By the time they finished covering the bodies, late afternoon had dipped toward dusk. A freshening scent suggested to Dorri that rain was coming. The breeze picked up, scudding clouds stained with pinks and purples across the setting sun.
Booth walked out in front, leading even though the road made the way obvious. Under his arm, he carried a small bundle wrapped in his cloak. After no real discussion, he’d taken custody of the golden scythe. That seemed right—the relic was the property of his hometown, after all.
Empathetic anxiety skittered along the back of Dorri’s neck on Booth’s behalf. She didn’t know if he was a PC with real feelings or just an NPC. But from her Origin quest, she knew what it was like, hurrying toward home and not knowing what might wait for you there.
This time it was only a handful of bandits. They wouldn’t have taken on all of Traton. Everyone will be fine when we get there.
That wasn’t always true, but Dorri thought in this case it might be.
Dorri placed herself carefully to one side and not quite level with Booth—not walking with him, but walking toward the front as well, because her taut nerves insisted more than one person should be keeping an eye out. Given that one of her handful of class abilities allowed her to see better than normal in low light, she appointed herself to watch the road.
Or rather, she watched the shadows which pooled beneath the tree line to either side of the road, congealing individual trunks and branches into a single entity of indigo. Anything could be moving in there, hiding between the streaks of rose and scarlet where the dying light flickered through. For now, nothing did.
Behind, quiet footfalls indicated the other four followed at not so great a distance as they often did. Arra carried their captive. Her footfalls were more audible than usual, but even carrying a grown man, her breathing didn’t seem labored.
“You’re a good shot.” Booth spoke without preamble and so quietly that Dorri took a moment to understand he was speaking to her.
Panicked uncertainty immediately rendered Dorri’s brain utterly useless.
“Thank you,” she finally managed.
It occurred to Dorri that no one had brought up the magical ice which had frosted over the attacker she’d killed, just before the arrow struck him. Karon had cast the spell but not spoken of it after that. Booth hadn’t expressed any curiosity about it.
He was busy. Maybe he didn’t see. The effect had faded almost immediately. That was possible. And they’d certainly had weightier things to think about.
Nildeyr most certainly hadn’t seen, because he would have had all manner of things to say about it, as he did with everything else. Arra rarely said anything about anything, and Lora, who knew? Lora held all her cards close to the vest, Dorri thought. Maybe she was holding this one to play later.
A few steps later, when Booth had said no more, Dorri wondered if she should return the compliment. Casting about for something to say, what she finally produced was, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Booth snorted. Then he chuckled. “Thank you.”
He had a nice laugh. It made Dorri feel simultaneously comfortable and nervous.
“I shot one, too,” Nildeyr interjected from just behind and between Dorri and Booth.
Dorri started. She hadn’t realized Nildeyr was so close.
“I mean, just one,” Nildeyr amended. “And he didn’t actually die.”
“Which was fortunate, since we can now interrogate him.”
Booth had barely spoken to Nildeyr during the days-long journey behind them. When he had, it had been with barely-contained annoyance. Now, though, Booth sounded almost fond of Nildeyr.
What did I miss?
“Oh, absolutely. That’s what I was thinking when I aimed at him.”
“Of course.”
A lightness emanated from the unexpected banter between the two men. Confusion aside, Dorri felt quite comforted by it. Without thinking, Dorri turned her head and glanced toward Nildeyr.
“It was a very good shot.” The words simply flowed out.
Nildeyr, hair flaming even in the failing light, grinned broadly. Somehow, without slowing, he managed a deep bow and a little flourish.
“Why thank you. As our Tilier friend has pointed out, you’re not so bad yourself.”
Behind Nildeyr, Arra trudged wordlessly with the bound captive over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked toward Dorri, dark and unreadable.
Some of the lightness in Dorri’s chest faded.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” Dorri blurted in Arra’s direction. “I probably shouldn’t have shot that arrow so close past your head.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Arra stared at Dorri long enough that Dorri’s face heated.
I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Do not ever apologize for drawing the blood of an enemy. You did well.”
Arra’s stare and flat tone turned it into a rebuke. But then there was that last, and Dorri had no idea how to respond. In the end, she just nodded solemnly and then went back to peering into the trees as they marched past.
Half an hour later, spitting rain hit Dorri’s cheeks like chips of sharp-edged stone, and the breeze had become gusts of cold wind. Clouds swallowed what was left of the day’s light, and Traton stood with deep shadows surrounding its cluster of buildings, some of wood and thatch and some of stone, loosely organized around a central grassy square.
Booth led them toward the largest building, with a foundation of stacked stone. Orange and yellow firelight glow spilled from its windows into the early darkness. As they drew closer, the sound of voices from inside grew louder, as if providing a beacon to the travelers.
In the half-light, something Dorri read as relief melted hard lines from Booth’s face. His pace quickened.
Shadows on the inn’s broad porch moved, coalescing into a figure that leaned toward the door. A line of light widened along the door’s edge.
“Ho! Travelers coming.”
The voices inside cut off and then picked up again. Closer now, the sounds from inside were nothing as jolly as typically emanated from a tavern or inn. Dorri couldn’t make out words, but worry and fear rose and fell in wavering pitches.
The door’s line of light widened into a full rectangle. Backlit silhouettes gathered in the doorway and spilled out onto the porch. Some of them held weapons.
