Chapter Nine

In spite of his unseemly predicament, the rain felt invigorating as it fell down on him, dampening his clothes and allowing him a small level of comfort in the idea that it might end up creating a watery grave for him.

Slowly, he mustered the strength to return to his feet, even though it was the last thing his body wanted to do. He limped momentarily. His leg ankle showed mild bruising on the joint and was a little swollen, but it was nothing that would completely incapacitate him or greatly limit his mobility. The only thing that was odd was that, for the life of him, Copé couldn’t figure out what could have happened to his ankle as he was certain that he had dropped on his back. He must have hit it on something on the way down, he supposed.

The water soaked his clothes and his hair, but it was also starting to make the ground around him slippery and with the consistency of mush. He knew he had to escape from the hole sooner or later or else he would risk illness or even death. Although he had no doubt it would ramp up shortly, the rain hadn’t yet become a full fledged downpour, and so, Copé took advantage of the hard dirt walls while he had them and tried to make his escape.

Brandishing his knives, The Thief drove one into the wall of dirt and another into the dirt some ways above that. They were dug deep enough to support his weight so long as he didn’t test his luck too much. Swiftly, he pulled himself up, dislodging one of them from the dirt before stabbing it higher up, rinse and repeat. It wasn’t very long before he made it out. His hair wet and his body covered in filth, at least he could say he was out of the hole.

He was given no time to enjoy his freedom, however. As, moments later, he was met with the feeling of cold sweet grazing up against of the side of his neck. Copé turned his head. The blade of a sword rested on his shoulders. He kept his eyes pointed down at the dirt, as if he was bracing himself to be decapitated right then and there. He had surely made enough people mad at him over the years. His beheading never came, however. Copé’s eyes went up from the ground and looked at the man with the sword. It was a dark skinned man of a muscular build. If Secrat had to wager a guess, he would say that he was of Jalint origins. He looked cold and as if he could do the deed of beheading a man and feel nothing at all, which was the opposite of Secrat’s preferred eye temperature in this moment. The look in the dark man’s eyes told a story of brutality, but Copé didn’t necessarily care to hear it. His age neither suggested youth nor wisdom, but Secrat could see that he was somewhere in the middle of his life. The man’s face also didn’t offer too much explanation. The best way Secrat could think to describe it was stoic. It didn’t offer insight into anything other than the fact he was less than happy to see Copé. The major uncertainty was in exactly how unhappy he was to see Secrat and whether he should be preparing for his end. Then again, if he was about to die, chances are that he would already be dead.

Secrat offered a grin at the man, hoping, if nothing else, to alleviate some of the tension between them. The man said nothing. With that, Secrat decided to try and make his leave, awkwardly leaning away from the man’s sword. Part of him was considering just jumping back into the hole and calling it a day. Unfortunately, it seemed the man had something else in mind, and when Copé backed away, the man moved with him, keeping the sword on his shoulders.

The man had a bald head. The rain brought a certain shine to it, albeit a faint one. He wore black leggings and didn’t wear a shirt. Copé, on his knees, was vulnerable. His knives could have sliced the man into pieces if given the opportunity, but the man’s sword kept that from being a viable option. Secrat struggled to find the words to speak. He liked to consider himself a sharp-tongued and well-versed individual, but there was nothing he could think of to find a way out of this situation.

Luckily, he didn’t have to speak, instead, the man got the ball rolling for him: “Why are you here?”

His voice matched his demeanor well. His voice sounded deep and mirthless. There was no room for enthusiasm and no room for much else of anything other than a general void of nothingness. That was what his reminded Copé of – nothingness.

Copé’s struggle to find words continued. If he would have had it his way, he would have chosen to remain silent altogether, but the man’s voice demanded he give some kind of rebuttal.

“I am only in search of a night’s rest and shelter from the rain, my friend.” Copé responded.

The man’s body jerked for a moment as if he was about to make a strike, Copé flinched at it and prepared for the worst, but then nothing came. Secrat peeked his head up for a second and felt a bit of relief as the man sheathed his sword back into its scabbard. At last, Copé climbed up to his feet. The mud leaving his leggings filthy.

