Longhunter

"Ahead!" Sam shouted, dropping to a knee. Between two trees in front of them, another native bounded into view, a stone axe raised above his head as his face contorted into a snarl. He was clad in the same loincloth and headdress as the last, his ashen skin painted over with cracked, white paste. Sam leveled his rifle, a cloud of smoke billowing from the barrel as he fired, catching his target in the shoulder to send him spinning to the forest floor.

"They're all around us!" Marshall yelled, pausing to loose another shot at a second assailant who approached from their left with some kind of knife made from flint. "Keep movin', or we'll be overrun!"

They continued through the shadowy woodland, skidding to a halt as another native leapt out from behind a tree, brandishing his hatchet as he loosed a screeching war cry. He was close enough to Marshall to get a swing in, the alarmed hunter using his musket to block the blow, the stone blade biting into the wood. Marshall hit the man in the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose, blood splattering across his pale face paint. He hit him again, sending him to the ground, then followed up with a jab from his bayonet. The triangular blade plunged into the native's chest, the writhing man uttering a pained gurgle.

From behind them, another charged out of the swirling fog, Sam wheeling around to take off most of his head with a well-placed shot. He began to reload frantically, biting off the cap of a paper charge, refilling his pan. Even the best marksmen couldn't get off more than three or four shots in a minute under ideal conditions. The natives would overwhelm them with their sheer numbers at this rate.

"Keep running!" Smith shouted.

"Where are we even going?" Meyer asked, hurrying along after him.

"I don't care. Anywhere that isn't here!"

They stumbled into a dry riverbed that provided some cover, following it down an incline, the exposed roots of the nearby trees tripping them where they protruded from the muddy soil.

"Come on, this way," Marshall said as he waved them forward from the front of the pack.

George was starting to tire, his lungs burning, adrenaline making him manic. His hands were shaking so much that he doubted whether he would be able to reload his rifle again if he had to fire it.

They proceeded perhaps another hundred feet down the riverbed, until another whistle rang out, the terrible screaming setting George's heart pounding again. He glanced up at the bank, seeing that one of the natives had found them, and was alerting his companions. George lifted his rifle, the acrid smell of black powder filling his nose as he fired, the crack making his ears ring. The native was almost lifted off his feet, sent tumbling backwards, George staring at the spot where he had just been.

He had just killed a man...

Sam gripped him by the arm, pulling him along.

"Come on, George!" he panted. "We have to keep up the pace!"

George nodded, too shaken to really think much about what he was doing, his hand reaching into a pouch on his hip as he fumbled for another cartridge. It was so hard to run and reload at the same time, and he cursed as he spilled some of the powder, watching it fall to the dirt behind him. He struggled to pour the rest into the barrel, then pushed the lead ball inside, cursing again as he burned himself on the still-hot muzzle. As he jogged along, he tapped the butt of the rifle against the ground, then cocked the hammer as he shouldered it.

There was another battle cry as a native came leaping off the top of the embankment, the spear that he was carrying pointed downward. He landed on top of Meyer, another cry of alarm and pain filling the air as the hunter was knocked to the ground, the stone tip of the weapon running him through from his neck to his ribs. George knew immediately that he was done for, even as a trio of shots sent the spearman collapsing beside Meyer in a twitching heap.

Blood seeped from Meyer's mouth and nose as Sam and Marshall tried to lift him, but he was already limp, his eyes unfocused.

"We have to leave him!" Marshall exclaimed, Sam shaking his head adamantly.

"We can carry him outta here! I ain't leavin' him to be strung up like that poor soul we found on the tree!"

"There's no choice!"

"Fuck!" Sam bellowed, aiming his rifle at Meyer. He put a bullet through the man's heart, then continued on, stepping over the two prone figures.

