Chapter 19
Keer Jr. starts screaming at dawn.
"Good morning to you too."
More screaming. The—I am awake and therefore everyone must suffer—kind.
I shove my blanket off and sit up. Kestria's gone—must've left before sunrise, the spot where she slept still dented in the furs.
My hands are purple to the knuckles and my arms are hollowed out from last night's crushing and the paste is on the shelf, four new jars sealed with wax next to the one I had before, five total, which is better but not enough and I need to count the remaining petals because some of them might still be viable if I—
Posts. The coop. Posts need to be at least two feet deep for fox protection—wait. Do foxes even come around here? With the pack? Probably not. Probably zero foxes within five miles of this place. Foxes are smart. Foxes aren't suicidal.Still.
Meh, two feet deep. Just in case.
Outside, the temporary holding area is chaos.
Surprise, surprise.
Keer Jr. pacing the fence line, feathers puffed, screaming at the sky. Nugget ignoring him completely, still pink. The goats huddled in one corner, watching the rooster with wariness of animals who've learned small angry things are dangerous.
Smart goats.
"You're going to lose your voice."
He screams louder.
"Your funeral."
I gather the posts someone cut yesterday—not enough, need more by midday—and start dragging them toward the eastern ridge.
The spot Keer picked. Good drainage, morning sun exposure, far enough that the screaming won't wake everyone but close enough I can reach the healing area fast if someone needs to bleed on me again.
He was right about the location.
I hate that he was right.
Also I hate that when he showed me the spot yesterday, his shirt pulled across his shoulders and—post spacing.
Post spacing. Two feet apart for the main frame, eighteen inches for the chicken wire section, My shoulders already ache from last night's paste work and my knees are going to stage a revolt by noon but the animals can't stay in temporary holding forever and also I have a splinter in my thumb from that rough post, should deal with it, keep forgetting.
Someone's coming up the ridge.
Rhen. And two others—Halek, a broad-shouldered wolf who didn't talk much, and a younger one with red-brown hair who helped move feed bags yesterday.
Fenwick, I think someone called him.
"Thought you might need hands." Rhen's already halfway to the post pile.
"Ohhh, yay. I do. Grab a post."
No argument. They just start working. Rhen takes the heaviest posts without being asked, Halek starts measuring spacing with his boot, and the younger one—
"Do you know how to dig a post hole?"
"How hard can it be?"
"HA! Famous last words. Here." I hand him the shovel. "Two feet deep. If you hit rock, tell me and we'll adjust."
"I'm Fenwick, by the way."
"Melori. Dig."
He digs. Gets about six inches before his shovel clangs against something solid.
"Rock."
"Shift three inches left."
He does. No rock. Keeps digging.
"How did you know that?"
"I've built a lot of fences." Marking the next hole with my heel, already thinking—if he's on hole three and Rhen's got the corner post, I can start lashing crossbars, which reminds me I need to check that the twine's long enough and also my left boot has been rubbing weird all morning.
"Also I stepped on something hard there yesterday and almost broke my ankle. "
"You just remembered that?"
"My ankle certainly did."
Rhen laughs. He's got the corner post braced against his thigh, whittling the base to a point with a knife that's seen better days.
"That knife's dull."
He looks down at it. Looks at me.
"It's tearing the wood instead of cutting. You're going to split the post." I hold out my hand. "Give it here."
He hesitates. But hands it over.
I pull out my whetstone and work the edge. Four strokes. Six. The blade catches the light differently.
"There." Hand it back. "Try now."
He draws the blade across the post. Clean curl of wood peeling off, smooth.
"Huh." He turns the knife over in his hand. "You carry a whetstone."
"I carry a lot of things. Comes from ten years of nobody else being around to hand me what I need."
"That's a long time alone."
"Wasn't always alone. Had chickens. Had goats too, until some of you ate them. Could've been you, even." I catch myself. "I didn't know it was you guys at first, obviously, but—anyways, yeah."
Halek snorts from three holes over. Definitely a laugh.
Rhen tests the edge again, watching me from the corner of his eye.
"Your shoulder." It's out before I mean it. "The scar. Does it still pull?"
His hand goes to it. Unconscious.
"Sometimes. When it's cold."
"The stitches were too deep on the lateral side." The words keep coming. "If you ever want me to look at it, I can't undo the scarring but I can probably ease the pull with some targeted—" Stop talking. "If you want."
"Maybe." Amused. "After the coop."
"After the coop."
The frame goes up faster with four, and I'm directing without thinking about it—posts here, deeper than that, foxes dig—
"Foxes don't come around here."Halek doesn't look up from his post.