The man turned around and began to walk away, “There is nothing here for you. I advise that you leave.”

Copé smirked. He felt at the handle of the Sword of Tertius, feeling a lot more at ease and confident now that there wasn’t a sword anywhere near his neck. He watched while the man walked away and noticed something peculiar and deliberate about the way he moved. The way he was walking was not simply back to the cabin. It was, but it was also more than that. He was not walking in a straight line, but was moving in a very specific, very deliberate pattern. He was navigating past all the traps he had set. The Thief put weight on his ankle and winced for a moment, then took a second to look at the trap that had been the cause of it. No one dug a nine foot hole like that for shits and giggles, and it was certainly too much trouble to go to in order to catch any of the game on the outskirts of Acera.

“I see you are a fan of holes,” Copé noticed, any all the time he had spent at The Hills brothel, he could relate. “You must have something pretty special to go to all that trouble.

Copé smiled as he spoke. He felt a sudden feeling of confidence that was likely ill-advised.

The Hunter stopped. He stayed dead in his tracks. His reaction was not swift. He didn’t say anything for awhile. He merely stood there. His back turned from Secrat. It was at that moment Copé could truly appreciate the size and demeanor of the man before him. The Thief didn’t feel afraid and he didn’t feel intimidated, he had fought and overcome larger foes. But a lot of that might very well have been for the fact there was still some distance between them. Had he been close and had his sword still been out, it might have been a different story.

The man finally turned his head, although not his whole body. The man didn’t appear afraid or intimidated by Secrat either.

All he offered Copé was but a mere glance: “It is in your best interest that you leave. You don’t want none of what I have. That is all there is to it,” he said.

Secrat took that as a challenge. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was sheer curiosity of the spectacle or maybe it was because he had felt his masculinity and self worth threatened in recent days. Maybe it was about nothing more than wanting to try out his fancy new sword before being forced to surrender it to Father Toucan Veras. Whatever the reason, without a second thought, Secrat took out one of the knives in the pouch of his leggings and chucked it at the man. The knife spiraled and twirled through the air, making a whistling sound before it met its mark. The knife punctured into the back of the man’s shoulder.

“I think I do want what you have and I think I am going to take it,” Secrat said.

The knife stuck into the man’s back, drawing blood. The Hunter dropped off of his feet, down to one knee. For a moment, he felt around with his hand, searching in agony for the handle. The wound may have drawn blood, but it wasn’t enough to incapacitate him for very long. Copé knew he had to strike fast. With that, Secrat welcomed the Sword of Tertius out from its scabbard and felt the blade in his hands. Truth was, the sword in all its majesty felt no different than any other sword, but the novelty of it was not lost on him. Even if he didn’t respect any of the man that sat on the throne and ruled Acera, there was a certain charm to him of all people making use of the weapon.

He walked forward.

The man in front of him might have been physically stronger than him, but a slash with a blade across bare skin was enough to put down even the strongest foe. Before he would have a chance to, however, he stepped upon another hole disguised beneath a pile of leaves and twigs.

“Motherfucker,” Secrat mumbled beneath his breath.

The fall would have been unpleasant and surely would not have been much of a picnic to try and get out of, but, luckily for him, he managed to catch himself, using the sword for leverage. He drove the sword into the dirt as hard as he could on his way down and dangled from inside the hole as a result. His fingers scurried and his arms worked their fastest to have him return to his feet. His life depended on it. The man wouldn’t be down and out for very long and now, Secrat was the one who was vulnerable and without the upper hand.

The Thief fought his way up. The task wasn’t too difficult, but the rain that came down below made it a challenge to climb, and because of this, he had to use all of his allotted upper body strength to pull himself up by the sword. It was a close call. The dirt had lost much of its integrity from the rain and was mere moments away from giving it and allowing the sword to break free. It was a little thing, but it would have most certainly have meant The Thief’s mistake had the miscalculation occurred. Thankfully, he succeeded. He dragged the sword out from the mud and readied the weapon his his hands. he held onto it tightly, braced to be on the defensive. However, as he looked around, he saw no signs of the man.

