Stories Thread

[TinCow]

1070 AD

The squirrel’s hind legs twitched slightly as the body slowly accepted the reality of death. Christophe lifted the large stone which had crushed the animal’s upper body and set it down next to the trunk of the tree. He licked the few streaks of warm blood off his fingers, then picked up the squirrel and brushed off the crushed acorns which had attracted it into the trap in the first place. In the crook of a tree above him, several more killing rocks were stored and waiting. It took patience to lie still in the tree above, but with the seasons turning the squirrels were out in force and a meal was almost guaranteed if he simply waited long enough.

Food was a strong motivator and Christophe desperately wanted to avoid the hunger he had endured for the first several weeks in the forest. He had regained part of the weight he had lost since then, but not all of it. With winter approaching, the prospects of starvation weighed heavily on his mind. Christophe had run away from Arnoul in mid-spring when the air was warm and the plants were bearing fruit. He had barely survived then, and the prospect of winter in the woods truly frightened him.

He looped some twine around one of the squirrel’s feet, tethering it along with the other victim he had caught earlier in the morning. Christophe tossed the animals over his shoulder and began walking back to his shelter. It was a pleasantly warm day and the tranquility of the forest put him at ease. As he walked, his mind returned inevitably to the impending difficulties of winter.

Thus far he had avoided theft from the local farms whenever he could. His first attempt, made in during the depths of his spring hunger, had almost been his last. The farmer who had caught him had beaten him badly and likely would have killed him, had the man’s wife not forced him to stop. Since then, he had managed to steal a small pig and two chickens, but he knew his luck would run out soon enough. The next farmer who caught him would not likely have such a forgiving wife. Yet, when winter came, what choice would he have?

Winter also posted another serious threat: cold. Thus far his clothing had been sufficient to keep him warm during the day, and fire had served him at night. When the temperature dropped, it would not be enough. The depths of night were already starting to achieve a biting level of cold that made sleep difficult. Another month and he would begin having serious problems, and warmth was not something that could be stolen. To survive, he would have to find a building to live in, and that almost certainly meant people. Where there were people, there were questions, and that would inevitably lead him back to Arnoul.

Through the air came the sound of voices. Christophe froze in his tracks, tilting his head to locate where the intrusion had come from. Ahead of him. Directly ahead of him. The blood drained from Christophe’s face as the realization of what that meant sank in; they were at his camp.

He knew he should flee, but with the exception of the old dagger he had stolen from Arnoul, all of his possessions were there. Meager though they were, they were all that stood between survival and death; he could not simply abandon them. Slowly, he sank into a crouch and began moving forward, one step at a time, towards the camp. He dropped the dead squirrels at the base of the first tree he passed, freeing his right arm for use. After a few minutes of slow movement, he began to see glimpses of the site through the trees.

It was even worse than he had feared. There weren’t just a few men, there were dozens of them; sitting by his fire circle, leaning against nearby trees, and more he could sense but not see. One even appeared to be lying under the lean-to Christophe had erected to provide shelter at night. The few possessions he had left at the camp had either been kicked about, or were missing altogether.

In his growing panic, Christophe became careless. Straining to see better, he leaned forward on a dead branch, and it collapsed under his weight with a loud snap. Every head swiveled to look directly at him. He jumped to his feet and turned to run, only to find a giant bearded man towering over him. Christophe drew his worn dagger and swung it wildly at the man, but his opponent simply stepped out of the way, laughing heartily. With a single hand, he first knocked Christophe over, then picked him up by the neck. The other hand grabbed the dagger and slipped it through a rope belt at his waist.

Christophe clawed feebly at the man’s hand, desperately trying to get free. This only amused him more, and he strode into the middle of the camp, with a huge grin on his face. He tossed the boy onto the ground in the middle of the group. Christophe immediately sprang back to his feet and ran directly at the bearded man, desperately trying to get his dagger back. Each time he was swatted away with a heavy palm. By this point, the entire camp was rolling with laughter. The man lying under the lean-to arose and walked forward.

“What have you caught for us today, Gobert?”

“I think it is some kind of skinny, hairless dog,” the bearded man replied. “Shall we eat it?”

The other man grinned and drew a long blade. “Mostly skin and bone, but perhaps there’s some meat on there somewhere, ”

The words only made Christophe intensify his attack. With a quick jab, he punched the bearded man in the testicles, ending the man’s latest bout of laughter with a muted, “Oop…” Gobert stumbled back a few steps, wincing in pain. Christophe swiped the dagger from his belt and swung around, waving it wildly at the men around him. With the exception of Gobert, they were all laughing even harder now.

“Well, well, well… looks like this one has some spirit in him.” The lean-to man gestured to one of the men who was sitting near the fire. The man reached forward and grabbed something from one of the rocks and tossed it on the ground next to Christophe. It was a chunk of smoking meat. Like a true dog, the boy dropped to his feet and began tearing into the food. All thought of escape vanished and for a while he knew nothing except the food. After several minutes of gorging himself, he finally looked up, to see that the men were once again relaxing around the campsite.

The man under the lean-to smiled at him. “Do you know this area, little dog?”

Christophe stared blankly at him, then nodded.

“Truly? You know the towns, the merchant roads, the militia posts?”

The boy nodded again.

“Then we shall be good friends, little dog. I am Dreux and these,” he gestured at the group of men lounging around the campsite, “are my friends. Show us what we ask for, and I promise you will never go hungry again.”