“Good.”
Polk was busily stuffing sticky sweets into his pocket for later. “I’ve got something to say!”
“Shh!” Escalla shot the little man a glance. “Silence isgolden.”
Grandly dusting herself off, Escalla drifted up into the air. She bowed, ushering Polk, Jus, and Cinders onward, slipping the uneaten treats into the back of the wagon for later use.
Taking the lead, Jus marched on down the trail, his brows drawn into a heavy frown. He looked back across his shoulder and saw Escalla riding between the ears of the wagon mule. She slyly waved her fingertips at him and gave a very knowing smile.
Annoyed, Jus hunched forward and kept his eyes searching for trouble on the road. Above his helm, Cinders contented himself with making sucking sounds and mumbling a strange little tune into the ether.
Jus cocked an eye toward the dog.
“It figures.”
3
A shabby assortment of heaped stones masquerading as a townsprawled across the forest path. A substantial settlement had apparently been razed to the ground and then rebuilt by people big on enthusiasm but small on engineering skills. There were hundreds of shabby tents and lean-tos in the shelter of the older ruins. The sign outside the village had been painted upon an old, scarred shield. It read: SOUR PATCH. GOOD FOOD AND LICKER.
The village had been cobbled together out of rotten canvas and old scrap. Bark huts half tumbled into open sewers, and hundreds of dispirited peasants shuffled down the dirty streets. More and more people were arriving, all of them ashen, dressed in rags, and carrying everything they owned upon their backs. Long lines formed at wagons that were dispensing bread and gruel. Children were crying, and the air stank of human misery.
The streets seemed overcrowded with the hungry and the poor. A gibbet hung empty at the center of the village, attended by two guards with rusted armor and faces redolent of brutal stupidity.
As the Justicar stood looking at the squalid, crowded camp, a figure bowed down with wood trudged close nearby. Dropping his load, the newcomer looked from Jus to the village and back again.
“Don’t go, friend!”
Jus looked at him and asked, “Where?”
“Sour Patch.” The woodcutter had a donkey, and the donkeycarried a hundredweight in fresh cut wood. “Bad luck. Don’t stop. Turn back.”
“And go into the woods?”
“No. Turn back to Keoland!” The woodcutter gave Jus a sharplook of panic. “You mean you came through the
“From the coast.”
“Friend, you’re mad.” The man worked solidly to make a pileof timbers. “I’m here because the baron paid me. He paid me because the kingpaid him. We’re running supplies here to the refugees. If they’re fool enough tosettle here, then they have to have a chance.”
Standing and carefully looking over the crowded shantytown, Jus fingered his sword. “Refugees from what?”
“Raids. Something’s been clearing out all the villages in theriver valley, sweeping them clean. No one left. No warning. No trail. It’s likethe gods just up and took ’em.” The woodcutter finished his work and wrenchedhis donkey around. “Everyone’s fled the valleys. Some merchants offered freeland to refugees, but no one thought to ask em where the land might be. But the Dreadwood…!” The man looked at the forest and shook his head. “Even thevalley’s better than that! Only a fool goes near the Dreadwood.”
He made to leave. Jus extended one big hand and held the donkey’s bridle. “What’s wrong with the Dreadwood?”
“Cursed. Bad luck. Was never meant for mortal man. It’s ahaunted wood. People see things in there. People disappear.” Agitated, thewoodcutter looked in fear at the trees. “Five, six years ago, giants wiped outall the villages, killed everything that moved! Now it’s happening again, youmark my words! Bad luck in the Dreadwood.” The man wrenched his donkey free fromthe ranger’s grasp. “Bad luck!”
The woodcutter left, fleeing down the road at the best speed his little donkey could manage. Emerging from her hiding place in Polk’s cart,Escalla rubbed thoughtfully at her little freckled nose as she watched the woodcutter depart.
“What was
“I don’t know.” Jus hitched his belt. “Someone’s running thiscamp as a scam, maybe trying to repopulate some junk land. Keep a lookout for trouble.”
Half-orcs and slovenly humans kept watch over the refugees. The guards ate meat and drank wine while refugees lined up for stale bread. Jus took one look at the village and seemed to swell with predatory energy.
“Cinders?”
“Elves?” The Justicar used his thumb to loosen his sword inits sheath. “Keep your eyes open. There’s work to do.”
Choosing invisibility as her best option for sneakiness, Escalla hovered in the air nearby. “Keoland looks like a good place to be wellaway from. What’s that awful smell?”
Jus shrugged. “Half-orcs, ogres, bugbears, raw hides, hotiron, an open sewer, and some elves or pixies.”
“Elves?”
“That’s what Cinders says.”
The Justicar felt the faerie giving a happy shrug.
“Hoopy! Well, he should know.” The girl’s wings buzzed. “Anyidea where we look to find our shapeshifting spies from this morning?”
“If they’re here, we can find them.” Huge and brooding, Jusscanned the streets. “Stay invisible. You can rest in the backpack if you needto.” Jus settled the hell hound into place upon his helm. “Are you all right,Cinders?”
“Later. Don’t annoy the locals until we have to.”
Jus turned around, but Polk’s wagon already stood abandonedat the edge of the road. Moving at an astonishing rate, Polk had already mounted the steps of a rubble pile that masqueraded as the local tavern. Ignoring the sounds of a fight from inside, Polk tightened his belt, slapped his hands together, and rubbed his palms in glee.
Jus gave a heavy ursine growl. “Polk!”
The teamster turned, incredulous that the others were not following him to the tavern. “Son, it’s a tavern!”
“Polk, we are not here to drink!”
“But it’s a den of iniquity, boy!” Appalled, Polk waved hishands in the air like a maddened bird. “We can’t just pass it by! Dens ofiniquity are part of being a hero! Here’s where you defend a maid, find a clue,buy a treasure map, start a brawl…! Think of the possibilities!”
“Polk, the only adventures that ever start in taverns areusually ones that involve puking or collecting genital lice.” Jus tied the wagonin place and took a long, hard look at passersby, making sure they knew that he would remember their faces. Glowered at by a six foot tall man wearing a hell hound skin, most pedestrians elected to walk hurriedly away. “We are going infor one drink while we skim for information.” Jus sniffed the scent of roastingmeat and gave a prim lift of his chin. “And perhaps a bite of something savory.”
