“Robby,” he whispered, making no movements that would betray the immensity of his panic.

Robby gave no sign that he heard over the gentle clamor of the other patrons and the gentle tug of Fin’s violin strings, so Daniel elbowed him in the side—gently, but firmly.

“Oy,” the squat man looked at him, consternated. “Mind yer space, Danny.”

Daniel barely restrained the urge to glare at him for even just using the sobriquet. “Sh,” he hissed as quietly as he could without being drowned out by the afternoon’s bar songs.

Robby managed to pick it up. “What’s eatin’ at ya?” he said, low and cautious.

There was a pause in the music as Fin wrapped up another etude, to a titter of applause. Daniel dared not speak while the man warmed up for another tune: he had no reason to believe that Dodonpa knew what his voice sounded like, but he would take no chances.

To his luck, Fin struck up one of those wordless folk songs next, and in the opening bars a man stepped up to present his lyrical concept, with a few cheers and whistles from his friends sat nearby.

Who knows how long I’ve loved you

You know I love you still

Will I wait a lonely lifetime

If you want me to, I will

All eyes and ears were on the vocalist, and Daniel leaned over. “We need to leave. Now. Make any excuse, I don’t care as long as it gets us away quietly.”

For if I ever saw you

I didn’t catch your name

But it never really mattered

I will always feel the same

Robby was clearly miffed, but even as he frowned he turned to Hob, who was drying off glasses by the sink. “Hey, Hob, we’ll be back in a few. Forgot my knucks at home.”

Hob nodded laboriously, his eyes drooping. “Sure, Robby.” By Gan, the man did not have much life left in him, Daniel thought. Even so, they took their leave, as the singer crooned, and he was very, very careful to make sure that his bright hair nor his eye were exposed as they did.

Standing outside in the cold once again, Robby rounded on him, vaguely pissed off but curious. “Wanna tell me what the fuss is about?”

“Go home now and pack food. We’re leaving Deepwood. Do not dawdle.”

Robby put up his hands, alarm playing across his round features. “Whoa, whoa. What’s this yer goin’ on about? Where’s the fire?”

Daniel leered, furious at his friend’s reluctance to listen. “There is a man in there who will kill you, Gwyn, and everyone else in the village. I’ll explain later if there’s a chance, but for the sake of your gods-damned father, listen to me.” When Robby did not interrupt further—though the chawbacon now appeared properly scared—he nodded and continued. “Collect exactly as much as you can fit into your rucksacks and a small blanket. Keep your axe close. Bring nothing else unless it can fit in your pockets. Still with me?”

“Yar,” Robby said uneasily.

“Good. Take Gwyn north. You’ll cross four hills, over a few wheels. At the top of the fourth is a pile of stones. Wait for me there until nightfall. If I don’t appear, or if you see you don’t immediately recognize—and I mean ANYONE, you ken?—you and Gwyn leave on your own, further north. I’ll follow when I can.”

“How do you know this? What’re ya gonna do?” his friend asked, a slight tremor in his voice that Daniel had never heard before.

“… I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Hopefully nothing. If the man leaves of his own accord, then all of this will have been a foolish overreaction. If I’m right, though…” he did not finish his thought. “Go now. I’ll follow when I can.”

Robby nodded, jogging off along the dirt path back to his home, where his daughter lay warm in front of the fire.

Daniel, for his part, walked to the porch of the ramshackle building next to the bar. Testing the door and finding it unlocked (the knob actually fell off in his hand, leaving nothing but a water-damaged hole behind), he walked inside and crouched by the windowsill.

He waited there, seeing people gradually filter in and out of Hob’s over the course of two or three hours. Were Robby and Gwyn safely out of town yet?

He sweated in his little cubby, anxiety twisting his stomach into painful knots. That night so many years ago played through his thoughts as he waited, over and over again.

A body in the snow.

Strange men in bright clothes.

Not little men, his mind whispered to himself then. Little mongrels.

He thought he had put enough distance behind him to avoid this. The snow had fallen for days, covering his tracks as he marched through more of that unending forest. He hadn’t even dared to hunt for the first few days, for worry that any carcass he left behind would lead to him.

