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I lay on my back, listening to the crackling of the fire, and closed my eyes, willing myself to fall asleep.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
The next thing I knew I heard someone moving away from the campsite and into the woods.
Probably one of the men going to relieve themselves. I scrunched my eyes shut again.
Finally, I slept.
Iawoke to the soundof shouting.
Slithering out of my tent, my mouth dropped open as I saw Draven holding Ragnar Whitehorn in the air by the scruff of his neck.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Whitehorn bellowed. “Put me the fuck down.”
Draven ignored him and instead gave the collar he held a rough shake. “You killed it, you motherfucker. You killed it and its cubs. For what? To sell the pelts? Do you see any fucking merchants around here?” Draven shook Whitehorn again, like a dog might shake a rat. “Well? Do you?”
“I killed it before it could kill us,” Whitehorn yelled. “Because you were too stupid to do what had to be done. Stupid or craven.”
“That’s enough,” I said sharply. I sure as hell didn’t want to defend Whitehorn. But these two men were the only protection I had. Whitehorn was despicable. But wasn’t Draven even more so when it came down to it? “What’s going on here?”
“See for yourself,” Draven said shortly, inclining his head.
I looked to where he’d gestured, then gasped and put a hand to my mouth.
The exmoor’s head was mounted to a tree with a crossbow’s bolt. The feline’s body lay a little ways off on a bloody patch of grass.
There were three little piles of fur beside it.
The cubs.
“He killed it with poison,” Draven snarled. “In the night. While it slept. He killed her cubs, too. You fucking treacherous coward. She wasn’t harming you or anyone. I told you that.”
Whitehorn sneered–which was rather risky considering Draven still held him by the throat.
I had lost any sympathy I might have had for Whitehorn along with my appetite. I sank down on a log by the fire, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Draven is right. It was cowardly. To kill a mother and cubs. Good hunters would never do such a thing. And poison? Even the meat is spoiled now,” I pointed out.
“I have the pelts,” Whitehorn said smugly. “And when we reach a bloody town, I can sell them for a pretty piece of coin.”
“You’re leaving them here. You’re not bringing them with us,” Draven growled in Whitehorn’s face, making the other man cringe. “Not a single fucking pelt. Do you hear me? For one, the smell could attract more of those things. Is that really what you want? For another, you don’tdeserveto keep them. She’s right. You’re not a hunter. You’re a spineless butcher.”
Abruptly, he let go of Whitehorn. The other man fell to the ground with a thud and a curse and scrambled up onto his feet.
Glaring at Draven, he spit at his feet. “You’d better watch your back.”
Draven gave him a look of absolute disdain. “Or what? You’ll poison me in my sleep? Stab me through the back? I wouldn’t be surprised, Whitehorn. But you would be. I’m harder to kill than you might think.”
He turned and stalked off towards where the horses were tethered.
I snuck another glance at the exmoor’s head, pinned to the tree. The yellow eyes were glazed and sightless. The pile of small furs were too awful to even look at. The female exmoor’s majestic gleaming coat was splattered with blood. What a horrific waste.
I pictured the exmoor returning to her cubs the night before, curling her body around them protectively and falling asleep. Then waking up to find she had been shot with a poisoned bolt, a strange man looking down at her, as her helpless cubs writhed and died.
“He’s right. You really are a monster,” I said softly, as Whitehorn sat down across from me and helped himself to food from the pot hanging across the fire.
Whitehorn shot me a level look and gave me a grin that revealed rows of grimy teeth. “Takes one to know one, Princess.”
