One
It had been a good morning until Dunston found the corpse.
When he’d left the hut, there had been nothing to suggest the grisly secret that was hiding deep within the forest. The weather was fine. A misty haze lingered in the folds of the land and along the winding course of the River Frama. There was a crisp bite to the air, but Dunston knew from the experience of many years that the mist would burn off as the sun climbed into the summer sky.
Sparrows scattered, bursting forth from the bracken as Odin, Dunston’s rangy merle hound, sped off into the undergrowth. To see the dog run always lifted Dunston’s spirits. The dog was close to seven years old, but seemed to think it was still a pup, such was its vigour and energy.
Dunston stretched his right leg and grimaced. Straightening, he winced as his back popped and cracked. He wished he could forget that he was no longer a young man, but his body would allow him no such fantasy. He’d suffered too many injuries, pushed his frame to the limits of endurance too many times for his muscles and joints not to protest. He ran his thick fingers through his beard and sighed. Sometimes he almost forgot the passing of the years. Each day was similar to the countless days before. But then he would catch a glimpse of himself in the polished plate that Eawynn had hung on the wall of his home and he would see that where his beard had once been as black as a winter’s night, now it was streaked with silver frost. And the hair that had grown so thick and wavy was now thinning, receding back from his weather-lined brow.
Still, he was yet hale and strong and he strode off along the path, listening absently to the muffled crackle of Odin’s passage through the leaf litter and undergrowth. After a few moments, silence fell on the forest and Dunston wondered whether the dog had picked up the scent of a deer. More than likely he would be rolling in some unspeakable dung. By God, if that dog returned covered in shit as he so often did, the stupid animal would be taking a dip in the river before heading home. And he’d be sleeping outside the hut until the stench abated. Christ alone knew what pleasure the hound took in lathering himself in excrement. Perhaps his instincts told him that in that way he would find it easier to stalk prey. Dunston thought it would be hard for any wild animal not to smell the dog’s approach after he’d smeared himself liberally with manure. And yet, no matter how often he rebuked the beast, it never stopped him.
Dunston pursed his lips, meaning to whistle for Odin, but he paused before making a sound. Something was amiss.
He halted in a small glade, shaded beneath the surrounding trees and listened. He had lived with nobody but Odin for company for long enough to know better than to ignore his feelings. Breathing silently through his opened mouth, he noted his steaming breath billowing momentarily. There was no wind. He listened to the forest, straining to hear any indication of what might have unsettled him.
Silence. As absolute as a tomb.
Gone was the sound of Odin’s bounding gait through the wood. No trees rustled their leaves. The birds, usually filling the forest with their twittering songs, had all hushed. The stillness was disquieting.
Alert now, Dunston moved stealthily into the brush beside the trail. With barely a glance he made out where Odin had passed. The fresh white wood of a broken twig. A bent fern. There, in the muddy earth between the boles of two gnarled oaks, a fresh paw print, claws dug in deeply where the dog had been running fast.
With scarcely a sound, the aches in his knee and back forgotten, Dunston followed Odin’s trail. He stepped lithely and as quietly as a shade. He did not hurry, for to do so would be to make noise when he knew that the surprise of silence would serve him well against man and beast.
There were creatures that dwelt in these lands that it would do well to respect. He sometimes saw the spoor of bears and at times in winter, wolves would cause him trouble, ripping the flesh from the animals he snared. But he was not unduly concerned about bears or wolves. He was more worried that Odin might have stumbled upon one of the old boars that roamed the woodland. To face one openly could well spell death for a dog, no matter how strong. The larger boars had great, dagger-like tusks and he had seen hounds and once even an unlucky man, disembowelled by the furious wild pigs.
Dunston placed his hand on the large seax that was scabbarded at his belt. He had no spear, and if he was charged by a big boar, he knew the knife would do him little good. But the touch of its antler hilt reassured him. Barely breathing, he stalked forward, as silent as any woodland animal. He paused again, listening and sniffing the air. There was no sound. Surely if Odin had stumbled upon a boar, there would have been a cacophony of grunts and growls as the animals fought. Even the largest boar would not slay Odin without a fight. And yet, there was just the unnerving hush.
Light sliced through the leafy canopy, dappling the loam and leaf mould. Dunston dropped to one knee, the joint letting out a sharp report. He winced at the sudden sound, loud in the unnatural stillness. He peered at the ground, unsure for a moment what it was he saw. And then, the shapes of the trampled leaves and the scuffed mark on the moss-covered rock by the root of a linden tree all made sense in an instant of clarity. Odin had passed this way, but so too had several men. Large, heavy men, to judge from their tracks. Three of them. No, four. They had been travelling northward. Dunston examined the tracks closely. They were fresh. He did not recognise them. These were not the prints left by any of the men who came to the wood from Briuuetone. He would never mistake the tracks of the charcoal burners, the woodsmen or the swineherd leading his pigs in search of mast under the trees. No, these were strangers, he was sure of it. But what would four men be doing creeping around in his forest? Perhaps they were wolf-heads; men outside of the law, whose oaths were worthless. Such men could be dangerous. They had nothing to lose.
He pushed himself up and before setting off once more after Odin, he listened again. There was a whisper of a sound and an instant later, the grey, white and black hound loped into the lancing sunlight.
Odin, tongue lolling, panted. His chest heaved.
“Where have you been, boy?” asked Dunston in a hushed hiss. His heart soared at the animal’s safe return and he let out a pent up breath, surprised at his own worry for the hound. He reached out a hand and Odin nudged it with his snout, licking his fingers. The dog’s nose was wet and cool. Dunston rubbed absently at the dog’s ear and was surprised to see a smudge of crimson on the beast’s fur.
Blood.
He looked down at his hand and saw that it was slick with the stuff. Pushing Odin’s head to one side so that it caught a ray of sunlight, he saw that the hound’s mouth and muzzle were drenched in gore.
By Christ’s bones, what had Odin discovered? Had he perhaps brought down a fawn? Odin was a good hunter and would often chase and slay animals. But somehow Dunston knew that this blood did not belong to any animal. The fresh prints of the men told him that much. That, and the unnerving quiet of the wood.
For the merest of instants Dunston considered turning away and walking back to his hut. A small voice whispered to him that he wanted no part of whatever it was Odin had found.
Later, on more than one occasion, he would regret not listening to that voice.
Yet as surely as he knew he wanted nothing to do with the strangers that were in his forest, nor to discover where the blood had come from, so he understood that it was not in his nature to walk away.