What did they even want with him? It surely had something to do with the Touch… which he had forsaken since. He had dared not use it again, for fear that word of it might spread somehow.

Finally, as these things turned over in his mind without resolution, Daniel saw the broadbrimmed hat and the ridiculous mustache exit the bar. His heart stopped in his chest as the murderer walked over onto the porch of the house he was squatting in, and put his back against the rotting wooden panels. Grimly thankful for his small stature for once, he prayed to Gan that the man would not step inside as he heard the knock-knock of boots on the porch’s warped steps, out of the gathering snow drifts. Closer and closer to the door, one step after another.

The footfalls came to a stop. He closed his eye and mouthed a silent thank you to the universe.

“Jackson to camp,” Dodonpa said calmly in his baritone.

Daniel’s eye popped right open again.

A warbling male voice responded, right where Dodonpa was already standing. “This is camp. Go ahead, Jackson.”

What in the name of God is going on?

“I need to talk to Captain Davram.”

“Acknowledged,” the shimmer-faint voice replied. “Switch to channel fourteen.”

There was a tiny click. A woman’s voice issued forth now, sounding much stronger and clearer, but somehow hollow. “The operator has designated this channel for private use. Please verify entry number for access.”

“Zero-zero-one-nine,” Dodonpa said. “Wait—”

“Entry number is incorrect,” the woman said. “Please restate the correct—”

“Gods DAMN this worthless piece of shit,” Dodonpa uttered, a sure and steady rage mounting in his words. “I know, I know, they changed it.” After waiting a few seconds for the woman to finish her spiel, he tried again. “Zero-three-six-one.”

There was a harsh crackling noise for a split second. Another man’s voice materialized out of the ether, different from the first. “This better be good.”

“Jackson reporting,” Dodonpa said, all heat in his voice gone. Was that deference Daniel heard instead? “Are you sure this is the village Flagg spoke of? There’s no evidence of a potential Breaker here.”

“Is this why you’ve contacted me? To waste my time?” The deep voice dripped with contempt. “We’ve spent far too long already hunting for useless children.”

“I’ve told you,” Dodonpa hissed. “If we collect enough Breakers, then our job becomes much easier, and safer. They’ve succeeded with one already--”

“Our job,” the voice snapped, “is already simple enough. Why do you insist on making things difficult? Are you a coward or are you that eager to lick your master’s boots?”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

There were a few seconds of agonized huffing; Daniel could only guess there was a battle of will ensuing, to avoid screaming at his… commander? Partner? Matters were still unclear… like how this conversation was even taking place. Did Dodonpa have some kind of Glammer at his disposal?

When he spoke again, there was murder like ice in his voice. “I’ll remind you, Roedrick, that we are using my bomb. If you wish, I can disarm it and take it to a higher bidder.”

Holy shit! Daniel’s eye widened again, childhood memories swarming at him unexpectedly. Roedrick Davram is still alive? He wasn’t sure if he was surprised by that or not. Roedrick had been spectacularly ignorant… but he was tougher than a bull, through sheer force of strength and will. No, he figured this wasn’t all that unexpected after all.

There was some monotone laughter. “I would like to see you try, petty man.” A second laugh, a bark really. “No, we’ve come too far for that.”

“You don’t think I will? There’s no one at your disposal who knows how the machine operates, you blithering fool! If I make any changes—“

“I grow tired of this,” Roedrick’s voice cut through Dodonpa’s argument like a hot knife through butter. “I’m breaking camp. Come back or wait there for us to catch up, the choice is yours. And,” he added almost as an afterthought, “If you should so choose to up and leave, be my guest. I still have the detonator, and it would be more than worthwhile seeing your backside to be rid of dead weight.”

Before Dodonpa could reply, that harsh crackling sounded again, and the conversation, apparently, was over.

That stressed puffing started up again, and Daniel felt an odd buoying sensation in his chest. They had a bomb, and it sounded like it must be quite a complicated device. Were they planning on destroying Deepwood with it?

That made no sense, to him, really. This place was in all manner of things quiet, practically forgotten by the barony even before the world had started moving on.

