The stand of Ilver’s ash was denser than it had seemed from Hildesman’s original pass, which was good news for the Order of the Wall, though it did mean that Hildesman was constantly on edge watching for direbeasts. He worked as quickly as he could, placing his sensor rods and marking details of the site, noting them in a ledger he had brought for the purpose. As he went, he took a small roll of bright cloth and tied it securely around several trees, marking the area for the Order’s miners.

The Order had furnished him with a field test kit, a relatively new alchemy, and he curiously scooped a soil sample into the jar and applied the reagents. The reaction level showed there was Tessenium here, and a fairly rich deposit of it, once the Order had drilled a good shaft for mining. He took a second sample and marked it to bring back so the Order’s alchemists could do proper work.

After he surveyed the trees, Hildesman started to put miles between himself and the grove, walking the first line of what would eventually be a zig-zag across the whole area he was scouting and eating a simple lunch of dried beef and trapper’s tea while he went. He was fortunate enough to stumble across a well-run deer track heading roughly the same direction as he was. That was heartening; deer rarely went dire and they were popular prey for those that did; if there was a deer trail this recent he was likely outside the range of any direbeasts. Still, he kept his weapons loaded. Something had been flying around his campsite last night.

The second site he had spotted with his rough division of the area proved fruitful as well; though there were fewer Ilver’s ash, Hildesman reckoned the ones found in this grove to be considerably older. That meant deeper Tessenium, but generally also purer and more plentiful. He took the soil samples as before and continued on his way before midday.

His zig-zagging path took him another five days after the second grove, slower without the aid of the deer path and careful to pass over a sufficiently tight web of the survey range. He found and marked two additional stands of ash trees he had not seen from before, one promising, one useless. Each morning, he dutifully reloaded and maintenanced his weapons, and each night he kept watch from a fireless camp, wearing his rain cloak for extra warmth.

It wasn’t until he had finished his survey and left the range two days behind that he finally allowed himself a fire again, setting his camp under a standing stone, long separated from the mountain that had birthed it. Superstitiously, he carved the sign of the Order into the rock, hoping to ward against misfortune.

He was stewing some of his rations and foraged vegetables over his small fire when a snapping branch caused him to freeze. Moving slowly and deliberately, he drew his bolter into one hand and turned towards the sound, careful not to knock anything over or make any noise. He held the bolter at a ready position and waited, ears straining, for the next sound.

It was a long ten seconds before the sound of crunching gravel pointed him westward, the sun’s colorful panorama just barely faded from view. Silhouetted against it was the shape of a human, crouching and trying to approach his camp. Damn, Hildesman thought. Guess I’m close enough to the city for bandits again. Just as slowly as he had started, began to back away from his fire, keeping himself in a line with it so his shadow wouldn’t pass over anyone hiding in the vicinity. Once he was satisfyingly hidden in the depths of the forest’s cover, he began tracking a loop around his camp. As he went, he drew out his stubby-handled hatchet and held it carefully in his left hand, keeping the bolter at the ready in his right.

Whoever the bandits were, they did not seem to have a great deal of numbers, or else they were uniformly masterful at hiding. Hildesman circled a full third of the distance around his camp without seeing or hearing another human, until a tentative voice called out from somewhere near the middle of his loop. A second later, it called out again, louder.

“Hullo?I thought I saw a camp?”

The voice sounded like a child’s, and Hildesman felt a surge of confusion. Looking towards his fire, he saw the same silhouette as before, but now he had familiar shapes to match it to and realized that if it was a person, they were not even five full feet tall. He began to sneak back towards his campsite, wary of his surroundings.

Wouldn’t be the first bandit-child to play wounded dove, he reminded himself.

“I’m just going to sit by the fire, whoever you are!” the child shouted.

Course, wouldn’t be the first lost kid to make dumb decisions, he retorted. He estimated he was less than thirty miles from the city. They weren’t common, but every year saw a couple of older kids who would go out at night on a dare and get lost. The smart kids didn’t do it without bringing a woodsman like Hildesman along. The less smart kids would wait until morning and follow the beacon tower of the city safely home. They were rare. Mostly, the kids who left the city that way never came back. Hildesman knew some of them got scooped up by bandits, or by exile caravans. Rarely, a very very lucky child would wander close enough to see a stronghold farm and get sent home with the next shipment of produce. But the rest, Hildesman assumed, died of exposure or direbeast attack once they moved out of the shallow forest.

Keeping his weapons at hand, Hildesman approached his fire quietly, keeping the child-shape between him and the light as much as he could and watching the surrounding area for ambushers.

The child, for their part, sat heavily down at his fire and reached out to lift his small stewkettle from the coals, inhaling the steam and then beginning to eat without waiting for it to cool. Hildesman closed the rest of the distance while the child was distracted. By her clothes, she seemed to be a girl from one of the stronghold farms; heavy canvas trousers and shirt with a knee-length woolen skirt. Her boots were heavy and in good condition, and she had stew mixing with dirt on her cheeks as she ate.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

In a burst of motion, Hildesman came into the firelight, hatchet held low but ready and bolter pointed at the ground just beyond the girl’s left shoulder. Startled, she let out a yelp and tried to scrabble away from him, leaving the kettle to fall to the dirt. Hildesman relaxed. Not a seasoned bandit, this one. Lowering his bolter and sheathing his hatchet, he tried to affect the tone his sister would use when trying to calm his nephew. “Hold on, kid. Sorry. I shouldn’t have spooked you like that. Are you hurt?”

The girl looked at him, eyes so wide it seemed they were all whites, and carefully scooted another few feet back.

