Adrian held a pickaxe in his hands.
Its wooden handle had been worn smooth, the iron head was lightly rusted, and a small chip marred the edge of the blade.
It was not as useful as a shovel for digging, but it would have to do.
He crouched at the narrowest point of the trail, swung the pickaxe, and drove its blade into the mud before prying up the first section of turf.
The grass roots clung tightly to the soil, producing a muffled tearing sound as they snapped.
He carefully set the turf aside, stacking each piece without breaking it.
He would need those sections later to conceal the trap.
Once the turf had been removed, the bare earth beneath it was exposed.
The surface layer consisted of dark brown humus, but a handspan deeper, the soil became lighter and sandier, mixed with scattered pebbles.
The pointed end of the pickaxe bit into the earth, loosening another patch with every strike.
He then used the back of his short axe to scrape out the soil and pile it beside the hole.
He picked out the stones one by one, from those as large as his fist to those no bigger than a thumbnail.
When the hole reached a depth of two handspans, the tip of the pickaxe struck something solid.
A large piece of bluestone lay buried beneath the soil, wider than his head.
He dug around its edges and cleared away the packed earth surrounding it.
Then he gripped the exposed stone with both hands and tried to pull it free.
The moment it came loose, the movement tugged at the wound in his left shoulder.
A dull pain surged through the joint, forcing him to let go.
The stone struck the edge of the pit with a heavy thud.
He paused to catch his breath, rolled it aside, and resumed digging.
He stopped when the pit reached the height of his thigh.
That should be deep enough.
He brought out six wooden stakes, each slightly thicker than his thumb.
The wood was firm and free of rot.
Using his short axe, he carved one end of each stake into a four-sided point.
He then held the tips over the charcoal fire until the wood hardened and turned black.
He packed down the earth at the bottom of the pit and smoothed it with the back of the axe.
One by one, he drove the six stakes into the ground with their points facing upward, arranging them in two rows a palm’s width apart.
Once they were in place, he gripped each stake and pressed down with all his strength.
He shook them from side to side, but none of them moved.
The stakes rose from the floor of the pit, their four-sided tips gleaming faintly with the charred blackness left by the fire.
If a deer fell into the trap, its legs would slip into the gaps between the stakes.
Its own weight would drive its belly down onto the sharpened points.
The more violently it struggled, the deeper they would pierce.
By the time the animal exhausted itself, it would have lost enough blood to weaken it completely.
He returned from the riverbank carrying a bundle of dry branches.
They needed to be thin enough to break beneath an animal’s weight, but strong enough to support the turf until something stepped onto it.
They could not be too thick, or the trap might fail to collapse.
They could not be too brittle either, or they might snap while he was still constructing the cover.
He laid several branches across the opening, then placed more over them in the opposite direction, forming a loose lattice.
The gaps could not be too narrow, or rainwater might gather and cause the turf to sag.
They could not be too wide, either, or the branches would fail to support the covering.
When the lattice was complete, he pressed down on its center with one hand.
The branches bent slightly but did not break.
He pressed again with greater force.
They creaked softly and bent farther, yet still held.
When he removed his hand, the branches sprang back into place.
That was exactly what he needed.
They could support the turf, but the weight of a deer would snap them and send the animal plunging into the pit.
He carefully replaced the sections of turf, laying them across the branch lattice one by one.
He filled the seams with loose earth and smoothed them over with his fingers.
After placing the final piece, he stepped back to inspect his work.
The ground looked no different from the surrounding trail.
The grass matched, the mud matched, and no part of the pit was visible.
He gathered a handful of dead leaves and scattered them across the surface.
They settled naturally among the leaves already blown there by the wind.
The trap was concealed.
But concealment alone was not enough.
The beasts of the forest were not stupid.
They had survived here for generations, avoiding wolves, hunters, and creatures even larger than themselves.
They knew every tree, every bush, and every turn along the riverbank.
Having followed the same trail countless times, they could notice a newly moved stone or a missing clump of grass at a glance.
Then there was the smell.
Human sweat, rusted iron, leather armor—all of it lingered in the air and on the ground.
He had been walking between Blackthorn Village and the riverbank for several days, leaving his scent throughout the area.
He had crouched beside the trap, stepped across the mud, and touched the soil with his bare hands.
His traces were everywhere.
A deer’s sense of smell was sharper than a dog’s.
It could detect the scent of a stranger from dozens of paces away, and once it did, it would refuse to continue down the trail.
He needed to cover his scent.
Adrian reached inside his clothing and pulled out the leather pouch containing wood ash and gray salt.
Some of the salt had already been used, but more than half remained.
He untied the pouch, took a small handful, and scattered it evenly across the ground surrounding the trap.
Gray salt was alkaline, and alkali could absorb odors.
Afterward, he gathered several handfuls of wild garlic from the riverbank.
Its leaves gave off a pungent scent, but the roots smelled even stronger.
He crushed the plants, roots and all, until their juices ran across his fingers.
He smeared the pulp onto the nearby bushes, the stone pile where he had crouched, and the trunks of the trees on either side of the trail.
A sharp, stinging odor spread through the area, overwhelming the traces he had left behind.
He stepped several paces away and stood downwind of the trap.
Closing his eyes, he drew a slow breath through his nose.
The air was filled with the biting scent of wild garlic.
He could no longer detect any trace of human sweat or leather.
Only one thing remained.
Bait.
He retrieved a pottery jar hidden behind the stone pile.
Inside were blackberries and raspberries that he had gathered, crushed, mixed together, and allowed to ferment for two days.
When he removed the leaves covering the mouth of the jar, a sweet-and-sour alcoholic aroma drifted into the air.
He carried the jar to the edge of the trap and dripped a small amount of fruit pulp onto the turf at its center.
The fermented sweetness mingled with the pungent smell of wild garlic.
Starting farther upstream, he placed another drop every few paces, forming a scent trail that led directly to the trap.
The bait was not intended as food.
Deer rarely ate wild berries.
They preferred young grass, tender leaves, and fresh shoots from bushes.
However, the strange sweet-and-sour smell would arouse their curiosity.
A deer would slow down, lower its head, and search the ground for its source.
By the time it found the strongest scent, its front hooves would already be resting on the turf above the pit.
Adrian crouched beside the trap and removed the final signs of his presence.
He brushed loose earth into the spaces between the grass, straightened the flattened ferns, and redistributed the dead leaves.
Once he was satisfied that nothing looked unnatural, all that remained was to wait.
Upstream from the trap stood an old oak whose thick roots curved out of the ground, forming a shallow hollow about half a man’s height above the trail.
He cleared away the dead leaves, spread a layer of dry grass inside, and stacked several stones along the side facing the path.
From within the hollow, he could watch the trap through the gaps between the stones.
To anything passing along the trail, however, the hiding place would appear to be nothing more than a moss-covered tree root beside a pile of rocks.
The distance was close enough for him to finish off the prey as soon as it fell.
He could not wait too near the trap, or a deer might catch his scent and avoid the path.
Yet he could not remain too far away, either.
If he did, the wolves nearby might reach the animal before him.
There were wolves in this forest.
He had seen their tracks pressed into the mud beside the river, narrower than those of dogs and marked by deeper impressions at the tips of their claws.
The pack might not visit the water every day, but blood would draw them from miles away.
A deer thrashing inside the pit would tear itself open on the stakes.
Blood would pour from its belly, and the warm metallic scent would drift through the forest on the wind.
It would not take long for that scent to summon every wolf within several miles.