Ha. I was right.
—gate facing east, no that beam goes on the outside—and they're just listening. Following.
"Why does the gate face east?" Fenwick. Arms dirty to the elbows, sweating.
"Morning sun. Chickens wake up easier, lay better."
"You just know that?"
"Fenwick, we have established this." I wave generally at myself. "Alone. Years. With chickens. For a time, goats—OH, I had turkeys for a few months but they DID NOT like the chickens—doesn't matter. You get the gist."
Fenwick blinks at me.
"What happens if they don't get morning sun?"
"They get cranky and stop laying and start eating their own eggs."
"That's disgusting."
"Yupp."
He looks at Nugget, still pecking happily beyond the holding fence.
"She seems nice."
"She's perfect. She'd eat you if she could figure out how."
Rhen is tying off a crossbar. "You named the rooster after Keer."
"He earned it. Have you heard him?"
"The whole territory has heard him."
"Then you understand."
Halek, without looking up from his post: "Keer know?"
"His eye did a thing." I try to make my eye do the thing. It's mostly just an aggressive eyebrow situation.
Halek snorts again.
"That's not it." Fenwick, helpfully.
"No shit, Fenwick. I have two eyes." I pull a nail from between my teeth. "Kestria couldn't breathe for ten minutes."
Rhen's mouth twitches. "His eye does things."
"It really does."
The work continues. Sun climbing higher, sweat on my neck, dirt up to my elbows. Check the post depth on the downhill side—is that a blister forming on my palm or just the splinter situation getting worse?
"You're staring at your hand." Rhen, not looking up from his crossbar.
"I'm deciding whether this is a blister or a splinter."
"Which is it?"
"Both, probably. My hands don't do anything by halves."
"Let me see."
"It's fine."
"You just told me to let you look at a scar I've had for ten years. Let me see your hand, girl."
Fair point. I hold it out. He takes it—grip careful, calloused fingers turning my palm toward the light—and pulls a thin splinter out of the heel of my thumb with his fingernails.
"You're welcome." He drops my hand.
"I would've gotten it eventually."
"When it's infected."
"That's not—" It's exactly what would've happened. "Fine. Thank you."
The main frame is standing by midmorning. Solid. Posts deep enough nothing's digging under, and the gate swings smooth on the hinges I found in my bag exactly where I thought they'd be, under the dried herbs.
"Chicken wire section next, but I need to—"
Shouting.
Not animal-related.
Different.
Wolves running toward the tree line. Voices raised, urgent, overlapping. Every head turning at once.
I drop my tools and go.
The crowd is thick by the time I push through but I'm small and quick and people move without thinking about it.
Three wolves emerging from the trees. Two supporting the third—barely conscious, blood soaking through his shirt on the left side, dragging his feet. Behind them, a woman staggering, arm pressed against her ribs, blood between her fingers. And behind her—
A human. Male. Hands bound. Face bloody. Being dragged by rope around his wrists.
Three wounded. Unconscious one is worst—blood volume, breathing. Woman with the ribs is second. The third is walking so he waits. The human is bleeding but bound so not my problem yet, and my kit is by the coop—left boot still rubbing, ignore it—leather bag, brown, next to the gate—
"Get him down. Flat on his back. Now."
They obey. He hits the ground and my hands are on him—side, deep gash, bleeding heavy but not spurting. No artery. His breathing though. Wet. Rattling.
"Broken ribs. At least two." Ear to his chest. Rattling louder on the left. "Might've punctured something. Pressure on this wound—hard, both hands—and someone get me my kit. Leather bag by the coop."
"I'll get it." Rhen, already running.
A young woman drops beside me—light hair, freckled, I've seen her hauling water near the stream. "I can help."
"Pressure here." I guide her hands to the gash. "Firm. Don't let up even if he screams."
"How firm?"
"As firm as you can manage. Pretend you're kneading bread that owes you coin."
She presses. He groans.
"Stay down. Don't move."
"Arrow," he manages. "Got... arrow..."
"Where?"
"His shoulder." Dara. There, beside me, braided back, steady. "The other one—Liara—she's got it worse."
I look up. The woman who was staggering—Liara—is sitting against a tree, arm pressed to her ribs, face pale, sweat running down her temples.
And the chicken wire still needs finishing on the coop—Liara first. "Keep pressure.
" I leave the unconscious wolf—Soren, someone said his name—and cross to Liara. "Move your arm. Let me see."
She does. Hissing through her teeth.