Hunted （Part 3）
"Rowena, please wake up!" he cried.
The stranger lay on the ground, pinned beneath the heavy, blood-matted corpse of the wolf. His chest heaved with exhaustion, breath pluming in the cold air.
Hearing the boy's cry, he shoved the beast's limp body aside. Then he scrambled across the trampled ground to Rowena.
The Dissolver stepped back, wide-eyed, as the stranger knelt and pressed his fingers to the hollow of her neck, searching for a pulse. He bent close, listening intently for breath.
"She's alive," he said. "But she won't be for long if I don't tend to her wounds."
With care, he gathered Rowena's limp form into his arms, crimson dripping into the snow from his own wounds.
Rising up, he jerked his chin toward the torch, its flame guttering where it had fallen.
"Take the torch. My camp is nearby," he instructed.
The Dissolver obeyed, speechless.
The man led them toward his camp, retracing their path through the snow. The Dissolver followed close behind, pausing only to snatch up Rowena's beloved short sword before hurrying after.
The man led them along a jagged path to a cave carved into the rugged mountainside. It was more den than cave; a snug hollow tucked beneath overhanging rocks.
The entrance was cleverly disguised with pine boughs, tightly lashed with rough twine. Green needles blended with the brush, the camouflaged door melting into the wild landscape, concealing him from passing eyes and sheltering him from the elements.
Inside, a wave of warmth hit them. The air carried the sharp scent of burning pine. A lively fire crackled in a rough-hewn stone and clay fireplace, casting restless shadows along the walls.
Nearby stood a sturdy, hand-built bed, raised off the ground and layered thickly with fragrant pine needles and soft animal pelts. At the den's heart, a small table and a solitary chair rested atop a broad grizzly bear hide, its fur still plush and golden.
Handcrafted shelves lined the walls, crammed with the man's carefully arranged tools, worn books, and odd keepsakes. In the corner was a barrel filled with various weapons, including a short bow, a battleaxe, a flail, a spiked club, and a warhammer.
The snug space felt both wild and welcoming, and it was the perfect size for a solitary life in the mountains.
The stranger laid Rowena gently on his bed and immediately began to examine her wounds.
Her calf was mangled and torn, a gaping wound running from knee to ankle, where flesh and muscle had been laid bare by the wolf's teeth. Her face and arms were scored with jagged scratches, long red welts marking where the wolf's claws had raked through her clothing and skin.
The worst was a savage bite above her collarbone. Teeth marks sank deep; torn flesh, livid and raw, stretched nearly to the nape of her neck. The man grunted, muttering as he grabbed battered jars, rags, and a tin from the shelf.
Before turning to Rowena, he quickly wrapped his own bleeding fingers and forearm in rough linen bandages, the white fabric blooming red almost instantly, then set to work on her injuries.
He took a wooden bowl, splashed water over a rag, and gently washed blood and mud from Rowena's limbs. The water ran crimson as he wiped her calf and neck, revealing the full horror of the wounds.
The Dissolver stood frozen, stomach churning, as the man threaded a curved bone needle and began to stitch the deepest gashes, his hands steady despite the pain from his own wounds. He worked methodically.
When the stitching was done, he crushed pungent herbs into a thick poultice and pressed the mixture into the wounds, wrapping them tightly with clean linen.
The boy shifted anxiously, feeling useless and out of place in the stranger's cave, every moment stretching longer as he watched for any flicker of pain or awareness in Rowena's face.
But she lay completely still, her breathing shallow, not even flinching as the needle pierced her skin.
At last, the man tossed aside the bloodied rags and needle. He gently draped a heavy wolf pelt over Rowena, tucking it around her for warmth.
Finally, the man turned to the boy and spoke softly.
"I can do no more for her now. She needs rest, but even that may not be enough." His voice was heavy with concern, the words lingering in the warm air.
There, in the warm glow of the firelight, The Dissolver was able to see him fully.
He stood tall,
broad-shouldered and powerfully muscled,
moving with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior.
His handsome face bore both strength and experience
high cheekbones,
a strong jaw dusted with stubble,
and a nose slightly crooked from an old break.
His hair was a tousled mane of blonde-brown, falling just past his ears, wind-swept from the mountain breeze.
His hazel eyes, keen and alert, shifted with the light,
sometimes golden, sometimes flecked with green.
Scars crisscrossed his sun-bronzed skin, each a silent testament to battles survived.
Wearing warm furs, he blended into the rugged landscape, yet there was no mistaking the aura of strength and purpose that surrounded him.
His steady gaze intimidated.
The Dissolver shrank back, a flicker of wariness in his eyes.
The man let out a low chuckle. "Are you afraid of me, boy?" he asked, his voice both gentle and amused.
"No," the boy snapped, but his voice trembled, betraying his nerves.
"That's good. I promise I'll do you no harm. You and your friend are safe here," the man assured, a genuine smile softening his features.
The boy lingered by the fireplace, eyeing the man with a mixture of suspicion and uncertainty.
The man sighed, disappointment flickering across his face. He crossed his arms and studied the boy up and down, now regarding him with a hint of suspicion.
"What is your name?" He asked the child.
The boy remained silent, refusing to answer.
"Can you tell me why you were on a dangerous mountainside in the middle of a storm? Where were you headed?"
Once more, the boy kept silent.
The longsword still hung across his back. He clutched it tightly as he pressed himself against the stone wall. The fire's warmth tingled through his frozen limbs, but his legs still trembled with exhaustion.
The man's gaze landed on the boy's wounded shoulder, where blood still seeped through torn fabric.
Recognizing the urgency, he gestured to the chair in the center of the room.
