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Authors: Cameron Dayton
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him.
Images of coldmen fresh in his mind, he dove into the nearest thicket just as the party came into view. He landed with the hilt of the short sword digging into his shoulder, but he held in the gasp of pain. Wet foliage dripped icy rivulets of water down his back, and Enoch shivered. Peering between the leaves, he could spy on the group without being seen. They were human, he noticed with a sigh of relief, but something about them stopped him short.
Two of the men rode mangy muridons. Enoch remembered having seen a muridon years ago belonging to a dye merchant on his way through Rewn’s Fork. At first he had thought it a gigantic nerwolf, for indeed the creature shared the same black eyes, chisel teeth, and naked, scaly tail as its feral cousin. But the muridon was a taller, more muscular breed that had been tamed for riding. The two in this caravan were larger than the one Enoch remembered, and their coats were patchy and crusted with mud. Their riders were no cleaner. They clutched at notched swords and squinted dark eyes as they scanned the road ahead.
Enoch pulled back into the deep shadow of the underbrush as they passed, cringing as another barrage of chill droplets wound down his back.
Some of the other men in the party wore chains around their necks and wrists. They were pulling some sort of wagon. In contrast to the riders, these men held no savagery in their eyes. They smelled of filth and sweat, and the tattered clothes which stuck to their damp forms could not hide the myriad scars underneath. Enoch blinked at the chains. He had never seen slaves before.
The wagon turned out to be a sturdy wheeled cage that dug trenches into the muddy trail as it rolled past. There was a canvas tarp tied over the top of it, but from his low vantage point, Enoch could see upwards into the shadowy recess. A large shape, gray among the shadows, was huddled in one corner. As Enoch watched, two fiery yellow eyes blazed out of the darkness, staring directly into his. Stifling a yell, he pulled farther back into the bush, praying that the mounted soldiers hadn’t heard him. After a few endless seconds, the party had moved on, leaving nothing but two wide slashes in the mud, stippled with footprints and a waning stink of unwashed men.
Enoch waited for a couple of minutes to be sure that they were gone, and then stepped out onto the road again.
What was that thing in the cage?
He shivered, then shook off the chill and began walking again. He had read tales of the great heroes before the Schism and knew the journeys of Medrano, Galicia, and Armstrong by heart. Their trials had always seemed so much . . . brighter.
Is this what adventure is like? Fear and wet feet and unanswered questions?
It wasn’t until the sun was fully overhead that his grumbling stomach reminded him that it still had to be attended to. After a few minutes of searching, Enoch discovered some straggly cress plants growing just off to the side of the road, and the hoarse calls of a red jay led him to a nest of speckled eggs which, while raw, seemed to taste better than anything he had ever eaten. He chewed on the cress as he walked, curious about what lay ahead.
By evening, the trail had emerged completely from the woods and now followed a fairly straight course through the boulder-strewn steppe. A fiery sunset painted everything with molten hues, and long shadows stretched out from the gigantic rocks strewn across the landscape. Enoch shivered as he walked through the dark lee of one such monolith. Night would come soon, he realized, and he would have little protection here.
He began to search for some sort of shelter as the shadows grew longer across the plain. Enoch knew how to make a shelter in the forest—every shepherd boy learned how to build a lean-to after being caught in a few rainstorms while herding the flock. But out here it was different. There were no trees. No branches. No . . . no shelter at all.
But plenty of wind.
Just as Enoch
Images of coldmen fresh in his mind, he dove into the nearest thicket just as the party came into view. He landed with the hilt of the short sword digging into his shoulder, but he held in the gasp of pain. Wet foliage dripped icy rivulets of water down his back, and Enoch shivered. Peering between the leaves, he could spy on the group without being seen. They were human, he noticed with a sigh of relief, but something about them stopped him short.
Two of the men rode mangy muridons. Enoch remembered having seen a muridon years ago belonging to a dye merchant on his way through Rewn’s Fork. At first he had thought it a gigantic nerwolf, for indeed the creature shared the same black eyes, chisel teeth, and naked, scaly tail as its feral cousin. But the muridon was a taller, more muscular breed that had been tamed for riding. The two in this caravan were larger than the one Enoch remembered, and their coats were patchy and crusted with mud. Their riders were no cleaner. They clutched at notched swords and squinted dark eyes as they scanned the road ahead.
Enoch pulled back into the deep shadow of the underbrush as they passed, cringing as another barrage of chill droplets wound down his back.
Some of the other men in the party wore chains around their necks and wrists. They were pulling some sort of wagon. In contrast to the riders, these men held no savagery in their eyes. They smelled of filth and sweat, and the tattered clothes which stuck to their damp forms could not hide the myriad scars underneath. Enoch blinked at the chains. He had never seen slaves before.
The wagon turned out to be a sturdy wheeled cage that dug trenches into the muddy trail as it rolled past. There was a canvas tarp tied over the top of it, but from his low vantage point, Enoch could see upwards into the shadowy recess. A large shape, gray among the shadows, was huddled in one corner. As Enoch watched, two fiery yellow eyes blazed out of the darkness, staring directly into his. Stifling a yell, he pulled farther back into the bush, praying that the mounted soldiers hadn’t heard him. After a few endless seconds, the party had moved on, leaving nothing but two wide slashes in the mud, stippled with footprints and a waning stink of unwashed men.
Enoch waited for a couple of minutes to be sure that they were gone, and then stepped out onto the road again.
What was that thing in the cage?
He shivered, then shook off the chill and began walking again. He had read tales of the great heroes before the Schism and knew the journeys of Medrano, Galicia, and Armstrong by heart. Their trials had always seemed so much . . . brighter.
Is this what adventure is like? Fear and wet feet and unanswered questions?
It wasn’t until the sun was fully overhead that his grumbling stomach reminded him that it still had to be attended to. After a few minutes of searching, Enoch discovered some straggly cress plants growing just off to the side of the road, and the hoarse calls of a red jay led him to a nest of speckled eggs which, while raw, seemed to taste better than anything he had ever eaten. He chewed on the cress as he walked, curious about what lay ahead.
By evening, the trail had emerged completely from the woods and now followed a fairly straight course through the boulder-strewn steppe. A fiery sunset painted everything with molten hues, and long shadows stretched out from the gigantic rocks strewn across the landscape. Enoch shivered as he walked through the dark lee of one such monolith. Night would come soon, he realized, and he would have little protection here.
He began to search for some sort of shelter as the shadows grew longer across the plain. Enoch knew how to make a shelter in the forest—every shepherd boy learned how to build a lean-to after being caught in a few rainstorms while herding the flock. But out here it was different. There were no trees. No branches. No . . . no shelter at all.
But plenty of wind.
Just as Enoch
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