Chapter 6: The Footprint That Bled
The footprint filled before Mataon had decided whether the red in it was blood.
It rose between the claw marks in slow, glossy threads.
Plip. Plip.
The smell reached him a moment later. Iron, wet bark, and something sweet enough that his stomach objected.
Barni lowered his body until his belly nearly touched the mud. The High Goblin pressed himself back under the roots, stone knife held in front of his throat.
Krrk.
Another branch bent behind the hollow log.
Mataon counted exits.
North climbed toward open stone. East went down toward the perimeter line and its buried thread. West narrowed into a shallow gully full of black water and silver reeds.
Only one of those did not end at a checkpoint or on an open slope.
He pointed west.
The High Goblin answered with a word that sounded like a refusal and a threat sharing one throat.
"Good," Mataon whispered.
"We have established that democracy is alive."
"Your electorate is armed," Zahr said.
"And one third of it bites."
Barni glanced back.
"Two thirds," Almina corrected.
Then the branch behind the log snapped.
KRAK.
The humor left the clearing.
A low shape slid out between the ferns.
Bark-coloured plates over the shoulders. Forelegs longer than the hind legs, ending in wide paws that pressed red sap into the soil. A narrow head held close to the ground, following the blood rather than looking at any of them.
[Creature Identified]
[Bloodsap Stalker]
[Level: 12]
[Monster Rank: E]
[Behavior: Opportunistic pursuit predator]
[Current Focus: Active blood trail]
[Observed Skills:]
[Hemal Trail — D]
[Sapmark — E]
[Rootfold — E]
Warning: Visual attention is secondary to scent acquisition.
"Of course it has a professional specialization."
"It is hunting," Almina said.
"So are tax inspectors. They still have departments."
The Stalker lifted one paw.
Shlk.
Red threads stretched from the mud to its pads, then snapped.
The High Goblin’s breathing went fast and shallow. His leg had bled through the cloth again, and the thing in front of them was built for exactly that.
Mataon drew the last of the cooked meat out of storage. The creature’s head turned before the food had fully appeared.
Good. That answered one question.
He wrapped the meat in the blood-stained strip of mining cloth from the log, then rolled the bundle in ash and bitterleaf. Not enough to erase the blood. Enough to make the smell bigger, stranger, and easier to follow than a wounded man.
The High Goblin watched his hands the whole time.
Mataon pointed east, toward the perimeter, then at the bundle. Then west, at the gully, then at the three of them.
The fugitive understood the routes. He did not agree with them.
He stabbed one finger at Mataon’s chest, then at the Stalker.
"You think I should distract it."
The knife moved once, confirming.
"Tempting proposal. Poor benefits."
Barni made a rough sound deep in his chest and struck the High Goblin’s wrist with one paw. Not hard. Deliberate.
The fugitive stared at him.
Barni pointed his nose at the gully.
For two breaths nobody moved.
Then the High Goblin shifted one foot west.
Cooperation. Not trust. Mataon would take it.
He threw the bundle east.
It hit a root past the hollow log.
Thk.
One of the stones inside bounced twice.
Tok. Tok.
The leaking flask chose that moment to put another drop on his hand. He looked at it, then dragged his wet fingers across a fern pointing north.
A false smell, a false sound, and a false direction. Not a plan he would have submitted in writing. Survival had relaxed several procurement standards.
The Stalker went after it so fast the ferns folded flat under its chest.
"Now."
The word meant nothing to the fugitive. The movement did.
Mataon grabbed the flask, the spear, and the collar. Barni was already in the gully. The High Goblin followed with a limp that got worse after the third step.
Mataon went last.
The black water came up to his ankles.
Splsh. Splsh.
His improvised shoe absorbed half the gully. His formal boot absorbed none of it, and punished him for the difference.
The High Goblin stumbled.
Mataon caught his forearm.
The stone knife came around toward his ribs.
He let go instantly.
