The last severed tendon slid into Maggie's bag with a dull sound. The stench of blood and warm entrails thickened in the humid air, a perfume of death that would inevitably attract other scavengers.
Not that Maggie wasn't starving herself.
She wiped her soiled dagger on a pant leg without ceremony, her gaze constantly scanning the surrounding ridges and dense thickets of reeds. The tension hadn't left with the boar's life—it had simply shifted.
"We move," she announced in a hoarse but firm voice, closing her bag with a sharp tug. She stood, one hand gripping the hilt of her flail-halberd, still smeared with mud and black blood.
