The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 4a - Of Debt & Hexes

Red Moon rising, full and woode,

He bleeds fell Molly, drinks her Blood,

On every moon, he drinks again,

An ageless, wound-less, strength of ten.

—From "Immortality Becomes Him," Sir Willard ballad

Sir Willard followed the road down a winding canyon toward the river, herding the ponies and the ambassador before him, still concealed beneath his blanket.

If they hadn't taken a wrong turn into one of the dead-end alleys of the scablands, they should be nearing the Gallows Ferry crossing, where their flight would be over. Once there, he'd board a ferry, cross the river, and force the ferrymen to tie up for the night, stranding Sir Green on the opposite shore until morning. With his crossbow-happy pursuers off his tail, Willard could trade for fresh horses in Gallows Ferry, and still leave with a big enough lead to shake his pursuers for good.

Let's see you catch me then, Sir Green.

Relief settled in his mind. Brolli would finally be safe, and hope for a treaty with his people would be restored. Moreover, Willard needn't drink the Blood that would save him—but enslave him—once again, and shatter his oath to Anna.

He grunted, puffing on a roll of ragleaf. Don't kid yourself, old man. Something's bound to go sideways on us. More likely it all ends on the bottom of the river.

From a blind corner, they emerged at the head of a narrow, steep-walled valley that dropped between bluffs to the river and a graveled beach, two stone-throws below him. A wooden ferry dock jutted from the middle of the beach into the current. Beyond the dock and the wide river, the Godswall soared into the blue sky, a curtain of granite capped with sun-bright peaks of white.

He reined in sharply, surprised to see hundreds of emigrants filling the valley below him and obstructing the road all the way to the water. They were mostly simple folk, with their animals; they'd squatted or lain down on the ground in exhaustion, waiting their turn for a ferry.

The nearest travelers looked up at Willard in surprise, not ten paces away. Then their eyes widened in recognition and horror.

"Phyros!" a man screamed. A mule caught Molly's scent and kicked free of its handler to flee up the side of the gully. In the time it took to suck a breath and yell, the crowd exploded, screaming and fleeing. Goats bolted up the rocks; an ox snapped its tether and ran bellowing for the water, knocking people sideways. Some picked themselves up and fled in its wake, others scrambled up the bluffs to hide in the rocks. Mothers huddled their children for fear of trampling.

The ambassador chuckled under his blanket. "Your people love you so. It warms my heart to see."

"They think I'm an Old One," Willard said.

The furor rolled down the gulch like a wave, growing and driving the masses before it and emptying onto the dead-end beaches to either side of the dock.

Willard restrained Molly from bloody pursuit, holding fast to her reins. He'd long since stopped feeling guilt or pity for the terror she caused, but he never let her sate her bloodlust on the innocent.

Molly tossed her head, stamping sparks from the stones with her massive iron shoes.

Willard slugged her in the neck, a gesture she barely regarded. "Save it," he growled. "We'll have real foes, soon enough."