Mortal Wounds

By Austin Anderson

They say in your last moments you see the faces of those you love. Yet as dark red stained through Coren’s tunic to the tips of his fingers, he wondered if he’d ever truly loved anyone. How much blood had he lost? Even with the pressure he applied, life escaped him like water through a cracked dam. His failing eyes watched tree trunks become tendrils in the air. The entire forest soon became an amalgam of dark shifting shapes.

Within the chaos of untamed earth, the shadow of a figure followed. Coren could not unsee him no matter how hard he tried. Something like a man, but far more wild. Coren kept moving forward until he broke past the lines of trees. He gave a final glance behind before staggering onto a bluff. The figure was gone.

Coren rested his back against a mossy boulder and kept pressure on the wound. It had gone numb along with most of his torso. The open view under the moon and starlight revealed the distant forms of trees on the eastern horizon. A suitable place to die. Perhaps the sun would rise soon to ward off the oppressive dark, but he feared he would be gone before its return.

Two stars above took on new life. They changed into familiar eyes, a peddler’s eyes. Petrified eyes—desperate, utterly unready to die. Coren relived turning the blade in the peddler’s gut while guilt lurched in his own. The spoils of his first score earned him a hot meal and place to lay his head. I steal to survive—he would often lie to himself. Yet the jobs got bigger and cost him more and more. The conviction lessened with each turn of his blade until thieving became no more than a job. Killing was part of that—does the wolf not kill to keep its belly full? He lifted the bronze medallion hanging on his chest. This score would keep his belly full for years to come. As Coren studied the intricate handiwork of the northern smiths, he wondered what good a piece of metal, no matter how exquisite, was to a dead man. Part of him had hoped it would allow for a decent life, one without the blade. Without the guilt. But a final sin could not right years of wrongs. The Northman’s blade tonight delivered the retribution long-awaiting him.

The fever dream continued, leaving none of Coren’s dreadful acts forgotten. The wilderness itself tortured him. More eyes, wide and desperate, showed in the stars. Wind blew through crags of stone. Pleas for mercy wrung in his ears. Fresh blood darkened his hand. Loose dirt shifted forward under his feet towards a sinkhole. The earth devoured twigs, leaves, and broken stones—his bones would surely be next.

Coren’s soul cried out for the sun, for light, but would it ever return? What he would not give to watch its beams break the black veil of despair over the earth. Its light would make sense of the mirage driving him mad. But perhaps it waited for him to pass away along with the night. At the edge of his feeble life, he learned he had never really lived at all. He would have traded anything to undo the smallest sum of his evil. To truly live, even if only for a day.

The waking dreams ceased, and he found himself fully present in the nightmare of reality. A cold stillness surrounded Coren, paired with a quiet too potent to ignore. The crack of leaves under heavy feet jarred him. Footsteps neared, yet he lacked the strength to turn his head. It could not be the northern merchant he had robbed—that man lay lifeless in the woods. Who had followed him all this way?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure up close. Night veiled the face, but nothing could hide the eyes—twin gleaming moons. He did not stare at Coren but into him as if searching for his soul. Ram horns jutted out the side of his head on each side. A Wild One of the forest or an agent of death itself here to claim him. To drag his ghost into the recesses of creation. Yet it was not fear that overtook Coren, but regret.

If only I had lived.

Coren awoke to blue skies. The sun burned hot and real overhead. Not a dream, he convinced himself as he felt the mended wound. He gulped his half-full water skin, savoring every drop. Aside from the earthy scent of the healing salve, no trace of the visitor remained, which left Coren no one to thank other than God himself.

Coren had heard stories of the Wild Ones of the forest since boyhood, but he always wondered if the stories held truth. At the moment, however, he did not care if the Wild Ones were merely men or something more. The pursuer had saved him, and that was enough.

In the light, he could see the forest behind him properly. It teemed with life. Birds sang, the wind soothed the trees, and wildflowers sprang up near his feet where squirrels scuttled about the twigs. A thrust of pain returned as he shifted to his knees.

The medallion remained on his neck, heavy as a thousand crimes. He ripped it free and plunged his knife into the dirt. The sun cooked his skin as he toiled. There was no undoing what was done. Yet, as he buried the medallion, he felt a sense of freedom unlike ever before. Coren hardly gave a thought to the wealth in the ground.  He found a suitable stone for a thief’s grave and carved into it with his blood-stained knife. After placing it properly, he rose to his feet.

Most tombstones mark the death of man, but Coren’s marked his beginning.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Austin Anderson has had a passion for writing stories since kindergarten. His favorite authors include Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Brandon Sanderson. He is an adventurer who has traveled as far as Lesotho, Africa. Currently, he teaches English at Quad Cities Christian High School where he shares his passion for storytelling. Austin is married to his beautiful wife, Onna, and they recently welcomed their first child into the world.

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