Booth climbed the steps, but Dorri stopped and stepped off to the side, as did Nildeyr and Lora. Karon followed Booth up onto the porch, and Arra went after. At the top, she unceremoniously dumped the bound man off her shoulder and onto the porch.
“I believe we have found something which belongs to you.” Karon accompanied his precisely-delivered words with a formal bow, reminding Dorri that he was from a noble family.
Chanford, remember?
At first, no one from inside the inn replied. Then a man’s voice said, “Is that Newton Greenfield’s boy? Booth?”
As the attention shifted to him, Booth’s posture changed, his shoulders rounding and his head lowering. He seemed to age backwards into an ungainly, unconfident boy. Awkwardly, he mimicked Karon’s bow.
“Yes, sir. Booth Greenfield, sir.”
“He’s a Tilier, is what he is.” That from a man whose smile sent creases rippling across his face. “Our very own Tilier.”
Another person shuffled forward, and then another. They spoke over the top of each other, louder with every moment. Glad she was off the porch, Dorri shrank further back into the refuge of the shadows.
A taller man, broad of shoulder and wearing the same simple clothes as the rest of the villagers, cut through the gathering to stand directly in front of Booth. Torchlight picked out strands of white in his thinning blond hair.
“Mayor Porter.” Booth’s tone warmed. He jerked, as if he might have stepped forward to clasp arms with the man.
This is his home. He knows these people. How long since he last saw them?
His family, Dorri realized fully for the first time. Booth’s family lived around here somewhere. All he’d wanted to do was walk into town and go straight to them, she could easily imagine.
It would be all I’d want.
“He had this.” Booth spoke more professionally, now. But his shoulders remained down, and his voice quavered. He held out the wrapped bundle and turned back a corner. The scythe’s gold winked in the light.
“We sent militia out to look for it.” Mayor Porter said only that much, but the question hung between him and Booth.
Booth nodded. It took a few seconds before his tight response. “We found them. Their bodies. I’m sorry.”
Immediately, gasps and sobs broke out in the tavern’s crowd. A sick lump formed in Dorri’s throat, and waves of remembered grief welled inside her.
In this life, black smoke and blood. In the previous, nothing so dramatic. In both, holding her mother’s body and weeping. Unable to breathe yet somehow wailing.
She died alone. I wasn’t there.
Dorri inhaled, held the breath, and blew it out through pursed lips.
I’m here, now. Be here. Pay attention.
“They took a few of the bandits with them. We fought the rest.” Booth choked out the words in a stiff manner which Dorri entirely understood.
“A few?” Alarm rang in Mayor Porter’s voice. He raised both hands and rubbed them over his face. “Sweet Mother. We thought there was only the one.”
A silence fell, punctuated by weeping and comforting murmurs.
“I’m sorry,” Booth said again.
Mayor Porter glanced around at the villagers surrounding him. Then his gaze swept forward, taking in not just Booth but also Arra and Karon and finally the bound captive at his feet.
“Bring this one. We’ll lock him up tight, and then we can talk in greater depth.”
A couple of Traton’s men stepped forward, but Arra got there first. Even though she’d already carried him all the way to Traton, she swung the captive onto her shoulder as if he were no heavier than a bedroll.
“He has a knack.” Karon offered the explanation crisply. “We’d like to keep our own eye on him, if that’s all right.”
If the men who’d tried to step forward were offended by the implication that they weren’t capable of handling a magically talented captive, they didn’t say so.
Mayor Porter grunted as if he’d been punched. “More than one, and magic to boot. I imagine we couldn’t have handled this more wrongly.”
Porter led the way off the tavern’s porch and into Traton’s rain-soaked central square. Booth followed on his heels, and Arra and Karon after that. Dorri wasn’t certain the rest of them had been invited along, but Nildeyr traipsed after like an eager puppy.
Lora touched her fingertips to Dorri’s forearm, a gesture somehow comforting despite the fact that Dorri normally preferred her space.
“There’s little we can do here. Perhaps we can do something there.”
At first it seemed they were heading toward a house on the square’s far side, with wood shingles and a stone foundation, but the mayor veered to the side. They wound up instead inside a small barn, barely larger than a shed, where the air was sweet and dusty with the scent of hay. Three horse stalls ran along one side of the barn. Two of them had been adapted into cells with heavy wooden bars.
“We don’t deal with much crime in our parts, but we have some accommodations.” Porter held his lantern up to illuminate the cells.
Arra hauled the unconscious captive into one cell. She didn’t simply unload him, however. She bound him upright to the bars on one side and tied his hands tightly together over his head.
While Arra worked, Booth laid out their story to the mayor. Porter listened with a somber frown and another scrub of his palms over his face.
“Not many travelers come through Traton, but a few. No one even realized there was trouble, until Mercen went to see Tender Main. She was unconscious—she’ll be fine, I think. Blow to the back of her head. Took us even longer than that to realize the scythe was gone.”
Porter paused and sighed deeply.
“We thought it was just one person. I’d have sent an entire army instead of just a few volunteer militia. If I’d known…”
“You didn’t know.” Booth twitched awkwardly like he had when he’d first seen Porter, but this time he did eventually put a hand on the other man’s arm. “How could you have known?”
“I don’t know. But I should have. I just should have.”
Agonized emotions filled the barn with a nearly palpable heaviness.