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brightly dressed men emerged from the trees just to the right of center. One was large, burly, with a belly that hung well over his belt. His slit-like eyes were shaded by unusually bushy brows, and his entire face reddened with the exertion of the hunt. The other man, thin and slightly hunched, was much younger, perhaps just exiting his teens. His loose brown hair spilled over his face nearly to the tip of his nose, and his mouth hung open in surprise and fear.
    The larger man lifted the shotgun midway up his chest, apparently contemplating another shot at Dolnaraq. They inched closer, cautiously, one step at a time. Step, pause, step, pause. All the while discussing what they should do with this unique kill. Dolnaraq attempted to speak, but it sounded mostly like a growl and the larger man hoisted his weapon to his shoulder as if to let off another shot.
    Dolnaraq heard the villagers approaching from behind. Obviously so could the two men for they jabbered even more, the larger man pointing toward Dolnaraq, then further into the trees. The younger man shook his head, a look of sheer panic on his elongated face. But the older, heavier man prevailed, marching over to Dolnaraq and giving him a swift kick in the ribs, apparently in an effort to prove that the injured molt was no threat. He proceeded toward the sound of the villagers as the younger man crept forward, cautiously grasping Dolnaraq by the ankles and yanking him into a patch of heavy brush. Dolnaraq’s eyes, fuzzy and gray, saw the dark trail of his own blood as he was pulled across the uneven ground, over a large jagged stone, and down a subtle grass-covered slope. He gasped, attempted to move one last time and then the darkness overcame him.
    * * * *
     
    Dolnaraq awoke in a cage. He was lying on straw, which carried the overpowering odor of an unfamiliar creature. The floor was of unfinished wood planking, coarse and uneven. There were metal bars across the two long sides of the pen, and the two shorter walls were of painted wood, white and red. The young reyaqc rolled onto his back. The entire upper left portion of his body ached and throbbed. He angled his head in that direction and found his shoulder and upper arm bandaged in dirty white wraps. He attempted to lift the arm but only succeeded in producing a fiery pain that raced from elbow to jaw. Cautiously, leaning upon his right elbow, he managed a sitting position. His eyes were still blurry and he blinked repeatedly. But his nose worked as well as ever and he inhaled the cacophony of odors about him: horses, mules, sawdust, oil, humans. Too many humans.
    The sun was low in the western sky. Dolnaraq realized he’d been unconscious for most of the day. Tresset. What had become of Tresset? Dolnaraq was sure his companion had made the forest. Certainly, he’d been able to avoid the villagers. But what of these ones? The men who had taken Dolnaraq. Had they captured Tresset as well? Or worse. Perhaps Tresset had been slain rather than wounded and caged. Dolnaraq reclined, staring at the paint-chipped ceiling and sniffing at the cool evening breeze. There was no hint of his companion’s scent. True, Tresset could be downwind, but if he’d been captured by this same lot, surely Dolnaraq would identify some hint of his scent.
    No. Tresset was not here.
    Dolnaraq smiled. Tresset was not here now, but he would be soon. He would come to rescue Dolnaraq. And when he did, the two would ruin the men who had shot and captured Dolnaraq. Their blood and flesh would taste very, very sweet.
    * * * *
     
    The night came, and with it, movement. There was much commotion, some hollering, shouting of orders, the clanking of iron upon iron, horses neighing, and a handful of motorcars starting their sputtering engines. The large-bellied man appeared just prior to the leaving. He stared appraisingly at the confused Dolnaraq, nodding his head and grunting his approval. Another man, one Dolnaraq had not seen before, approached