‘Getting old, am I?’ snapped Finn. ‘Your boots have more brains that you.’ Maggrig grabbed Finn’s jerkin, hauling him from his feet as three arrows slashed the air where he had been standing. Maggrig loosed a shaft back across the stream, but he knew he had struck nothing.
‘Time to be going home, old man,’ said Maggrig. An arrow hit the ground before him, striking a stone and ricocheting into the carcass. Hastily the two men dragged the butchered deer back out of range, stacked the choicest cuts of meat inside the skin and faded into the woods. They moved warily for several miles, but there was no sign of pursuit.
Finally they angled across the slopes of the mountain to the partially hidden cabin set against the north face. Once there Finn built up the fire and tugged off his wet boots, hurling them against the stone of the hearth. The cabin was two-roomed. A large bed was placed against the wall opposite the fire, and a single window was fashioned beside the door. Bearskin rugs covered the floor. Maggrig opened the door to the workshop beyond, where they crafted their bows and arrows and beat the iron for the heads. He heard Finn swear.
‘Damn Nadren! When I was your age, Maggrig, we had mounted patrols that scoured the mountains for scum like that. It’s a bad day when they feel they can come in, bold as a brass mirror, to steal an innocent man’s supper. Damn them!’
‘Why so annoyed?’ asked Maggrig. ‘We killed two of them, and kept our supper. They haven’t caused us a problem, save for three lost arrows.’
‘They will. Murderous savages, the lot of them. They’ll be hunting us.’
‘Ah yes, but we have the Great Hunter Finn, the smeller of trouble! Not a bird can break wind in the mountains without Finn picking up the scent.’
‘You’re as funny as a broken leg. I’ve got a bad feeling, boy; there’s death in the air smelling worse than winter.’ He shivered and stretched out his large, bony hands to the fire.
Maggrig said nothing. He could feel it too.
Carrying the quartered stag through to the back of the workshop, Maggrig hung it on iron hooks by the far wall. Then he spread the skin and began the long job of scraping the fat from it. He’d need a new shirt for the winter, and he liked the russet colour of the hide. Finn wandered in and sat at the work-bench, idly picking up an arrow shaft and judging the line. He put it down. Normally he would cut feather flights, but now he merely sat staring at the bench-top.
Maggrig glanced up at him. ‘Your back troubling you again?’
‘Always does when winter’s close. Damn! I hate going down to the Tavern Town, but needs must. Have to pass the word about the raiders.’
‘We could look in and see Beltzer.’
Finn shook his head. ‘He’ll be drunk as usual. And one more insult from that pig and I swear I’ll gut him.’
Maggrig stood and stretched his back. ‘You don’t mean that. Neither does he. He’s just lonely, Finn.’
‘Feel sorry for him, do you? Not me. He was cantankerous when he was married. He was vile at Bel-azar. There’s a streak of mean in the man – I can’t stand him.’
‘Then why did you buy his axe when they auctioned it?’ demanded the blond hunter. ‘Two years of trapping to pay for that! And what have you done with it? Wrapped it in oilskin and left it at the bottom of the chest.’
Finn spread his hands. ‘No accounting for myself sometimes. Didn’t like the thought of some northern nobleman hanging it on his wall, I guess. Wish I hadn’t now; we could do with some ready coin. Buy some salt. Damn, but I miss salt. I suppose we could trade some bows. You know, we should have stopped long enough to take the weapons from those Nadren. Could have got some salt for them, right enough.’
A wolf howl rent the night.
‘Puking sons of bitches!’ said Finn, standing and striding back into the main room.
Maggrig followed him. ‘Got it in for wolves now, have you?’