Of Truth and Beasts

The beast shrieked. Chane winced, as if hearing—feeling—its rage at being denied.

He hauled himself up the doorframe and dragged the body out to toss it in the wagon’s back. He jerked a tarp across, took one last look around the stable, and grabbed a sack of oats, a bucket, and a pile of blankets.

Every motion was mechanical, but inside, Chane ached from what he had not done more than for what he had done. One brief chance at release, for his own need, and he had not taken it.

Finally, he picked up a heavy shovel leaning against one wall and slammed the sharp end against the chain holding the front wheel. It broke easily, but so did the shovel. He tossed the shovel in the wagon and climbed aboard, grabbing and flicking the reins.

Driving the wagon south out of town, he went even farther than where he judged the caravan station lay. He dumped the body over the rock lip above the shore, not bothering to watch it splash into the water, and tossed the broken shovel after it. When he turned inland over the rough ground, finding the road back toward the city, it was not long before he spotted the campfires in the night.

Chane had acquired what they needed. At least in part, he had done so as Wynn required. 

Wynn was quite satisfied as she led the way back carrying three heavy skins of fresh water. Ore-Locks hauled a burlap sack nearly filled with potatoes, carrots, and some strange type of apple she’d never seen before. And, of course, there was more smoked fish.

They’d also found speckled eggs, a clay jar of olives in their own oil, and a little goat cheese sealed in wax. If Chane was successful, they could also scavenge seaside driftwood to bring, should they have trouble with dry firewood along the way.

When they reached the caravan camp, fewer people were up and about. Some had settled into bedrolls around the embers of dying fires. Wynn saw no sign of Chane anywhere.

What would they do if he couldn’t acquire transportation that could be covered during the day?

“Here he comes,” Ore-Locks said. “But why is he ... ?”

Ore-Locks didn’t finish as Wynn followed his gaze.

Chane drove a wagon along the dirt road. He wasn’t coming from the city, but rather from the south. He pulled up, tied off the reins, and dropped to the ground. Two fine young horses in new harnesses were hooked to the large wagon with high sides and a thick rear gate. This was more than what Wynn expected, and her pleasant surprise turned to discomfort.

“How much did you have to pay?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing in coin,” he answered. “I traded for it.”

“Traded?” she echoed. “Traded what?”

Her discomfort grew when he didn’t answer straight off.

“Some of Welstiel’s rods,” he said. “The metal alone is worth a good deal.”

Wynn had never liked that Chane kept all of Welstiel’s arcane possessions. Trading away any of them was fine with her, especially if someone was going to melt them down for their metal.

She smiled, patting the neck of a pretty bay mare. “Well done. You’re getting as good at barter as Ore-Locks.”

Then she noticed a dark line running out of his sleeve and down to the palm of his hand.

“Are you hurt?”

“It is nothing,” he said, turning away. “We should get the wagon ready.”

Just before dawn, Chane lay curled in the wagon’s covered bed, listening to the bustle of team masters preparing the caravan to leave. Ore-Locks, Wynn, and even Shade were up on the front bench, ready to head out.

No one had come looking for the wagon or horses.

Chane still wore his heavy cloak and had put on the gloves and scarf, as well. The mask and glasses lay next to his head, along with both of his swords. Should the caravan be attacked during daylight, he would know it, hear it, and be ready.

He pulled the narrow, leather-bound box from Welstiel’s pack and opened it, taking out a glass vial containing the violet concoction.

“We’re off,” Wynn said, though not to him.

Ore-Locks grunted acknowledgment as the wagon lurched forward.

Chane downed part of the vial’s contents and then returned it to the padded box. He could already sense the burning rays of the sun just beyond the canvas above him.

It would be a long day.

Chapter 9

The monotonous creak of wagon wheels mixed with clopping hoofs still echoed in Wynn’s head when they set up camp each night. One day blurred into the next until the caravan stopped for two days to repair a wagon wheel, and she realized that more than half a moon had passed.

The line of wagons traversed an expansive valley between high ridges, rocking along on a northeasterly inland path. Grass-covered stone hills flowed down into intermittent woods of wild green brush, and the trees marked the landscape difference most of all. There were fewer firs and pines, as in the Numan lands, and far more massive, leafy, deciduous growths. The hardened dirt road was so old that it often exposed packed stones uncovered by years of use and rainfall.