Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
The pack is on my back.
Ripping it off my shoulders, I shove my hand through the bag’s throat—
The box is in there, and so is the compass in its satchel.
When did I put the latter back?
That’s when I notice the sunlight. Through the canopy’s interlaced pattern of leaves, I can tell that the angle is all wrong. No longer low to the horizon, the bright, piercing beams are directly above me.
It’s noontime.
“Merc?” I turn about. “… Merc?”
As I go to pick up his pack, I grunt as I get it off the ground and settle its weight on my shoulder, and his leather surcoat is just as heavy with all its chains. Neither are as wet anymore, and I worry I’ve lost not hours, but days.
Paddling through branches with the heavy load, I fumble and trip my way along the forest’s maze of trunks, blindly running. I have no idea how far I go or in what direction, but when I hear horses off in the distance I freeze and duck down. Through the branches, the travel road that winds its way around to the entrance of the village is barely visible, but I see enough to assess the men who appear in the distance.
It’s our mayor. His plump figure is jiggling in the saddle, with both his threadbare suiting and the faded red banner that proclaims his pitiful status straining to confine his girth. He’s flanked by two of his three sons, who function as his personal guards, such as they are. Given how much they share their sire’s affection for ale and bread, it’s hard to see them offering much defense if the lot of them are set upon, and they also share his current dissatisfaction. None of them seem pleased about whatever outing they’ve been on, their ruddy faces set in thin-lipped frowns.
I’m guessing this has something to do with me, although I can’t imagine they went all the way to Prosperitus to report what happened to the King’s court. Besides, they couldn’t return this quickly—
Unless I have lost days.
Triangulating their position, I decide no, they’ve probably just been to the Temple of the Sooths for advice, and going by their expressions, the foretelling was a grim one—
I sense a presence looming at my rear.
Before I can stop myself, my lips part in a startled scream.
Only the hard palm that slaps over my mouth keeps me silent.
Twenty-Seven
Lies on All Sides.
“Shh—it’s me.”
Merc’s voice is a hiss in my ear, and his chest is a solid wall behind me as he holds me against his body. When his hand drops away from my face, the warmth of his palm lingers on my mouth, and I feel as though the hottest month of summer has calendared in my gut.
He takes what I’ve been carrying for him as if it weighs nothing. Speaking softly, he demands, “Where the hell have you been—”
“Right where you left me—”
“You’ve been nowhere near this forest.” He draws his leather surcoat on over the broadsword sheathed on his back. “And what made you decide to come back?”
“I’m telling you,” I shoot back at a whisper, “I never left.”
“Then why have I been looking for you in these woods for hours?”
“I guess we’ve just been going in circles.”
After that, neither of us moves except to breathe, as the mayor and his sons close in at a slow trot. With every inflation of Merc’s lungs, his pecs push the buckles of his holsters and the padded contours of his muscles into me, except I can’t let the feel of him consume my thoughts. As much as I’ve never particularly cared for the mayor—or his sons, who were regulars at the pub and frequently made fun of me—I don’t want them to cross paths with us. I can’t explain the time loss, but if Merc’s still looking for a horse, those men are in his crosshairs. And then what if they see us first? They could alert the entire village—
Out of the corner of my eye, the hilt of Merc’s broadsword hovers over his shoulder like a snake head that has risen and is ready to strike.
“Let them go,” I say softly as the trio are almost upon us. “There will be other horses.”
“These are the first in four hours.”
“Four hours—”
“Shh.”
The horse of the son closest to us snorts, and then the animal stamps to a halt and wrenches about to face us. Its eyes pry wide and lock on our position, and the alert is a contagion that spreads quickly to the other steeds. Forelegs get braced, rumps are raised high, and nervous whinnies percolate like the whimpers of small children on the verge of wailing.
“Oy!” one of the sons shouts as he lurches off-balance. “Stupid horse!”
He digs his spurs into the poor thing’s hide, but in so many ways, the animal is smarter than the owner. It refuses to pass and rears up—