Mercurial Naomi Hughes (suggested reading txt) 📖

Food had been on her list of immediate needs. The hare would do nicely; she already knew she would make a miserable hunter and might succumb to starvation if she was forced to rely on her own skills, but here was a meal ready-made. All she had to do was retrieve it from the stoat. Or perhaps kill the stoat, if she could manage it. Then she would have two meals. Perhaps she could find some way to use the fur too. A pair of mitts, maybe. Her hands were freezing.

She scanned the wreckage for anything that might serve as a weapon. She settled on a shard of metal about as long as her forearm. Its edges were sharp enough to cut her hand as well as the stoat, so she tore off the sleeve of her discarded tunic and made a wrapped hilt from it. All the time, she kept her gaze locked on the stoat, who stared fearlessly back. It twitched its nose, likely trying to scent her. Was she downwind? She had no idea.

It didn’t matter. She was far bigger and stronger than the tiny creature, and more importantly, she was desperate.

She crept slowly forward, clutching her clumsy weapon in her good hand. The stoat flicked its whiskers at her and scampered away, dragging the bloodied hare—which was several times larger than the stoat itself—behind. She followed the track it was taking and spotted a neatly-dug hole in the snow not far ahead. Its den, likely. If it made it into that tunnel there was no way she’d be able to catch it. The stoat apparently came to the same conclusion as her, because its lurching movements hastened as it bounded across the snow toward the den.

She cursed. Throwing stealth to the wind, she sprinted after it and then dove the last few feet. The stoat had made it to the tunnel and was tugging the hare in after it.

“No you don’t!” she shouted, grabbing onto the rear half of the rabbit and yanking. The stoat growled at her from within its den. She growled back, pulling harder. A wet tearing noise sounded and she flopped suddenly backwards, the rabbit still in her hands. Well—most of the rabbit. It was now completely headless. The stoat popped its nose back out of the tunnel, hissed at her, and then vanished, snatching up the fallen rabbit head on its way.

She stood, holding her trophy aloft and grinning in triumph. She’d won half a rabbit and one more day of survival. If, of course, she could find some way to prepare her meal. She would eat it raw if she had to but she much preferred it roasted, and she would soon need a fire—and a shelter—for warmth in any case. The sky had darkened further and the wind was beginning to pick up, fat white snowflakes mixing with the still-falling ash now. She also still needed to find some thicker trousers to replace her thin, snow-soaked ones. The rabbit dangling from one hand, she set off on her new mission.

The first two bodies she passed were too mangled and bloody for their clothing to be of any use. One of them, though, did have a beautifully tooled dagger still sheathed at his waist. The thing was obviously ornamental and had never seen any actual use, but it was far better than her metal shard weapon, and she might be able to sell it along with the crown later too. She shoved the large body over to unbuckle the belt and then drew it around her own waist, having to tie an awkward knot to secure it, as she was far smaller than the dead man.

Her gaze caught on another body, and she straightened, casting an assessing eye over it as she approached. This one was a younger man, perhaps even around her own age. His clothing—and most importantly, his trousers—were singed through in spots but still plenty useable, of quite high quality and thick enough to give her more protection from the coming blizzard. Even better, he had two short swords sheathed at the small of his back. She didn’t want to weigh herself down too much, but she also would feel far less vulnerable if she had proper weapons, even if she had little idea of how to actually wield them.

She knelt next to the body. He didn’t seem to have been as badly injured as most of the others. The only sign of trauma was his left leg, which was twisted beneath him at an angle that could only mean a broken bone. The boy’s face was unmarred—and, she mused, beautiful in a tragic sort of way. Strands of dark hair splayed over his forehead and hid his eyes. A sudden impulse surged through her: she wondered what color those eyes had been. Curious, she reached out and brushed his hair to the side.

His eyes snapped open. They were green, she noted in a moment of shock before his hand jerked upward and latched onto her wrist, locking her in place.

A JOLT OF UTTER PANIC SHOT THROUGH HER. She was defenseless. He’d moved quicker than thought, and the muscles cording along his forearm meant he was far stronger than her. She couldn’t reach her stolen dagger when she was bent over like this—the attempt to do so would likely topple her, putting her even more at a disadvantage against this boy. She shouted in wordless panic and lifted a hand to strike him, hoping to surprise him enough to loosen his grip so she could get away.

Those sharp green eyes jerked from her face to her raised hand. He reacted as quickly as he had a moment ago, releasing her wrist instantly and turning his face away, closing his eyes and bracing his shoulders as if anticipating a blow from someone much stronger than her.

Hand still raised, she paused. He