At the front of the cabin, the bloodied knife rested on the ground, barely visible within the tall grass, and a trail of blood led over to the porch. Copé let out a breath. As much as he didn’t want to deal with the unpredictability of a chase, he preferred The Hunter’s decision to flee rather than taken advantage of him while he was incapacitated. He started to walk toward the cabin. His eyes looked down and around, making certain not to step into anymore holes. It was difficult to distinguish some of them. Some of them blended in with the scenery very well, whereas other areas appeared more deliberate. Like a blind man, Secrat used his sword to navigate his way forward, stabbing at the ground in front of him to make certain it was steady and, more importantly, existent.

The muscular man kicked the door of his house open, startling The Thief. The noise was loud and enough to cause Secrat to flinch. The Hunter stepped out, one of his hands holding his sword, and the other hand clutching his back, near his shoulder blade where Secrat’s knife had struck. He had a look of anguish on his face, but beyond that there was also a look that simply shared his anger. Copé tried to look him in the eyes, but the man didn’t abide that request. Instead, he merely turned his head and looked back over to the door to his home. Secrat watched, confused.

A moment later, a large dog came running out. Secrat could only assume it was a dog, it looked almost like a wolf, with silver fur and a particularly prodigious frame. The rain made it difficult to make everything out. The sky was becoming blacker and blacker and the rain was hitting the ground even faster than before. Copé heard the roar of thunder as lightning struck somewhere far off.

The Thief readied himself. His eyes, now widening, transitioned themselves over from the man to the dog. His sword was in his hands. The rain having washed the mud off from the blade. It shined some, for a moment, Secrat may have even seen what was so special about it. He hoped the sword was special. He needed it to be. Copé’s clothing was drenched, with mud covering his leggings, and water slithered down nearly every part of his body.

The man finally threw his eyes over to Secrat and spoke: “Get him!”

That was all it took, and in that moment, and moment’s thereafter, the silver canine was after him. The dog barked feverishly as it galloped forth toward its prey. One thing Copé noticed was the way it ran, navigating the little traps and spots with ease. Its nose down, as though it could sniff out the traps. Copé readied his sword tightly in his hands. A single swipe was all it would take to kill the mutt, and he could offer a presumptive strike much faster than it could sink its teeth into his skin. Or, at least, he hoped. If he missed a swipe, the dog most surely would make him pay for it.

He overheard the sound of scurrying nails on hardwood floor and it broke his concentration. Three more dogs of the same breed came pouring out of the cabin. The confidence he once felt had now left him.

Copé sheathed his sword back into his scabbard, deciding it best to change his approach to something more strategic. With that mindset, The Thief turned his back to the wolves and began to run for his life. He heard the dogs starting to run the second he did, and that only quickened his pace. He cornered around one of the holes in the ground and made a massive leap of faith over the last one, the one that he had fallen into at the beginning of this whole mess. The jump was a large one, and it almost didn’t pay off, but he managed to make it to the other side without falling or having to catch himself.

He started to run deeper into the wilderness, away from the cabin, and hopefully away from the dogs. he could hear them barking behind him, and he knew it was unlikely he would be able to outrun them for long.

There were four of them. Each one more ferocious than the last.

He felt one of them make a lunge at his leggings, nearly grabbing a bite of his ankle in doing so. Thankfully, Copé was able to swipe away in time but the fear of it was now deeply embedded in him. It was the realization that he was now in a lot, a lot of danger. He turned abruptly to the right. The decision didn’t create any distance away from him and the dogs, and in fact, it might have lost him an inch or two, but he was starting to develop a method for survival in his mind. There was a tree, a plain and ordinary tree, but a sanctum for him, nonetheless.

