A Straight Line

(The following contains violence, gore and transphobia)

Stoat had thought that the stories about the Dark Forest were just that. Now he was in the heart of them, he knew better. They were walking in circles, despite never making a turn, passing that same decaying tree stump, those same thorns, that same dead squirrel with the torn-off head. Hours had passed and the grey sky was darkening. The one thing that all those stories agreed on was that you absolutely did not want to be in the Dark Forest at night.

All the while, the sack he carried on his shoulder squirmed.

"How are we back here again? We are going in a straight fucking line!" Vix shouted. She drew her sword, a rusted and chipped thing, more a blunt instrument than a cutting edge, and swung it at a thorn bush with a scream. Stoat jumped back, almost dropping his cargo. Leaves scattered as she swung her weapon out of the bush and whacked a tree trunk, and she showed no sign of slowing down, hitting trees and plants and everything that happened to be there, her fire-red hair trailing behind her head like the trail of a comet, spittle dripping off of her sharp chin.

"Well, at least they don't seem to be following us anymore," Stoat said, mainly to reassure himself. Good thing too, he was getting too old for an endless hike and walking with the weight on his shoulder was making his back ache like a bitch, he was very much on board with stopping while Vix got this out of her system. Only for a minute though, it was far too quiet. Forests were supposed to be alive with the chirping of birds, the croaking of frogs, that sort of thing. None of that. He ran his free hand over his bald head and cursed his own stupidity. He should have stuck with the plan. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, that maybe the guards chasing them from Lord Averith’s manor wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow them into the Dark Forest. He had been right on that count, at least.

Wheeze would probably have had a better idea, even if it was sticking to the plan. He had always been the brains of the outfit. Well, right about now, Averith was probably making some poor cleaning girl scrub Wheeze’s brains off his manor’s front steps. All Stoat had heard was the shout of the guard as they were running followed by, when they got to the bottom of the stairs, a thump next to him, and there was Wheeze, one of those bright, mischievous brown eyes staring up at him, the rest of his head a smashed mess, his shaggy black mane of hair surrounding what was left and caked with blood.

Bastards. Wheeze was his friend.

Stoat pushed the image and the pain, like a tooth ache in his chest, as deep down as it would go. As memories of Wheeze had flashed before his eyes as they were walking, of the three of them playing dice together in the Horse’s Head over a mugs of cider and a bowl of stew he bought for them with his last coin, his mind would always through up that image of Wheeze’s smashed-in head, and Stoat had to fight the urge to turn his arse around, go back and kill every single fucker in that manor to avenge him, like any good friend should do, like how he had always done it in his youth. But, obviously, that wasn’t on the cards, for several reasons, so he repressed it.

They said that doing that wasn't good for you, that you should confront your emotions, but that was advice for people who had the time and the safety to do so, and he had never felt like he had enough of either, least of all now. Well, if this worked, he and Vix would have all the time in the world, and be able to buy their own damn stew and cider. If it didn't, well, it wouldn't matter anyway, and at least they would be with Wheeze.

He put the sack down on the ground. It whimpered, he ignored it. Picking his moment, when Vix was about to buy the sword down on the tree stump, he seized the younger Bandit’s wrist with one hand, and the other shoulder with his other. "That's enough!" He shouted in her ear.

Vix fought him for a second, but he was stronger. She sobbed, once, just once, of course, Vix would have sawed her own head off before she let someone else see her cry. Instead, she spat and cuffed the coming tears out of sight. "We're fucking lost," she hissed.

"We're fucking lost," Stoat agreed, and let her go.

Her shoulders sagged. "And Wheeze is fucking dead..." Vix said. There was a tremble in her voice. Stoat knew better than to point it out.

"Yeah," he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his own voice. "Yeah, he is. But we can't think about that now. We've got to find a way out of here."

She put the sword away and smiled. Well, it looked like a smile, at least. He had seen Vix smile before and it was a grin like a bloody shark. Not like this, there was as much mirth in her curled mouth as a public hanging. "Maybe the bitch knows," she said, "Her Dad's manor is right next to this shithole, maybe he told her how to get out."

Stoat had to admit, he didn't have any better ideas, so he shrugged, walked back over to the sack, undid the knot, and pulled the lip down, so that it hugged Averith’s daughter’s shoulders.

Her face was possessed with a pale beauty straight out of a fairy tale, and only achievable by the most expensive cosmetics. Her Father could afford them. He could have afforded the five thousand gold piece ransom too, he would hardly have noticed the loss, with all the money he was worth, but that money would have meant that the three of them would never be hungry again, would never have to sleep in cobbled alleyways again, would never have to risk their life fighting griffons and manticores again. It was no life! Not for a scarred old bastard like him, and sure as hell not for young men and women like Wheeze and Vix. And now Wheeze was dead, and he and Vix were lost.

If they had any hope of deliverance, it would come out of this bitch’s perfect fucking lips.

Her golden blond hair whipped from side to side as she looked around, taking in her surroundings, until she glared at Stoat. Her eyes, sapphire of pupil, were blood shot, great red and brown veins pulsated and almost glowed. No sooner had he taken the gag from her mouth than a gob of spit hit his eye like a stone. "Been saving that for you, you fucking parasite!" she shouted in his face. "You pathetic little men are dead, you realise that? Fucking dead!"

Vix's fist slammed into the birch's cheek with a satisfying thunk. She tugged her up by her hair until she was eye to eye with her, "Call me that again, m' lady, I double dare you!"

"Call you what? "She said, "Parasite? You are a-" she stopped, took in Vix, and sneered.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but Stoat grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at him, hoping to put some water on that powder boy she was about to light up. If Vix was sufficiently provoked, someone in this forest was getting seriously hurt or worse, and he could not afford that.

