Caught Behind a Tree

Chapter 5: The Huntress in the Hollow (Part 1)

The cold woke her before the sun.

It seeped into her bones like meltwater, dragging her from a dreamless void into a world of grey mist and aching pain. Lyra's eyes opened to the rough bark of the oak's hollow, her body curled so tightly that her knees pressed against her bare chest, her arms wrapped around her shins. For a numb moment, she did not remember where she was or what had happened. Then the cold bit deeper, and the memories rushed back---the storm, the mercenaries, the flight through the dark.

She was naked. Utterly, completely naked.

Slowly, stiffly, she uncurled her limbs. The mud that had caked her body during the night had dried into a crackling, grey-brown shell that pulled at her skin with every movement. She sat up, and the crust split along her stomach and thighs, flakes of dried earth scattering onto the forest floor. The morning was pale and silent, the sky above the canopy a washed-out grey, the air heavy with the scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. Her body was a map of minor injuries: scratches on her forearms from branches, a bruise purpling along her hip where she had fallen, the soles of her feet raw and crusted with dried blood.

She looked down at herself, and a hot wave of shame surged through her despite the solitude. Her breasts were bare, the nipples pinched into hard, aching points by the cold. Below her navel, her pubic mound was completely exposed, the trimmed triangle of dark hair matted with dried mud. The sensitive skin between her thighs was chafed raw from her desperate run. She pressed her thighs together and wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself as small as possible. It was a hollow comfort, but it was all she had.

I have to find something. Anything.

She forced herself to stand. The motion sent a cascade of dried mud pattering to the ground. Her joints screamed. Her stomach clenched with hunger. The hollow of the oak had sheltered her from the worst of the night's chill, but it had done nothing for her thirst, nothing for her gnawing emptiness.

The forest around her was dense and unfamiliar. Towering oaks and twisted hornbeams rose from a carpet of ferns and fallen leaves, their branches interlacing overhead. She had no idea which direction she had run, no sense of east or west, no trail to follow. The caravan road could be anywhere---a mile away, or ten. She turned in a slow circle, her bare feet squelching in the mud, and saw only trees in every direction.

A bird called somewhere in the canopy. It was the first living sound she had heard since waking, and it made her heart leap with an irrational hope---then sink again just as quickly. A bird could not help her. Nothing could help her.

She started walking.

The ground was a misery. Every step brought a new jab of pain as twigs, stones, and hidden roots assaulted her unprotected soles. The ferns grew thick and waist-high in places, and she needed both hands to push them aside. There was no point trying to cover herself---she was alone, and modesty was a luxury she couldn't afford when every branch seemed determined to whip across her face. So she let her arms work, shoving through the undergrowth, her body moving freely through the forest. It was strange, in a way---the absence of the constant arm-clutching, the desperate hand-pressing. Without anyone to see her, the shame was still there, coiled in her stomach, but it had nowhere to go. It just sat there, heavy and cold.

I'm going to die out here, she thought, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Naked and alone in the middle of nowhere.

She didn't know what kind of animals or dangers lurked in these woods. She didn't know where she was, or why the trees seemed so ancient, or why the silence felt so deep. All she knew was that she was cold and hungry and bleeding, and if she didn't find help soon, she wasn't going to make it.

A branch snapped behind her.

Lyra froze. Adrenaline flooded her veins. Her hands flew to her body on pure instinct---one arm clamping across her breasts, the other hand pressing between her legs---and she crouched behind the trunk of a massive oak, her heart slamming against her ribs. She pressed her back against the rough bark, wincing at the scrape, and held her breath.

Footsteps. Slow, measured, deliberate. Not the crashing of a panicked animal. Not the heavy tromp of a human in boots. Something lighter, almost silent, padding through the undergrowth with an eerie precision.

Her mind raced. Galt? The other mercenaries? They could have tracked her. Her fingers dug into her own flesh, her palm pressed hard against her mons. She scanned the ground for a rock, a stick---anything---but her hands were occupied, and she couldn't bring herself to uncover even for an instant.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence. A long, stretched silence. Then, a voice---low, feminine, with a faint, lilting accent and a note of dry amusement.

"You can come out. I'm not going to hurt you." A pause. "Though I have to say, you're not exactly hard to track. You left a trail a blind squirrel could follow."

Lyra pressed herself harder against the tree. She didn't move.

"Suit yourself," the voice continued, sounding vaguely entertained. "But I can smell you from here---mud, blood, and about three days of sweat. No offense meant. I've smelled worse. I've been worse." Another pause. "Look, I've been walking since before dawn and my feet hurt. Can we skip the part where you pretend you're invisible? The tree isn't as wide as you think it is."

Slowly, carefully, Lyra peered around the edge of the tree trunk.