Another hour passed before more hunters found them. Five this time, pinning them against a rock ledge. Quin killed two, then grabbed Matheus and sprinted in the resulting confusion. They half-ran, half-stumbled downhill as the ledge grew higher beside them and crossbow bolts showered down around them. Quin veered into a patch of thorny bushes; the hunters didn’t follow. Matheus didn’t blame them, as tiny, stinging cuts covered his legs by the time they emerged. He and Quin doubled around, approaching the ledge from the rear, then climbing upward. Three hours passed before Quin declared they had lost the hunters.

“There are going to be two more nights like this?” Matheus asked, clinging to a birch tree.

“If we’re lucky,” Quin replied. He sank down on the ground and pulled up the cuff of his pants. The bolt embedded in his calf had broken off, leaving a jagged bit of wood sticking out.

Matheus thought the hunters must have made their own bolts. Most arrows were made of aluminum and plastic, these days.