George hurried after the group, giving Meyer one final glance as he skirted around his bloodied body. George had come here to explore, he hadn't come to fight in a war. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

As they rounded a bend in the riverbed, a chorus of shouts rose above the sound of their own heavy breathing, George looking up to see half a dozen white-painted braves sliding down into the muddy channel maybe fifty feet ahead of them. They were brandishing stone axes, knives, and spears. Immediately, the hunters formed a firing line, George joining them as he let off another shot that struck the lead native in the chest. His comrades shoved him out of the way as he fell, charging with their weapons raised, their eyes wild with a kind of fury that George would never have attributed to a person. They were frenzied, relentless, showing no restraint or mercy.

Three more of them fell, but enough remained standing that they were able to close in, scattering the group as they fought hand to hand. George was no soldier, and he retreated as one of the natives swung a hatchet at him, stumbling over a root. The brave watched him with wild eyes, passing his hatchet between his hands, pushing George back to cut him off from the group. The others were too busy fighting for their own lives, rifle butts and bayonets against knives and spears, another shot ringing out.

George was forced up the embankment and into the cover of the trees, his pursuer driving him on, loosing an almost gleeful battle cry as he gave chase. George heard Sam calling his name, but it was too late, he was separated from the others. Having already fired his rifle and being unable to reload, he parried the swipes from the stone axe with his weapon as best he could, but he was on the defensive. He turned, fleeing through the woods, winding between the dark trunks. He had no idea where he was going, panic and adrenaline overtaking him, the sound of his pursuer's footsteps all that he could focus on.

The brave was toying with him, perhaps sensing that he was no warrior, taking pleasure in the thrill of the chase. George found himself on the other side of a large tree trunk, circling around it as the cackling native matched his movements, lunging at him with the stone weapon. George watched as he reached for his whistle, giving it a blow, the blood-curdling wail sure to attract reinforcements to his location.

George's fear ebbed, a sudden steely resolve overcoming him. He would either kill this man or be killed by him. It was do or die.

Using his bayoneted rifle like a spear, he jabbed at the native, but the man danced out of his reach. As though encouraging him, he skipped back a few paces, George leaving the cover of the tree to follow. With the next jab, the native caught the barrel in one hand, tugging George off-balance as he raised his axe in the other.

A sudden whistling sound interrupted their fight, followed by a dull thud. George looked up to see the tail end of an arrow jutting from the top of the native's head. His jaw slackened as he released his hold on the barrel of the gun, his eyes losing their focus, George retreating as he watched his adversary slump to the ground at his feet.

Something heavy dropped down from the branches into the undergrowth behind him, George wheeling around, but too late. His feet were kicked out from under him, and he landed hard on his ass, an arm wrapping around his neck to trap him in a chokehold. He was dragged backwards across the forest floor, reaching up to claw at the arm, struggling to escape its grasp. Leaves rustled as he was pulled into a nearby bush, George seizing up as he felt a knife against his throat, a gloved hand covering his mouth to muffle his voice. He stayed as still as a statue, too afraid to even breathe.

"Don't make a sound," a hushed voice whispered in his ear.

He heard more heavy footsteps in the undergrowth, peering through the obscuring leaves to see three more natives come jogging into view. They noticed their fallen comrade immediately, but they didn't rush to his aid. Instead, they checked the area, their crude weapons in hand as they searched for signs of their quarry. One of them came so close to the bush that George was certain he was about to be discovered, but he did as his captor demanded, holding his breath so as not to give himself away.

After a few minutes, they left, dragging their dead compatriot through the ferns behind them. George's captor waited a few minutes longer, then slowly withdrew their hand from his mouth, keeping the blade at his neck.

"If I release you, do you promise to be silent?" they asked. Now that he wasn't frozen with terror, George noted that it was a woman's voice, soft and breathy. "Do as I say, or you risk drawing them back."

He let himself relax, gently nodding his head, the blade leaving his throat. Was this person his savior, or had he fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire? Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, seeing a cloaked figure staring back at him through the dense foliage. She was wearing a long hood that cast her face into shadow, obscuring her features. It had two holes in the fabric through which a pair of horns protruded. They were swept-back, following the curve of her head, the subtle way that they branched reminding him of the antlers of a small deer. It must be a headdress, not dissimilar from those worn by the natives. Try as he might, he couldn't make anything out beneath the dark shadow of her cowl.

