“It’s better not to agonize over such things,” Imre says finally. “The war is going badly. The winter will be long. If Godfather Life wills it so, He must have a reason. We are trained to serve, not to ask questions.”
I remember how the fire roared to life in front of the captain, so sudden and sure. Any wolf-girl would have marveled at such a fire, easily as impressive as the work of our best fire-makers. We would have called it power, magic. They called it piety. But what is the difference, if both fires burn just as bright?
The wind sings through the cattails, blowing fog from the lake. The false stars dotting the surface of the water wink like celestial eyes. Ferkó has already bedded down for the night, and soon Imre rolls over to join him. The captain, whom I did not see eat a bite of stew or swallow a sip of water, folds his arms in front of the fire. With the smear of the woods at our backs and only the pale, empty stretch of the Little Plain before us, it is finally safe for our whole convoy to sleep at once. But I stay awake, warming my sinful pagan body by the light of Godfather Life’s flames, battling the heaviness of my eyelids.
The captain’s knife is glinting on his boot. Perhaps I can still be a true wolf-girl tonight.
By the time the Woodsmen have fallen asleep, I can barely shake off oblivion myself. Exhaustion has crowded my head like a flock of screeching birds. My vision is blurring and sharpening by turns, making me dizzy. When I hear a rustling in the bramble to my right, I scarcely even jump.
It’s the same hen from the woods, feathers black as a slick of lake water, pecking its way toward me. Fear has turned my throat raw, so I swallow hard and mutter, “Stop scaring me.”
The hen cocks its head.
Then it explodes.
At least, that’s what it seems to do. There’s a flurry of feathers, a puff of smoke that reeks worse than the rot of Peti’s wound. And when the air clears, something that is not a chicken stands before me.
The creature looks almost human—just human enough to make my breath catch. Its gray-green skin is pulled taut over its spine and rib cage, the bones close to breaking through. Its head dangles perilously on a scrawny neck, black tongue unfurling over a row of blade-sharp teeth. Its tongue lolls on the ground as the creature crawls toward me on all fours, hissing and groaning. Its eyes are not eyes at all. They are twin clusters of flies gathered on its gaunt face.
I scramble back toward the fire, a scream rattling in my chest. Three more creatures are creeping through the brush, the hairs on their ridged backs bristling in the cold air. They crawl towards Ferkó and Imre, nosing the wet earth blindly, steered by scent alone.
I do scream, finally, when one of the creatures takes a bite out of Ferkó’s skull.
The creature swallows a hunk of flesh and muscle, blood streaming onto the grass. Ferkó’s skin flaps in the wind like a blown dress, exposing the plank of bone beneath it, right below his eye socket.
Imre jerks up with a start, but he doesn’t have time to shake off the bleariness of sleep. Another creature lunges at him, its teeth in his throat. The gurgling sound he makes as he chokes on his own blood is worse than the sight of it, worse than watching the creature chew his red muscle and swallow.
My own creature circles me in a lazy, curious way, as if trying to decide whether I’m worth the effort of eating.
The rope on my wrists has loosened enough that I can slip it off with my teeth, but it doesn’t do me much good. I have no weapon, only the blackened logs of the fire to my rear and the useless wet grass beneath me; Ferkó’s bow is blood-drenched and much too far away. The monster knuckles another step forward. It has human hands with ragged yellow fingernails.
“Please,” I gasp. “Isten . . .”
But it’s been so long since I’ve prayed that I can’t remember what I’m meant to say. Let me light one fire, I think desperately. Let me forge one blade, and I’ll never feel sorry for myself ever again.
None of that happens, though. Instead, the air whistles as the captain brings his ax down on the creature’s back. There’s a crunch of bone and the monster drops to the ground, crumpling like a poorly pitched tent.
Fear and panic roar in me as loudly as river water in a rainstorm. Amidst the churning of it, the chaos, I can only remember one thing—my hatred for the Woodsmen. I lurch to my feet, half-stumbling, and snatch the captain’s knife from his boot. I lift it over my head, angling for a killing blow.
“Are you mad?” the captain bellows. He dodges my knife easily, then whirls and cuts down another creature, its face caving in beneath the blade of his ax.