The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 15a - Of Hexes, Charms, and Foolish Oaths

...Of all the Blue Order, Sir Willard retained most of his humanity, despite the extreme discipline of the Rule of Anatos. For this reason...and for his leadership in the Cleansing, Sir Willard appealed to the popular imagination. Some scholars contest that this appeal came not from his victories in the Cleansing, but from a talent for bungling in matters of  love and politics...most agree now that this latter trait was invented by balladeers for dramatic affect..

                        — From Legends and Lies, by Tulos of Burry

Chapter Fifteen

Harric and Caris rode together wordlessly on Rag. They followed Brolli, splashing up the stream through a broad wooded valley. The dwarf-man perched awkwardly upon his pony's saddle, as if crouching, for his legs and rump were too small for proper riding, and his long arms bent akimbo to clutch its mane. The Phyros-thief brought up the rear, leading his "unridable" spare on a tether.

Even if there were no fear of pursuit and no reason to keep silent, Caris would have been unable to speak, for her entire concentration was devoted to keeping Rag calm so near the Phyros. Partly, too, Harric suspected she welcomed that immersion just then, fleeing into it from the baffling revelation of the wedding ring on her finger. That was just as well, for Harric himself was in shock on a number of fronts. He had no idea what to make of the wedding ring, but even worse—if that were possible—was the revelation that his mother could influence one of the immortal Old Ones—the mad Sir Bannus, no less!—to hunt and slay him.

Frustration and despair tore at him. He wanted to rage and weep and break things. Even the excitement of their escape from Gallows Ferry was short-lived—literally bludgeoned from him over the mile of jarring road until his body was so beaten he simply wanted to crawl beneath a log and expire.

Brolli never paused long enough for Harric to indulge that fantasy. They sloshed through sandy shallows, stumbled through stony rapids, maneuvered around fallen trees, putting miles between themselves and the road. Occasionally the stream crossed rough forest roads or through pastures cut from the woods by sleeping farmsteads. Most of the farms were low, dark buildings with smoldering beast-pots outside their doors, to keep the yoabs and mountain cats away.

Shepherd fires winked on hillsides above them where dogs barked, low notes lonely in the distance.

On one occasion they passed within bowshot of a barn full of light and laughter and fiddle music. Brolli led them up the opposite bank in a wide arc through pastures, returning to the stream when well past danger of a sighting. Once past, they halted again among the willows along the stream and waited while he dismounted and retraced their steps to erase or conceal the evidence of their passing.

During the longest of these halts, Caris removed her armor and packed it in the oil cloths and canvas she kept in her packs. Harric made no apology for lumping his own pack there as well, and letting her sort the armor herself while he soaked his battered face in the cold stream. One eye was swollen shut. One lip was fat and the other split. Funny how he hadn't even noticed during the escape. He found several crab-apples beneath the scalp, which explained why his skull felt as if it were shrinking around his brain. The ribs on his left side, though surely only bruised or he would not have been able to stand, nevertheless felt like broken crockery in his chest.

Cupping the cold water to his face, he held it against his bruises until it drained, then cupped it again, and again.

Voices dogged the edge of his consciousness. It wasn't Willard's voice, nor Brolli's or Caris's. He wasn't sure how long they'd been there. All night? Faint whispers at the edge of his awareness. He stood, disoriented and dizzy as they murmured, warped and unintelligible, as through a pipe or bottle.