He ran faster, the fatigue was starting to set in now, and the heaving would come after that. He hadn’t kept in the best of shape since leaving The Red Flux, but there was also more than that, a certain leeriness in running too fast, afraid that the mud might engulf both of his feet and trip him. He jumped off into the air toward the tree, reaching for a low hanging branch. He succeeded, successfully managing to clasp it with both hands. His feet still dangled freely, but he lifted them up to keep them out from the dogs’ grasps. They didn’t let up on him either, all they did was bark and bark and bark some more. The tree did the same. Copé smirked at the stupid thought, his mind had gone to near hysterics. Then, he started to climb up onto the branch, worried that it wouldn’t be able to support his weight. The limb was thick, but it also was beginning to bend beneath him. He slowly climbed to his feet atop the branch and reached out for one of the higher limbs. This arm of the tree had more girth and strength to it. He almost lost his balance in the process while doing so, trying to reach near the larger branch, but, once he did, he immediately found himself with better stability.

The wolves ceased their barking for a moment when they thought he was about to fall, anticipating their food coming down to them.

The wetness of the tree branches made it difficult, but he was eventually able to find his footing again. Once that happened, the wolves went back to barking, but Copé didn’t care. he let out a breath of air – a sigh of relief. It was a release that told him he had long since forgotten to breathe.

The rain persisted, and if anything, had only worsened. Copé had to admire his situation. How did I ever get into this predicament? It is like I bring this situations upon myself! His back rested itself against the body of the tree. There was a lot of greenery to behold. Earlier in the week, he may have even appreciated the beauty, having longed for such terrain after his time spent in the Whispey Deserts. Now, however, he found himself longing for the sands – in the end, he supposed it came down to which place was closest to bring upon his death. The pitter-patter of rain slapping down against the leaves would have sounded pleasant in a different situation.

He winced as a new scary thought entered his mind that made it even more difficult to enjoy his modest shade from the rain. It was the thought that the owner of these wolves might go looking for them, and that the barking might lead him exactly right to him. With that, Copé knew one way or the other that he had to do something about the dogs. He had to do something to keep himself as far away from the man as possible.

With few options to choose from, he did the only thing he could think to do. He took one of his knives out from his pocket. If he dropped knives down, it would certainly present the opportunity of picking them all off one by one. He had so many of these goddamn things, but their use had proven itself to him many times now. They had earned their keep and then some. He leaned himself on the branch of the tree, looking neither skillful nor tactful in his intent. He was certainly not stealthy or discreet with his scheming, but, then again, they were dogs, and so, of course, that didn’t matter.

He leaned himself as much as he could without coming in danger of falling off and looked down at the dogs below. They were sopping with rainwater, but they still barked their little hearts away, showing off their teeth in snarls. Their wet fur may have made them appear smaller, but they were no less intimidating with their large teeth, and thus, Secrat had no intention in fighting them head on.

Sorry, boys, Secrat thought to himself. Truth was, he felt guilty about what he was about to do. Even in his youth, he had never been taken by the thrill of hunting animals and loathed harming them needlessly. Unfortunately, when they posed the threat of gnawing him to death, he could hardly call it a needless act.

In a quick whip, he sent his knife spinning out of hands downward. It didn’t build up the type of momentum that would cause it to swish in the air, he was only about thirteen feet off the ground, after all. It didn’t take very long for it to hit its mark either, but it didn’t puncture into one of the canines like he had envisioned. Rather, it stabbed into the mud with a small splat sound and the dogs sniffed at it like they thought it was a slab of meat. Their interest in the blade didn’t last very long and soon after, they once again returned to barking at The Thief with the same hatred and vivacity as before.

Secrat sighed, but didn’t lose hope.

He brought out another knife, this one had been strapped to his leg by a cheaply made piece of leather. He held the knife in his hands. It was completely indistinguishable from the last knife. The members of The Red Flux usually had anywhere to fifty or sixty of them specially made for them (of course, not all of these would be kept on their person). It was a bizarre and strange little tradition they had etched out for themselves. Like his leather strap, it was also very cheaply made. The knives usually had handles made from random, stolen supplies, but, on occasion, they would just go all-out and steal knives. Copé’s knives weren’t like that though.

