The beasts grew more insistent. Those that had been gnawing on the dead gelding’s bones lost interest in their pursuit and resumed pacing with the rest of the pack. Occasionally one snarled or snapped at another.
She was grateful she’d taken along that morning, her bow and a quiver of arrows. Of course, to bring the beasts down, she’d have to hit the grut in any one of three small, but particular targets: the space right behind the grut’s ear to go straight to the beast’s brain, the center of the grut’s chest to reach the place where its heart would be—if indeed it had one, or the grut’s eye to take out its link to the underworld, although in that case, death might not be instant.
Although considered a sure shot, target practice on a warm summer day was an entirely different matter from her taking aim under the pressure of a pack of stalking, growling beasts. She had to take her time and use care. When her dozen arrows were spent, she would use her hatchet and knives, though she preferred not to use Spira unless absolutely necessary. Removing it from a grut—even a dead one—could expose her to the beast’s deadly poisonous blood or saliva.
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