Chapter 2: The Hunt (II)

  Was this good luck or bad? Ethan wondered, sipping his broth.

  The meat was good. Top-quality beef, air-dried and pounded into dense, compact shreds—an entire cow’s flesh fit into a small pouch. When boiled with water, it reverted to tender, savory beef. A staple for noble warriors on expedition.

  The soup was good, too. Even the river water from the Lizard Marsh, purified by a rune, turned as clear and sweet as the purest mountain spring. Simmered into beef broth with a pinch of salt, it would’ve satisfied even the pickiest city chefs. It made the purification rune feel worth its silver coin.

  Eating such good meat and drinking such good soup could revive even the most lethargic soul. Ethan knew his body well—one good night’s rest, and he’d be strong enough to take down a cow with his bare hands.

  The campfire was built with thick logs, stacked cleverly: a mix of dense, dry wood and damp chunks to keep it burning till dawn. Its heat masked human body temperature, so wyverns couldn’t detect them. No need to hide in cold tree hollows or burrows anymore, and other beasts and venomous insects dared not approach. A full, undisturbed sleep by this fire would fully restore his strength.

  But even if he could take down five cows, Ethan still doubted he could face the pursuer head-on.

  No amount of rest would let him outrun that speed. The fire was warm, safe, and bright—bright enough for any creature in the marsh to see them clearly.

  “You’re really impressive,” said the woman who’d introduced herself as an apothecary, admiration in her tone. “I’ve never seen anyone brave the Lizard Marsh with just a single weapon.”

  Ethan felt no pride in it. He’d failed to notice that his skin, where the leeches had fallen off, was still bleeding. A few drops had nearly lured every carnivorous fish in the marsh’s waters. He’d been forced to drag a dead tree, knocked over by a wild ox, into the river, then stand on it and drift downstream to escape the countless waiting jaws below. But when a few large crocodiles joined the chase, he’d scrambled ashore in disarray. It was dusk by then, and he’d been about to find a hiding spot when he saw the fire—and met this unexpected fellow human.

  The woman was roughly Ethan’s age. Though dressed as an adventurer, with a large pack and a grubby blanket wrapped around her, her fair, delicate skin marked her as no commoner. Carrying such efficient rations, and a water-purifying rune whose cost could feed a common family comfortably for a month—she was likely nobility.

  “I thought I was quite bold, venturing into the marsh alone to gather herbs,” she chattered, as unguarded as a child. “The terrain and climate here are unique—so many plants grow nowhere else. Father always disapproved, but I snuck in anyway.” She seemed to have let her guard down entirely, probably starved for company in such a hostile place.

  At her waist hung an Anka rapier—thin, long, strong yet flexible, light and nimble, built for thrusting. Ethan recognized it. In his father’s shop, it always sat front and center, drawing gasps from customers when they saw the price tag below.

  The sword hung at a precise angle, letting her draw it in an instant. The hilt was tightly wrapped with twine—a soldier’s trick, to keep it from slipping even when blood-soaked. The twine was still untainted by blood, but the countless grip marks from repeated swings told him this sword was no mere display piece.

  Yet even with her, they stood little chance against the pursuer. In life-or-death battles, skill mattered less than spirit and resolve. No matter how well-trained, those who’d never heard the crack of an axe splitting bone, or the wail of a man cut in two at the waist still gasping for breath, or felt the searing pain of an enemy’s weapon tearing through muscle and sinew—they remained half-hearted. Faced with death, overwhelmed by imminent agony, fear and hesitation would cripple them.

  If only there were a mage or priest—even basic blessings, a few simple fireballs…

  Ethan realized he’d grown too complacent, lulled by the sudden broth and fire. Meeting another human in these hundreds of miles of forest and marsh, sipping warm broth by a fire to replenish his strength—it was luck he could barely believe.

  He bit into an adventurer’s biscuit the woman had given him, washed it down with broth, and sighed, both content and resigned, as he soaked in the fire’s warmth.

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  The pursuer was probably watching this fire from a tree hollow by now. Even he dared not move while wyverns still screeched and hunted in the night. But at first light, when the wyverns returned to their nests, he’d race toward this fire with terrifying speed, following the trail of luck.

  Whether good or bad, what had happened was done. He had to steer things toward hope, and that was all.

  “How far is it to the Dono River?” Ethan asked.

  The upper reaches of the Dono, where it cut through the Lizard Marsh, ran so fast not even fish could swim upstream—that’s where he’d been forced ashore into the marsh. But beyond the marsh, the river gentled. A day’s drift downstream would bring him to Brackard, a small western town of the empire.

  “Not sure, but not far—maybe a day or two’s walk,” she said.

