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Authors: Chris A. Jackson
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fired up about workin’ for me, he was. Does a better job than anyone else I’ve hired in the past two year, then decides it’s time to leave when he ain’t even got enough saved up to feed a starved dog for two days.”
“Sounds like he’s on the run,” the teamster said, hitching the two horses to the rail.
“That’s what I thought, but I dunno.” Flindle looked down at his hand, the one he’d clasped with Lad’s. It ached a little. He was a blacksmith, and there was a blacksmith’s strength in his hands, but shaking hands with Lad had been like matching grips with a hand of stone. “I don’t know what to think about that boy.”
Three dark horses thundered up to the crossroads, the riders reining in to bring the lathered mounts to a halt. Almost thirty hours hard ride from Twailin had left the horses near exhaustion and the riders sore and tired; so far, they had seen nothing resembling their quarry. Targus slipped down from the saddle, his eyes scanning the ground even before his feet came in contact with it.
“Walk the mounts out while I have a look at this, Mya. Jax, draw some water for them.” Targus knelt to the hard-packed dirt while his apprentices moved wordlessly to comply. His eyes read the ground like a scholar’s would read a text, and the history of the last few days unfolded before him.
Six horses with riders had passed from west to east in a hurry five days ago; they had stopped long enough to water their mounts, and then continued on. The same six had returned a day later, traveling in the opposite direction, more slowly. A wagon had passed from east to west the previous day as well, but Targus and his apprentices had passed that one on the road, and it was not the one they were looking for. The six horses going first one way, then the other, bothered him. They had not ridden as far as Twailin, for there hadn’t been enough time between their two passages to reach the city.
“They were searching for something,” Targus muttered quietly, mulling over his explanation of the behavior of the six mounts. “Or someone...” This did not bode well.
There was other wagon traffic evident upon the rutted track; one heavily laden wagon with a team of four draft horses had come from Twailin and turned up the logging camp road five days ago; and several had gone the other way, laden with timber, no doubt, and returned less laden, probably with supplies for the men that worked the camp. Other traffic had taken the southern track toward Melfey, but they had all come from Twailin. There were no tracks from the east that turned off the main road.
“A lot of traffic,” his elder apprentice said, stepping up beside his master. “Someone was in a hurry.”
“Yes, Jax.” Targus felt the crease along the edge of one of the hoof prints. “In a hurry going west, but not so much of a hurry going back east. And equally laden in both directions. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“A search party?” The apprentice knelt beside his master, studying the tracks with an experienced hand. “Not from Twailin. There must be trouble up ahead.”
“There was trouble, and it has escaped them.” Targus stood and walked a slow, careful circle around the crossroads, stopping at the watering trough to wet his face beside the slurping horses. As his soft leather boots scuffed the earth around the northeast corner of the two crossing roads, he stopped. Something here was not right.
There were no tracks, but a few grains of dirt were pressed down into the hard soil more deeply than they should have been. Something had stood here, or been placed here, and then picked up. Targus walked a slow circle around the spot. There were no tracks around it. He looked up, but there were no overhanging tree limbs from which something could have been dropped or picked up. The undergrowth beside the road was undisturbed. A squirrel
“Sounds like he’s on the run,” the teamster said, hitching the two horses to the rail.
“That’s what I thought, but I dunno.” Flindle looked down at his hand, the one he’d clasped with Lad’s. It ached a little. He was a blacksmith, and there was a blacksmith’s strength in his hands, but shaking hands with Lad had been like matching grips with a hand of stone. “I don’t know what to think about that boy.”
Three dark horses thundered up to the crossroads, the riders reining in to bring the lathered mounts to a halt. Almost thirty hours hard ride from Twailin had left the horses near exhaustion and the riders sore and tired; so far, they had seen nothing resembling their quarry. Targus slipped down from the saddle, his eyes scanning the ground even before his feet came in contact with it.
“Walk the mounts out while I have a look at this, Mya. Jax, draw some water for them.” Targus knelt to the hard-packed dirt while his apprentices moved wordlessly to comply. His eyes read the ground like a scholar’s would read a text, and the history of the last few days unfolded before him.
Six horses with riders had passed from west to east in a hurry five days ago; they had stopped long enough to water their mounts, and then continued on. The same six had returned a day later, traveling in the opposite direction, more slowly. A wagon had passed from east to west the previous day as well, but Targus and his apprentices had passed that one on the road, and it was not the one they were looking for. The six horses going first one way, then the other, bothered him. They had not ridden as far as Twailin, for there hadn’t been enough time between their two passages to reach the city.
“They were searching for something,” Targus muttered quietly, mulling over his explanation of the behavior of the six mounts. “Or someone...” This did not bode well.
There was other wagon traffic evident upon the rutted track; one heavily laden wagon with a team of four draft horses had come from Twailin and turned up the logging camp road five days ago; and several had gone the other way, laden with timber, no doubt, and returned less laden, probably with supplies for the men that worked the camp. Other traffic had taken the southern track toward Melfey, but they had all come from Twailin. There were no tracks from the east that turned off the main road.
“A lot of traffic,” his elder apprentice said, stepping up beside his master. “Someone was in a hurry.”
“Yes, Jax.” Targus felt the crease along the edge of one of the hoof prints. “In a hurry going west, but not so much of a hurry going back east. And equally laden in both directions. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“A search party?” The apprentice knelt beside his master, studying the tracks with an experienced hand. “Not from Twailin. There must be trouble up ahead.”
“There was trouble, and it has escaped them.” Targus stood and walked a slow, careful circle around the crossroads, stopping at the watering trough to wet his face beside the slurping horses. As his soft leather boots scuffed the earth around the northeast corner of the two crossing roads, he stopped. Something here was not right.
There were no tracks, but a few grains of dirt were pressed down into the hard soil more deeply than they should have been. Something had stood here, or been placed here, and then picked up. Targus walked a slow circle around the spot. There were no tracks around it. He looked up, but there were no overhanging tree limbs from which something could have been dropped or picked up. The undergrowth beside the road was undisturbed. A squirrel
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