The Woodsman: Chapter One

 All of them were dead.

His face was pressed into the moist peat-like soil as the rain washed the blood off his armor. He was cold. The forest around him hissed with the sound of rain, and a moist fog hung like the pall of a funeral. Dirt crept under his fingernails as he pulled himself towards the road.

He could not find his sword.

He called out, “Mitchell, Brandon, Wilson?”

Only the pattering of the rain answered him.

His worst fears were confirmed. He pulled himself to the road and dared look up and down the muddy track. Dead bodies were everywhere, his allies and enemies alike. Man, dwarf, and dark elf were all joined in unholy and everlasting sleep.

Why had he lived?

He swallowed hard and pushed himself to his hands and knees, his body still weak from his injuries. He crawled to the side of a tree and pulled several bandages from his pouch. He knew he had lost much blood and needed to stop losing more. His head still hurt from the heavy blow he took to the side of his temple, and he could feel the lump swelling.

“Is anyone here alive?” It was a stupid question since an enemy could answer with his blade. Or an arrow through the throat. 

“It is me, Tyler….”

Just the softness of the rain answered his worst fears.

“Please, someone answer me.”

They were all dead.

“I am alone.”

Thirty minutes must’ve seemed like three hours as he gathered enough strength to push himself to his feet and stumble around the aftermath of the battle. There was only one left of the ten men on the expedition.

He needed the gold, so he joined the army to pay off his sister’s house. Her husband died, and the military paid him three times for working as a shipbuilder in the capital. He promised to take care of her and see that through.

A snap in the forest made him jump. All he could hear were the beats of his heart in his ears.

There still could be dark elves everywhere.

But all that came for him were his deepest fears.

He needed to get back to the coast, a two-week trip. He would have to ride back through the dark forest surrounding him and make it out alive. He knew ships were waiting at the outpost for their return and would stay for as long as their supplies held out.

Three weeks.

He began to load the bodies of his comrades into the last remaining cart, and he covered them with a tarp out of respect for the dead. When he was done, he collapsed against the wagon’s side, and his body was still far too tired for this sort of work. He rested the back of his head against the wood of the cart, and he just wanted to die.

He knew these men in life. A few worked with him on the docks.

A single horse was all he had, so he hitched the animal to the front of the cart and prepared to leave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something. A slight shape lay in the grass beside the road under the black willow trees. He stumbled over, his feet heavy with exertion and his body too tired to care. But he needed to know what lay out there, and not knowing would haunt him for the rest of his life if he did not look.

Another body lay by the road, this one a woman. Her skin had the dark blue hue of the winter’s twilight, and her ears were long and pointed. She was not dressed as a warrior, and intricate symbols and runes covered her cloth armor.

A dark elf.

Like the ones who butchered the rest of his men.

This one knew magic; at least, she did when she was alive.

Her body and belongings might be helpful to the inquisitors back home. He hated touching her, but a dead body was a dead body, and bringing her home may save lives. He took her in his arms, her body surprisingly light, and laid her beside the gathered dead.

He stumbled to the front of the cart and whipped the horse. He prayed he would never come back to this dark forest again. He would ride until it got dark and then make camp.

The rain lasted all day, and the skies grew even darker as the night crept towards the now lonely road. When he found a small hill beside the road, he guided the horse far enough from the side of the road that a fire wouldn’t be seen, and the wind would push the smoke away from the road.

There was so much wet wood that he could not find enough to make a good fire, so he started burning the moss among the scarce dry spots in the area. When his fire was built, he went to the back of the cart to grab some of the food from the packs he had salvaged.

And among the dead, a drop of rain rolled down the dark elf’s foot, and her toes moved.

The shock made him take a step back.

She was alive.

His hands trembled; what if she tried to attack him? What if she had the strength to cast a deadly spell?

He realized his hand rested on his knife and heard her groan among the dead. He swallowed and poked her foot. She coughed. Her toes moved again.

He stared at her dusky blue foot as she groaned and shifted among the dead.

He would need to pull her out of there or let her die with the others.

It took all his strength to pull her from the rest of the dead. The thought of letting her die in the cart made him sick. She would live to answer for her butchery. Keeping a prisoner would slow him down, as he would need to keep an eye on her at the docks.

That is if she lived.

His hands wrapped around her ankles, and he pulled her free from the rest of the dead. He cradled the dark elf in his arms, her very light body and her coughs and moans faintly coming from her lips. The fire reflected off one of her partially open eyes as she groaned and rolled her head against him.

He laid her on the ground next to the fire on a bedroll. Her throat made a dry rasping sound. She coughed again, a rasping cough. He knew she was dehydrated and would die soon. He reached for his canteen and pulled her dusky blue lips apart.

Why was he doing this? Why would he help an enemy? She could kill him, given any amount of strength. He was still weak from his wounds, and this dark elf witch knew magic. Still, he poured the water down her throat, and she swallowed, coughed some more, and drank deeply of the water he offered her.

Something told him to keep her alive.

The will of the gods, perhaps.

Blast my life—a series of cursed happenstances and endless suffering.

Her eyes tried to flutter open, but she couldn’t bear the strength to open them fully. He knew he had to bind her wrists so she couldn’t cast magic, so he pulled her arms behind her body and wrapped them with a cord. He tied her ankles as well, and she had no strength to resist him. He laid her on her side when he was done and sat back, staring at the dark elf wizard.

He rubbed his unshaven face and regretted saving her from certain death. He knew he had just signed his death warrant with his kindness for her.

Her body started to move, and she groaned. His hand went to his knife. Her teeth began to chatter, and her body started to shiver uncontrollably. Her eyes opened halfway, and she stared at him, the light of the fire reflecting off the purple of her irises. Still, she could not speak.

Hypothermia would soon set in, and she would be dead.

He glanced at the last dry blanket in his pack and took it out. He crawled towards her and covered her with a blanket, ensuring she was closer to the fire. He realized he was getting cold as the night set in. He would die, too, if hypothermia overtook him.

He groaned a deep and pained sound from the deepest part of his soul.

He pulled the blanket up, crawled in behind her, and pressed his body against the dark elf’s body. She moaned softly as she felt his warmth against her and pressed the entirety of her body against him. He felt a slight warmth coming from her, and he knew if they stayed close through the night, they would both live.

But he knew when the sun rose, and she woke before him, he would be dead by morning.