Always Blame a God

Hunter/Hunted

Hoof prints led into the ash and pine trees from the main road and Derrick tilted his head as he listened for any sign of the beast or its owner. Hmm. This is the middle of nowhere. Might want to check it out. He tied his mare by the mostly-frozen creek and investigated the tracks further. His breath rolled out as frost and coated his unkempt tawny-and-silver beard. Not a horse. Small prints. A mule. He bent to inspect the footprints in the snow. Trail starts here. Small reinforced—or repeatedly patched—sole. Mule's tracks lead farther off. A forgotten chewed rope lay between the trees where the animal's tracks led into the thicker trees.

Battle-scarred mail tinkled where it hung over the edge of his heavy cloth gambeson armor and caught on a twig. He tugged the chain back into place as he stood upright, bottom panels of the mail and faded red gambeson just hitting mid-thigh. Old blood stained his sleeves, gloves, and his well-worn boots. A scabbard, knife, and scuffed leather pouches hung from his long leather belt and the softly falling snow settled on his shoulders and fur hat.

Wolves howled in the distance and he once again stopped to listen for whoever owned the mule. Just off the round hollow in the trees sat an animal run and a small and delicate snare set in the snow just outside of a burrow. Trapper. He carefully skirted the tracks, picking his way quietly through the trees at a distance.

Cussing drifted up from ahead of him and he crept toward the noise. A woman dressed in furs and well-worn gambeson armor similar to his own sat beside the creek dumping water out of her oiled fur glove. Erin hissed, "Damn trap tripped and not even a beaver to show for it. Just like all of them today."

Derrick settled back on his heels, mostly hidden by the trees. Must not have much company—looks like she's fallen into the habit of listening to her own voice instead.

The woman pulled her glove back on and stood, slinging her bow over her shoulder. "All right, last one for the day." The game trail led a short way up the creek, still within the man's view. "Aw, hell! A squirrel? Really? How did that even get caught in the snare? Oh well, it's still dinner. Not much else left but potatoes." She sighed as she grabbed the small animal before resetting the trap and standing with a huff. Howling carried down the valley, this time a little closer. "Gods dammit," she grumbled. "It's the middle of the day."

He held his scouting position as the woman retraced her steps to the ash tree hollow. "Seer?" she called testily. "Where'd you get to?"

The howling ceased and, in its place, snuffling and rustling surrounded Erin. Four mangy wolves approached her in cardinal directions, slavering and growling menacingly as their sickeningly thin ribs heaved with every breath. Her eyes narrowed as she crouched and readied to counter any attacker. Derrick took stock of her armor. Her armor will block most claw swipes, but there are not enough layers in that gambeson to stand up to tooth-clad bites. One animal leapt at her, jaws wide and paws splayed. Her first knife crashed into its chest and the other she held in a reverse grip that protected her arm from the incoming claws. She rolled out of the way as the beast crashed to the ground, legs still kicking for a several seconds before stilling.

The other three wolves circled her warily as they studied her movements, just as she studied theirs. Derrick snuck up behind her, still within the trees, and drew his sword to be ready to pounce if necessary. Two wolves rushed her—one at her heels, the other at her face. Starvation robbed them of their normally sharp-thinking trajectory skills, and they crashed into each other as she sidestepped nimbly. Her knife punched down into their hearts, one right after the other, and they whined pitifully as they writhed on the ground. He contemplated the precision needed to make killing blows like that. She knows right where to strike. Impressive.

The last wolf readied to pounce, and Derrick quickly calculated her chances. She doesn't have time to turn. He dashed out from his hiding spot and stabbed the animal as it leapt for her, hitting it in the heart. It yelped in pain before landing squarely on her back and knocking her over, thrashing as its life expired.

The fur muffled Erin's cursing, "What in the hell?" He lifted the stinking and bleeding blanket, revealing his sunbaked and smirk-wearing face to her. "Um. Thanks?" She wriggled the rest of the way out from under the wolf.

"You're very welcome." Derrick reached his hand down to help her to her feet, then wiped his bastard sword clean with a handful of snow and sheathed it at his hip. The sword rattled ever so slightly in its black and red leather-wrapped scabbard. Erin stared warily at the scabbard but blinked and turned away as if trying to remember something. He chuckled and mused, So, she has heard some of the stories. "That was quite an impressive feat." Errant snowflakes fell from his scruffy beard as he ran a glove over it, disrupting its white coating of frost.

"If you say so," she mumbled as she popped off her hat and beat the sticky snowballs from its muskrat fur. Her mess of black curls fell in a jumble around her pale freckled skin, hiding some of the tight disfigured burn scars covering one side of her face from just below her temple down past the tips of her hair at her fur collar. "I would have been dead if you hadn't come along."

"I highly doubt that." No sense in drawing attention to myself by telling the truth. Hmm. Those burns look long healed—probably least ten years from the look of them. The smirk turned serious. "You already were on your way around when I stepped in." He bowed formally and his kind, but gravelly voice traveled in the clearing, "But in any case, my name is Derrick, and it was my pleasure to help."

"Well my name's Erin." She pulled her curls back out of the way and replaced her hat. "At least that's what I call myself. Don't ask the people in town—they have far more colorful names for me."

"Pleased to meet you, Erin." He turned in the bloodied clearing. "Just what, exactly, are you doing out here?"

"I'm a trapper." She pointed at the forgotten minuscule squirrel from her day's efforts. "Or at least I pretend to be."

"Fur trade?" But I already know the answer to that question. Derrick scratched a scar that traversed his sunbaked forehead from his ear all the way up over his eye where the rest lay hidden under his hat.

"Yup." She wiped her blades clean with a handful of snow. "It mostly keeps me fed and pays for necessities as well. When there are pelts to be had, that is." Both blades went back into sheathes at her waist and she drew a short curved knife instead. "Looks like today there are four to be had."

"Five." His lip raised into a sly grin as he pointed to the squirrel. "You missed one."

"Smartass," Erin grumbled as she stood over a wolf.

He cringed and shook his head. "I meant no offense." Good going. Insult the woman, why don't you? His armor rustled as he stepped next to her and reached for the wolf's leg. "Here, let me hel—"

"Stop." Erin's blade hovered halfway between the animal and his hand. "Have you ever skinned an animal for a pelt before?"

"Not in a while, but—"

"Then leave it to me." She deftly cut away the skin while the animal was still hot. "If you really would like to help, find my mule. He's spotted white and brown, so he blends in well with the snow and trees. He may be a handful to get a hold of."

"I'll go get him." He searched the ground and the surrounding snow for tracks. The hoof prints led him into deeper snow and then farther out into a stand of spindly trees. "All right, mule," he whispered, "where did you get to?"

---

If you like the story, please say so in the comments. If you have constructive suggestions, say so in the comments. In short: Talk to Me!

And, since FB and Wattpad aren't talking to each other on my account, please see the WIP page in the link. https://www.facebook.com/Always-Blame-a-God-333208440938289/?modal=admin_todo_tour