(no subject)
For the past few weeks there’ve been tracks in the leafmould hereabouts that speak of some of the biggest deer Wells has ever seen. He’s hung up the ‘gone hunting’ sign on the smithy early today as a result, and gone looking for the beast. Bruce came along with him, of course. Bruce always comes along. The quarry in the Thessalian hills is better than anything the wolf was able to find in Arcadia or the other territories along the way, and he’s got to the point where he can almost manage to bring down genuinely big prey by himself. Explaining that the deer- if they found it- had to be left alive took Wells some time this morning, but it got through at last. Bruce is going to course the thing when they find it, Wells is going to catch up to it when it reaches the point of exhaustion, and they’re going to bring it- one way or another- to the temple of Athena two valleys over. Wells has enough rope on his belt to bind the thing’s feet and hang it from a stout pole if need be, although he’ll have to find a villager willing to help. One thing at a time.
They have to pick their way fairly deep into the trees before Wells picks up the tracks again, and the scent. The deer aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have survived several moons’ worth of a grown werewolf and his four-footed packmate if they were. Wells took the precaution of wearing the stuff he’d been wearing when he first hit Greece for this hunt; the colors blend him in better with the trees, even this early in the spring. The bracers had to be muted with ash and dust, as he never leaves them or his sword or the magic bag of food behind when he leaves the village, and they’re too well-polished a shade of bronze not to give him away in an inconvenient sun-gleam. It’s a matter of stealth like none he’s had to employ before in his time here, and frankly, he’s enjoying the challenge.
At the sight of one of the huge deer in the distance (damn near big enough to ride, if you could get it to hold still long enough to throw on a bridle), Wells nods to the wolf. Bruce creeps off into the undergrowth and vanishes, a thing he’s been learning more and more of late. Some days, if Bruce approaches from downwind, Wells can scarcely tell he’s there. He’s getting good at this, which is why Wells trusts him to flush the deer out and start it running. Wells flattens himself against a tree and waits-
It’s not the sound of the arrow zzzzlip!ing through the trees that breaks Wells’ concentration. It’s the YIPE! of pain that follows it, and the smell of blood- some son of a bitch’s just shot Bruce! From downwind, no less. Cursing himself for not paying more attention to what lay downwind of his position Wells darts out from behind his tree. Bruce! Bruce, hang on, mate-
The wolf is lying very still when Wells gets there, but the man standing over him is all but doing a fucking jig. Wells knows him from the village, a little. His name’s Polypoites. He’s an arrogant little twat with a mouth that far outstrips his actual deeds. Seeing him take this much pride over harming Wells’ only real friend for the better part of a year is damn near enough to send Wells over the edge- he finds himself holding Polypoites well off the ground by the throat, the other man’s back pinned against a tree, with no recollection of how. “What the-“ Polypoites manages.
“Xenophon?”
“Yeah,” Wells growls, “it’s me. You, my friend, just made a mistake. A very big mistake.”
Polypoites shivers, his eyes going wide. Wells can feel the man’s pulse quicken under his hand. “I don’t- was it your wolf? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take your prey-“
Wells tightens his fingers enough to give the man a good shake. “I know you were a wanker, Polypoites, but I didn’t think you were a fucking idiot. I wasn’t hunting for the wolf, I was hunting with him.”
“But that-“
“Shut UP!” Wells snarls, and shoves Polypoites hard against the tree. There’ll be bruises on the man’s throat from that. Wells doesn’t care. “Congratulations. You just cost your village their only smith. I’m not coming back. Take your bow and your arrows and get the fuck out of my sight, and if any of you even think of coming looking for me you’ll find out what happens when you piss off a man who crossed the Isthmus alone and on foot.”
