Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Colin slowed as his father sighed.

“No, but they made contact with him. I think he should be there in case there was a reason they chose to speak to him and not any of the others.”

“I don’t like it,” his mother said, and rubbed her upper arms with her hands, as if she were suddenly cold. “I don’t like it here on the upper plains. Maybe we shouldn’t be here. Maybe this is their land, whoever they are, and we’re trespassing.”

“We haven’t seen any roads anywhere,” Arten said, “and no signs of a city or even a village.”

“That doesn’t mean we aren’t intruding somehow.”

Arten didn’t have an answer, so Colin stepped into the fringe of the firelight, his feet making noise in the grass. All three of them turned, Arten’s hand dropping to his sword, then relaxing as Colin settled down before the fire next to Arten, opposite his mother and father.

“You’re going to include me in the group?” Colin asked.

His mother frowned, but it was his father who answered. “Yes. We’ve decided it will be you, me, Arten, and Walter.”

Colin grimaced. “Why Walter?”

“Because his name’s on the town’s charter.” He met Colin’s gaze. “He may not make the decisions, but he’s still the Proprietor.”

Colin thought about that a moment, then shifted back to Aeren and the meeting. “I don’t think they intend to hurt us,” he said. “He could have killed me at the stream. I didn’t even notice him when I approached, he was just there.” He ignored his mother’s shudder.

“So what do you think they want?” Arten asked.

Colin frowned. “I don’t know. He asked where we were headed and seemed upset when I showed him.”

“You told them where we were headed?” a bitter, derisive voice asked sharply.

Colin leaped up and turned to where Walter and Jackson stood at the fringe of the firelight. One hand dove into his pocket for a stone, but his sling was still bundled up in his satchel. He clenched his jaw and fought the urge to chuck the stone at Walter regardless. If his mother hadn’t been there, along with Arten and his father…

“That’s enough, Walter,” Arten said, with a note of warning.

“He gave away our only advantage,” Walter spat, taking one step closer to the fire.

“Yes, he did,” Colin’s father agreed, and Colin felt a harsh pain in his chest, his hand closing hard on the stone. He dropped his gaze to the grass, his eyes stinging, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as his father continued. “But it wasn’t much of an advantage. They may have been watching us for days, may already know where we’re headed.”

Walter glared at Tom, his jaw working. Around them the rest of the wagon party had begun to stir, to wake and gather. He cast a contemptuous glance at Colin, scowled, and turned away.

Arten stood, followed by Tom. “Shall we head to the bank, see if they’re there?” the commander of the Armory asked.

In answer, Walter stalked away from the fire.

Arten and Tom traded a look.

They followed him to the top of the embankment near the gap, coming up on the sentries on duty, one of them turning.

“Report,” Walter said, his face flushing red when the sentry looked toward Tom and received a nod before answering.

“Still too dark to see anything. We thought we heard some movement a little while ago, but we haven’t heard anything since.”

Tom looked toward the horizon to the east, where the sky was just beginning to lighten above the jagged peaks of distant mountains. He scanned the growing number of people behind them. Most of the men had gathered, and a significant number of the women, their faces tight and grim. All of the children had been separated and hidden in the backs of the wagons. Colin noticed Karen weaving her way through the people toward him and took her hand when she reached his side.

And then they waited. People shifted nervously, whispered among themselves, a few coughing quietly. Gazes drifted toward the horizon, toward the hollow behind them where the wagons had halted, toward the plains hidden by darkness.

Colin saw the mist on the plains first, a thin layer that had settled in the hollows, only the highest banks and hillocks visible above it. He’d never seen the mist in the morning; it had always burned off before the wagons began moving, before the majority of the people had even risen for the day. But in the gray light-the mist white, the hillocks and banks dark, almost black, the hills and mountains in the distance more pronounced as the sky turned a soft yellow, the few clouds on the horizon now a muted gold-the plains were beautiful.

Someone gasped, and all along the embankment the men with swords shifted, clothes rustling, hands falling to weapons. Arten straightened to Colin’s left, but the only reaction from Walter on seeing those waiting below was to narrow his eyes. Karen’s hand tightened on Colin’s, and he gave a reassuring nod.

Below, beneath the bank but on the far side of the stream, the group of men they’d seen from afar the day before stood silently, staring up at those gathered. Aeren stood in the front, his bow still unstrung, planted in the ground before him more like a staff or spear. Five others stood behind him. They were dressed like Aeren, in shirts with curved patterns on them, hide breeches and boots. As the sunlight strengthened, Colin could see that they all bore the same features-pale skin, dark eyes and dark hair, all in varying shades. Three of those behind Aeren had markings on their faces, three slashes on one side like claw marks, as if they’d painted their cheeks with mud. All of them carried bows, shorter in length than Aeren’s, and short swords. And all of them were taller than Aeren by at least a hand.

Only when he saw the other men’s faces did Colin realize that Aeren was the youngest of the group. And he was the only one with a band of gold around his wrist and markings on his bow.

The two groups took stock of one another in silence. Two of Aeren’s men eyed those in Walter’s group with swords, their faces intent. One of those with the claw marks on his face leaned forward slightly to whisper something in Aeren’s ear. Aeren listened, frowned slightly, then shook his head.

The man with the claw markings leaned back, unhappy.

None of Aeren’s men seemed concerned that they were outnumbered. Those who weren’t starkly serious were curious instead, their gazes flickering over all of those from the wagons that they could see.

When the men on the bank began to fidget nervously, Arten stepped to Colin’s father’s side and said softly, “We should approach them.”

Tom nodded.

Colin released Karen’s hand and moved forward, following in his father’s tracks as he, Walter, and Arten moved down the slope to the edge of the stream, to almost exactly the same spot where Colin had encountered Aeren the night before. Aeren lifted his head as they approached, his eyes following Colin at first, then shifting to his father, who was in the lead. The rest of Aeren’s men shifted position, the motions subtle, their stances no longer quite so casual, and Colin felt the tension between the two groups climb.

They halted at the edge of the gurgling water.

For a long moment, no one moved, the silence awkward. Aeren’s head lowered, his eyes narrowed. Colin felt the mood shifting, from open curiosity to something more dangerous, more hostile.

Colin’s father caught his gaze, motioned him forward with a frown and a tilt of his head. Colin stepped forward, to his father’s side. Sweat broke out on his back, even in the cool morning air, and his stomach twisted sickeningly, but he nodded toward Aeren and the other strange men.

“The one in front is Aeren,” he murmured.

His father nodded. “Introduce us.”