She stood, sheathing her knife somewhere beneath her cloak, extending a hand.

"Come," she insisted. "We must leave this place. They will not stop until they find you."

Her accent was so odd, and George couldn't place it. English was certainly her second language, but what her first might be, he had no idea. Was she a colonist who had somehow beaten them across the plains? Someone from Ruthenia who had landed on the Western shore of the continent and traveled inland?

He took her hand, and she helped him to his feet, the two of them stepping out from the cover of the bush. Now that he could get a better look at her, he could see that she was a head shorter than he was, maybe five foot four. She was wrapped in a green cloak that covered most of her body, made from what looked like some kind of hemp or sackcloth. It was tied at the front with wooden toggles to keep it closed, the hem reaching down to her knees. His eyes widened as he saw her legs.

They were slender, far moreso than those of a person, jointed at the heel like those of a deer that was standing on its hind legs. In place of feet, she had a pair of dainty, cloven hooves, balancing on them like a person might stand on their toes. They were covered over with a thin, velvety coat of reddish fur, patterned with white spots.

George took a step away from her, not sure what to make of the stranger, his hold on the barrel of his rifle tightening. His new companion noticed, her hand slowly moving beneath her clothes, perhaps going for her knife.

George willed himself to relax a little. If she was going to hurt him, she would have done so by now, and she had allowed him to keep his weapon. As well as her knife, she had a bow carved from what might be willow slung over her shoulder, along with a quiver of arrows tipped with dark feathers.

"You have not seen my like before?" she asked, George shaking his head. "No matter. Follow if you want to survive this forest."

"What of my friends?" he asked. "I can't just leave them."

"There will be a hundred warriors between you and them by now. Even if you could reach them, they are beyond your help."

Another mournful scream from one of the whistles carried through the trees, George snapping his head around to look in that direction.

"See?" the woman asked. "They call more of their kin, like wayas howling at the moon."

It didn't look like George had much of a choice, so he nodded, starting to follow behind her as she strode off into the woods. She was remarkably light on her feet, almost like a ballerina standing on her toes, leaping deftly over fallen branches. She made George feel positively clumsy in comparison as he trudged through the ferns, his boots splashing in the mud. No wonder she could go unnoticed by the natives. She was practically silent, scarcely leaving a footprint behind her.

"Where are we going?" George huffed. She was fast, and he was exhausted from his scuffle, having trouble keeping pace with her.

"This place is corrupted," she replied, not even pausing to look back at him as she sprang over a felled log. "I am leading you away."

"Do you know what's happening here?" he asked, pausing to climb over that same log. "Why the animals and trees are sick?"

"Do you not feel it in the air?" she asked, finally turning to look back at him. He still couldn't make out her face, but her eyes caught the light for a moment, giving him a flash of emerald green. After the horrors he had witnessed in this forest, perhaps it was best that her face remain covered.

"What do you mean?" he replied, his brow furrowing.

She didn't elaborate, continuing on, George following behind her.

CHAPTER 3: FRIEND OR FOE

They ran for what must have been hours, George's lungs burning with the effort, his feet blistering. Even so, the cloaked stranger kept up her pace, flowing through the forest like a river. He had no idea how she knew where she was going -- everything looked the same to him. Still, the blackened, blighted trees slowly began to give way to healthier woodland. The pervasive mist started to clear, sunlight bleeding in through the leafy canopy, the air somehow less oppressive. There were still patches of wilted trees here and there, but it was far less frequent.

"I haven't heard one of those whistles for a while," he panted, pausing to lean against a tree as he caught his breath. "Shouldn't we stop for a moment?"

The woman looked around, then nodded her hooded head.

"We can stop for a time. They will not be able to track us this far."

"I have to get something to eat," George sighed, shrugging off his heavy pack. "I've been running all day. I feel like I'm about to collapse."

