David Wells - Cursed Bones

Anatoly had taken Alexander’s advice and donned a breastplate emblazoned with Zuhl’s crest and marked with emblems of rank. He strode into the village with Abigail a step behind and to the left, his battle axe resting on his shoulder and an expression of disdain on his face. The market was nearly deserted when they arrived, all of the shops were closed and the vendor carts tarped over for the night, their owners cooking dinner and preparing for bed as the light rapidly faded and the temperature fell.

“There’s the apothecary,” Anatoly said, motioning to the building in the corner of the marketplace with his chin. “Either we wait ’til dark and break in, or we find an inn and hope we don’t arouse enough suspicion to attract the city guard, then come back tomorrow and buy what we need.”

“We’ll wait until tomorrow,” Abigail said. “I can’t justify stealing from the apothecary … she’s not our enemy, she’s just a shopkeeper trying to make a living. Besides, we need some rest before we head back.”

“Fair enough, looks like the inn is down there.”

All eyes turned toward them when they entered the ale hall that served as the main room for the inn. The building was constructed of stone, as were most buildings on the Isle of Zuhl. The stone tables and benches of the ale hall were coarsely chiseled without any artistry, but functional nonetheless.

Most of the people in the room were old men, too frail to stand in battle, yet still possessed of the experience from many battles past. They regarded Anatoly with a mixture of scrutiny as if weighing his mettle were they to face him at their prime and respect for a man who still had battles left to fight.

Anatoly ignored them, striding purposefully up to the innkeeper. “One room, two beds for the night and a hot meal for us both.”

“Two silver crowns,” the innkeeper said, picking up a mug that was already clean and starting to wipe it down with the towel thrown over his shoulder.

Anatoly slapped two coins onto the counter. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow at him and nodded almost skeptically before collecting the coins and calling to his errand boy to fetch a key.

“So what’s your business here?”

“My business is Lord Zuhl’s business and none of yours,” Anatoly said.

“Don’t mean nothing by it, just curious is all. Most of the men are with the army. We don’t see many soldiers up here now days, let alone an officer.”

Abigail noticed several of the men seated around the room perk up with interest. She started casually looking around, locating the exits and finding the choke points in the room where she could fight without being flanked or surrounded.

“Who should I tell Lord Zuhl is inquiring into his business?” Anatoly asked pointedly. Before the man could stammer out an answer he continued. “What is your name?”

“Forgive me, sir,” the innkeeper said as the errand boy approached with a key. “Please, your room is ready. I’ll have a meal sent up right away.”

Anatoly regarded him calmly until the man started to fidget, then snatched the key from the startled boy, motioning for him to lead the way. Most of the men in the bar went back to their drinks as if the encounter had played out about like they expected it would. Abigail was relieved for that.

The room was simple, the food was bland but plentiful, no doubt a result of Anatoly’s gruff handling of the innkeeper, and the door was stout with a heavy bar. Even though the bed was lumpy, Abigail was asleep within minutes of lying down.

Sometime in the night she woke to the sound of pounding on the door.

“Open up!” a muffled voice demanded.

She schooled her breathing and tried to calm her racing heart as she slipped her feet into her boots and started lacing them up. Anatoly looked to her while lacing his own boots. She nodded for him to answer.

“Who’s asking?” Anatoly said with an undercurrent of menace.

“Captain Voss of Lord Zuhl’s home guard. We’re hunting a fugitive, a woman with silvery blond hair. I have a report that just such a woman is sharing your bed, so I say again, open up.”

“Fight or flee?” Anatoly whispered.

“Flee,” Abigail said, drawing the Thinblade and cutting open the heavy shutters covering the window.

“Just a minute,” Anatoly growled, “let me get my pants on.” Abigail was already on the ground and Anatoly was hanging from the windowsill when he spoke. They landed in a dark alley and moved quietly into the night, sticking to the shadows skirting around the edge of the market square, heading toward the apothecary.

“Looks like we’re going to have to steal it after all,” Anatoly said.

“We’ll leave her some coin for the snowbell and the damage I’m going to do to her door.”

They slipped up to the back door and Abigail slid the Thinblade along the doorjamb, cutting the bolt effortlessly. They entered quietly and cautiously, assuming that the shopkeeper was probably sleeping within the building. Anatoly motioned to the bed on the far side of the room where a woman covered in furs was lying, breathing deeply and evenly.

Abigail motioned for him to watch her while she went in search of the snowbell. She moved slowly, with deliberate care, stopping for several moments to let her eyes adjust to the low light before continuing into the room lined with shelves behind the counter. It took several minutes before she found what she was looking for, but she managed to get the jar of snowbell without making a sound. She left five gold coins in its place, easily triple its value, and returned to Anatoly.

The woman was still sleeping but rolled over, muttering in her sleep when Abigail stepped back into the room. She froze, waiting for the woman’s deep, even breathing to resume. When she and Anatoly thought it was safe, they slipped out into the alley and closed the door without a sound before melting into the shadows.

“That went well,” Abigail whispered.

“A little too well,” Anatoly said. “Makes me nervous.”

They moved to the edge of town and made their way along the inside of the berm wall toward the road leading to the northwest but stopped when they saw a squad of soldiers waiting quietly in the shadows on either side of the road. Abigail motioned to Anatoly to backtrack. Once out of sight of the road, they climbed up the berm wall and down the other side, setting out across the snow toward the relative safety of the cave.

“They’re going to pick up our trail,” Anatoly said.

“I know, but there’s not much we can do about that. Besides, they probably won’t notice it until daylight. At least we’ll have time to prepare for their attack.”

“If they come with the whole company, the dragon’s our only hope.”

“I know,” Abigail said.

Dawn broke over an overcast sky, heavy grey clouds floating so low that the mountain peaks in the distance were shrouded in gloom. In the rising light of dawn, the sky started spitting snow in fits and starts as if it couldn’t make up its mind. As unpleasant as it would be to travel in such weather, Abigail hoped it would snow heavily enough to cover their trail.

By midday Abigail was entirely disappointed with the weather. The snow came in flurries driven by gusts of wind coming off the mountain, not enough to erase their tracks, but plenty enough to make their journey miserable.

Trudging across a snow-covered plain, skirting a copse of trees, she caught motion from the corner of her eye, but a moment too late. In the next second a wolf had her by the leg, biting hard enough to draw blood, shaking his head back and forth, trying to drive her to the ground. He’d been nearly buried in the snow, all but invisible-and there were more, all coming to their feet now that the ambush had been sprung.