He lets go of Polypoites’ throat, and the man drops gracelessly to the ground. Wells hears him go. He doesn’t care. He’s too busy pressing his fingers through the fur on Bruce’s neck, searching for- and finding, thank the gods- a pulse. Bruce, mate, he says, hang on, all right? I’m gonna patch you up-
The wolf slants an ear in his direction, but doesn’t seem to be capable of speech. The arrow doesn’t look like it penetrated the lungs. Liver, maybe. Or something. Wells can’t tell and he’s too busy immobilizing the shaft to be sure. His only chance at getting the arrow out is if he can push the arrow the rest of the way through and snap off the head, but he can’t do that while Bruce is lying on the ground. If Bruce were a human Wells’d be keeping him alert by talking, but wolves aren’t the sort to pay attention to chatter when they’re hurt, even if it’s in their own tongue. Wells just slices off the bottom part of his shirt with his knife and starts on the impromptu bandage instead.
They’re coming, Bruce murmurs. I hear them.
What?
The human’s friends. They’re coming. We should move.
“Fuck!” Wells exclaims, and looks over his shoulder. They’re a good way off yet, and they don’t know the woods as well as he does, but they’ll be here shortly. In this mood he could snap all their necks and not feel the slightest guilt about it, but that won’t do Bruce any good, will it? He pushes the villagers out of his mind and looks down. This is gonna hurt, he warns. I’ll try to keep it down.
Keep what down? Bruce wonders, and then yelps as Wells scoops the wolf up off the ground and starts away at a dead run.
He’s got no idea where the fuck he’s supposed to be going and he doesn’t care. It’s more important that he put distance between himself and the villagers- or rather, between Bruce and the villagers. He’s seen most of the metal in that town and the only silver he remembers anyone having is in the form of jewelry. They’re not a danger to him. They’re just a danger to someone he refuses to let die. So he runs, the ground sucking at his heels here and there where the rains of spring haven’t quite soaked all the way in yet, and does his best not to make matters worse for the wounded wolf.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s found something that almost qualifies as a path, but he’ll take it, no matter how thin and wandering it is. It looks like it was made by deer; it’s not as if the villagers hunt this far out often enough to leave a real trail, after all. That’s fine. He doesn’t care. Like as not it’ll lead to water, or a clearing, and either way he should be able to settle down and see to Bruce’s welfare once he gets there. As it stands, he no longer hears the villagers in the distance. Hasn’t for some time, in fact. When that realization dawns he slows to a walk-
The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Put the wolf down slowly,” says a woman’s cool, calm voice, “and turn around so that I may see you. If you so much as twitch towards your sword, you are a dead man.”
Bruce whimpers, but Wells puts him down, murmuring a reassurance as he does so. When he turns, there’s a group of women slowly making their way out from the shadows under the trees. Every one of them, including their speaker at the forefront, is carrying a bow and a full quiver. And most of them are pointing directly at him.
He raises his hands slowly and interlaces them over the top of his head.
They have to pick their way fairly deep into the trees before Wells picks up the tracks again, and the scent. The deer aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have survived several moons’ worth of a grown werewolf and his four-footed packmate if they were. Wells took the precaution of wearing the stuff he’d been wearing when he first hit Greece for this hunt; the colors blend him in better with the trees, even this early in the spring. The bracers had to be muted with ash and dust, as he never leaves them or his sword or the magic bag of food behind when he leaves the village, and they’re too well-polished a shade of bronze not to give him away in an inconvenient sun-gleam. It’s a matter of stealth like none he’s had to employ before in his time here, and frankly, he’s enjoying the challenge.
At the sight of one of the huge deer in the distance (damn near big enough to ride, if you could get it to hold still long enough to throw on a bridle), Wells nods to the wolf. Bruce creeps off into the undergrowth and vanishes, a thing he’s been learning more and more of late. Some days, if Bruce approaches from downwind, Wells can scarcely tell he’s there. He’s getting good at this, which is why Wells trusts him to flush the deer out and start it running. Wells flattens himself against a tree and waits-
It’s not the sound of the arrow zzzzlip!ing through the trees that breaks Wells’ concentration. It’s the YIPE! of pain that follows it, and the smell of blood- some son of a bitch’s just shot Bruce! From downwind, no less. Cursing himself for not paying more attention to what lay downwind of his position Wells darts out from behind his tree. Bruce! Bruce, hang on, mate-
The wolf is lying very still when Wells gets there, but the man standing over him is all but doing a fucking jig. Wells knows him from the village, a little. His name’s Polypoites. He’s an arrogant little twat with a mouth that far outstrips his actual deeds. Seeing him take this much pride over harming Wells’ only real friend for the better part of a year is damn near enough to send Wells over the edge- he finds himself holding Polypoites well off the ground by the throat, the other man’s back pinned against a tree, with no recollection of how. “What the-“ Polypoites manages.
