8
When the others eventually found him, he was still holding Athena in his arms. As Lysander helped drag the Catoblepas’s body to Sheldon’s shell, Fletcher began ministering to Athena’s wounds. He was glad to see she was not mortally injured, even if she would not be able to fly for a long while. Ignatius did all he could to comfort her, nuzzling her with his beak and lapping ineffectually at her injured wing, but his healing saliva could do nothing for broken bones and Fletcher could not risk the healing spell for fear of her bones setting crookedly.
He was tempted to infuse her and allow her to heal within him, but knew that her night vision would be needed soon – with the bloody carcass on the shell this would be the most dangerous night so far. No, they would have to do this the old-fashioned way.
With little hardwood nearby, he splinted her broken wing with the straight shaft from one of his arrows and strapped her wing to her side. She hobbled lopsidedly around the shell, miserable to be relegated to the ground. But she was not downhearted for long, as their days of starvation were over and a feast was appearing before her eyes.
The carcass was butchered with their blades, separated into enormous haunches, cuts of dark flesh and piles of quivering organs. The intestines and other poisonous inedibles were removed carefully and buried some distance from their path, for the stench was dreadful and it would help prevent carrion eaters following in Sheldon’s wake.
The rest was carefully spread on the skinned pelt, which stretched so large that they could have made a tent from it.
Cooking the meat was essential, but they did not wish to start a fire directly on the Zaratan’s shell, for fear of hurting him. So, they piled earth high on the shell to insulate it and used the dry, punky branches that were scattered about the forest floor to start a serviceable fire.
The edible organs were eaten first, roasted over the flames on spits of greenwood that Fletcher had cut and shaved with his khopesh. Each had a different flavour; the liver dry and smooth, the kidneys rich and filling, even the heart was chewy but not unpleasant.
Herbivores Solomon and Tosk made do with foraging shoots from the forest around them, but meat-eaters Lysander, Athena and Ignatius were ravenous and ate the lungs raw, even nibbling at the brain as they waited for their turn at the cooked meat. The sight of their bloodied beaks gorging on the unsightly flesh was almost enough to ruin Fletcher’s appetite. Almost.
The cuts of meat were devoured next, spitted in great lumps hacked hastily from the pile. The dark flesh was marbled with veins of butter-yellow fat that dripped sizzling into the cooking fire. Fletcher, Othello, Sylva, Cress and even Alice ate it while piping hot and chewed with overfilled mouths, tilting their heads and tearing at it with their teeth.
It was the best meal Fletcher had ever eaten. There were cuts from the legs and sides, back and rump. They dined like the finest nobles of Hominum, sampling each piece and marvelling at the variance in texture and taste.
They revelled in the glow and heat from their small fire, for they had decided that this was the only night they would allow themselves one in case it was seen from above. They ate in satisfied silence, filling it with the slurps and mastication that sounded more like dogs lapping at a bowl than civilised people at a meal.
Othello was the first to speak.
‘Still think eating demons is wrong?’ he mumbled, his mouth full.
Cress chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Nah, this thing is bloody delicious,’ she said, continuing to gnaw at an enormous femur.
Fletcher collapsed on his back, groaning at his full stomach. He turned his head and surveyed the mountain of meat they still had left over.
‘What a waste,’ Cress said, hurling the bone into the darkness and lying back beside him. ‘If we’re lucky we might get breakfast in the morning before it goes bad.’
‘Aye,’ Othello said, overhearing them. ‘That’s why I’m filling my belly. After what happened to Athena, I don’t want to hunt again until we have to. Feast and famine, that’s how it’ll have to be.’
They sat quietly for a time longer, then Sylva spoke.
‘I wish we had a wood elf here,’ she sighed, tugging off her boots and socks and wiggling her toes near the fire.
Fletcher grinned, remembering Othello doing the exact same thing, long ago, when they had sheltered from the rain in a shed after Sylva’s attempted assassination. There was a time when she might have turned her nose up at such behaviour. How things had changed.
‘Why’s that then?’ Cress asked. ‘And what’s the difference?’
‘The wood elves are natural hunters, spending most of their lives on the Great Forest’s floor, tending our herds of deer and ranging many miles from our homeland. They would know how to preserve the meat, even the hide.’
‘Fletcher, didn’t you do a bit of hunting back home?’ Othello asked.
But Fletcher’s mind was already at work. He was no expert at tanning furs, for he had simply provided them to the leatherworkers before the process began. But he knew how to dry the meat into jerky. He had done it at home, by Berdon’s hearth and furnace. Somehow the whole thing had seemed impossible out here, in the damp, alien forest, but suddenly Fletcher decided to give it a go.
‘We’ll need more wood for the fire,’ Fletcher said, sitting up. ‘But I think I can do both. It won’t be perfect – hell, it might not work at all, but I reckon it’s worth a shot.’
So, Fletcher set to work. It was tough in the darkness, for there was only the fire for guidance, but Fletcher had everything he needed nearby. He cut sturdy branches from low-hanging trees and constructed a teepee-like structure, using the Catoblepas’s tendons for binding. Then he latticed it with thin branches, to make a rack where strips of meat could be hung to dry.
While the others set to trimming the meat into thin strips, he began to flense the enormous fur, using Cress’s seax to scrape away the excess flesh. Soon he had a taut membrane of skin, pinky-white on one side and hairy on the other.
The most gruesome part came next. Lacking a pot, Fletcher was forced to cut away the skull from the Catoblepas’s head and use it instead.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Othello moaned, watching as Fletcher cut and mashed the Catoblepas’s brain into a gooey paste.
‘With my seax!’ Cress exclaimed.
‘It helps tan the hide,’ Fletcher said, grimacing as he stirred the disgusting mixture. ‘Hunters have been doing this for centuries.’
Soon he was reluctantly spreading the liquid on the hide’s skin with his hands, while Ignatius blew toasty air to dry it. The fire had almost gone out by the time they had finished their work.
‘We’re down to coals now, and I’ve put some logs of dry wood on top that will smoulder and smoke all night. Now, help me with the skin,’ Fletcher ordered.
The others took a corner each and they heaved it up. Together they staggered to the fire and wrapped it around the meat-laden frame, where it was stitched in place by puncturing the edges with Sylva’s stiletto blade, threading them with the last of the sinew and using the tighten spell to keep it secure.
Finally, they stood back and admired their handiwork. A steaming cloud of smoke blew from the top of the structure like a chimney. Fortunately, the smoke seemed thin enough to disappear into the air before it broke the canopy.
‘We’ll stoke the fire with green leaves and more wood throughout the night,’ Fletcher said. ‘It should tan the hide and smoke the meat at the same time. Just remember, we’re not cooking it, we’re drying it out. So keep the heat low and constant – don’t pile up the fire too high. With any luck, it should all be ready in six hours from now. The fur will make a useful covering if it rains, or at least make the shell more comfortable for Othello’s back.’
‘Aye,’ Othello said, rubbing his tailbone surreptitiously.
‘I’ll take first watch,’ Sylva said.
‘Wake me in two hours,’ Fletcher replied, gathering Athena and Ignatius into his arms and laying down next to his mother.
It was good to have full bellies, and with any luck they would have dried meat for days. But even so, Fletcher found that sleep eluded him.
He tried not to think about the time ticking by, ignoring the twinges of frustration at their slow, pondering pace through the murky forest. Yet with each breath he took, he knew that the air poisoned him, sucking the life from his body. There was nothing they could do – only wait, and hope.
He tossed and turned on the hard shell, listening to the creak of branches, and the strange night noises of the woodland.
And finally, even as the sky began to turn bright once again, Fletcher slept.