They were looked after and tried to have a certain niceness to them. They had a certain special quality to them. Father Toucan Veras had been a blacksmith before dispatching off from wherever he was before the Flux, Secrat didn’t ever ask about that, likewise, Toucan never really seemed eager to share. At the very least, Secrat knew he had once been a blacksmith. Because of this, and because of how close Toucan had been with him, all of his knives were hand-made. They had the steel of a blade and were ordinary knives, but a chunk of silver was encrusted into each of them. It wasn’t a lot of silver. Rather, it was only a very small, teensy amount, but it was visible enough on the black handles to show off the letters ‘SC’ etched on them.

After taking aim at one of the dogs, Copé threw yet another knife, using enough force as he could without jeopardizing his aim. This time, the knife sank into the side of the wolf’s rib cage and sent it spiraling down on its side. The animal let out a loud whelping sound and whimpered, laying down in the grass. The other dogs flinched some at the sight of the knife, but were otherwise undeterred, still trying to scrape and crawl their way up the tree. The struck wolf wasn’t dead but was starting to lose some blood. Copé was fine with that as a result. He saw no reason to kill any of the dogs, and although he wouldn’t allow for his own guilt to keep him from survival, it wasn’t necessarily his objective. All he had to do was injure them bad enough that they wouldn’t try to chow down on him when he climbed back to ground level.

Alas, ’twas not meant to be, The Thief soon came to discover, as he searched through his person, he found himself with no more knives at his disposal. The fact surprised him some, but only a little. He couldn’t remember a time when he was without a knife, but, looking back, he couldn’t remember a time when more chaos had ensued in such a small window of time. It was no wonder all his knives had become misplaced.

That thought didn’t stick with him for very long. Or, at least, his mind found priority elsewhere when he remembered the man was likely nearing him by now. Not to mention, with the advantage of having three dogs and, of course, not being caught up in a tree, there was a very good chance he would be able to win the fight between them.

Copé looked around the tree, in desperate search for some means of survival. His mind toyed with the thought of breaking off the smaller branch and then, reaching down and beating each one of them over the head with it until they each lost consciousness. He thought against it – the whole affair would take too long and chances were that it wouldn’t work to begin with. The answer to his dilemma would be the simplest one. He knew that much and yet, that didn’t really get him any closer to finding it.

He looked up at the tree. With the rain coming down, he was leery about climbing up any further, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He stood to his feet on the branch, being careful not to slip or fall off. He hugged the tree like a child did their father’s leg – hoping it wouldn’t buck him off his leg into the mud like his own father had. He had trouble finding traction or a grip, however. Although his fingers latched onto the bark with all their might, he could find no way to make his ascent. The bark was wet and difficult to make a handle out of, meanwhile, his knives were now down with the dogs.

The rest of the surroundings, such as the neighboring trees, didn’t offer up too much assistance for him. If he had been able to further ascend up the trees, then he would have, and then he’d have made his way to one of its nearby brethren to hide there until The Hunter and his dogs left him. That wasn’t a viable option. The next tree branch was a far distance. He would have to leap a distance of at least five feet, not forgetting a vertical of nearly the same. He dug his fingers into the wood of the tree. This wasn’t something he would be able to climb his way out of. If he wouldn’t have thrown his knives earlier, maybe that would have been a different story. There was no clean cut way of escape, no lingering detail that he was forgetting. There were no other viable options for him to work with.

It was over.

His eyes followed the droplets of rain on their way down and he saw the dogs. The wounded one no longer moved. Most likely bled out, he supposed. That still left the other dogs to deal with. Poor thing. Now that he knew he wasn’t getting out of the situation alive, its death was made officially worthless. The Thief shook his head in disbelief. It wasn’t as though he could allow himself to merely keel over and die without a fight either. The only option he had was the one he would have to attempt, viable or not.

And that was that, beggars for survival couldn’t be choosers for survival, that’s how Copé saw it. No part of him at all wanted to die. He liked himself too much.

