Jorge counted his arrows. Five in total. Five chances to slow the mountain of bone, meat, and fur barreling through the forest. The only reason it hadn’t caught up yet was because of its weight. Every step it took buried its paws in a few feet of dirt and mud. He could barely see straight with the amount of bobbing and weaving the deer was doing to avoid the rises and eddies of the forest floor. Jorge could smell the bear, feel the heat of its maw. He had to make a decision. He nocked an arrow and brought the fletching to his cheek. The sight wavered. He let go prematurely.

The arrow ricocheted off the bone plates on the bear’s neck. Jorge could barely hit a still target from ten feet away. Now he had four chances to hit something vital on a moving one. He nocked another and aimed. A blurry, brown mass grew towards him, snarling, panting, the scent of viscera wafting from its slobbering teeth. The canines were as long as his arm.

He fired again. The arrow bounced off its teeth. That seemed to annoy it, and it fell a couple steps behind.

Jorge cursed. He apologized under his breath and clamped harder on the deer’s sides with his feet. He pulled the bowstring for a third time. The trajectories of the previous two arrows replayed in his mind. He breathed in, and out, and squinted. The fletching feathers tickled his cheek. Lyosha’s tutelage reared from his memories.

“You are really bad, friend. But is to be expected. Look at that stomach. You didn’t much hunting back home da? Good thing distance not matter here in the dense woods. It is misconception among cityboys that bow and arrow excel at range. The best weapon is one that hits.”

The bear was so close Jorge could see its uvula. Its vocal cords pronounced hellish notes with a cavernously deep, phlegm-filled vibrato. Jorge and the bear met eye to eye. And then he fired. Blood and vitreous fluid squirted out of the impact wound. The bear stopped running, frantically pawing its face and swinging its body. Rocks shattered beneath its panic. Branches fell from the canopy as its sides slammed into tree trunks.

The deer stopped running as well and circled back.

“What are you doing?” Jorge exclaimed.

Its inner antlers began to glow. It stood on its hind legs and stamped on the dirt. Vines began to grow out of the earth. Ropes of green crawled down tree bark. Roots climbed out of the ground. The plant appendages grasped each of the bear’s paws, holding it down. Lengths of vine gripped its torso and neck.

Jorge got the message. He wanted to run, but for how long would they have been able to evade this monster? If they didn’t kill it, there would be no peace in this part of the forest. Jorge walked as close as he dared to the struggling creature, steadying his aim against the tremors in the ground, and fired another arrow into its other eye. Its anguished cries redoubled. Jorge circled over to the bear’s side by its collar. He retrieved his hatchet from his belt, feeling the weight of it in his grip. There was no blunt force in the world he could summon to kill this thing. Only one way came to mind. Jorge brought the hatchet high over his head and slammed it into the bear’s neck. It barely broke skin. He did it again, harder. The hide was just too thick. Jorge simply did it again. He inhaled deep and shouted with each swing. He leaned the entirety of his weight into it as well. The ground was beginning to redden. The vines as well. Or was the red everywhere all along? Jorge couldn’t tell if he was making those noises or the bear. He couldn’t feel his own arms. He swung and swung. Blood was seeping underneath the vines; the bear was beginning to slip out of its restraints. Jorge didn’t notice. The handle of his own hatchet was spotted with blood. Splinters were digging into his palms. A piece of black stone chipped off his hatchet, bouncing off his cheek. Jorge didn’t notice that either. He chopped until he saw something pulse beneath the gaping pink gash he had created. Jorge clenched his teeth and jumped into the air, bringing the hatchet into the vein. A fountain of hot, viscous fluid showered him, stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth with the taste of metal. He stumbled back, coughing. The bear tore free of the vines and swung its paw. It was a like a fur covered sledgehammer. Jorge was thrown a dozen meters, crashing onto a tree trunk. He could feel loose splinters of something in his own chest, digging into his lungs. The bear bit through the rest of the vines even as a river of its own life stained its side. It rushed forward, sniffing for him, jaws primed and ready to spring, and collapsed inches away from Jorge, quivering.

It was night. Or perhaps it wasn’t. The figure clad in light walked towards Jorge as he laid there helpless. In Death’s palm was a spark, fuzzy and clawed, like a hibernating animal. Once more Death closed his fist and struck Jorge straight into the depths of his self.

Jorge woke covered in bandages. He blinked, his eyes hurt to roll in their sockets. He laid on the floor of Lyosha’s hut. Dim rays of light made it through the leafy thatching straight into his eyes. He lifted himself upright in spite of the pain.

A hand pressed against his shoulder.

“My friend, you have more balls than I took you for,” Lyosha said with a toothy grin. “The Bedazi people generally avoid the arctursid. They are too heavy to climb you see.” He made an upward pointing motion.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Jorge said hoarsely.

Lyosha fetched him a waterskin.

“I did little. Your friend over there did.” Lyosha held open the entrance beads to his hut. Two familiar heads grazed on a small pile of flora a few feet away, surrounded by young villagers. It allowed them to climb all over its back, even to hang from its antlers.

“What is it?” Jorge asked. He set down the waterskin and wiped his mouth. “It’s been helping me since I got here.”

“The faelk. Ancient, immortal creatures, according to elders here. Don’t presume altruism on their part. It probably want you to kill arctursid for its own sake.”

“Well whatever its intentions are, it’s the only reason I’m alive.” Jorge stood and began to unravel his bandages.

“Wait! What are you doing?!”

“I’m fine,” Jorge said. “In fact, I feel incredibly strong. It’s… uncanny.” The wisp of a memory remained of when he was asleep. He could almost remember what that thing looked like. The being of light. Why was it helping him? For now, Jorge had other concerns. He needed a new hatchet.