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Chapter 11: The Outpost
Part 2
He froze, sniffing the air. The gust had brought the sound to him, but not the scent. He was probably a safe distance away, unless the fire’s owners were out ranging for food. Given the deepening dusk, he doubted this, but switched to stealthier movement anyway.
Frix crept closer, watching through the grey-brown stacks of tree trunks, trying to spy that orange flash or better yet: the sooty smell itself. As he moved, he began to hear it more reliably. Then: a laugh. It was hearty, not meant to be concealed. Also not Seedwind-like. Training pounded many hard lessons into all who chose that path, and keeping your voice down when out in the field was one of them.
He relaxed a little, but still kept his senses sharp in case there was keener in the group, or a sentry. He encountered no such thing, and soon heard the higher notes of conversation, the erratic crackle of the fire, and the glorious smell of whatever they were cooking. He winced as his stomach roared, loud enough to out him within a slinger’s range.
The good news was that they seemed like an undisciplined bunch. The bad news: they had found the Seedwind drop. The markings on the trees confirmed it. He got as close as he dared before seeking a tree for cover. The wind still gusted, and the talk was lost among the rustle of needle and leaf. Peeper and cicada song soon joined the evening chorus.
Frix was pretty sure they had gresselbird. Maybe some specklehawk. He doubted they would have leftovers, but there was a chance they would store some prepared food in a tree before they retired for the night.
It was worth waiting for. He found a nice low tree with lots of canopy cover and roosted. The conversation continued, the wind now masking most of it. But every now and then a loud guffaw or bark of laughter cut through. They were likely drinking, based on the frequency and boisterousness. Even better.
He was beginning to nod off when the wind dropped away, sudden and sharp. The sounds of the forest snapped back in sharp relief, stirring Frix from his doze. The crew ahead was definitely drunk, this much was clear now. They might as well have been camping under his tree for how loud they were.
“What I dun unnerstand,” slurred one voice, “is shwy… why they asked fishers. Fishers to go! Like they could fight!”
“All hands on deck, that’s what the marshals were saying.” A second, slightly more sober response.
“But fishers! Fishers.”
“Was en wrong with them? Strong arms.” This was a third voice. “Say, ever been with a lady fisher though? Pole handling, huh? Huh?”
Riotous laughter.
“I ne’er… I ne’er said they can’t dance seed,” argued the first scholar. “Imma juss concerned thems in a fight, I don’t think it’d be good to be stuck with one.”
“You really think there’d be a fight though?” asked number two.
“Well sure! Wouldn’t you fight, buncha apes like Hodder here…”
“Ha! …hey! Stuff it!” replied the third guy, who Frix supposed was Hodder.
“See what I’m sayin’ … can’t even know when he—hic—he’s been complim-inented,” said the first guy.
“I’ll make ya eat that jug ya lil ratworm ya, hah!” laughed Hodder.
“See anyways, Hodder here,” said number one, “apes like Hodder who make people eat… jugs… apes like him comes running out the Gr’Leaf, inna to your little camp, waving sticks an’ the like. You sayin’, you sayin’ you’d juss what, lay down? Or wu’you fight?”
“Well I know they’s witches can fight. You all heard what happened at the Heads meeting, yea?” asked number Two.
“Pall got his sorry ass kicked by th’ campwitch, he didn’ even touch ‘er,” said Hodder.
“Yeah and that’s the thing,” Two said. “That witch’s got our back, so I hear.”
“Campwitch is gonna fight like two hunnert witches for us? You’re drunk Gocc,” said number One.
“But like you said,” said Two. “Why have fishers? I think it’s to intimidate. Show of force.”
There was a break as the group considered this. Frix found himself sweating despite the night’s chill.
“Well. If yers right then thats juss boring,” said the first voice. “I was hopin I’d get-ta knock a witch straight out, be a tale to tell til the day I died, eh?”
“Now you’re the drunk one!”
“Been drunk since sundown, idiot!”
More laughter, then they changed the topic back to their breeding experiences with fisherfolk. The image of one of these guys—they sounded like builders or diggers maybe—crushing Atrocity’s skull with a cudgel wouldn’t leave Frix. He pictured one of them standing in his place, several suns ago, when she had caught him. He remembered wishing Dreff was there, someone who wouldn’t think twice about pressing a shortsharp into her neck.
That was all before she touched him. His hand went to his chest, which stung as he brushed it. He should have brought more salve. He thought of criss-crossing red lines, not of blood but of lights that ran across the world. Not as good as salve, but better to think of that than the ‘T’ in his flesh.
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