Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong

I return to where the horses are wading into the creek. I encourage them back up to the dry clearing. They shake their heads when the bridles are removed and start to graze.
    I’m not ready yet to reveal all my secrets, but I do want the Polisborn to see that I can look after myself. I know that he still has a lot of information I want before I leave him, and I get the feeling I’m going to have to work for it. Having a reputation for being weak or needing to be looked after has never sat well with me anyway.
    He’s built up a fire beside the ruins of a stone wall, which provides some protection from the wind I can feel picking up. The fir trees all around us sigh and creak. I sit down in the dry pine needles near the fire and begin to prepare the duck.
    He assembles a tiny bubble tent, which springs into shape straight out of its bag. A tarp goes over the top. I check the darkening sky. Does he expect rain? I sniff, and can smell it too. Mixing with the pine of the trees around me, there is an earthy plant smell. Tonight could be very uncomfortable.
    I am removing feathers, my knife on the dry needles at my feet, when I hear, “Don’t move.” The soldier’s low, steady voice is unexpectedly at my shoulder. I lift only my eyes, my hands and neck still. At the same time, I hear a rumbling growl. Standing tall only a few metres from me is an enormous black dog. Seated, I am smaller than it is. Its eyes are fixed on mine, muzzle wrinkled and front teeth bared. Its ears are flat on its head, the threatening growl from its throat becoming louder. My thoughts have immediately flown to my blowpipe, but it is tucked at my belt. It would take too long to load.
    “Very slowly, toss him the duck,” the officer says calmly. The huge beast takes a step towards me, lengthening its neck in my direction and pulling its lips back further to reveal sharp yellow teeth.
    I lift the duck, and everything happens at once.
    The dog lunges, as does the soldier from my side. He intercepts the beast in mid-air, smashing into it with his shoulder and knocking it sideways into the ground. In a blur the dog’s head turns and goes for his throat. The soldier ducks to the side, locking his arms around the beast’s head and pinning its jaws shut. With a convulsive heave he rolls over, swinging the dog in an arc. The snap as its neck breaks is like ice cracking.
    Hayes stands up slowly, goes to his bag and gets his dazer, tucking it into his belt.
    I’m still sitting on the ground, holding the duck.
    “Are you okay?” he asks me.
    “I’m fine,” I shake myself out of my stunned stupor. “That was… unexpected.”
    “That was stupid. You should have thrown him the duck.”
    I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his judgment. My mouth opens but I can think of no response.
    He relents, and says more quietly, “I should have put out the triggers first, before doing anything else. My mistake.” I get the feeling he’s not used to admitting errors, and that this is a kind of apology. Seeing his discomfort, my ire dissipates. After all, he did just save me from certain injury and possible death.
    “It’s alright… thank you for saving my life.”
    He shrugs. “I’m putting out the triggers,” he says, self-consciously changing the subject.
    “You’re bleeding,” I observe.
    He looks down at his torn pants leg and the blood seeping through it as though he hadn’t been aware of the injury. He finds and roughly winds a bandage around it.
    I see him take out four or five small rods, about five centimetres long and sharp at one end. He goes out into the trees and returns five minutes later empty handed.
    He pulls out the monitor. “They’re out. An alarm will alert us if anything else breaks the perimeter.”
    He fills a small pot with water and sets it up over the fire to heat. He drops some white powder into the pot. “Purifier,” he explains, when he sees me watching.
    Although he’s moving round the campsite, his movements are stiff