“Xenophon?”
“Yeah,” Wells growls, “it’s me. You, my friend, just made a mistake. A very big mistake.”
Polypoites shivers, his eyes going wide. Wells can feel the man’s pulse quicken under his hand. “I don’t- was it your wolf? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take your prey-“
Wells tightens his fingers enough to give the man a good shake. “I know you were a wanker, Polypoites, but I didn’t think you were a fucking idiot. I wasn’t hunting for the wolf, I was hunting with him.”
“But that-“
“Shut UP!” Wells snarls, and shoves Polypoites hard against the tree. There’ll be bruises on the man’s throat from that. Wells doesn’t care. “Congratulations. You just cost your village their only smith. I’m not coming back. Take your bow and your arrows and get the fuck out of my sight, and if any of you even think of coming looking for me you’ll find out what happens when you piss off a man who crossed the Isthmus alone and on foot.”
He lets go of Polypoites’ throat, and the man drops gracelessly to the ground. Wells hears him go. He doesn’t care. He’s too busy pressing his fingers through the fur on Bruce’s neck, searching for- and finding, thank the gods- a pulse. Bruce, mate, he says, hang on, all right? I’m gonna patch you up-
The wolf slants an ear in his direction, but doesn’t seem to be capable of speech. The arrow doesn’t look like it penetrated the lungs. Liver, maybe. Or something. Wells can’t tell and he’s too busy immobilizing the shaft to be sure. His only chance at getting the arrow out is if he can push the arrow the rest of the way through and snap off the head, but he can’t do that while Bruce is lying on the ground. If Bruce were a human Wells’d be keeping him alert by talking, but wolves aren’t the sort to pay attention to chatter when they’re hurt, even if it’s in their own tongue. Wells just slices off the bottom part of his shirt with his knife and starts on the impromptu bandage instead.
They’re coming, Bruce murmurs. I hear them.
What?
The human’s friends. They’re coming. We should move.
“Fuck!” Wells exclaims, and looks over his shoulder. They’re a good way off yet, and they don’t know the woods as well as he does, but they’ll be here shortly. In this mood he could snap all their necks and not feel the slightest guilt about it, but that won’t do Bruce any good, will it? He pushes the villagers out of his mind and looks down. This is gonna hurt, he warns. I’ll try to keep it down.
Keep what down? Bruce wonders, and then yelps as Wells scoops the wolf up off the ground and starts away at a dead run.
He’s got no idea where the fuck he’s supposed to be going and he doesn’t care. It’s more important that he put distance between himself and the villagers- or rather, between Bruce and the villagers. He’s seen most of the metal in that town and the only silver he remembers anyone having is in the form of jewelry. They’re not a danger to him. They’re just a danger to someone he refuses to let die. So he runs, the ground sucking at his heels here and there where the rains of spring haven’t quite soaked all the way in yet, and does his best not to make matters worse for the wounded wolf.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s found something that almost qualifies as a path, but he’ll take it, no matter how thin and wandering it is. It looks like it was made by deer; it’s not as if the villagers hunt this far out often enough to leave a real trail, after all. That’s fine. He doesn’t care. Like as not it’ll lead to water, or a clearing, and either way he should be able to settle down and see to Bruce’s welfare once he gets there. As it stands, he no longer hears the villagers in the distance. Hasn’t for some time, in fact. When that realization dawns he slows to a walk-
The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Put the wolf down slowly,” says a woman’s cool, calm voice, “and turn around so that I may see you. If you so much as twitch towards your sword, you are a dead man.”
Bruce whimpers, but Wells puts him down, murmuring a reassurance as he does so. When he turns, there’s a group of women slowly making their way out from the shadows under the trees. Every one of them, including their speaker at the forefront, is carrying a bow and a full quiver. And most of them are pointing directly at him.
He raises his hands slowly and interlaces them over the top of his head.