His voice came out low and rough, but in the dead quiet of the woods it carried like a shot. Nothing answered. Only a little wind stirring wet branches.
“I know where you are. One on the left behind the fir, one on the right in the fern, and somebody up above. Come out. I’m not looking for trouble.”
Ten long seconds passed, the kind that decide whether blood gets spilled. Then a lean figure stepped soundlessly from behind the old fir. Max had expected poachers, fugitives, maybe backwoods recluses.
What he saw did not fit any of those.
It was a woman, maybe thirty. Tall, wiry, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped.
She moved with the controlled grace of a large predator. Every step was measured, no wasted energy. She wore pants of thick leather and a jacket of felted wool cinched tight with straps.
On her feet were high, soft winter boots. Her face was hard and weathered, with a scar running across her left cheekbone. Dark hair was braided tight down her back.
In her hands she held a composite bow reinforced with horn. A sharp arrow was already nocked. Its bone tip pointed straight at his chest.
To the right, a second young woman rose from the ferns, not yet twenty by the look of her. She held the same kind of deadly bow. A third dropped soundlessly from a branch, carrying a short spear with a broad metal blade.
They ringed him at about ten paces. There was no fear in their eyes. No surprise either. Just a cold, measuring look.
The kind you give a large animal when deciding whether it is worth the arrow. Max watched them closely, reading every small movement. Their weight was slightly forward, ready to spring.
Their grip on their weapons was relaxed and confident. No beginner’s tension. These were not wild amateurs. They were professionals raised in this forest and shaped by it.
The older woman with the scar stepped half a pace forward. “Drop the iron,” she said. Her speech was strange.
The words were understandable, but the rhythm and stress were off. Old-fashioned, almost musical, like a dialect that had been sealed away for a long time. Max did not move.
“If I drop my weapons, this conversation ends fast,” he said evenly. “Lower the bows. I’m lost. My aircraft got caught in the storm. I’m military.”
The scarred woman narrowed her eyes. The word “aircraft” meant nothing to her, but “military” clearly landed. Something flickered across her face.
“You are an outsider,” she said flatly. “Outsiders have no path here. The land itself does not allow a man’s footprint.”
She drew the string a little tighter. Max saw the muscles tighten in her forearm. They were only ten yards apart.
If she shot, he could fire too, but the arrow would hit him before his rounds reached her. At this distance there was no dodging it. “I’m not staying,” Max said calmly.
He lowered the muzzle of the rifle very, very slowly. A signal that he had no intention of firing first. “Show me the way to a river or the high ground, and you’ll never see me again.”
The third girl, the one with the spear, gave a short, rough laugh. “He thinks he can just walk out, Radmila.” The older hunter—Radmila—kept her eyes locked on Max.
She saw how he moved. Saw that he was not afraid, not shouting, not begging, not fidgeting. His eyes were as cold as hers, and that irritated her more than she liked. “Drop the iron,” she repeated, and now her voice had an edge like steel.
“Or you’ll feed the roots.” Max ran the options in his head. Three armed targets in front of him.
Open ground. Real cover only behind him. Odds in a straight firefight: maybe twenty percent. Odds if he surrendered: unknown.
But as long as they were talking, they were not shooting. That counted for something. He unhooked the sling with slow, careful movements. The rifle hit the wet moss with a dull thud.
Then he unclipped the belt with the heavy holster and pouches and dropped that too. “Knife too,” Radmila ordered.
Max drew the knife from the sheath on his thigh and tossed it beside the rest. “Now you’re empty,” the younger one said with satisfaction, lowering her bow a little.
“I’m never empty,” Max said quietly. Radmila made a short hand signal. The other two were on him at once.
One kicked his weapons away. The other wrenched his arms behind his back and bound his wrists with a rawhide strap. Max did not resist. He let them tie him, memorizing their smell, their strength, and the knot they used.
It was a good knot, close to a sailor’s hitch, tightening under strain. Clearly not their first time doing this. “Move,” Radmila said.
“Mother will decide what to do with you.” Someone shoved him between the shoulders. Max walked without a word, matching their springy pace…
