moss that had held him. The trees were blowing a little, and now and again the squeak came.

“You can fuck off too.”

He felt the moss in his fingers and remembered the tree, and a bear.

“Fine. All right. I will look, but I ain’t promising nothing.” He paused. “Please don’t eat me.”

He skirted around the giant creature towards its rear, and the bear watched him move.

“This is stupid.”

He touched the shaft of the spear, and the bear roared and pawed at the ground.

“All right, all right. Look, I need to pull this out. It’s going to hurt like, well, it’s going to hurt, and you’re going to want to hit me or eat me, but remember, I am helping.”

He took the shaft in shaking hands, and the bear growled.

“Oh fuck me, fuck me.”

He yanked. The bear roared and pulled away, and he kept hold of the shaft. The spear came free more by the pull of the bear than the man, but the result was the same. The bear limped a few steps and lay down with a growl and a whimper in the same breath.

Blood streamed from the wound, and the bear seemed to shrink with every moment. He reversed the pole and pushed some moss onto the end. By now the bear’s eyes were closed and its breathing laboured.

“Well, you ain’t killed me yet.”

He pushed the moss onto the wound and into the hole. The bear made no sound. He moved close enough to reach out and press it in further, then packed on more. Bile rose in his throat, and his hands shook with the fear of it, but he kept working on the wound.

“I guess in a way you saved me, so now it’s my turn.”

The bear did not move, though its body twitched with each breath.

How on earth can I feel pity for this beast? It’s a fucking bear, not human.

It’s more honest, though, if you really think about it. Look at those evil bastards back there. Poor Benni. This thing may even have been the one.

I ain’t staying on the ground for when it wakes up.

He glanced around and saw a massive root ball sticking out of the ground from an overturned tree. Still fucked, came to mind. Better than the ground.

The spear felt good in his hand, though he couldn’t kill the bear if it wanted him, and he knew it. He studied the creature in front of him. The smell was still bad, but thinking back to the barracks, so were the men he used to command.

The trees carried on rubbing, and the birds had started back with their singing and chatting.

Each time we’re quiet, this place is loud. When I am loud, this place is quiet. Funny, because back home, when I am loud, everyone else is louder.

He lay back on the roots and absently broke twigs, his eyes planted on the bear.

I like it here. It’s honest. I can see why the trackers love it so much.

The light came down in beams, and the wind started up, rustling the leaves. He watched a seed pod float down to the floor. It took a while, but the bear was snoring now, and he chuckled.

“Louder than Perkins,” he said. “Can’t throw nothing at you though, can I, friend?”

The sound was rhythmic, and the light dancing in the trees sent him off to sleep.

Something wet dripping on his face woke him with a start. It was darker, and he sat up in fright. A light rain was filtering through the trees, a drop landing near him or on him every now and again.

The bear was gone.

You never did tell me how to deal with cold, you old coot.

The rain drove in at the front of the shelter and made the roof next to useless. The fire was long out, and the only way he could keep warm was to shiver. The darkness took forever to give way to daylight, and though the rain had stopped some time ago, he was shivering so badly his teeth played a tune.

The moss he sat on had taken up so much water it had swollen to twice its size, and while it was soft to sit on, the wet drew out what little heat he could make.

I need a front, then.

He stood and set about finding logs he could manage. Some of the dead ones were quite large and round, and those he could shift, but the live ones were too heavy, and his strength was not what it had been. He found that out when the last pole dropped on his foot as his hand gave up.

More than a few times he heard the bear. It had not left the area, though he had not seen it.

The shelter now had the look of a mound of leaves with a few logs and a smaller gap for a doorway. There was room inside to sit and to bring the fire into the door out of the rain, so he set about making a ring of stones to hold it. The rocks were lighter than the logs, but he was tired and the trips were taking it out of him.

“Last trip,” he said.

He came to the stream, bent, picked up three larger stones and stood upright.

“Don’t eat me. I saved you,” he stuttered at the large brown shape not ten paces from him.

The bear had a good-sized fish in its mouth and was staring at the man. It dropped to all fours and started ripping little orange things out of the fish’s belly. Then it looked at the man, growled, and walked off, leaving the carcass on the bank.

He watched and waited for the bear to come back. It didn’t, so he went to the fish, grabbed it, and hurried back to camp.

He finished the pit with the stones and hurried to build the fire and light it. It came to life, and he sat in his little shelter with the heat radiating inwards. The fish went on the breastplate to cook. Why the bear had left so much of it he couldn’t say, and he chalked it up to a thank you.

The first hour was bliss. The heat warmed him, his clothing dried, and the fish was wonderful.

The payment was coming due, though. His eyes burned from the smoke, and it got worse. The shelter filled past the point of being breathable, and before much longer he had to leave it. Standing outside, he could see the extent of it. The little shelter was bellowing smoke, and from out here it looked like it was on fire inside.

He stamped the fire out and left it for some time. By the time night came the shelter was clear, but then he couldn’t see a thing. The moonlight couldn’t reach inside, and more than once he banged his head.

So he lay there, warmer at least, but so uncomfortable that the night which should have been his best felt like his worst.

The long night gave him something he could not recall ever having before: time in plenty. Time to contemplate, and to understand what it was he was contemplating. No haze, no battle, no preparing for battle, no long wait before a fight. Just a long wait for morning.

Move the fire, you idiot.

But then I lose the warmth. So put a chimney in, and don’t tell me you’re no builder.

He looked at the roof.

I clear a hole. But then I get wet when it rains. All right, so I build it bigger.

Why am I building it bigger, to leave soon? My leg is walkable. It’s time to go back, sell the stuff and make some coin.

He lay looking at the roof and watched a fly buzzing around.

“I am not going back, am I?”

The fly landed on a twig.

“No. I don’t think I am.”

And if they come looking?

They won’t.

If they find you?

They might find a woodsman, but they won’t find Ruthgardt.

Right now they will find a hermit. Have you seen yourself, and this place?

So it’s decided, then. Tomorrow I start properly. I need food, so it’s time to get to the bigger stream. Maybe I need to move.

He lay thinking on the move, his mood lighter, and sleep took him.

The early morning came and left. The sun came up, and with it the warmth. The woodsman opened his eyes and stepped out of the shelter, his hand going to the axe.

The birds had stopped.

He stood still and listened to them not singing.