The Forest

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"Two brandies," the physician said to the barman in the local dialect. The swarthy man filled a pair of small glasses from a dusty green bottle with no label. When he went to put it away, the physician stopped him. "Leave it." The physician's hand shook so hard as he lifted his glass, it almost spilled. He drank it all in one fiery gulp, grimaced, and then downed the second one as well. He brought the bottle and glasses to the soldier's table, sat down and stared into space.

The soldier sat with his back to the whitewashed stone wall, facing the tavern's wooden doors. His sidearm was holstered under his coat. "You're angry with me," he said. "You think I'm a vulture."

"You are a harbinger of doom. You're the first splatter of rain before the deluge."

"I am sorry, Demyan. As a war crimes investigator, I am desensitised to such scenes. I assumed, given your profession, you would approach it with a clinical perspective."

"I've seen agricultural injuries, industrial injuries, murders. Did you know I once performed an autopsy on a villager after he was mauled by a bear? None of that could prepare me for today. How can you bear it even once, never mind year after year?"

"I do it in the hope that my work will prevent even a single such incident."

The door opened and a slender woman walked in, lithe and sure footed. No one stopped talking or stared as they did when the soldier came in. When she went to speak with the barman, she lowered her hood. She was but a girl, on the cusp of womanhood.

"What's her story?" the soldier asked, nodding at her. When she spoke, only her lips moved, like she didn't want her braces to show. "She'll be a stunner one day."

The physician looked over. "Pisică? She lives in the forest. She cares for her elderly father."

"Just the two of them? Is that safe?"

The physician shrugged. "It's their forest."

"What do you mean?"

"They own all the land from the river to the other side of the mountain. The are..." some kind of family. The soldier spoke the language, but he didn't know that word. Ancient? "I don't have much to do with them."

They sat in silence. The villagers chattered around them.

The physician leaned forward with a frown. "Tell me, you could have chosen anyone to investigate the massacre site. I'm not the only doctor in the region. I'll carry that to my grave. Why me?"

The soldier checked his watch. "You know I can't say."

"Who could do that? Savages? Monsters?"

"Just men." Terrible men. "I have to go." He put some crisp banknotes on the table. "I have reports to write and forms to fill out. If you thought the army had too much paperwork, you should try the United Nations." He rose, but the physician grabbed his arm.

"Don't insult my intelligence. Your visit was no coincidence."

The soldier only shook his head. He shrugged off the physician's grip, but his friend jumped to his feet and blocked his way.

The soldier was implacable. "You know I won't compromise my sources."

"I could give a damn about your petty regulations. Are we safe here? Why put me through this hell, if not to warn me?"

"Demyan..."

"I'm not asking for myself, or as a friend, or a comrade, or even for my family. I'm asking for the life of every soul in this village. Could what happened there happen here?"

The soldier looked around the now silent room. Would these faces be in a batch of photographs for the next case?

"I'm begging you. For Gabriela. Tell me."

The soldier lowered his head, and though his voice was low, everyone in the tavern heard him. "Leave. Now. All of you. Head for the border, tonight, before the snow closes the highway." He shouldered past his friend out into the frosty village.

***

He had noticed the girl when he first reconnoitred the village. Every day, she came out of the forest at dawn, visited the shops, and then disappeared back into the forest. She came again at dusk. She walked up and down the streets and stopped at the tavern, like clockwork.

He waited in his small, shabby rented room until the sun set. Today's massacre of civilians was a calling card and a warning that the voivode, the warlord, to the east would push his front lines further before winter halted his offensive. The perpetrators were not savages. They were simply men. Brutal, sadistic, criminal, heartless men. They wouldn't take the road. They would use the cover of the forest to conceal themselves, and then attack, committing their atrocities at will.

The girl and her father were not safe in their forest. Who would protect them? He could at least shadow her to her lodge or whatever. He gathered his equipment. Much of it was more state of the art than even the United Nations could provide, liberated from fallen enemies on clandestine missions. He put on his black uniform and baclava, his helmet and electronic visor, and shivered, not with the cold, but with anticipation.

***

The night was crisp and beautiful. The forest was calm and quiet. The moon danced between the trees as she followed the familiar path home. As much as she loved being cosy at home with Medvedi, she found such joy and contentment in her solitary walks.

She wove her way through the trees, each as familiar as the furniture in her room. The scents were as unique as snowflakes. Each breath held a wealth of information.