  Half a day at a dead run, perhaps? No. Even if it was closer than he’d thought, vague distances meant vague chances. He was certain, though, the pursuer could catch him in half a day. Escape was slim.

  He should tell her the truth, ask her to join him against the pursuer. Slim as victory was, waiting with fresh strength was better than other options. Ethan mentally rehearsed his words.

  “Forgive me for asking—would you mind staying with me a while?” the woman suddenly said. “Tomorrow I plan to go deeper into the marsh to find new herbs. It’s my first time this far in.” She added, “I’ll pay you, of course.” A few strands of black hair had fallen forward, brushing her thin lips, which curved into a faint, awkward line. Her heels rubbed gently against each other. Her feet were large for a woman—nearly his size—and she wore the same sturdy adventurer’s boots he did.

  A plan for escape hit Ethan like a jolt. Efficient, promising. No need for traps or deceptions, no wasted strength or time. Just a few moments by this fire could cost the pursuer precious time and energy.

  His heart raced.

  “Please?” The woman blinked. Her eyes were small, with long lashes, and her lids drooped slightly—even when angry, she might look softly smiling.

  The fire blazed bright; her pupils were dark, reflecting the flames with a warm glow. But Ethan couldn’t meet her gaze. He looked away, took a deep breath, and tried to keep his voice steady. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have something urgent, something important.”

  “Oh. I see.” Disappointment was plain in her tone and face—she hadn’t learned to hide it.

  “West of here, about half a day’s walk, there are some marsh-specific herbs. Probably with unique healing properties,” Ethan said, his face twisting, his voice faltering, his words muddled. It was his first time telling a cruel lie to someone who’d been kind. To a woman, no less.

  “Probably? What do you mean?”

  “Well… uh… I saw a wild ox—no, two wild oxen—fighting. One got hurt in the hind leg… wait, no, maybe the front… no… anyway, it was badly bitten, lying there half-dead. Then it ate some grass, applied it to the wound, and recovered after a while.” In his panic, Ethan dredged up a story he’d heard from an old adventurer as a child—about dogs fighting. It made little sense, but the words flowed faster.

  “Really? What did the grass look like?” The woman’s eyes widened. Her gaze made Ethan flinch, as if he were dodging a crossbow bolt fired that night five days ago. She quickly pulled paper and a pen from her pack.

  “Pale yellow flowers…” Ethan rambled, mixing and mangling the traits of several wild herbs. The woman scribbled diligently.

  “If you go deeper, grind water mint and pyrethrum into paste and rub it on your clothes and skin,” Ethan said gravely. “Even with insect repellent, use it—there are venomous bugs here that fear only those scents.”

  “These two? They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” She plucked some from around the fire effortlessly.

  Of course, these herbs did repel insects. Ethan had used them since entering the marsh. But they were far less effective than the adventurers’ guild’s special repellent. These past three days, his first dawn task in the tree hollow had been to gently pick centipedes and the like from his armpits, crotch, even hair.

  And deep in the marsh, there were no bugs that feared only these herbs.

  Skill came with practice, it seemed. Even the hardest, most unnatural things grew familiar with repetition—then became second nature, then mastery, even immersion. Thanks to that earlier lie, Ethan’s voice was steady as he spoke the cruellest part of this deception. He just couldn’t meet her bright eyes, hiding his gaze by prodding the fire with a stick.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “If I find these herbs and figure out their properties, it’ll put those old fools at the apothecary’s to shame.” She sounded excited, as if they were already friends, chattering more warmly. “I’ve always known the world’s full of undiscovered medicines. But those old men just cling to ancient books.”

  No guilt. Even if he stayed silent, playing the brave hero and dying alone, she’d fare no better. The pursuer would never spare another human trace in the marsh.

  Fighting together would still likely end in death—and she might get in the way, or refuse to help. This way, her death would serve a purpose, buying him more time to escape. Ethan searched his mind for reasons to justify the treachery.

  “Once my work’s recognized, the apothecary won’t be the only one impressed. The magic academy will notice me. Maybe even the bishop will ask about my new herbs.” Excitement flushed her round cheeks. She pointed to a nearby tree. “See that? It’s another discovery. No book mentions it, but from talking to retired adventurers, I know it’s common here. And I’ve found its sap is highly irritating and toxic—if it gets in a person’s or animal’s eyes…”

  Your life is bought with the deaths of countless others. Never waste a single chance to survive.

  The tree’s trunk was wrapped in thin, straight roots—like the old adventurer’s quill back in the village. That memory brought back a profound-sounding line he’d once heard. It elevated this scheme to a philosophical level, easing Ethan’s conscience.

  But a wave of revulsion hit him, leaving him utterly exhausted.