The stranger watched curiously as he set down his gear, finding a clear area of the forest floor where he began to arrange rocks in a circle. She offered no help as he collected fallen sticks to use as firewood, simply observing from a short distance. He pulled his fire starter from his pocket, tapping the flint and steel together to create a spark on a piece of dry foliage, cupping his hands around it as he blew on it to get it going. Before long, he had a modest fire going, and he set about constructing a tripod for his cooking pot. He filled the vessel from his canteen, setting the water to boil.

Fortunately for him, but unfortunately for his companions, being the designated cook for the group had meant that he was carrying most of their food on his person. As he hung his iron pot from the tripod and began to slice up pieces of dried meat on his cutting board, the cloaked figure drew closer, watching from beneath the shadow of her cowl.

"What is that?" she asked.

"You've never seen salted meat before?" George said as he slid the morsels into the boiling water. "It's just flesh that was dried in the sun, then salted to preserve it."

He added some handfuls of flour and some dried beans, along with some brown mushrooms that he had collected some days earlier, starting to stir the bubbling pot. The stranger inched closer, perhaps drawn by the scent, crouching on the other side of the campfire. She didn't say anything more as he finished cooking, George pouring some of the soup into his tin cup, pausing before bringing it to his mouth.

"Do you want some?" he asked. "Besides the meat, it's just mushrooms, beans, and flour."

"Flour?"

"Just mashed-up grains," he explained. "It's made from plants, it's fine."

She seemed skeptical, but when he held out the tin cup, she shuffled a little nearer. As she reached out to take it, he noticed that her gloved hands had five fingers, just like his. She brought it beneath the shadow of her hood, taking a tentative sniff, then raised it to what he assumed must be her lips. He heard her take a sip, then a second, seeming to enjoy it.

As she ate, he reached into one of his pockets, pulling out his compass. He flipped open the ornate brass case, watching the needle dart around erratically. His silent companion set down the cup on the forest floor, then crept over to his side of the campfire, peering down at the shining object.

"What is it?" she asked. From this angle, the sunlight that filtered through the branches above shone on her cheek, revealing a sliver of lily-white skin. She wasn't completely covered in fur, then...

"It's a compass," he explained. "It's a magnetic device that always points to the North, letting me know which direction I'm heading in. At least, that's what it's supposed to do. See this little needle?" He passed it to her, and she turned it over in her hands as she examined it, more interested in the floral patterns that were engraved into the brass than the face. "It shouldn't be spinning like that, it should be pointing in one direction," he continued. "Something about those...pyres that the natives have set up is interfering with the mechanism..."

"Natives?" she asked, glancing up at him. "They are not native."

"No?" he wondered, cocking an eyebrow at her. "What do you know about them?"

"They came from elsewhere, from outside this place," she replied cryptically. "When they arrived, the blight followed after them. I thought that you and yours were their kinsmen, but...you are not. Where have you come from?"

He considered explaining how he had journeyed across the ocean from another continent but thought better of it, surmising that she wouldn't understand such grand concepts.

"My name is George," he said, enunciating the name very carefully as he patted his chest for emphasis. "My people and I came from the East, from across the plains. From outside this forest."

"You look like them," she said, looking him up and down. "But your dress is different, and you fight with those," she added as she pointed to the rifle that was leaning up against the tree nearby. "What manner of magic is that?"

"It's not magic," he chuckled. "This is a firearm. It uses black powder to propel a lead ball that...never mind," he said as she cocked her head at him. "It kills with fire."

"I have been watching you," the stranger added, George trying not to look as disturbed as her admission made him feel. "There are few of you, yet you slew many of their number. Are you warriors?"

"No, no," he replied hastily. "We're explorers, we traveled here to see what lay West of us. We didn't come to pick a fight."

"I saw two of them slain by your own hand," she said, turning her eyes back to the compass. "You killed them with smoke and fire."

"Can I ask you something?" he began, quickly changing the subject. "How is it that you can talk as I do? You know my language, have you met people like me before? Are we not the first ones to arrive here?"

"I do not know your language," she chuckled, returning the compass to him. "You know mine."

"Uh...what?"

She didn't elaborate, returning to the other side of the fire, picking up the tin cup again.