Chương 61: Chapter 38: The Trail North - Part I

The story begins with a single footprint. I remain crouched beside the broken fence, studying the shallow impression in silence while the morning breeze stirs the grass around the pasture. Several days have passed since the attack, enough for the wind to soften the sharper edges and for the sun to dry the exposed soil, yet the ground remembers more than most people expect. It always does. Rowan and Harold wait behind me without speaking. Good.

Questions asked too early have a habit of drowning out answers the earth is still trying to provide. I brush another thin layer of loose soil away with the back of my fingers, exposing more of the impression hidden beneath; broad; four long toes; humanoid.

"Goblins." The conclusion comes almost automatically. Small humanoid tracks, livestock carried away during the night, multiple individuals moving together. It fits but a little too well. My eyes drift to the next footprint. Then another, then another. I rise slowly and follow them beyond the repaired fence without saying another word.

"They came through here," I murmur. Harold nods.

"That's where we found the fence broken." I stop beside one of the splintered posts still lying where it had fallen before the repairs. The wood has snapped cleanly near its base. Not chopped, broken. I crouch again, running my fingers across the pale fracture. Fresh timber, strong timber. It would have taken considerable force to break it outright. I look back toward Harold.

"How many cattle were in this pasture?"

"Twelve."

"Did they panic?" He lets out a humorless laugh.

"They nearly ran through the southern fence trying." I nod. The answer explains part of what I am seeing. Several deep hoofprints crisscross the field in every direction, the soil churned badly enough that following individual tracks has become impossible. Fear leaves remarkably little order behind.

"What happened first?" Harold folds his arms while searching his memory.

"The dogs started barking."

"The same dogs Rowan mentioned?" He shakes his head.

"The Ashcrofts lost theirs. We've never kept any." Interesting.

"No barking before that?"

"Not that I heard."

"What woke you?"

"A cow." He points toward the northern pasture.

"One started bellowing loud enough to wake the whole house." I glance toward the barn.

"How long before you reached the field?"

"A minute. Perhaps two."

"And?" He exhales slowly.

"The fence was already down."

"The cow?"

"Gone." I look back toward the drag marks disappearing across the pasture.

"No." I shake my head.

"It wasn't gone." Harold frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"It never left under its own strength." I point toward the shallow groove still visible beneath the grass.

"It died here." His eyes widen slightly.

"But there wasn't much blood."

"There wouldn't be." Both men look at me expectantly.

"If the throat was crushed instead of cut." Understanding begins settling across Harold's face.

"So that's why..." I nod.

"A crushed windpipe bleeds very little externally." He studies the drag mark with new eyes.

"I thought it had been wounded."

"It was." I straighten, dusting the soil from my hands.

"But only after it was already dead." Silence settles briefly between us. Finally, Rowan speaks.

"You can tell all that from a mark in the dirt?"

"A mark? No." I gesture toward the pasture.

"From all of it." Their expressions remain politely confused.

"The broken fence." I point toward the post.

"The drag mark." Then toward the ground.

"The cattle." Finally, toward the scattered impressions surrounding us.

"The tracks. None tells the whole story on its own. They only make sense together." Neither man replies. Perhaps because there is little to say. Tracking has never been about finding footprints. It is about finding mistakes. Everything passing through a place changes it, however slightly. The ground remembers longer than most people realize. I continue following the trail northward. The drag marks remain surprisingly easy to follow despite the passing days.

Whatever carried the carcass made little effort to conceal its passage. Grass has begun standing upright once more, though patches remain flattened where something heavy scraped repeatedly across the earth. Eventually, the groove narrows. Then disappears altogether. I stop. Harold notices immediately. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"What happened?"

"They lifted it." His eyebrows draw together.

"The carcass?"

"Yes."

"Why?" I scan the surrounding ground.

"Because carrying leaves fewer signs than dragging." Rowan looks toward the forest.

"They realized that?"

"Perhaps." I remain unconvinced. A creature doesn't realize. It follows habits. Creatures learn and then they repeat what works without necessarily understanding why. I search several yards farther before finding what I expected. More footprints, many more. I count them silently. One, three, five, eight. At least. Perhaps more where later impressions overlap the earlier ones. Harold follows my gaze.

"How many?"

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"At minimum." He pales slightly.

"I thought..."

"So did I." I continue examining the trail. Every track measures roughly the same size, adults, no obvious difference suggesting juveniles. The spacing remains remarkably consistent as well. They travelled together, not in a disorganized mob but a group. That bothers me more than the number itself. I move farther north. The pasture ends where cultivated land, gives way to rougher country. Waist-high grass gradually yields to scattered shrubs before the first trees begin appearing beyond a shallow rise.

The transition feels natural enough until I notice another broken branch, twisted. Fresh growth stripped away by something passing repeatedly through the same gap. I follow it. Another branch, then another. A narrow trail emerges almost reluctantly from the undergrowth. Too wide for a deer, too irregular for a wagon. Formed by repeated use over weeks rather than years. Harold joins me at the edge of the trail.

"I've never noticed this."

"You weren't looking." The answer comes more gently than it sounds. Most people never search beyond the place where the attack happened. Predators depend upon that. I kneel once more. The soil beneath the bushes has remained protected from wind and sunlight. The tracks here are clearer, much clearer. I study one carefully. I press two fingers against the impression before measuring the distance to the next. Something nags at me. Not the footprints themselves, but the stride.

