12.13.13.

 We walked for miles. The huntsman had a steady gait that never slowed, nor quickened, and I tired easily after trying to keep up with his long strides. Gasping for breath, I panted and wondered what had possessed me when I stepped out of the door, without even asking where we were going. The dogs were on a trail, their noses working double shifts, yet dinner seemed to elude us and we hadn’t found any game, even after several hours. My stomach began to cramp with hunger as midday approached and the snowy sun waltzed across the sky.

Then we stepped into the clearing, and the dogs began to scream in frenzy. I recognized the spot too late.

The huntsman sensed the change in his animals, and perhaps in my silence. We had walked quietly, and I hadn’t said a word for miles, but still, the aura of guilt is a strong one, and even a blind man can spot a murderer if he tries hard enough. I prayed he wouldn’t.

“How many are there?” The huntsman asked me as he knelt before the circle of dead men. Feeling for his lead dog, he followed her to the body of Dale, lying stiff and frozen on the snow. Lodged in his back was the blade of his young friend, whose green eyes were open and crusting in the light of day. The charred remains of the fire cast a dismal black shadow over the group of dismembered comrades. I shuddered, wishing I could forget.

“I think about twenty.” I replied, my voice too steady and too low for a young girl facing such a sight.

“Can you tell who they are?” He asked, a deep sorrow in his voice.

“Soldiers, I suppose.”

“But whose?”

The barrage of questions unnerved me. “They look like they’re from the north. Probably allies of Dunleemar, coming to fight in the wars.” Aghast, I could have bitten out my own tongue after saying so much. I’d brought up the very topic I wished to avoid most.

“These wars have cost too many lives already.” The huntsman shook his head, disapproving, and my face flamed fire with shame. “Are all the men from the northern country?” He added, bowing his head in respect.

“I believe so,” I said without thinking.

“That’s odd.” The huntsman stood. “It can’t have been a complete slaughter. The men from the Sal must have taken their dead with them when they left.”

“Of course,” I agreed hastily.

“Unless there were none.”

“None?” Trepidation slithered into my soul. 

“No men from the Sal.”

“Who else would have killed them?” My words were like alternate paths on a map, begging him not to say what I knew he would. Panicking, I backed away from him. There was still time before he guessed—I could slip away. His dogs would find me, but if I could get to the river before they did, I could make it into Aubryan before he had the chance to slit my throat. Still, I hesitated. Perhaps he would say ‘wolves,’ or 'a mountain lion that had attacked.'

But when the huntsman spoke his deep voice was soft, and his handsome face was etched in thought.

“It might have been the sorceress.” He said. 

My heart felt like a beast driven mad with disease. Fear, my ever-present friend, bit into me again. 

“She is said to be the cause of the wars.” He added. 

Pulling myself together, I grasped for words, before silence could make him suspect. 

“I don’t believe in sorcery.” I said flatly, masking my voice with an air of scoffing, as if I found the suggestion ridiculous.

“I’ve heard that her magic is in her beauty. One look and even strong men go mad, killing out of jealousy.”

I could have dropped dead. An icy wind whistled through my hair, like a grasping hand. The huntsman’s husky voice uttered the words so softly, with no trace of fear, nor even full belief, yet he had heard the stories and there was curiosity in his tone. He might not believe them, but then, he might. Right then I knew. Eventually, he would guess, and I wouldn’t be safe, even with a blind man.

The huntsman had a conscience.