Rewind: A Grimdark LitRPG Series (Pyresouls Apocalypse, Book 1) by James Callum (reading tree .txt) 📕

Most of her skin was covered except for the fingertips at the end of her gloves and her face. She had a slightly plump cherubic face with golden blonde hair. A single red thread was wound throughout a thickly plaited cord of golden hair that ran down the side of her face.

She was beautiful. Shorter than Hal but lean and strong like a gymnast, readily evident even under the camouflaging armor she wore.

She caught Hal staring at her and her lightly tanned skin flushed. From the way her blue-gray eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, he knew that was no blush of embarrassment. It was anger.

He did his best to paint an innocent look on his face and smile but it didn’t lessen her scowl. She jerked his arm and pointed at the dirtied mark, caked with dried blood and mud, while she let loose another stream of urgent-sounding words.

All Hal could do was shake his head. “Me no know what do! Bright color, why?” He jabbed a finger at the golden mark, suddenly angry. Doubly so because the words that came out of his mouth weren’t the ones he intended to say.

He wanted to tell her that he didn’t know why he had the mark, much less what it was. Not that she would have understood him anyway.

None of this was fair. He wanted to be back in his apartment, ordering so much takeout from the local Chinese restaurant that he was on a first-name basis with the delivery guy.

The Huntress, as Hal was beginning to think of her, took out a cloth and a canteen. She poured the water out onto the dark cloth and Hal’s eyes went wide with thirst.

He licked his dry, chapped lips.

That look had not escaped her notice and in an act of kindness, she handed him the leather-wrapped canteen. While Hal hungrily drank from the relatively small canteen, the Huntress scrubbed the blood and mud from his mark.

If she thought the mark would be wiped away, she was sorely mistaken.

Hal watched out of one eye as he forced himself to slow down and sip the water, knowing the dangers of drinking too much, too fast. The mark shone even brighter than before. Its many intricate lines were as clear as the day he first arrived.

The baying of the hounds echoed all about them and the sound of distant voices filtered in through the trees. There was a strangeness to the forest, the way it warped and twisted sound.

Hal stopped drinking from the canteen that seemed to hold a suspiciously large quantity of water to better listen. They were close now. He watched the Huntress for any sign of what she would do. He was at her mercy and under no illusion that she was going to let him go.

Would she kill him, or hand him over to his pursuers? It would be nice to know why they were chasing him. It wasn’t like he hurt anybody or did anything bad.

The theft of a single cloak surely didn’t warrant such an aggressive response.

Without any preamble, the Huntress released his arm and stood. In one smooth motion, she sheathed her sword and offered a gloved hand to Hal. He grabbed it and she effortlessly hauled him to his feet.

The Huntress put a finger to her pursed lips. Hal nodded his understanding. She pulled a bow off her back and fit an arrow to the string. Keeping low, she guided Hal around the tree he slept beneath and up a nearby slope.

He did the best he could to keep up and stay silent but he was noisy and slow. His stomach twisted in a tightening knot of pain. Every few feet the Huntress stopped and waited for Hal.

The forest changed around them. Thick trunks gave way to smaller ones with larger gaps in the canopy overhead letting in streams of gray morning light. The storm, it seemed, had spent most of its fury last night and was content to leave the sky overcast.

Thick underbrush grew up between the thinning trees. The Huntress led him through, pulling branches and bushes aside to aid in his passage.

Every so often Hal took another drink from the canteen. By his estimation, he drank enough refreshingly cold spring water to fill the oblong container several times over. No matter how long he drank, the canteen never emptied.

Before Hal had time to ponder the implications – or the impossibility – of the canteen, the Huntress grabbed him and pulled him roughly to the ground. He would have fallen face-first if she hadn’t put out another hand to catch him inches from the dirt.

The Huntress guided him deeper into the thick underbrush until they were both well-hidden.

Like every other person he came across, the Huntress was ridiculously strong and had no problem moving him about like he was a doll. Conversely, Hal was weaker than he ever had been in his life, and he didn’t chalk that just up to exhaustion, starvation, and dehydration. It was something more than that, just like his inability to speak with any semblance of intelligence.

Through the bushes, he couldn’t see much, but the Huntress could. She had her sword out and murder in her eyes. And while the villagers didn’t seem to harbor any good intentions toward him, he didn’t know if they deserved to die.

For all he knew, the mark meant he was some virulent plague bringer.

If only he could speak their language, understand what they were saying.

Better yet, if he could speak their language and didn’t sound like an idiot. It hit him how important communication was. Discerning friend from foe was so much easier when intentions were obvious.

The whole ordeal could be a misunderstanding. Not that Hal was willing to risk himself on that theory.

While Hal couldn’t see the villagers, he could hear their many feet stomping around. They spoke in that same harsh, guttural language the Huntress tried to speak to him in.

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