The Wolf and the Woodsman

by Ava Reid

I scarcely even think to fear the forest. I am too busy fearing the Woodsmen.

“But unlike the dullard on your other side, or the simpleton behind, I’d rather pass the time by talking than staring into the darkness and waiting to die.” “Perhaps the rest of us would rather die in silence,” Ferkó mutters. “The Woodsmen do not fear death,” Peti speaks up gravely. “The Prinkepatrios welcomes us to eternal glory.” “Only if you die with honor. And I intend to run away screaming the moment I see so much as a pair of eyes in the dark.”

“Better to die young with a smile on my face than live a long life without laughter.”

If you stare long enough into the darkness of the forest, eventually something will stare right back.

“There is no such thing as the power of the Woodsmen,” says the captain. “There is only the power of the Prinkepatrios as it flows through us, and we are His humble servants.” “We in Keszi don’t fear servants. We fear brutes with axes.”

“You must also fear the wrath of your gods,” he says finally, “if you dare to stray from their righteous path.” “No,” I reply, taken aback. “Our gods don’t ask us for perfection.” Just as we don’t expect rhyme or reason from our gods. They’re fickle and stubborn and heedless and indulgent, like us. The only difference is that they burn whole forests to the ground in their rage, and drink entire rivers dry in their thirst. In their joy, flowers bloom; in their grief, early winter frost edges in. The gods have gifted us a small fragment of that power, and in turn we inherited their vices. From what I understand, the Prinkepatrios has no vices, and it would be blasphemy to even suggest such a thing. But how did a perfect being create something as imperfect as humans, so prone to caprice and cruelty? And why does a perfect being demand blood from little boys?

We would have called it power, magic. They called it piety. But what is the difference, if both fires burn just as bright?

“I thought you were a clever soldier,” I say. “But it turns out you’re just a stupid prince.”

For a moment, out of pure, breathless spite, I reconsider my decision to kill him.

Gáspár lets out a breath, running a hand through his dark curls. Mussed like that, he looks less like a Woodsman, and nothing at all like a prince.

“You’re going to follow Peti to his grave if you don’t cover your wound,” I say, my voice odd-sounding. I don’t want him to mistake my practical scrutiny for genuine concern.

“All your grave proclamations make you sound like Virág,” I snap. “Do you enjoy being as dramatic as a hundred-year-old pagan hag?

“If we’re going to Kaleva, we don’t need a map,” I say. “We’ll just go north until there’s nowhere left to go.”

“Fine,” I say. But in my head, I think, Stupid prince.

Humans don’t need some shadow-demon to tempt them; we are imprudent enough on our own.

“You’re a prince. Act like one.” “You wouldn’t like it much if I did.” “Why not?” “Because I’d gag and bind you for talking to me the way you do.”

All that talk of quiet obedience is for their benefit, not yours. They don’t have to go to the effort of striking you down if you’re already on your knees.”

“An even odder reversal of fortune.” Gáspár’s eye narrows. “A wolf-girl begging for a Woodsman to take her to Király Szek.” “I’m not begging you,” I say. With a sudden rush of feckless spite, I add, “Would you like it if I did?” I only said it to make him flush, and it succeeds. His ear tips turn pink, but his gaze is unflinching. “I suppose it depends on what you were begging for.”

“Would you let me destroy you, then?” “It would be just as well,” Gáspár says miserably. “I should be struck dead, for wanting you the way I do.”

He has the look of a man who grew his beard long and gray for the precise purpose of hiding a weak chin.

This time I cannot resist a jape of my own.

“That is the only way to truly believe in something,” Zsigmond says. “When you’ve weighed and measured it yourself.”

I don’t like how very much Mithros sounds like Vilmötten. As we approach the altar, I can see the bulging sinew of Mithros’s bare thighs, and the appendage hanging between them. It makes me wonder how Gáspár ended up so fretfully prudish when he’s spent his life worshipping at the feet of some lusty naked man’s statue.

“If we only celebrated on the days when there was no danger, we’d never have occasion to celebrate at all,” she says.

“Perhaps you’ll have me as your scullery maid after all.” Gáspár scoffs, but there is laughter under it. “I’d rather have you as my wife.”

“If there is anyone I would damn my soul for,” Gáspár says, “it would be you.”