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You force yourself down even lower, working your long body further into the mire. It would not do to be discovered just yet, especially when these mountain men are so at ease. Maybe their success will make them loose-lipped, and you shall glean from their words something of value. The bearded one, ever jovial, laughs again.
“Many a boy seeking to become a man has lost a deer outright in their haste, and of the herd you picked the largest and hardiest of all. Take heart that you needed only two shots, nephew.”
Nephew, is it? You suppose that the little clumsy one, who is still poking the deer, must be another of the same. Or could it be a niece? You certainly can’t tell, and unless there is some striking distance between the sexes you expect it will be quite some time before you can tell the males and females of their race apart by eye.
Torold smiles. “I jest, uncle. A fine stag he is, and he will go nicely with the others. Though I might be happier yet had my first arrow not erred. The great hunters in the tales only ever needed but one to fell their prey.”
“You are not a great hunter from a tale,” Torold’s uncle scoffs. “You are a whelp of sixteen summers and some, not a year from manhood who, though a fine shot with a short bow, still needs his uncle to do the tracking work for him.”
The short one stops poking at that, and a tense silence descends over the clearing, broken only by the whistling wind and the calls of unusual southern birds. A beat of tense silence follows before the eldest man groans loudly.
“Oh come, nephew mine, don’t be so grim! Is that not why we are here at all? I meant no insult. I say again, take heart. You are improving little by little.”
Torold stands for a little longer, staring at nothing in particular, before drawing a long sliver of metal from beneath his furs. A knife.
“I only hope it will be enough. Come, Bodvar, the meat must be dressed.”
All cheer gone from the clearing and replaced with a heavy grimness, you watch from your hiding place as the manling, now Bodvar, abandons his make-believe sword and kneels next to Torold, helping him as he splits the reindeer open and starts removing organs. The scent of viscera fills the air and your stomach pangs longingly, but you once again put your hunger aside.
You notice, between his cuts, that Torold’s knife is noteworthy. A steel blade, and one of fine quality at that, much like his uncle’s boots and the silver buckles that adorn them. You doubt that men who wear such simple clothes could achieve such a grade of metalworking; there must be some other culture in these mountains with whom they trade for their finer items. If you stay hidden, they might just tell you.
