The clearing where Korel first caught glimpse of Hurnix was quiet, a mute witness to the previous night's struggle, wholly without testimony except for a little scattered dust here or a drop of blood there. Korel loosened his bowstring for travel and started once again east along the faint and faded trail as it weaved its way through the tangle of trees and hillocks. Hurnix limped along behind, always just on the edge of sight, simpering and crying unintelligibly. But as the afternoon wore on, the small knife wound on Korel's forearm became a black crater that oozed a human form of crude oil as it dripped in marbled rivulets upon the ground. The trail lightly parted the underbrush as it moved out from under the canopy of firs and gently broke onto a high mountain meadow. Korel's arm continued to swell, blackening to the woody shine of an exquisite coffin lid. Pain shot black and hot up toward his shoulder, each step a study in liquid anguish. Midway across the meadow, he faltered as the cold heat of fever washed over him, a continuation of the burning deep within his viscera.
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