Hunted

Chapter 2

The winter air outside was cold enough to bite after the pressing heat of the fire-lit fight inside the bar. Mark whistled a merry tune as he crunched his way through the snow-covered streets, traversing moonlight and shadows without a hitch in his step. So long had the two of them travelled within the cloak of darkness that it failed now to give him a shiver of fear.

Beside him, Wren was softly gliding over the snow as Mark clomped his way down the back-alley. The guy was tall alright, but Wren could move with the silence of shadows over any sort of terrain. Water? Never made a splash. Sand? Somehow didn't disturb a grain. A forest in fall? Not a single leaf would crunch or twig snap. A trap Mark set to catch Wren when the guy had developed an annoying habit of sneaking off in the middle of the night to take a bed with a nearby woman? 

Well for that, Mark had woken to see Wren sitting on a log across from him, one arm casually strewn across his propped up knee and a vaguely smug quirk to his eyebrow. The problem wasn't Wren's arrogant air, that was too common to be an issue, but that the sneak was nearly ten feet below Mark and he himself dangled from the same twine that he'd set the trap with. The trick wire instead served to swaddle him in a cocoon as he swayed in the breeze to Wren's uproarious guffaws.

That was usually how things went every time Mark tried to one up the bastard. It was also the last time Mark tried to stop Wren from angering another farmer for defiling his wife or daughter. Luckily, it was the last time he'd needed to. Turned out the purpose of Wren's nightly excursions wasn't for satisfaction, but to have a soft bed to sleep in. 

Most of the females out in the uninhabited hinterlands were desperate for any person of the opposite gender, one that wasn't the same worn-down, washed-out husband she saw everyday. In most cases, as Wren told him, all he'd had to do was show the lady some kind words and a flirtatious smile, and suddenly she was more than happy to grant Wren a stay in either the rare extra bed or hayloft if need be. 

Mark had had and even now held no doubt in his mind that the "tucking-in" of Wren wasn't something the incorrigible man and desperate woman didn't enjoy. 'Course, another part of him had been jealous that the sleazy weasel hadn't invited Mark along and instead allowed his friend to suffer on the hard ground and in the cold night while he'd been dozing in the lap of luxury by comparison. 

To Mark's bitter dismay, Wren had refused to take Mark with him to any other house, claiming that when he was that by himself, he could easily woo himself access, but that two men would overwhelm a poor woman. Mark would admit it to himself—though never to Wren—that he didn't have the pluck to so brazenly beg a room from a woman and pay in midnight favors. 

Some part of Wren must've realized that Mark would be continuing to sleep in the open, and though Wren was probably before pacifying his conscience with Mark's ignorance, he'd afterwards stopped visiting all the steads they passed by, choosing instead to keep company with his comrade.

The waft of warm steam snapped him from his musings. Elated, he snagged Wren's arm and dragged him inside the sauna, barely pausing to toss a few coins on the desk before heading straight to the baths.

—

Nearly an hour later, Mark was putting a fresh tunic and breeches; the set cost them only a coin more each since their earlier clothes, excepting Wren's breeches, were in decent shape (minus the grim—and blood—that the washerwomen swore they could grind out though Mark doubted them) and could be traded.

Beside him, Wren wore a vicious scowl as he tapped his foot in impatience. Mark felt no regret over making the surly beast wait while he enjoyed the feel of his skin pruning. 'Sides, Wren's last visit to the bathhouse had extended far longer than Mark's had.

"If your breeches are not tied in the next ten seconds, I swear I will drag you by your nose out of here," Wren growled. 

Mark smirked and finished the loop he was knotting. He received a scathing sneer for his cheerfulness.

"You've spent your allotted portion of the proceeds on your preference. Now it's MY turn." With a snarl, Wren stomped off out the door, his high-done ponytail swinging halfway down his back. Even clean, Wren's hair was still a washed-out blonde, but at least it no longer clumped together.

Mark followed silently for several blocks. Just as he was about to ask where Wren was headed—inn, tavern, brothel—the strains of a stringed instrument and raucous laughter reached his ears. Several more steps took them around the corner and into the bowl of golden glow that spilled forth from the pub.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Wren gave himself and a shake and Mark could almost see the tension in Wren's shoulders slide off. 

Now in his element, Wren got the attention of a barmaid, ordered two drinks of ale, and stole the heart of the serving girl in the span of two minutes. Within another three minutes, he'd snagged prime seats at the bar, got the drinks, and broke the poor girl's heart.

Never reckon with Wren in a tavern.