those of animals—sheep, maybe, or goats.
But then something crunched under his heel and skidded slightly in a manner so uniquely nasty, and so unlike any sensation which had gone before, that for several seconds curiosity and distaste were evenly matched. Curiosity, inevitably, won—and Aldric was to regret that it had done so.
For what he picked up was a human hand. The phalanges were shattered—that had been the crunch which he had felt as much as heard, like treading barefoot on a snail—and its pulpy, putrefying flesh had burst and smeared under his weight. It had lain on the ground for a month or more, and he was thankful that his own hands were gloved as a foul ooze soiled the black leather covering them and a thick reek of rottenness wafted past his nostrils, offending the clean air of evening. But it was neither of these far-too-familiar horrors which brought his stomach to the brink of nausea, nor was it the griping pain of that incipient retch which stung his eyes to tears.
It was realisation that this hand had been a child’s.
He was already drawing breath to summon Evthan when he remembered what the man had told him at their first meeting, and the recollection shut his mouth with an audible click of clenching teeth. The most cruel thing in all the world would be to let the Jouvaine hunter see what he had found, because he guessed that this pathetic remnant was a leaving of the Beast. Perhaps all that remained of Evthan’s daughter… Aldric hoped not. He gently laid down the fragment and, with an effort, kept any hint of revulsion from the way he wiped his fingers clean. Then he drew his
tsepan
from its lacquered sheath and used the needle point to scratch out a little grave. In other circumstances he would have muttered an apology for dishonouring the dirk with such a menial task, but not now. The needs of simple decency were worthy of an honourable weapon.
After he had finished and pressed the acid soil back into place, Aldric remained on his knees, head bowed and eyes tight shut as he tried to force himself back to calmness. Instead of the detached regret he might have expected, he was filed with such a rage as he would never have imagined possible over the death of some unknown foreign peasant’s unknown child. Its intensity made his whole body tremble, so that frosty reflections danced along his
tsepan’s
blade. For once Crisen Ger-uath and the inner turmoil of his own honour ceased to be important. If by razing the Jevaiden down to bare black rock he could have been assured of the obliteration of the Beast, he would have fired the forest without a second thought.
As that first spasm of impotent fury faded to a leashed-in killing mood—something infinitely more dangerous— Aldric realised bitterly why Evthan was subject to such strange fits of brooding. If he, outlander,
hlensyarl
, could be so overwhelmed by grief and anger at the evidence of a single slaying, then what state must the Jouvaine’s mind be in now that thirty people, many of them known to him, had been ripped apart and eaten? And how many of that thirty had walked all unaware into the jaws of the Beast because they trusted the protection of a man they called the finest hunter in the province… ?
There was a film of icy perspiration on the Alban’s face as he rose, and a little twitch of terror in the way he slid the
tsepan
out of sight. In Evthan’s place he would have been expected to use the wicked blade as it was meant to be used, and be grateful for the privilege of an honourable end. Except for one thing: in this situation not even the most sincerely contrite ritual suicide would help either the dead or those still living. It would help only the Beast. Aldric bared his teeth viciously.
And then, because there was nothing of any immediacy to be done, he clamped down on his feelings and pushed them to the back of his mind. Not that they ceased to have substance—no man’s willpower was so powerful—but distanced from
But then something crunched under his heel and skidded slightly in a manner so uniquely nasty, and so unlike any sensation which had gone before, that for several seconds curiosity and distaste were evenly matched. Curiosity, inevitably, won—and Aldric was to regret that it had done so.
For what he picked up was a human hand. The phalanges were shattered—that had been the crunch which he had felt as much as heard, like treading barefoot on a snail—and its pulpy, putrefying flesh had burst and smeared under his weight. It had lain on the ground for a month or more, and he was thankful that his own hands were gloved as a foul ooze soiled the black leather covering them and a thick reek of rottenness wafted past his nostrils, offending the clean air of evening. But it was neither of these far-too-familiar horrors which brought his stomach to the brink of nausea, nor was it the griping pain of that incipient retch which stung his eyes to tears.
It was realisation that this hand had been a child’s.
He was already drawing breath to summon Evthan when he remembered what the man had told him at their first meeting, and the recollection shut his mouth with an audible click of clenching teeth. The most cruel thing in all the world would be to let the Jouvaine hunter see what he had found, because he guessed that this pathetic remnant was a leaving of the Beast. Perhaps all that remained of Evthan’s daughter… Aldric hoped not. He gently laid down the fragment and, with an effort, kept any hint of revulsion from the way he wiped his fingers clean. Then he drew his
tsepan
from its lacquered sheath and used the needle point to scratch out a little grave. In other circumstances he would have muttered an apology for dishonouring the dirk with such a menial task, but not now. The needs of simple decency were worthy of an honourable weapon.
After he had finished and pressed the acid soil back into place, Aldric remained on his knees, head bowed and eyes tight shut as he tried to force himself back to calmness. Instead of the detached regret he might have expected, he was filed with such a rage as he would never have imagined possible over the death of some unknown foreign peasant’s unknown child. Its intensity made his whole body tremble, so that frosty reflections danced along his
tsepan’s
blade. For once Crisen Ger-uath and the inner turmoil of his own honour ceased to be important. If by razing the Jevaiden down to bare black rock he could have been assured of the obliteration of the Beast, he would have fired the forest without a second thought.
As that first spasm of impotent fury faded to a leashed-in killing mood—something infinitely more dangerous— Aldric realised bitterly why Evthan was subject to such strange fits of brooding. If he, outlander,
hlensyarl
, could be so overwhelmed by grief and anger at the evidence of a single slaying, then what state must the Jouvaine’s mind be in now that thirty people, many of them known to him, had been ripped apart and eaten? And how many of that thirty had walked all unaware into the jaws of the Beast because they trusted the protection of a man they called the finest hunter in the province… ?
There was a film of icy perspiration on the Alban’s face as he rose, and a little twitch of terror in the way he slid the
tsepan
out of sight. In Evthan’s place he would have been expected to use the wicked blade as it was meant to be used, and be grateful for the privilege of an honourable end. Except for one thing: in this situation not even the most sincerely contrite ritual suicide would help either the dead or those still living. It would help only the Beast. Aldric bared his teeth viciously.
And then, because there was nothing of any immediacy to be done, he clamped down on his feelings and pushed them to the back of his mind. Not that they ceased to have substance—no man’s willpower was so powerful—but distanced from
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