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The jackal was lucky, then, that this call was close. Enkiel was sorting through the most recent batch of herbs gathered and was startled by the call. Well, to say he was startled was an overstatement—he looked up sharply, ears rising towards the source. In a moment he had it pinpointed, an in a moment he was moving. Slight hands grabbed the satchel hanging nearby. He slowed only to stuff a few extra supplies within before passing out into the world at a jog.
His pace was even but fast, for while Enkiel was not built for combat the jackal was built for speed. He had the endurance of his father’s blood and moved with ease towards the south. The smell of blood hit him long before he spotted the pair, and the amount was staggering. No sign of this showed on his face, focused intently on doing what needed done. Ezekiel hailed him, his face marred by blood; it did not belong to him, Enkiel realized as he closed the distance.
The horse’s hooves were pouring blood into the earth, and the stallion continued to shudder and pace even as Ezekiel gripped his face and spoke to him in that strange tongue. Enkiel eyed the massive animal with caution. “Can you lift his feet?” Was all he said; he disliked horses, especially those as large as Viggo.
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