***

He stood by a power pylon, checking his map against the satellite feed. There was no indication of any such structures anywhere in the forest, not on any map and not on the live feed. He scanned the real time satellite image of the forest in the infrared spectrum at its highest resolution. The AI identified deer, wild boar, birds, even a bear foraging before its winter slumber began, but there was no sign of her, or of a house, much less of an electrical supply sufficient for a whole town. Was there a malfunction? There was that glitch in Kandahar.

Could he hear something? His augmented auditory sensors picked up faint music from somewhere. It was difficult to pinpoint the source, but he could follow it. He increased his pace. There could never be a drug as potent as slipping through the night towards a dangerous and unpredictable foe with the intent of killing them. He flitted through the foliage, as silent as smoke.

***

As she neared her home, ethereal music filtered through the trees. She sighed. The lilting melody should lift her spirits and make her want to dance barefoot all night, but it did not. She knew hearing music in the woods at night was a bad sign, but it was such a pretty tune. When Medvedi was in more pain than he could bear, he played his beloved traditional folk music. It gave him some respite.

***

He got a ping from his motion sensor. He moved the input to his heads up display. Something big moved in the forest to the northeast, upwind. It could be a deer, but the satellite feed didn't show any nearby. It couldn't be soldiers. They wouldn't get here until daybreak at the soonest. It must be her. He followed the signal. Even at speed, his padded feet made no sound.

***

She let herself in the front door, her footsteps echoing in the hall, and turned down the music. She went to her office and made some arrangements.

***

The music cut off, but he must be close. He kept on the same course to a barrier of dense bushes. He circled around, but there was no break. She must be inside the ring, somehow. He went to his knees and eased himself low into the bristling underbrush. He pushed through for a few meters, towards the last ping from the motion sensor.

When he could stand again, he rose, brushed himself off and stared at the castle, dumbfounded. He'd never seen anything like it. Castles are supposed to loom at the tops of mountains and tower over cliffs, not crouch under bushes. This one was secreted, built down in a massive crevasse, a canopy of towering trees over it. The tip of the highest tower was at his eye level. It was like something from a gothic fairy tale. He could have walked right past it without ever knowing it was there. He crept down the embankment to the ornate carved stone. Lights came on inside. He picked a vantage point and took out his Steiner 6504 tactical binoculars.

***

She got a pitcher of water from the substantial kitchen and went up to his room.

"My love."

His pale face was etched with pain, but she could see his pleasure at her return. "You're back at last." His frame, almost too big for the bed, was lean. The illness burnt off his bulk, but still his pride prevented him from taking the medicine he needed so desperately. "I missed you so."

She took his hand. "It is as you said. Three brigades from Ayombekov's battalion are bivouacked in the next valley."

"War is with us again."

"Yes."

"How long has it been since the last one?"

"Decades. After the foreigner left, I spoke with the villagers. They were fearful."

"It is their nature."

"Under the circumstances, I agreed they should act now. I gave them instructions and came home to give you the news."

***

When he was sure they were both upstairs, he crept to a side door and scanned it for electronic alarms. There were none. He picked the lock and went inside. His acoustic sensor registered voices inside the castle. He listened to them talk as he searched the halls. He went past a humming server room with row after row of racks of flashing lights. Did that explain the pylon? What on earth was all this for? How could there only be two people in the place? How could a sick old man and a young girl expect to protect themselves here?

He found the kitchen and took off his backpack. Looking around at all the utensils, he realised he'd carried more than he required. He took out his equipment and placed it neatly on a wide table. His heart pounded. Yes, the men who committed the massacre were little better than animals and their methods brutal, but every war crime had a pattern, a fingerprint. How many times had he picked through all the tiny details, every piece of evidence, to find that elusive certainty, to know he had all the exact elements? Every crime had elements that he could reproduce, that he could mimic with perfection, like a forger who knew the artist's brush strokes so perfectly that even an expert could not distinguish the forgery from the masterpiece. Cambodia, that was his best work. Even the commanders, when convicted and imprisoned, didn't know their soldiers weren't responsible for that one.

He got rid of all the witnesses in the village, but the old man would watch. That was difficult. He wanted to work in the kitchen, where it was warm, so the man would have to be brought down here. Removing the eyelids was delicate work and was only effective if there was a steady source of moisture, such as frequently applied drops. That was a chore, even if it was automated. He preferred other means of persuading the observer to concentrate.

He filled a pot of water and set it to boil. He slid open a drawer, rummaged around, and found a pair of kitchen shears. He would start with the small toe on the right foot. That would encourage the old man to stay focussed while he paid attention to the girl.