"Take off your cloak and equipment, and sit down. That wound needs binding," he instructed, then began gathering fresh supplies.
The boy wanted to protest, but the pain in his shoulder was too much to ignore.
From the corner of his eye, the man watched as the boy carefully removed his gear. The child intentionally shoved the longsword into a dark corner and concealed it beneath his cloak and belongings.
The boy sat heavily in the chair. His shirt, shredded at the shoulder, exposed a ragged, mud-caked wound.
The stranger lumbered over and tended to it with the same careful attention he had given Rowena.
He worked in silence, pondering why these two strangers were on his mountainside and why the boy guarded the weapon so fiercely.
As he worked, he quietly wondered how he might coax the boy into speaking.
When the man finished, he quietly cleaned up, washed his hands, and set aside the dirty rags and unused linen.
After throwing a couple of logs onto the waning fire, he opened a large wooden box on a shelf and pulled out several thick pieces of jerky. Returning to the fireplace, he placed one foot on the hearth and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee before taking a hearty bite.
He chewed deliberately, gazing into the flames while watching the boy from the corner of his eye.
The boy's hungry gaze followed every movement, his mouth watering, unable to look away from the food.
The man glanced over, feigning surprise as he caught the boy's hungry stare. "Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice gentle, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
The boy nodded eagerly, unable to hide how ravenous he was.
With a small, knowing smile, the man walked over and extended a thick strip of jerky toward the boy.
Just as the boy's fingers grazed the food, the man snatched it back at the last second.
The boy stared up at him, startled and confused, his stomach twisting painfully.
"If you want this," the man said, waggling the jerky just out of reach, "you'll have to answer a few questions first. One answer, one piece."
The boy's eyes narrowed, but his empty stomach ached too fiercely to refuse the bargain. "Okay," he muttered, reluctantly.
"Good," the man replied, pleased with his own cleverness. "Let's start with something simple. What is your name?"
The boy hesitated, then answered, "The Dissolver," holding out his hand expectantly.
The man recoiled, raising an eyebrow. "Your real name," he pressed, rolling his eyes at the evasive answer.
"That is my real name," the boy snapped, a note of irritation in his voice. He was clearly sensitive about the subject.
Not realizing this, the man pressed further. "I can't help you if you aren't honest with me."
The boy groaned, crossed his arms, and sank back in the chair. "I am being honest," he insisted.
The man studied him, catching the flicker of pain in the boy's eyes. Realization dawned. "Ahh," he said, his voice softening, "so it's an alias—a nickname."
The boy looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's... what I am called."
Satisfied for now, the man tossed a piece of jerky onto the table between them. The boy snatched it up and devoured it in seconds, then looked up expectantly for more.
The man picked up another piece and dangled it, making sure the boy kept his attention on it. "What business do you have in these mountains?" he asked.
"We're trying to get home to Goldhaven," the boy replied.
The man snickered, shaking his head. "Goldhaven? Really?" He didn't bother hiding his disbelief. "How old are you, child?"
"That's not fair. I answered your question. I should get a piece," the boy protested.
"I don't give rewards for a lie," the man said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy.
The Dissolver tried to hide his discomfort, but his eyes darted away, betraying him.
"Are you going to tell me what you're really doing out here?" the man pressed, his tone insistent.
The boy hesitated, searching for another story. "Maybe," he said slowly.
"Maybe?" the man echoed, lifting an eyebrow.
"If you answer some questions for me, maybe I'll tell you," the boy countered, meeting the man's gaze.
The man smiled, clearly entertained. "So it's to be a game, then?"
The Dissolver didn't answer; he only crossed his arms, determined not to give in easily.
"Alright, I'll play your game, boy. What is it you want to know?" the man asked.
"Who are you?" the boy shot back.
"Well, that depends on who you ask," the man replied, smirking and acting deliberately mysterious.
"What do you mean?"
"When I lived in the city, most people knew me as Rumlok, the gladiator. That's the name I chose for myself in the ring." He puffed out his chest with a hint of pride. "My real name is Gareth, but you can call me whichever you prefer."
The boy's eyes widened in excitement. "Wow! Were you really a gladiator? Is that why you could fight off all those wolves?"
Gareth nodded, trying to hide his amusement. "That was hardly a challenge. You and your friend were lucky. There are far worse things in these mountains than wolves."
The boy gulped at the thought, imagining what might have happened if something worse had found them first.
"Now, I believe I'm owed another answer," Gareth said, gesturing toward the woman resting in his bed. "Who is she to you?"
"Her name is Rowena. She's my friend," the boy replied honestly, his posture relaxing slightly.
Gareth tossed him another piece of jerky, watching carefully to see if he could learn when the boy was telling the truth.
"In what city were you a gladiator?" the Dissolver asked, curiosity returning to his voice.
"The city hardly matters," Gareth replied, his tone uneasy. "You should ask something else."
"You're cheating," the boy accused, frowning.
Gareth chuckled, then stood and handed the child the last piece of jerky. "It's nearly morning. Get some rest. We can continue this game tomorrow."
The boy scarfed down the food gratefully.
"You may sleep by the fire, if you like. It will be warm there," Gareth offered.
"No, thank you," the boy replied quickly, settling in the corner with his things. "I'll be fine here."
He spread his cloak on the floor, rolled his pack into a pillow, and lay down, turning his back to Gareth. Clutching the mysterious sheath, he was asleep within moments.
Gareth sat down at the table, quietly unwrapping the bandages from his hand and forearm to tend his own wounds.
He stayed awake through the night, stoking the fire and pondering what questions he'd ask the boy come morning.