Hunted

Chapter 4

"So where exactly did he say this traveling menagerie is?" Mark asked as he trailed behind Wren who was pulling snow-laden branches back. Smith had given them directions to travel thirty minutes West out of town—though at the quick clip Wren was setting, it was bound to be twenty—and that their party would be waiting for them in the clearing.

"It's the glade where you and I camped at last summer," he replied, letting go of the branch in his hand. Mark looked up from the log he was clambering over just in time to jump back from the branch shooting towards him. 

"Watch it, Wren!" he cried. His friend turned around, hand slipping from the bough it held. Immediately, Mark dropped to his belly. The air above whistled as the branch shook back into where he head had just been. 

Again, he'd barely, just blasted barely, been able avoid the bruise the branch would have undoubtedly left. The frigid snow trying to snake its way through the uniforms the guards had given them made Mark wonder if maybe it would have just been better to take the hit from the branch. 

Slowly and coldly, Mark shuffled around, trying to get purchase on the pillowy snow to push himself up. Every time, however, he put his hands down and pressed, rather himself rising up, his hand sank down deeper into the snow. Wren had already turned around and started walking away, the selfish bastard. Damn the branch for lashing out. Damn the snow for being so powdery. Damn Wren for having such a hallow head that didn't have any thoughts to spare for his selfless friend who was sitting up to his ass in ice-cold snow.

Giving up on the snow, Mark swear he'd sunken in even deeper, Mark grabbed hold of a low-hanging branch and started to haul himself up. As as he was clambering up however, something landed heavily on his back. He slammed back into the ground with WHOMPH! of air.

Mark's face peeked through the burden of snow the bough had dumped upon him and saw Wren had turn around a quarter to stare stupidly at him. With eyes colder than the ice shavings piled a foot above him, Mark glared at Wren. "You have two seconds," he growled, "to get your fat ass over here and help me up."

The half-unfocused, semi-dazed look of Wren snapped away in the blink of an eye as he leapt to help Mark up, muttering some form of an apology. He earned only grumbled in return. 

"Tell me again why those two crazy cracked eggs couldn't just show us the way?" Mark demanded, dusting himself free of snow. Little had luckily gotten in; the guards were outfitted well, he admitted grudgingly. Far better than the rags they'd been gamboling about in. 

"We have their winter uniforms," came Wren's reply. "Our clothes weren't warm enough for them to make the trek."

Mark muttered, "It was warm enough for us to have gone capering about in this damned weather." Although he had to admit that even for them, it was bitterly cold sometimes, dangerously so even. He could see, even if he didn't care to say so, how the conditions could be too harsh for someone unacquainted with them. Especially if these fur-lined uniforms were what those soldiers were used to. "Damned lilybellies," he offered as a final curse.

"Oh, stuff it," Wren called back, already walking away, forcing Mark to scramble to catch up. "The clearing is right," he pushed through two tangled-together trees, "here."

Having avoided two branches to the face, Mark's luck ran out as he smacked into Wren's frozen form.

"Dammit, Wren!" he swore, rubbing his nose. "A little warning would be nice." No reply. Nose forgotten, he shoved his head around Wren's shoulders to find an empty glade. 

Mark's thoughts shot into a race as they chased hard on the heels of the other. Where were the people? Where were the animals? Had there been either? Were they tricked by the men? At least they got the warm uniforms. But what if this was a trap? Were they about to framed? Ambushed?