Page 12 of The Wolf and the Woodsman

My relief at making it out of the woods is corroded by the knowledge that we are growing closer to Király Szek. Closer to my end. I only have the vague shape of it in my mind, the icy claw of fear around my heart, the taste of blood on my tongue. I would rather know how I will die than spend the journey wondering whether it will be by blade or by fire.

“What do you expect is waiting for you when we reach Király Szek?” I ask carefully. “A personal commendation from the king? A festival in your honor?”

Imre snorts. “I’m just hoping one of the other soldiers hasn’t stolen my cot.”

“Is this your first mission, as a Woodsman?”

“My first into Ezer Szem. We go all over Régország, many places other than the woods. I suppose the name Woodsman is a bit misleading.”

I want to ask what they do when they’re not fighting monsters or abducting wolf-girls, but I’m not sure I will like the answer. So instead I say, “I thought that’s what the king’s army is for.”

“The king’s army has been tied up on the border for twelve years. There are scarcely enough soldiers left to guard the capital.”

I draw an uneasy breath. I don’t like thinking of the Woodsmen doing the work of regular soldiers. It’s more difficult to loathe them if I imagine they are fighting only for gold, hoping to one day go home to their families.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Imre says, noticing my startled expression. “Most of us are still God-fearing men. Some more than others.”

“Like Peti.”

Imre gives an embattled sigh. “Peti was not a particularly pious man; he was only a wide-eyed simpleton, an easy mark for those with cunning tongues. He believed, as many other desperate peasants have been led to, that the presence of pagans in Régország is the cause of all our kingdom’s ills.”

This startles me too. We have the occasional bad harvest in Keszi, or the especially bitter winter, but we can only blame ourselves for that, or our fickle gods. Some years, Ördög is stronger, and sickness claims more of our people. When Isten manages to wrest back control, however—like the sun rising after a long night—we have bountiful, verdant springs, and a glut of new baby girls.

Of course, some years the Woodsmen come, and that is far worse than a bad harvest, or even the wiles of Ördög.

“What sort of ills?” I ask.

“Mostly the war,” says Imre. “I’ve heard the front line is soaked with Régyar blood. Merzan seems to grow stronger every day.”

News of the war rarely makes its way to Keszi. I know only the barest facts: three decades ago, King Bárány János married a Merzani princess in an effort to forge an alliance with our powerful neighbors to the south. It worked, for a time. She even bore him a son. But Merzan was too ambitious and Régország too stubborn. When the queen died, any hope of peace perished with her.

“It’s better not to agonize over such things,” Imre says finally. “The war is going badly. The winter will be long. If Godfather Life wills it so, He must have a reason. We are trained to serve, not to ask questions.”

I remember how the fire roared to life in front of the captain, so sudden and sure. Any wolf-girl would have marveled at such a fire, easily as impressive as the work of our best fire-makers. We would have called it power, magic. They called it piety. But what is the difference, if both fires burn just as bright?

The wind sings through the cattails, blowing fog from the lake. The false stars dotting the surface of the water wink like celestial eyes. Ferkó has already bedded down for the night, and soon Imre rolls over to join him. The captain, whom I did not see eat a bite of stew or swallow a sip of water, folds his arms in front of the fire. With the smear of the woods at our backs and only the pale, empty stretch of the Little Plain before us, it is finally safe for our whole convoy to sleep at once. But I stay awake, warming my sinful pagan body by the light of Godfather Life’s flames, battling the heaviness of my eyelids.

The captain’s knife is glinting on his boot. Perhaps I can still be a true wolf-girl tonight.

By the time the Woodsmen have fallen asleep, I can barely shake off oblivion myself. Exhaustion has crowded my head like a flock of screeching birds. My vision is blurring and sharpening by turns, making me dizzy. When I hear a rustling in the bramble to my right, I scarcely even jump.

It’s the same hen from the woods, feathers black as a slick of lake water, pecking its way toward me. Fear has turned my throat raw, so I swallow hard and mutter, “Stop scaring me.”

The hen cocks its head.

Then it explodes.

At least, that’s what it seems to do. There’s a flurry of feathers, a puff of smoke that reeks worse than the rot of Peti’s wound. And when the air clears, something that is not a chicken stands before me.

The creature looks almost human—just human enough to make my breath catch. Its gray-green skin is pulled taut over its spine and rib cage, the bones close to breaking through. Its head dangles perilously on a scrawny neck, black tongue unfurling over a row of blade-sharp teeth. Its tongue lolls on the ground as the creature crawls toward me on all fours, hissing and groaning. Its eyes are not eyes at all. They are twin clusters of flies gathered on its gaunt face.

I scramble back toward the fire, a scream rattling in my chest. Three more creatures are creeping through the brush, the hairs on their ridged backs bristling in the cold air. They crawl towards Ferkó and Imre, nosing the wet earth blindly, steered by scent alone.

I do scream, finally, when one of the creatures takes a bite out of Ferkó’s skull.

The creature swallows a hunk of flesh and muscle, blood streaming onto the grass. Ferkó’s skin flaps in the wind like a blown dress, exposing the plank of bone beneath it, right below his eye socket.

Imre jerks up with a start, but he doesn’t have time to shake off the bleariness of sleep. Another creature lunges at him, its teeth in his throat. The gurgling sound he makes as he chokes on his own blood is worse than the sight of it, worse than watching the creature chew his red muscle and swallow.