David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

The comment stung, far deeper than she probably meant it to.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “I must be going. Take care of the boy.”

“We will. Safe travels to you, Haern. That bag on the table is yours. It should last you until you reach Felwood, assuming that’s the direction you’re headed.”

Inside was a small selection of salted meats. He took it and left without checking on the boy, fully trusting Evelyn and her husband to know what was best. He wanted to get back to Veldaren, to the world he understood. He’d watched the farmer talk to his boys. Matthew was raising them to be like him, just like his own father had. But there was no malice, no underlying threat of violence to ensure perfection and obedience. The obedience was expected, sure, but he’d felt the love within it in that household. Living under Thren’s roof, he’d felt only paranoia, expectations, and disappointment. He’d loved Senke, loved Kayla, loved Delysia. None of their fates had been kind because of it. At least Delysia had lived, though he’d lost her to the temple of Ashhur.

The pond was not far from the road, and he saw Matthew in the distance. Haern waved, and Matthew waved back. He promised himself to return, not just to check the fate of the boy, but to have another night of sleep like he’d had. So many nights and days he’d slumbered on the side of the street, and he’d forgotten the comforts of a warm bed. Perhaps it was time to consider paying for lodgings at one of the inns, his various personae be damned.

The snow had stopped, and the coat did wonders to keep him warm. He nibbled on the meat Evelyn had given him, and despite its salt, he found he enjoyed the flavor. He walked along the road and tried to decide how far he was from Veldaren. Much of his walk carrying the boy had been in a frozen delirium. He couldn’t even guess how many miles he’d travelled, and like a fool he hadn’t asked either Matthew or Evelyn before he’d left. Oh well. She’d given him enough to reach Felwood Castle, and guessing by the food, it should be four days, three if she assumed him a heavy eater. From there it’d be a week or so back to Veldaren.

Near midday he heard the sound of hoofbeats. He felt his spirits brighten. If he could beg a ride, he might reach the castle far sooner. But the sound was coming from the wrong way, just a trick of the woods he walked through. Horsemen appeared in the distance, and his pulse quickened at the sight. They wore the same symbol as the horsemen who’d attacked the caravan. Were they still searching for him?

He hurried off the road, wishing he’d had time to hide his footprints. It’d be an easy trail to follow. Damn the snow!

They rode right on by. If they saw his tracks, they didn’t care about them in the slightest. Haern let out a breath he’d been holding and returned to the road. Tightening his coat, he hurried on, determined to gain as much distance as possible before nightfall.

Evelyn had given him a small piece of flint and steel in his bag of food, which he found immeasurably kind. Off the road, he built a fire and slept by it through the night, waking every few hours or so to toss a log upon it and poke the embers with a stick to reignite the flame. He ate the bulk of his food in the morning, saving a little bit for a snack should it take him longer than expected to reach the Felwood. He kept his eye out for more riders, but none came. He passed another caravan moving north, loaded with salt and farming equipment. They offered him a ride, but he smiled and gestured south.

“Heading the wrong way,” he said before continuing on.

Not long after he’d wolfed down the rest of his food, he reached the forest of Felwood. From there he continued until he reached the castle. He still had a few coins from the caravan, and he used them to pay for lodgings, food, and a warm room. He left come morning, feeling worlds better than he had before.

The days passed, and he continued his travel. Fires at night kept him comfortable, and steadily the weather warmed, a front of southern air coming along and mocking the snow. At last he reached the King’s Forest. Heartened, Haern jogged at a steady pace. Once he curled around the woods, he’d arrive in no time at Veldaren. He couldn’t wait. Never before had he realized how much he considered the city home.

Twenty minutes later he saw smoke rising from further ahead. Wary of the cause, he upped his pace while slipping closer to the forest so he might hide at a moment’s notice. He rounded a bend, and then stumbled upon a terribly familiar sight. A single wagon was under attack, but instead of horsemen, he recognized them as members of the Serpent Guild. He counted eight of them circling the wagon, most holding bows or crossbows. From where he stood, he couldn’t see any of the defenders, but by the way the Serpents stayed low, refusing to approach, he knew them still alive.

“I leave for a spell and you grow brave enough to assault travelers in daylight?” Haern whispered as he peered around a tree. “I think it’s time the Watcher left a message no guild can ignore.”

He stayed close to the tree line, and once within fifty yards of the wagon, he vanished into the woods completely. Three of the Serpents hid at the edge of the forest, using trees as cover while they fired their crossbows. Haern swung wide so he could approach them directly from behind. He heard them muttering as he neared, offering each other advice where to shoot or where they thought the defenders were hiding.

Haern cursed the vegetation as he neared. He’d heard of men so accustomed to the wild that they could pass across dry leaves without making a sound, yet he crushed twigs and brushed at leaves no matter how stealthy he tried to be. What he’d give for a paved road and the shadows of a building. The three were too focused on the wagon, though, to notice what little noise he made. He thanked Ashhur for small favors.

“Watch for a hand,” the rightmost Serpent said. He looked older than the others, and Haern wondered if he was their leader. “Don’t let that yellow bastard have even a moment, or we’re all dead.”

Haern was less than five feet behind him. With his swords drawn, he took another step, amused that they were so afraid of those in the wagon. Had they bitten off more than they could chew? And who might this ‘yellow bastard’ be? It didn’t matter. He was out of time. Already the Serpents on the other side were closing in, either more confident in their abilities, or having killed some of those inside, he didn’t know. Deciding the one on the right was the most dangerous, he rushed in, his swords leading.

His first attack sliced through the Serpent’s back and into his lung. Haern didn’t bother muffling his scream or holding him steady, for the other two were too near. He slashed with his left arm, hoping for an easy cut, but the thief fell just out of reach. Twisting his blade free, he kicked away the dying man and turned his attention to the other two. The closest tossed his bow and drew a dagger, but the other…

Haern dropped to his belly, the crossbow bolt screaming over his head. The Serpent dove after him, and he rolled, deflecting the thrusts with his swords as he tried to gain distance. He rolled his knees underneath him and then kicked, leaping backward and to his feet. Instead of pressing the advantage, his opponent remained back, a grin on his face.

“Idiot,” said the Serpent as his comrade fired another bolt.

Twisting his cloaks, Haern hoped to confuse him, but as the pain bit deep into his shoulder he knew he’d only partially succeeded. He continued his spin, using his cloaks to obstruct their view of him. It’d only gain him a moment, an extra step closer, but if they were staying defensive, hoping to down him with arrows instead of blades…