The "Men", for want of a better word, of Vix’s village were put though hellish trials when they came of age. They didn’t tell outsiders what was involved, and Vix refused to tell, but it was obviously a lot. Stoat had been to the village and seen the ones that failed, young men who were physical wrecks, missing arms and legs, blind men, men who had gone stark raving mad and screamed constantly. Vix hadn’t been welcomed back. Apparently, when her father caught her trying on women’s clothes, she was put through the trials a second time. And she fucking passed them a second time. Most who passed the trials were formidable fighters, who also had the temperament of a mother bear, and Vix had a double helping of both.

Vix could tear this little shit’s head off with her bare hands. That was what Stoat was afraid of.

"Look, Milady," Stoat said, smiling his, "we're all friends here, now aren't we?" smile. "I would highly advise you not to finish that thought if you want to get out of here in one piece.”

When the grin didn't go away, he drew his dagger and rested the side of it against her cheek. The cold iron made his point, and she scowled at him. "Let me go," she said. "Or you die."

"Not really in a position to be making threats, are we?" Vix said over his shoulder. She sounded a bit calmer. That was good. Still, he tilted the blade slightly blade-wise, not enough to break the skin, but sufficient to discourage any unwise words.

"Oh, I'm in a better position than you might think..." their prisoner said.

"How do you figure that, then?” Stoat asked her, "Know something we don't?"

"Libraries could be filled with what I know that you don't, swine," she said, "Like why you can't find your way out of this forest. That is why we're having this nice little chat, isn't it?”

"You heard us talking," Vix spat, "You ain't deaf. What do you want? A fucking prize? Tell us how you get out while you still have a fucking tongue!"

"And do it nice and polite-like, yeah?" Stoat added, pressing the blade ever so slightly more.

The sneer came back regardless, "You can't," she said. "Low-Class trash can't get out. Only those of a noble bloodline can. He makes sure of it."

"Who's he?" Stoat asked.

“He’s the one who will kill you,” she said, “And your boyfriend too.”

Stoat raised an arm, catching Vix just in the nick of time. “Who is he?” he asked again.

The bitch’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. She grinned, an evil, jagged grin like a crack in the foundations of an orphanage and let loose a chuckle, which turned to a cackle.

Hot breath brushed the back of Stoat's neck.

"Oh, fuck me!" Vix cried. He heard her draw her sword. In all the time Stoat had known her, she had never sounded so frightened.

Stoat turned. His mouth dropped open.

It was huge. Tusks as long as his arm, eyes the size of his hand, bulging muscles under a leathery hide, which ended in a snout with nostrils that his head would have fit into. Moss and lichen grew over its grey-blue skin. Its dagger-like teeth gleamed. A boar that size... There was no way it came up behind them without them noticing, no way. It was as if it just appeared out of nowhere.

Vix's sword bounced off its massive face. There was a flash of movement, faster than anything that size should be capable of. Poor Vix didn't even have time to react.

Fear overtook Stoat, cowardly shit that he was. Too cowardly to even look at what was happening, but he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t look at Vix’s mangled corpse and think of it when he thought of her, like with Wheeze. Couldn’t…

He ran. The ripping and tearing and crunching and screaming was fading away behind him, he wanted to be sick, it was a fucking disaster, and he had dragged his best friends into it, this whole kidnapping bullshit was his idea!

Night was falling now, it was getting harder to see. It would only be a matter of time before he tripped on something or slammed into a branch he didn’t see. It was a fact of life he had relied on in the past when some rich ponce he was robbing decided to bolt from his carriage into the woods. Only a matter of time.

Stoat tripped. What he tripped over was soft, and bony. He propped himself up on his arms, staring at the ground, not wanting to know what it was, though he suspected. He didn’t want to look at her body, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t.

He stayed still. Silence. Not even the whisper of the wind.

Stoat looked around.

The sack.

He stood up, and looked down at the bitch. She was halfway out, trying to wriggle away, still bound at the wrists and ankles.

She grinned up at him.

"I can call it off," she said, all song-song, like this was all some kiddie’s game.

Stoat flexed his hand. For the first time, he realised that he had dropped his dagger. He scanned the leaf litter. Not here. No idea where it was.

“Are you listening to me? I said I can call him off,” she said, “He’s gone for the moment, but he will come back. He won’t give up, he can’t. We own his forest. He’s going to come back and kill you. You don’t want to end up like your friend, do you?”

Vix wasn’t here either. Nor was the Boar. It was nowhere to be seen. Stoat tried and failed not to think about what that might mean.

“Where is she?” he asked, still looking around at the leaf litter.

“Who? Your friend? The man who thinks he’s a girl? He carried him off,” The Bitch said, sick pleasure dripping off every word like pork fat, “Lively, that one, was swinging at the Spirit all the while, never stopped. That’s alright. He likes his food lively.”

Stoat was numb.

His eyes found a rock. It was about the size of his fist, plenty big enough, so he leant over, wrapped his fingers around it, feeling its weight, its coldness, how there was no give beneath his fingers at all. It was completely solid. Perfect. He picked it up and stood, and stared at it. He looked at the bitch, then back at the rock, and then back at her.

Her expression slowly, satisfyingly slowly, as realisation dawned, fell. Her eyes widened. "I, I can call it off!" she stammered.

He raised the rock.

"I can-"

He brought it down. Again and again and again. He stood and looked down. It was just fine if a shattered skull was all he remembered of her.

He stood back up again, dropped the rock, dusted off his hands, and let loose the deepest, coldest sigh he had ever felt. It was time to deal with that repressed emotion, time to really work it all out.

A tusk erupted from his chest. He didn’t even feel it.

He smiled.

The three of them could work it all out together when he saw them again...