Owl Tracker

 



The tracker whistled loudly, a long, warbling whistle that echoed down the valley.

A hoot came back.  Moments later, Panadel drifted overhead on silent wings and landed on his arm.

"Good morning, Sweetling," she said to the old woodsman, her spirit voice sounding clearly in his mind.  "Did you find the tracks?"

The tracker squatted, showing her the broad, muddy print left by a troll. 

The owl adjusted her talons and hopped gently down his arm to a better vantage.  "Its a big one," she said. 

"It is.  But it ain't healthy."  He touched the soft ground, and ran his finger along a crooked toe print.  "Broken or disloacted toe.  Probably hurts like hell."

Panadel preened a little, working a white feather back into place.  "I saw nothing from on high.  Maybe it came through yesterday."

"Yep."

"Got any meat?" she asked, suddenly.

The old tracker smiled.  Long conversations bored both of them.  He pulled a bit of troll jerkey out of his pouch.  She devoured it in one swallow.

He stood and sniffed the cool breeze.  "Well, it's out of my valley by now.  We'll let the Old Bastard Helvar worry about it."

"Too bad," she said.  "That one would have filled your smokehouse for the winter."



///

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