The man from the north inhaled deeply, pondering how they could make it across the countryside more expediently. As the stiffness in his neck grew, he asked, “How many days do the slavers usually stay in one place?”
The woman narrowed her eye and swallowed. Looking out over the gray and green horizon, she answered, “They only stay as long as they need. If they can get enough people to agree to go with them, they’ll collect them and move on quickly. They’re efficient and cunning, and I shudder to think about them in our little village.”
Dulnear reached out and held his wife’s hand. He struggled to suppress the regret he felt for being away for too long. Among his long list of regrets, this was fast becoming one of them. “We need to go faster,” he declared. “And the next town is still a half-day’s walk from here.”
Faymia squeezed his hand tightly and began to speak before stopping herself abruptly. She sniffed the air several times and looked around. “I smell smoke,” she said. “There must be a camp nearby.”
The northerner wrinkled his nose and inhaled through it. “I smell it too!” he exclaimed. “Whoever it is, they may have a horse they are willing to part with.”
The woman’s keen eye spotted smoke rising in the near-distance. It ascended from behind the slope that ran off of the southern side of the road. “Over there!” she said, pointing.
They ran east a few paces to the edge of the path. Looking down, they could see a campfire with a handful of tents pitched around it. “I see four horses,” Dulnear said, rubbing his dark, bearded chin.
Faymia’s eye opened wide with excitement. “Let’s get down there!” she said as she stepped off the road.
“Wait!” her husband warned. “Judging by the location of their camp, they probably do not want attention. I will approach them while you stay here.”
Turning toward the northerner with a clearly annoyed expression, the former slave stated, “It would be faster if we both went.”
“It is not our speed that I am worried about,” the man countered. Since the woman lost her left eye to the northerner Searfain in Tuas-arum, Dulnear had felt particularly protective of her. He looked at the leather patch covering part of her face and confessed, “I only want you to be safe, my dearest.”
“I can protect myself,” she protested.
“I know you can,” the one-handed warrior affirmed. “But I would rather if you did not have to.”
Faymia stepped back onto the road and stood facing him. “I’ll stay here, but I don’t like it,” she fumed.
“Thank you,” he said, placing his massive hand on the side of her face, and he kissed her cheek just below the eye patch. “I will go and get us horses so we can be home before dark.”
“I’ll be watching,” the woman said as she tapped the bow slung across her shoulder.
The man forced a smile and winked before turning around and beginning his descent down the steep slope that ran away from the southern side of the road. As he headed toward the encampment below, he reached inside his coat and touched the hilt of his sword. He also felt for another sword and a couple of knives that he kept on his person at all times. Though he hoped for a peaceful transaction, experience had taught him that one was not always possible.
Approaching the camp, his suspicion of its occupants grew as he noticed empty whisky bottles strewn about and a small wagon filled with fine clothing and odds and ends that clearly did not belong in a campsite. Highwaymen, he thought to himself. Just lovely.
Wanting to make his presence known without startling anyone, the man from the north called out, “Hello! Anyone here?” as he walked past the tents toward the fire. He could hear bottles dropping to the ground and, by the time he stood in their midst, the bandits were to their feet with swords and knives drawn.
“Who are you?” one particularly scruffy man yelled out.
Dulnear quickly and calmly surveyed his surroundings. There were four men who looked like they had neither washed themselves nor their clothes in a long time. The two men standing on the opposite side of the fire had a large log situated behind them as a makeshift bench, and the two others looked like they had been sitting on crates. “I did not mean to startle you,” the man from the north apologized. “I was forced off the road by a landslide a couple of days ago and have not been able to find my way back.”
The man to his left eyed him suspiciously. He had dirty-blonde hair pulled back into a thin braid and spoke through a cigarette. “Why are you so far south?” he asked.
Realizing that his size gave him away as a northerner, Dulnear answered, “I heard that the elk of these parts were particularly tasty.”
“Well, there are no elk around here, morian; move along,” the man insisted.
The man from the north did not appreciate the bandit’s insult. It was especially abrasive since it was delivered in northern-speak. However, he maintained his pleasant demeanor. “Please,” he began. “I would like to purchase one of your horses.”
“They’re not for sale,” the man said. His jaw clenched and the grip he held on his sword tightened. “I told you to move along. Don’t make me have to tell you again.”
The warrior breathed slowly and deliberately. Calmly, he stated, “I have several pieces of silver. I would not expect you to part with the beast without proper compensation.”
“Several pieces of silver,” the man mocked. “Ya don’t say! Well, in that case, let’s talk.” He then took the cigarette from his mouth and let out a loud, obnoxious laugh that ended with a sludge-filled cough.
Though his eyes began to show his irritation, Dulnear kept a cool head. “Okay then, what can I give you for the animal?”
The highwayman gestured to his companions, and they drew closer to the fur-clad northerner.