The fugitive stayed upright by grabbing a reed. He looked at Mataon’s empty hand. Then at the path ahead.
No apology crossed the space between them. No permission, either.
Behind them, the Stalker tore the decoy open.
Rrrk-shhk.
Then silence.
"That bought less time than advertised," Mataon said.
"You wrote the advertisement," Zahr replied.
The gully narrowed between two shelves of root-bound stone. Barni went through first. The High Goblin could fit if he turned sideways. Mataon would have to take the spear off his back and crawl.
Behind them, the Stalker entered the water.
Shlk. Splsh.
Shlk. Splsh.
It had given up on the false trail.
Mataon looked at the blood running down the fugitive’s leg. The water thinned it. Every step still put a fresh red thread downstream.
He pointed at the wound, then at his pouch of ash and bitterleaf.
The High Goblin bared his teeth.
Mataon held the pouch out instead of coming closer.
Claws scraped stone behind them.
Skrrt.
The fugitive snatched the pouch, smelled it, grimaced, and packed the mixture under the cloth.
He did it with the speed of a man who had treated wounds without medicine before. His fingers knew the work even while they shook.
That frightened Mataon more than incompetence would have. Practice means repetition.
His whole body locked. A sound came out through his teeth.
Mataon did not make a joke.
The bleeding slowed. The smell changed.
Barni came back through the gap, took the edge of the fugitive’s coat in his teeth, and pulled.
The High Goblin went through.
Mataon came last. Stone caught the gold thread at his shoulder. He twisted, heard the fabric tear, and decided that his formal clothing had survived terrorism only to be defeated by geology.
The Stalker reached the opening as he dragged his back leg through.
A bark-plated paw came in between the stones.
THMP.
Claws raked the sole of the hide shoe. The vine binding snapped.
Mataon kicked free and rolled out the far side, leaving half the shoe in its grip.
"Improvised Fieldcraft remains committed to humiliation."
The paw withdrew.
Then the narrow muzzle appeared in the gap. Pale, unfocused eyes. Red sap pulsing along the grooves under its jaw.
Barni growled. The High Goblin raised his knife, though his arm was shaking.
Mataon saw the answer before either of them attacked.
The gap was too narrow for the creature’s shoulders. But the roots above it were old, split, and holding a great deal of loose stone.
He pointed up.
The High Goblin followed his hand. Understanding arrived.
They struck the same root together. The stone knife cut the softened wood; Mataon drove the spearhead into the split and hauled.
Krrk.
The Stalker shoved forward.
KRRRK.
Barni jumped onto the root and drove both hind paws down.
It broke.
Stone and packed soil came down into the opening.
WHUMPH.
The Stalker pulled back before the gap sealed. Its roar came through the earth as a vibration rather than a sound.
Red sap seeped between the fallen stones. No claw followed it.
The collapse had blocked the passage, not killed the thing behind it. Mataon found he preferred it that way. The Stalker had followed blood because that was what it had been made to do.
The collar, the listener, and the camp had been made by people who could have chosen otherwise.
For several seconds none of them moved.
Then the High Goblin put the point of his knife against Mataon’s side.
Mataon looked down at it.
"Excellent. We survived long enough to restore normal diplomatic relations."
The pressure eased. The blade stayed close.
They went west until the gully opened out under a shelf of dark stone.
Water ran over pale mineral sand there. Sand holds prints better than anything else in a forest, which was the first piece of luck Mataon had been given since he died.
Barni stopped first.
One set of tracks belonged to him. One to Mataon. One broad wrapped set belonged to the High Goblin.
A fourth set crossed all three.
Smaller. Barefoot. Fresh enough that the water had not yet softened the edges.
A short length of chain lay pressed into one of the prints.
The High Goblin went down on one knee.
He touched the small footprint with two fingers. Then struck his own chest. Then raised two fingers and pointed deeper into the forest.
Not alone.
A second prisoner had made it past the perimeter.
And whoever they were, they were still walking.