Hildesman took three slow breaths, then kept talking, keeping his voice steady and putting his bolter away with exaggerated slowness as he did. “I’m just gonna put this stew back on before it all spills out in the dirt. I’m guessing by the speed with which you were eating it that you’re hungry. I’m Hildesman. Trapper. The reason I came up with my weapons out like that is that I thought you were some bandit-child setting a trap for your friends. I’m putting the bolter away now. You can come up to the fire if you like, but if you don’t, I’ll leave some trail biscuits here come morning.”

He counted sixty seconds as he added more water and meat to the kettle. He didn’t look towards where the girl had scampered as he worked, but he did hear her pull herself up to a seated position. He kept talking. “Judging by your outfit, you came from one of the stronghold farms. Maybe your friends set you out into the forest on a dare? That’s a dumb move, I have to say. Took me years to learn how to survive out here, and I’m still years away from being able to thrive. Walls are safer. The exiles won’t cross an Order Wall’s threshold, and that’s not just rumor; I’ve met one or two in my line of work. Not on the best of terms, of course, but we both left with most of our blood, if you know the saying. They told me as much. It’s in their code. You know that? Strangest thing. They seem to think something about the walls is going to strip away their senses of self.

Course, I guess I can’t rule out the possibility that you’re some sort of exile yourself, stole away from your caravan. In that case you probably don’t want any help getting back inside a wall. No skin off my neck if that’s the case. I’m just going to sit here and eat my dinner. I’ll leave some trail biscuits behind when I leave come morning, and you can go back to your people, if you can find them, or off to---”

“I’m not.” came the girl’s voice, quiet but stern. “Not an exile. You was right the first guess. ‘M a strongholder.” Hildesman could hear the creak of her boots as she stood upright.

“You lost, then?”

“No!” the girl said, defensively. “Well…not really.” He heard one scuffing step, then a pause. “Can I have some more stew? I ran out of food three days ago.” She took two more cautious steps forward. When Hildesman didn’t move to stop her or redraw his weapons, she circled wide around him to crouch on the other side of the fire.

“Help yourself,” Hildesman answered, obligingly settling himself well out of arm’s reach of the fire. As soon as he was seated the girl reached for the kettle and began to ravenously eat. He waited patiently as she carefully scraped the camp spoon over every inside surface, and finally settled down several feet away from the fire, kettle abandoned.

Hildesman broke the silence first. “You got a name, strongholder?”

“Francine.”

“Not many your age who’d last three days out here, Francine. Not---”

“Eight days,” she interjected.

“Excuse me?” Hildesman asked.

“Been on foot for eight days. Just ran out of food three ago.”

Now that was unexpected. Any experienced trapper or Frontiers Corps could last that stretch, but he estimated the number of other people who could manage it would make a list shorter than his hand. “Who taught you how to live out here?” he asked.

“M’uncle. He’s a trapper. Like you.”

“What’s his name? I might know him.”

“Percy, but he goes by Pin.”

Hildesman scratched at his chin. The name wasn’t familiar to him, but no two trappers worked the same route and not all of them crossed. “Nope, not familiar. He come to the city often?”

“Almost never. Says it feels too confining.” Francine’s words were less guarded now. He guessed she had nearly been in a red panic from hunger. He passed her some trail biscuits as he rinsed the kettle and refilled it with fresh water for tea.

“Trappers get that way as they get older. I’m starting to see it like that myself,” he offered. “So, your Uncle Pin taught you how to survive the forest. Pretty well, if you lasted eight days out here. But why are you out here at all?”

He glanced up from his work with the kettle and saw Francine’s forehead scrunch up as she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. He made a few guesses to himself in his head, none of them good, then changed the question, “Where are you going?”

“Th’ city,” she answered, opening her eyes again but looking down at her lap. “Uncle Pin said ta just head south and look for the beacon towers, so I did. But I think I did it wrong. I never saw the towers and I must be lost.”

Hildesman poured a splash of trapper’s tea into the kettle, mixing it with the more traditional variety. He poured some into a tin cup and slid it towards her, then settled back on his heels. “You got it nearly right. If you keep going south from here you’ll see the towers inside of three days. You’ll miss the city by a few miles, but you’d see it.” He didn’t mention that he had expected to reach the city by evening tomorrow. “If you like, you can travel with me. I’m heading back to the city myself.”

“Thank you.” Francine said in a small voice, still staring downward. “That would be very kind.” She took the cup and drank it in one scalding gulp, wincing at the heat and flavor.

Hildesman took the cup back and wiped it clean, then poured the rest of the tea into his spare flask for himself. “Did your Uncle say where he would meet you?”

She shook her head. Hildesman saw a few tears drop from her chin. He poked the fire quietly. “Any other family living in the city?” Another shake. “Alright. The Order usually has a couple of bunks for unfortunately displaced people. I have some friends in the Frontiers Corps. We’ll find you a bunk with them. When your Uncle reaches the city, he’ll have to cross the wall and the Order can direct him to you.” There was a solemn pause, then Francine nodded.

“Alright,” Hildesman said, “There’s a rain cloak in the kit there. Seeing as it’s dry today, you can use it as a blanket. Get some sleep. We start before the sun tomorrow.”

He sat himself against the standing stone and pulled the little tin of stimulant chew from a jacket pocket, deciding to stay awake through the night and keep watch in case Francine had been followed by whatever she didn’t want to talk about. Francine pulled the rain cloak out and wrapped it around herself, its length leaving enough left to roll into a pillow. As she settled down, she quietly asked, “What if Uncle Pin doesn’t make it to the city?”

Hildesman started to reassure her, but when he looked, he saw that her chin was tucked against her collar and she was fast asleep. I wouldn’t be the first Hildesman to take in a stray. He thought to himself, in answer to her question. Nor the last.