Thus, The Thief stood at the top of the branch, his legs shook awkwardly for a times as he tried to find his center. Once he felt comfortable enough, he looked out at the far away branch, and a feeling of apprehension filled him. There were butterflies in his stomach, but those butterflies wouldn’t be enough to help him fly, and neither would apprehension. He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaped out off from the branch and toward the one much higher.

And he missed.

It wouldn’t have mattered how much momentum or oomph he could have had; it wasn’t in his ability to make the jump. He knew that now for certain.

The fall was fast and the impact happened before Secrat even had the opportunity to fully appreciate the fact he was falling. The fall was under twenty feet and not enough to be fatal, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Everything hurt. The Thief’s whole body ached. He winced as he struggled to move forward, a sharp pain stinging up his back. At the very least, he didn’t think anything was broken, but that was a belief he didn’t hold with complete certainty yet. He was lucky enough to land in a row of bushes, the shrubbery breaking his fall and keeping himself from cracking any bones that were too important. Thorns plucked themselves into his arms, however, and that was certainly far from a pleasant feeling. For now, The Thief didn’t make any abrupt movement to try and free himself from the bushes, if only because he wasn’t exactly certain he could just yet.

The thorns drew blood on both of his arms, including the arm that had only just recently been splintered by a plank of wood, but still, The Thief showed restraint and kept from moving, if only because he was surprised by what happened. Or, more so, he was surprised by what hadn’t happened. For now, all he did was grit through the pain and listen. He heard no rustling through the grass or fast movement. The wolves were not in his pursuit. For all he knew, they may have thought he was still up in the tree!

Copé almost wanted to laugh, but didn’t, knowing even the faintest sound would likely have them on his tail.

He rested his head against the leafy pillow the bush provided and felt the rain dampen him. It was nearly suffocating as fell over him, choking him. Although it now tried to bring him death, ironically, it was the very thing that might have saved his life, disguising the sound of his fall. The sky had darkened now and, very soon, it would be pitch black. At last, the water droplets coming down became so large and so abundant that he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He brought his hand to his face and wiped the rain away.

The wolves had now stopped barking. Copé’s ears pricked as he listened in. Beyond the rain and the brewing sound of thunder, he could hear The Hunter’s deep voice calling them off.

By the time the voice traveled out from earshot, Secrat couldn’t help but feel some disappointment and sadness inside of him. He felt a disappointment in man’s cruelty. All he had wanted was shelter from the rain.

2.

Secrat Copé had some trouble making it back to a vertical position. By now, he was keeping a running tally of all the injuries he had accrued in his most recent excursions. The bout with not Azlak Temps had left him with a concussion. The bout with Christique had left his lungs sore and his arm fairly wounded. By that logic, a few scrapes and bruises while trying to flee from The Hunter wasn’t too bad. As he stood to his feet, however, he felt a sharp pain in his ankle and remembered one more injury he would have to add to the list.

He wasn’t for certain how long he had been out. If he had to guess, he would have said five to six hours, judging by the way the melancholic morning sunlight broke through from within the crevices of the leaves overhead. For all he knew, it could have been an entirely new day altogether. He was only thankful he hadn’t drowned in the rain. There was a story he could remember hearing once about knights in heavy armor falling off their horses and landing into puddles, their armor being too heavy for themselves to stand themselves upright in time, they’d drown to death. It was a funny visual, but a sad omen. If the knights of yesteryear were stupid enough to do that, what hope did the knights of the current five major kingdoms have?

Even though he knew enough time had went by that he was most likely in the clear, that didn’t stop him from being leery with every footstep he took. As he walked, brushing past low-hanging branches and bustling up against the underbrush, he plucked thorns out from his arm. Every small sound was enough to startle him. He didn’t know much about The Hunter, but he knew enough about him to know he was a patient man. Any person who would dig that many holes and set that many traps, not to mention, train a pack of wolves to know how to progress through his little obstacle course, had to be. If, at any time, he did run into the man, Secrat knew he was in no condition to fight him.

