Predator

The forest was no place for man. Trees so thick that they would swallow the high light of noon without a care for the dense thickets of foliage below, the darkness a cold, never ending thing that stretched on and on and on. It was easy to get lost even with the right precautions: a compass to follow the same direction consistently, because the forest had to end eventually; a lantern with plenty of oil to eat away at the darkness; more food than you would anticipate using in those two, three, seven hours of wandering.
A breadcrumb trail would never work, starving creatures lurking between the trees would ensure that there would be nothing left to find. Marking trees was equally useless, the unending trees seemed to repeat one after the other, over and over until they looked identical in their shape, in their height, in their formation.
It was no wonder that the forest was off limits to those who valued their lives. An unofficial law put in place by a leader sick of wasting resources on scouring for remnants of whoever was idiotic enough to wonder beyond the treeline. Merrin had lost count as to how many missing posters had been pasted to the eastern wall, a plea to an unsympathetic town to search for the lost wanderers. They all layered over one another until the ink bled off the paper and stained the masonry beneath.
Countless faces, countless names. Each and every one to never be seen again.
But the lack of people brave enough to face the trees, and the bushes, and whatever else lay within meant that there was more game within the forest than there was across the moors stretching from Ashenport to Emberhelm. Game which grew larger than their moorland counterparts, more meat on their bones, more hide on their back. Each one twice, thrice, the size. Enough food for a family for a month or more. Enough fur and leather to replace the worn boots of every soldier in the guard. The heavy clink of coin trailed after such a beast that it was hard to ignore the call.
It was why Merrin loved the forest so.
He had those trees all to himself, the route in and out committed to memory. A trail worn down from days of pacing, tracking, hunting. It followed the same line laden with traps. Snares, pitfalls, bear traps, cages. All meant for a different beast.
He wasn’t checking those today; he’d already been in the forest this week so there was no point checking again so soon. No, today he was tracking something else. Something that was too big for his traps, but it was such an ordinary hunt.
Merrin stood in the complete silence of the forest, waiting beneath the rotted ash tree laced with lichen. It was one of the few things that didn’t repeat within the forest, the decay of the wood so peculiar that even the magic lurking in the woodlands couldn’t replicate it. Another source of magic perhaps? One that was stronger than the trees themselves, older than even the greatest oak in the forest.
Very few things could eat away at the trees in such a way. With blackened veins carving up the trunk, splitting the wood and peeling it back into thick curls of bark. What was more noticeable was the smell. There was no stench of rotten wood, the damp that clung to the tree as it would wither away. No, the scent was different than that. Sweeter, stronger, full-bodied. Almost like a blackberry brandy mixed with freshly ground ink.
It wasn’t the first time that Merrin had picked up such a scent, but it had never been this strong. It masked almost everything else in the forest, but then he supposed that was a good thing. If it was so strong to him, then it would be intoxicating to the wildlife, covering up any of the lingering scents on his own body that could be tracked by predators hunting something far more interesting than their usual meal.
Merrin trained his eyes to the forest as it stretched out before him, waiting for any sign of movement. It was more difficult than hunting on open moorland, but that was half the fun.
As towering antlers appeared through the thicket of ferns, Merrin dropped down low. Its languid movements were enough for him to know that he remained unseen, unknown to the beast of a stag just ten metres away. The ferns rustled around its body as it took slow steps, head dipping into the underbrush as it snuffled for whatever remnants of food lingered. So unaware of Merrin it felt like cheating.
Unaware of the obsidian-tipped arrow pulled from where it was nestled in the quiver. Unaware of said arrow notched into the bow, feathers brushing the tips of Merrin’s fingers. Unaware of the soft creak of the wood as the bow string was drawn back.
Merrin held his breath as he lined up the shot, aiming just above the ferns where the stag would undoubtedly raise its head in a few seconds. There was a tightness across his shoulders that he wasn’t used to, his muscles beginning their inevitable complaints of having to work after months of neglect. He needed this. He needed to be useful again.
One. Two. Three.
As the stag’s head began to pull up, Merrin let out a slow, steadying breath.
Six. Seven. Eight-
A twig snapped behind Merrin and the arrow let loose. He didn’t have time to see if it hit the beast, but the cry echoes through silent trees as Merrin whipped his head around so fast his neck twinged.
Shadows shifted amongst themselves, the clawing darkness spreading across the towering trees. The smell was stronger now, clogging up Merrin’s lungs with each breath, a hazing black mist creeping up from the undergrowth.
He tried to move, he really did. His knees refused to straighten as the strength was sapped from his body. The silence of it all dug into Merrin’s mind as he picked apart the smallest movements buried in the growing darkness. Everything was so cold, his fingers numb where they wrapped around the bow, the other frozen half-way to his dagger.
Merrin wasn’t alone anymore.
Through the trees, the mist, the darkness, he saw it. The so-subtle movements dancing towards him in a hypnotic swirl of black ink and weaving shadows. A high-pitched whirr emanated from the writhing mass of dripping tendrils as it grew closer. If Merrin strained, he could almost hear the melody beneath the discordant whine, so familiar, so far away.
A burning chill surged through his veins, clawing at his insides and constricting his lungs as he felt his ribs crack from the inside out. One by one like the rungs of a rotten ladder. His hand hit the ground first, a final attempt to keep himself upright before it was pulled out from under him in one clawed swipe.
A metallic warmth sputtered from his throat as the dark claws wrapped around his chest. His head locked in place, his eyes forced to stare at the blood oozing from the stag’s eye. A perfect shot.
Too perfect.