***

"About our guest," Medvedi said, "you are certain he is suitable?"

"He is, without a doubt. He meets all your criteria."

"I couldn't bear it, otherwise."

"Please, my love. You must."

He sighed. "One day, you will have to let me go. I can't do this forever."

"One day," she said. "But not today." She grinned.

Medvedi laughed, and then winced. After a moment, he spoke towards the door. "Once, on a walk in my forest, I found an abandoned kitten. I took pity on it and raised it myself. She was the best company. I loved her so. When she was grown, she had kittens of her own."

***

The soldier stopped. A guest? There were more people in the building? There was nothing on his sensors, and while his search hadn't been thorough, he was sure he would have found anyone else. He dropped the carving knife and dashed to his motion detector.

***

Medvedi's voice was weak, but it had a deep timbre. "When her kittens were small, she would catch mice for them. She didn't despatch them right away. She used them to teach her little ones how to care for themselves."

***

The soldier slung his Heckler & Koch MP5 over his back and drew his sidearm. Time to get to work. The motion detector readings were all over the place, but there wasn't a sound in the castle. More malfunctions. He got a mirror from his belt and peered out, from cover, into the hallway from the kitchen door. It was clear.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, a stinging pain blossomed at the back of his ankle and lower leg. When he tried to turn around, his feet didn't go where they were supposed to. He lunged backwards into the kitchen, fell on the floor, and fired his silenced pistol backwards where his assailant attacked him.

No one was there. He crawled to the oven facing upwards, using his shoulder blades and hips, and sat up against it with the thick metal at his back. He checked his legs. Deep gashes through his combat boots wept blood. His Achilles tendons were severed. He held his position, his pistol at the ready. They would pay for this.

***

Medvedi went on. He sounded unconcerned about the noise coming from the kitchen. "Before she let the mouse near them, she would toy with it. Wear it out. Make it safe for her children."

***

Someone ran past the door to the hall. The soldier squeezed off a shot. A moment later, a chair in the kitchen tipped over. He fired again, counting his shots, getting ready to reload.

From behind and above him, he heard the scrape of metal. Before he could lunge out of the way, the pot of boiling water tipped off the burner. It slammed into him and doused his hands with searing flames of pain. His pistol fell away as he screamed. He flopped onto his stomach and crawled after the gun. When the smell of his own burned flesh hit him, his stomach roiled, and his skin went clammy.

He felt a tug at his back. He tried to reach his submachine gun with his destroyed hands, but they found only a cleanly sliced strap. When he looked back, his pistol was also gone. Instead, the girl sat in front of him on her haunches. She watched him for a moment, and then took a swipe at his head. A whirling dizzy spell swirled through his brain and his view went dark, like a monitor with the plug pulled.

***

She batted his face. "Wake up, little man."

The soldier's arms and legs were bound to a bed. He turned his head to look for a weapon or something to use for leverage. A man's wrinkled face loomed right next to him. He tried to squirm away from his piercing black eyes, but he couldn't avoid their judgement.

The girl unlaced his boots and took off his socks while he struggled. She applied bandages to his bleeding ankles. She got a basin and a washcloth and washed his feet quite delicately and thoroughly.

"Soldiers are coming. You'll be overrun in hours. Let me go and give me back my weapons," he croaked.

The man, Medvedi he assumed, nuzzled his neck in a horrifying intimate gesture. His skin crawled.

"I can help you defend the castle," the soldier begged. "We're all lost if I don't."

"Do you mind?" the girl asked Medvedi, gesturing to the soldier's right foot. "More will come."

"There will be enough to see me through the winter. By spring, I could match your vitality."

"We will roam the forest together again, my love."

"Help yourself. This is but the beginning of our harvest feast."

She lowered her head to the soldier's foot and licked his small toe with a rough tongue. He tried to pull it away, but his bonds were sure. She smiled at him, a full proper smile. Her teeth didn't have braces. They were shaped all wrong. She tilted her head to the side. Her molars were... carnassial, that's the word, he thought, half crazed. Their sharp pyramids fitted with the lower molars. Like shears.

She chewed at his toe with the side of her jaw, grinding the bone until it gave way. The pain was incandescent. She swallowed it and lapped at his blood as it welled up.

The man next to him stopped nuzzling and sunk his teeth into his neck, tearing at his flesh. The soldier's blood sprayed bright red over the white sheets. The acoustic sensor in the kitchen played his screams to the empty kitchen. With an awful, final certainty, the soldier knew there would be no evidence of this crime.