Hand of the Hunter

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Night came quickly to the mountains, and Darric wanted their camp secured by dark. They chose a small valley-little more than a wide spot in the path, really-but it had a swath of trees hugging a cliff wall that would provide shelter from the wind and help to hide the light from their fires. Midsummer though it was, they were in the mountains west of Narfell, and a bone-chilling cold settled in with the dark. After picketing the horses near the cliff wall, those men not on watch huddled in their blankets close to the fires.

Darric sat by the fire and tried to rub the soreness out of his legs. For two days they'd been on mountain trails too treacherous for riding, so every man walked, leading his mount. They'd already had to put down one horse because of a broken leg. A sad loss, but it had added to their meat stores.

Darric rubbed his knuckles into a knot that had taken up residence a few inches above his right ankle. All this… all this for one girl. He had railed at his father, citing friendship and honor and justice for the fallen of Highwatch. But really, this was all about a girl he hadn't seen in years. And yet in all those years since, not a day had gone by he hadn't thought of her.

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