But before he allowed himself to think too deeply on such matters, there was a far more prudent matter before him.

Dodonpa Jackson, the wicked son of a bitch who had killed Trish so nonchalantly, was standing just on the other side of this sagging windowsill. He was distracted, angry, totally unaware of Daniel’s presence.

He summoned the Touch again, feeling the distinct sense of concentration wash through him for the first time in years.

With every ounce of force he could muster, he squeezed the man’s mind. As a sharp pain flashed through his own head, he sensed Dodonpa’s brain undergo a strange transformation: it seemed to freeze for just a moment, the electric signals passing between neurons halted in their tracks, and then the mass of gray matter literally liquefied, pooling in the base of his skull. The mote of consciousness was obliterated in an instant, and Dodonpa’s body toppled with a muffled bang onto the porch.

Ignoring the gush of blood streaming down his face onto his cloak, Daniel quickly stepped through the door and dragged the flesh and bones inside the house, hoping no one had seen. It was seizing, the body in disbelief that it was already dead as it spasmed and twitched. Daniel spared a cursory glance at its face: the bright hazel eyes, still filled with a distinct madness, were bulging out of their sockets. There was so much blood pouring from the nostrils that his mustache had turned a bright cherry red, though as the kicks and twitches stilled the flow also lessened.

Grimacing, Daniel rifled through Dodonpa’s vest and pockets. His hand ran over the pistol in its holster, still in a docker’s clutch; he left it alone. There was otherwise nothing in the vest, but in the pants pockets there were some scraps of paper (Daniel felt a tremor of sad nostalgia at its touch) and a wrapped nub of charcoal in the left. In the right…

He felt something that fit loosely in the palm of his hand, with hard edges. He pulled it out, finding himself looking at something that was like a brick, but smaller and much lighter, beveled slightly at the corners. He ran his fingers over it: a flat gray color, it was smooth and cold to the touch like metal, but not like any metal he had ever seen before. There was a strange roughness to it on the sides, like dapples… it made it a little easier to hold on to, he supposed.

Turning it over, he saw letters stamped at the top: NCP. No elaboration thereon, but he didn’t really need it. Underneath these letters was a rectangular box sunken into the object, labeled underneath in tiny letters as “CURRENT CHANNEL.” Little square buttons with numbers printed on them. The numbers went in order from left to right, top to bottom, 1 through 9, creating a grid of three by three. Underneath this was another row of three, the leftmost button saying “SCAN”, the middle saying 0, and the right saying “ENTER.” Finally at the bottom was a last, round button that said “TALK.”

This was definitely not magic, Daniel thought as he turned it over in his hands. There were a few more markings on the sides, but he decided it would be more prudent to examine the little box later. The sky was still covered in clouds, snow falling thicker with each passing minute, and Roedrick had said he would “be there” soon, with the rest of his camp no less.

Deepwood needed to be evacuated, though gods knew if he could convince anyone to leave. Most of this folk had never left the village before.

Still, he had to try.

Ignoring the pain lancing through his head as he stood, he turned to leave the rundown house. With one step out the door, he stopped, considering…

Daniel turned back and leaned down—blood rushed back into his head all at once, turning his vision white and intensifying the ache for a second—fishing the golden gun in its holster out from under Dodonpa’s vest. His stomach gave another twist as he touched it. He knew he could never actually use this sordid thing, but… he tucked the gaudy weapon into the folds of his bloodstained cloak. Patting Dodonpa down again he found a pouch with ammunition attached to the belt, which he put in his leather bag. This done he turned out again into the snow, seeking the Mother, or anyone.

Letting the moldering door sigh shut behind him, he spotted a couple younger men named Michael and Jason exiting Hob’s next door. They were good lads, though they had queer senses of humor and were given to the drink a bit more than they should be. He hoped they were not soaked this afternoon.

“Ho lads,” Daniel called out to them. “Listen and mark me well: I need the Mother, quickly. Do you know where she is today?”