There were streams and streams of rainwater flooding the forest, making the otherwise quaint forest look like the Hickly Swamps. Not only did The Thief’s whole body ache, but it chafed, a soggy, tattered and downtrodden representation of a so-called prodigy. Secrat may have disagreed with most things his Father Toucan Veras said, and especially disagreed with his expulsion from the troupe, but it was hard to say he didn’t feel at least a little humbled by his pathetic predicament.

Copé fell to his knees. His clothing dripping wet, worn and ripped, it was no longer worthy of even being called a peasant’s garb. He groveled through the soaked nothingness that encumbered the Unprotected Wilderness. His knees sinking down into the mud.

The rain had died down, but its aftermath would surely be felt for days to come.

If nothing else, it cleansed him of his blood. Whether or not he would survive infection by the time it was all said and over with was a different story entirely though.

His hair went over his eyes, but his present shock and feeling of decay made him immune to such nuisances. He would have to find shelter of some kind. His survival dependent on the problem’s solution.

The water droplets sliding off the leaves and the rustling trees of animals up above him seeking refuge gave him a sense of urgency.

He ascended back to his feet, a dubious task done a little too impatiently, he stumbled back down, falling face first into the sludge. He spat the grime out from his mouth, coughing some, then, at last fought back to a standing position again. Onward, he trudged, his body aching, lessened only by his mind’s sense of swimming cessation, telling him in its own special way that he was about to lose consciousness. He forced himself to keep on moving but stopped once he met a large creek. The creek barred him, now overflowing, but a hollowed log was in view, acting as a bridge to cross to the other side. Unfortunately, Secrat could feel himself withering away, shriveling down, and knew he would be able to cross it if he tried.

He heard a sound behind him. Copé turned at once, unsheathing the Sword of Tertius from his scabbard. He fully expected to see The Hunter and his wolves to have found him and come to collect.

Instead, he spotted a hyena. Or, at least, he assumed it was spotted. It was completely soaked, looking small and harmless without its fur fluffing it out. Somehow it looked even uglier than usual, however. Tired, Secrat braced himself, threatening the hyena with his sword, hoping it would simply run away from him.

Instead, the bastard bared its teeth and snarled.

Secrat tightened his grip around the sword, his own teeth grinding against themselves, far from in the mood to exert himself. He brought the sword back with vile intent, but, in moments, some between trees and some through bushes, three hyenas, then four hyenas, came into vision. They were traveling together, all of them in search of refuge, but once they took sight of Secrat, their attentions were on him and him alone.

“Fucking God, motherfucker,” Copé yelled, turning his back to them and running toward the log over the large creek.

He could feel himself fading, and knowing he would be unable to balance himself in the predicament, he opted against running atop the log. The Thief crawled within the log’s interior and scooted backward, himself facing the hyenas as they neared. Seated, he held the Sword of Tertius, keeping it pointed at the ugly animals, ready to jab them should one of them attempt to come after him.

One did, and Copé swiftly killed it with the sword, stabbing the blade through the bottom of its jaw. The death was quick, neither a cry nor whimper of reaction. The only sound The Thief did seem to hear was of the hollow log beginning to sink into the mud. It started out minimally, like sinking in quicksand, but, in mere seconds, the log fell through and Copé could no longer see the pack of hyenas. The hyena he had killed, however, was broken in half by the log’s descent.

As one end of the log fell into the creek and the stream started to sway it, Copé crawled up fast. He could see the other end begin to lose itself. Quickening his pace, he leaped out from the other end of the log and was planted down into the mud. He pushed himself up, his eyes lent to the other side of the creek. The hyenas stared at him.

In that moment, he hated the Unprotected Wilderness, the Whispey Deserts, and Maharris as a whole. He thought about how much easier it would have been to be back alongside his own pack of hyenas: The Red Flux.

The Thief needed to make it right with them. It would be the only chance at light beyond the branches and an end to the storm. They wouldn’t be very far now.