Page 34 of Artemysia
“Quicken your pace, the three of you. We’ve got ten leagues to cover today,” I bark out. “We ride until midday, when we’ll stop to water the elk.”
For good measure, I add, “Until then—stay vigilant. No talking, more riding. Unless you want to come up here to discuss strategy with me.” My voice comes out much rougher than planned, but because Throg obeys my command, Ivy falls in line. Moody Riev has no one beside him and is apparently not in the right state of mind to test me anymore, so he rides along silently, too.
With my team temporarily set straight, I chomp on the jerky that I’m still holding in my crushing grip.
It’s boar, and it’s delicious.
I take my wins where I can.
“She knows who her daddy is.” - Riev
After five hours of travel, the elk need a short rest. They’re fast sprinters, but their endurance is tested on long haul journeys, so they need frequent breaks. A small offshoot of a stream runs through a grove of deerleaf spruce—bluish mint-scented trees—with a few river willows scattered throughout.
I check my watch with a flick of my wrist. “One-hour stop. We’ll still make it to Limingfrost before dark,” I say. “Eat. Refill your canteens.”
Throg dismounts and shucks off his leather armor and boots. He unbuttons his shirt and peels it off. Belt unbuckled, he kicks off his pants but leaves on his underwear.
“What’s he doing?” Ivy unloads my pack and collects my elk from me.
“Part of his charm is that he claims all fabrics constrict him, and that he overheats.”
“He doesn’t like clothes?”
“Wears as little as possible in his downtime.” It’s just one of his quirks, and it makes me laugh. When I’ve brought up safety concerns, he insists muslin and leather won’t make a difference for him in an ambush or a fight to the death.
Two hefty gold chains drape over his bare chest. I know for a fact that he shaves his chest because of those chains. He says the links pull at his hair, but he refuses to go without his accessories.
Throg wades into the stream and squats to scoop up the frigid water to splash his face.
Ivy leads our elk upstream to drink, though the whole time her head is turned around backward like an owl, gawking shamelessly at him.
Riev swings off his elk, landing gracefully. He stretches a hand into his saddlebag and pulls out a dropper bottle.
“Lie down,” he orders his copper elk. She obeys, kneeling onto her front legs before settling on her belly, her legs tucked under.
When she lifts her head to him, he applies three drops in each eye as she blinks.
I sidle up to him, curious.
“She needs eyedrops,” he says, wiping the excess from her face with the back of his palm.
“I’ve never seen any elk do that voluntarily.” On the farm, my father and I distracted them with oatcakes while sneaking in eyedrops when necessary.
“She knows who her daddy is,” Riev says, patting her on the head. “Good girl.”
Damn him for being sexy right now.
He probably doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does and is showing off, if he’d paid any attention at all to how much I love elk. Either way, I force a frown to hide how impressed I am.
Throg catches my eye as I return to our packs.
“Daddy Riev, huh? Do you wish you were that elk? Lie down. Do as you’re told. Get pet on the head if you’re a good girl,” he whispers loudly, to my mortification. I launch a fist to jab him in the waist, but he pedals back in time. “Don’t take it out on me. I’m not the one who’s turned on when someone demonstrates proper elkmanship.”
“I’m not missing again, Throg,” I warn, showing him my knuckles.
Thankfully, Riev doesn’t seem to have heard. He’s wandered away from us, treading deeper into the grove. I keep watch with a sidelong glance in case he has unannounced plans.
Oddly enough, he strolls from tree to tree, weaving between them as if he were tracking or hunting for something. He finally stops under a low, wide willow with smooth bark. He toes the grass around his chosen tree and lowers himself to the ground in a crouch before reclining onto his back. His head nestles against a bulbous root.