“Ah, the sheepherder needs the Mother,” Michael said, taller and fatter of the two. “Little man’s got a problem with his sheep methinks,” the man slurred slightly, chuckling. “Whatchee make of it, Jason?”

“Ill tidings, Michael,” the shorter and thinner one quipped. “Sheepherder can’t properly herd his own sheep. What’s the world coming to?”

“Right you are, Jason. It smacks of wrongness, it does.”

Daniel frowned. “This is a serious thing, fellows. The entire village is in danger.”

Michael laughed; it was a strange, hiccupping sound. “Aye, and I suppose we should get our guns? What’sa matter, your sheep coming to topple the square?”

This was making his headache worse. Fuming, Daniel said nothing, but unwrapped the gun from his cloak, briefly flashing it at the waggish men.

Jason whistled, ruffling his mustache. “Shit on me,” he allowed. “Tain’t never seen a piece like that, Michael.”

“Yar,” the tall man replied more somberly. “Problem is: we don’t know where she be, Danny lad.”

It took all of his effort not to shake them where they stood. “Why didn’t you just say so?!”

“Calm boyo, calm,” Jason said. “What manner of ill be we facing?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Daniel allowed, “but likely a group of harriers coming to the village. They’re being led by someone dangerous and cruel: we need to get everyone out.”

For a wonder they did not ask how he knew this: all joviality was gone from them now. “How much time have we got, Danny?”

“Hours, maybe just minutes. Better not to assume much. Look, I can’t stay,” Daniel replied, exasperated. “Get everyone out, quick as you can.”

“Never fear, sheepherder,” Michael swaggered, “The courthouse’s got a nice, big bell. Haven’t heard it since I were a little boy, but it should do the trick. Everyone knows it for a signal, they do.”

“Yes, do that,” Daniel said distractedly. He was looking upward, wondering where the sun was. He had to get going to Robby and Gwyn, fast. “I’ve got to go now,” he mumbled as he turned north, passing between a couple empty houses.

“Never fear, Danny!” Michael called out. “We’ll get it sorted, doubt not!”

More assurances filled the air behind him, but Daniel was no longer listening. He set off along the footpath, jogging as fast as he dared, trying to avoid wearing himself out. At the first fork he turned to the house he had inherited from Seamus. The sheep pens appeared after a few more minutes of steady trotting: he felt a stitch forming in his side, but he knew he needed to keep moving.

Distantly, he heard the metallic clang of the bell the boys had described. It rang once, twice, three times, then a pause, then thrice again. It continued in this manner as he entered the cottage and cobbled together his gunna. There was not much to gather, he having left his tools in his leather bag from the journey here so long ago. It left his mind free to think on things, and he could not help his heart sinking in his chest.

He should have prepared for this more thoroughly, warned the village of where he came from and why. He had little doubt that they would be slaughtered—for what reason he had no idea, but Roedrick Davram was not a man of compassion or grace. He grimaced as he thought of the hulking beast ambling through town, confronting the scrawny Mother. She was resilient, but she would snap under his grasp like so many dry twigs.

He suppressed a shudder as he grabbed his oaken staff—would that he someday be able to leave this behind! It was the only thing he had carried with him all these years from Gilead, and he both treasured it and hated it. A sense of regret and longing threatened to overwhelm him…

But there would be time for that later. He had managed to rebuild a life here in Deepwood, and with Gan’s grace he would do so again.

If he was to have any hope of that, though, he must look to Robby and Gwyn.

He felt an exhaustion setting in, something he could feel in his very bones, but there was much left to be done this day. Setting his heart against the task before him, he walked outside, closing the door behind him forever.

One last thing…

Behind the cottage was the sheep pen. He had no doubt at all what would become of these poor creatures if the harriers got to them, and with a sharp pang he unlatched the gate holding them in. With some minor hesitation, they plodded out: they had just returned earlier that day, and they were surely tired too.

He shooed them on; he could do no more for the sheep than let them go their own way, and as Deepwood’s bell continued to resonate at odd intervals he watched them ambling out into the snowy tall grass. Goodness knew the world was wide and full of horrors, but with some luck perhaps they would be allowed to graze, free in peaceful fields elsewhere.