- Chapter 38
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Hunter
I am in blood,
Stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
—William Shakespeare
He lived like a jackal, sleeping during the day in a hollow under a palm tree, feeding at night at the garbage pits behind the village, always running for cover at the slightest sound.
He never tried for his own kills; anything that could betray his presence had to be avoided. There were just too many of them.
All of his burns and cuts had long since healed, but the scars remained. The bottle of healing draughts he had managed to drink while the fire burned around his bleeding body had kept him alive, although only barely; it had not brought him back to unmarked health.
He waited, feeding and gathering his strength for the hard trip over the mountains. That was the route he would have to take. The sea was closed to him; even were another raiding ship to come this way, they would hardly recognize him as one of their own.
But he always kept his pouch with him.
And every once in a while, Ahrmin would unwrap the glass sphere and watch the dismembered finger floating in the yellowish oil, pointing unerringly to the north and east.
And smile.
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Contents
Framed
- Chapter 38
Back | Next
Contents
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Hunter
I am in blood,
Stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
—William Shakespeare
He lived like a jackal, sleeping during the day in a hollow under a palm tree, feeding at night at the garbage pits behind the village, always running for cover at the slightest sound.
He never tried for his own kills; anything that could betray his presence had to be avoided. There were just too many of them.
All of his burns and cuts had long since healed, but the scars remained. The bottle of healing draughts he had managed to drink while the fire burned around his bleeding body had kept him alive, although only barely; it had not brought him back to unmarked health.
He waited, feeding and gathering his strength for the hard trip over the mountains. That was the route he would have to take. The sea was closed to him; even were another raiding ship to come this way, they would hardly recognize him as one of their own.
But he always kept his pouch with him.
And every once in a while, Ahrmin would unwrap the glass sphere and watch the dismembered finger floating in the yellowish oil, pointing unerringly to the north and east.
And smile.
Back | Next
Contents
Framed