I stand before pacing several steps myself. Then once more beside the trail.

"No..." The word escapes almost unconsciously. Rowan looks up.

"What is it?" I continue staring at the ground.

"The stride."

"I don't understand."

"It should be longer." I look back toward the tracks.

"If these belonged to goblins." Harold blinks.

"They don't?"

"I don't know." That is the only honest answer.

"They should." I point toward the impressions.

"Goblins lean forward when they walk. They place more weight upon the front of the foot. They overstride." I demonstrate briefly upon the softer earth beside the trail.

"These don't." Rowan folds his arms.

"So, what are they?" I remain silent. Because I don't know. That troubles me considerably more than if the answer had simply been goblins. I lift my gaze at last. Beyond the narrow trail, the trees stand closer together, their branches weaving into a dense canopy that swallows much of the morning light before it ever reaches the forest floor. The air itself seems cooler beneath their shade while the undergrowth thickens into a tangled wall of ferns, brambles and ancient roots disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Northwood. The name has always suited it. There is little imagination in calling a forest by the direction in which it stands, yet names born from practicality have a curious habit of surviving the longest. Long before maps carried borders and kingdoms argued over them, someone had simply pointed beyond the farms and called it the Northwood. Nothing since had given anyone sufficient reason to change it. I step beneath the canopy. The change is immediate.

The morning sun all but disappears behind a ceiling of ancient branches, leaving only scattered shafts of light to reach the forest floor. The air cools noticeably while the scents of damp earth, moss and pine replace those of tilled fields and fresh hay. Every sound seems quieter here. Even the breeze moves differently, broken into whispers as it threads its way through countless leaves overhead. The trail continues, no longer obvious but merely present. A snapped fern, scuffed moss.

A stone turned over recently enough that the darker earth beneath still shows where it once rested. The forest remembers as faithfully as the pasture. It simply tells its stories more softly. I advance another thirty paces before stopping once more. The tracks remain visible, though only because I already know where to look. Someone unfamiliar with woodland would likely walk past them without ever realizing a trail existed at all. Harold does exactly that.

"I've lost them already."

"You never had them." The words leave my mouth more bluntly than intended. He doesn't seem offended.

"I suppose I didn't." I straighten before looking back toward both men.

"You shouldn't come any farther." Neither replies immediately. Rowan studies the forest beyond me before speaking.

"You've found something."

"I've found enough."

"Is it dangerous?" I glance toward the trail disappearing between the trees.

"Yes, and there are at least eight of them." Harold shifts uneasily.

"And if there are more?"

"There probably are." Silence settles between us. Finally, Rowan inclines his head.

"I suspected you'd say that." He removes his hat briefly before wiping the brim against his sleeve.

"We're only slowing you down now."

"Yes." The honesty earns a tired smile.

"I appreciate direct answers."

"They're usually the most useful." Harold looks toward the shadows beneath the trees.

"Will you need help?" I shake my head.

"No." He hesitates.

"Can you manage alone?"

"I've done it before." More times than I care to remember. The thought remains unspoken. Rowan steps closer, lowering his voice.

"If you're not back by tomorrow evening..."

"I'll still be following the trail."

"And if you're not back the day after?" I meet his eyes.

"Then inform the guild." He nods once. No promises, no dramatic declarations. Only practical preparations. The sort experienced people make because they understand that confidence and certainty are rarely the same thing. Harold extends his hand.

"I hope we're worrying for nothing." I clasp it firmly.

"So do I." He releases it before stepping back toward Rowan. Neither man lingers. There is no final speech or attempt to change my mind. Both understand that the farther this trail continues into Northwood, the less they can contribute and the greater the risk becomes. Before long, their footsteps fade behind me, swallowed gradually by the forest until only birdsong and the occasional creak of ancient branches remain. I wait another minute before moving again.

It isn't like I was expecting immediate trouble but the forest changes after people leave it. Animals hidden by unfamiliar voices begin moving once more. Birds return to their calls. Even the silence settles differently. A patient hunter learns to notice those changes before becoming one more disturbance among them. The trail grows easier to follow the deeper I venture beneath the canopy. That alone troubles me. Whatever passed this way made no attempt to conceal its movements.

Branches remain broken at shoulder height while patches of bark have been scraped away where something carrying considerable weight brushed too closely against the trunks. More than once, I find tufts of coarse grey hair caught upon thorn bushes lining the narrower sections of the trail. I crouch beside the nearest one. The strands feel wiry between my fingers. Too coarse for a wolf, too thick for a goblin. I tuck one carefully into a small leather pouch hanging from my belt.

Another piece of the story, still incomplete. Another hundred paces, brings me to the remains of the missing cow or rather... what remains after several days. Bones lie scattered across a small clearing where the undergrowth has been trampled flat, ribs stripped clean, the skull cracked open deliberately. Large sections are simply gone. I kneel beside one of the larger bones. The tooth marks stop me immediately. Blunt, powerful, almost human. I turn the bone slowly in my hands.

"No..." The word escapes before I realize I've spoken. These are not goblins. They never were.