The remaining meat could not be eaten all at once, but it could be preserved for a long time by smoking it.
Adrian added damp branches to the stone hearth, smothering the flames and producing more smoke.
He cut the meat into strips and hung them from the crossbeam above the fire, where they would slowly dry.
As the meat smoked, the strips tightened and shrank.
The finished jerky would be nutritious and flavorful, filling the mouth with a dry, savory aroma whenever it was chewed.
Whether he kept it for himself or sold it later, it would be a valuable commodity.
Several faint wolf howls came from the direction of the trap.
Adrian glanced toward the sound before calmly turning his attention back to the hearth.
He had deliberately left the inedible entrails beside the pit rather than carrying them back to camp.
The wolves had most likely followed the scent and were now fighting over the intestines, stomach, and stripped carcass.
Once they had eaten their fill, they would have less reason to follow the trail of blood toward his shelter.
Over the following days, Adrian repeated the same process and dug two more traps along the animal trail.
One was placed near a bend farther upstream, while the other stood at a narrow passage beside the downstream riverbank.
With three traps positioned along different sections of the trail, something was bound to fall into one eventually.
He only hoped that the next animal would be large enough to justify the effort.
Every morning, he inspected the traps one by one.
The turf remained undisturbed, the dead leaves had not shifted, and the gray salt had hardened into small grayish-white crusts after repeatedly absorbing dew and drying beneath the sun.
Whenever the pungent smell of wild garlic weakened, he crushed several fresh handfuls and scattered them around.
He also renewed the trail of fermented fruit pulp.
He waited for one day, then two, then three.
Nothing came.
Crouching beside the first trap, Adrian carefully examined the surrounding mud.
Hoofprints still marked the trail, but there were noticeably fewer than before.
The tracks of the buck he had been watching were the easiest to recognize.
They had last appeared four days earlier, but the impressions were shallower than usual, and the distance between each step had shortened.
About a dozen paces from the trap, the buck had suddenly turned around.
It had not walked around the obstacle or left the trail.
It had simply stopped, reversed direction, and disappeared back into the depths of the forest.
Something had frightened it—or it had smelled something it did not trust.
Adrian pressed one hand against the mud beside the trap and lowered his head to sniff the sleeve of his clothing.
He could smell sweat, smoke, and leather.
The wild garlic concealed most of it, but not everything.
He had spent several days crouching in the hollow near the trail.
By now, his scent had seeped into the surrounding bushes, tree roots, and mud.
A deer’s nose was sharper than a dog’s.
When the buck approached this place, it had not smelled an untouched forest but the lingering traces of a stranger.
The blood from the roe deer might also have warned it away.
Adrian had killed the animal inside the pit, allowing blood to pour from its throat and soak into the earth.
Afterward, he had replaced the stakes, removed the bloodstained mud, filled the bottom with fresh soil, and restored the turf.
But the blood had seeped deeper than the surface layer.
Its scent faded slowly, and whenever the wind shifted, it carried a faint trace of sweet, raw blood upstream along the trail.
The buck must have smelled death and turned back.
A prey animal’s caution was not learned within a single lifetime.
It had been carved into its instincts over countless generations by wolves, hunters, and creatures even more dangerous.
Animals did not willingly pass through a place where one of their own had recently died.
Adrian would either have to dig somewhere else or wait.
He would have to wait until the scent of blood disappeared, until rain washed away the wild garlic and human traces, and until the deer forgot that one of their kind had died upon this trail.
The waiting might take longer than digging all three traps had.
He rose and rested the pickaxe across his shoulder.
Waiting was unavoidable, but that did not mean he had to sit idle.
The river still held fish, and the forest remained full of wild fruit.
He had accumulated several strips of smoked venison, the hide was nearly dry, and he had ground the tips of the roe deer’s antlers into two thick needles.
There was plenty to do before another animal wandered into one of his traps.
The roe deer hide lay spread across the bluestone with its inner surface facing upward.
Its edges had begun to curl, and its color had changed from pinkish white to pale yellow.
Adrian pressed it with his palm.
It remained flexible, but the dampness was gone.
The hide was too soft to serve as leather armor.
A sharp blade would pass through it without much resistance.
For clothing, however, it was nearly ideal.
It would be warm, light, and close-fitting—far better than his tattered linen undershirt.
He turned the hide over so that the fur rested against the stone.
Using the edge of his short axe, he scraped the uneven patches from the inner surface until it was reasonably smooth.
The dried residue curled into small grayish-white clumps.
When he crushed them beneath his fingernail, they crumbled into powder.
He then removed the two antler needles from the leather pouch at his waist.
The large bundle of linen thread he had taken from the abandoned village would finally be put to use.
Pulling out a suitable length, he twisted the coarse fibers between his fingertips and guided the thread through the eye of one needle.
The linen carried the dry, earthy smell of hemp.
He had neither measuring tools nor a proper pattern.
Instead, he lifted the hide with the fur facing inward and held it against his body.
He measured it roughly from shoulder to waist and from chest to ribs.
The hide was too small to wrap around his entire torso in one piece.
Spreading it back across the stone, he cut along the line where the spine had once been, dividing the hide into two halves.
One piece would cover his chest, while the other would protect his back.
He overlapped the pieces at the shoulders and began stitching them together with linen thread.
The sides beneath the arms were left mostly open so that his movements would not be restricted.
He also stopped the stitching at the waist rather than continuing farther down.
The bone needle did not pass through the hide easily.
Each stitch required him to brace the material and force the point through.
The linen thread followed behind the needle, entering through one side and emerging from the other before being pulled tight.
His stitches were uneven—some crowded close together and others spaced too far apart—but they were strong enough to hold.
At the curve of the shoulder, he folded the hide inward and pushed the needle through at an angle.
Tightening the thread pulled the pieces closer together and made the garment conform more naturally to his body.
After completing the final stitch, he tied the thread securely and bit off the excess.
He lifted the finished garment and shook it.
The remaining scraps and dried residue fell away.
It was a simple vest without sleeves or a collar, designed to be worn with the fur facing inward and the bare hide exposed to the air.
Adrian removed his old undershirt.
The linen had long since begun to rot.
Holes had worn through beneath the arms, the section around his wounded shoulder had stiffened with dried blood, and the fabric had darkened from brown to nearly black.
He rolled it into a ball and dropped it beside his feet before pulling on the roe deer vest.
The fur settled against his skin, soft and comfortable, carrying the natural warmth of animal hide.
It fit closely around his shoulders without chafing beneath the arms.
When he raised and rotated his arms, the vest moved with him instead of pulling against his wounds.
He put his chainmail back on and tightened the belt around his waist.
The weight of the iron rings pressed the vest firmly against his body.
The thick fur cushioned the hard edges of the mail, preventing the rings from biting into his flesh.
He sat inside the lean-to with his back resting against the stone wall.
Warmth gradually spread across his back, shoulders, and ribs.
Even when a cold wind swept through the shelter, the hide blocked most of it.
The chill could no longer seep directly through his clothing.
Adrian picked up the discarded undershirt and examined it once more.
The underarms were torn open, the hem was frayed, and much of the cloth was permanently stained with blood.
Still, parts of it remained usable.
He tore away the intact sections and ripped them into long strips.
After rolling them tightly, he stuffed them into the leather pouch at his waist.
The strips could later be used to bind wounds, wrap tool handles, or start a fire.
Even a ruined shirt was more useful than nothing.