“What’s your story?” the slaver asked, still chewing on his last bite.
The boy startled, as he wasn’t expecting to be asked any questions. After all, he had hardly been addressed by the man since they’d left the tavern. “Huh?” he blurted.
“Why are you part of this barmy lot?” the man said, rephrasing his original question.
Son didn’t feel comfortable speaking to Tcharron. He had a feel and smell of menace about him. Looking around, he saw Faymia cleaning a knife nearby, and Dulnear was next to her enjoying a cup of coffee and a book. Their presence brought him a sense of safety so he answered, “These are my friends.”
“Your friends?” the man snorted. “Don’t you have boys and girls your own age to run around with?”
The boy exhaled and explained, “Well, they’re really more like family. Dulnear taught me the ways of a warrior, and we work the land together.”
Tcharron squinted as if he struggled to comprehend what was being said. “You’re telling me that that ogre over there is your mentor?” Rubbing his chin, he continued, “The beast sets slaves free and helps wee lads. I don’t even know what to say.”
“He saved my life,” Son added.
The slaver looked down at his plate and finished what remained without saying another word. When he was done, he set it aside and stared into the fire. Though his hands were free, his legs were still bound with ropes around the ankles.
“And Faymia saved mine,” Dulnear stated, as if he was a part of the conversation the whole time. He got up from his place next to his wife and sat down next to Tcharron, sharing the log on which he was sitting.
The slaver looked at the warrior plainly, then asked with a hint of sarcasm, “Is that what you people do? Go around saving each other?”
The man from the north chuckled quietly. Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, he answered, “Life is meant to be lived alongside those who bring out greatness in you. You protect each other, care for each other, and inspire each other.”
The shifty man looked over with a half-cocked smile and pointed out, “I have men to protect me but you keep maiming them.”
“Those are not friends,” Dulnear argued. “You pay them, so they owe you their protection. An entourage of lackeys is not the same as a clan of committed companions.” He then cleared his throat and added, “And I would not have maimed any of your men had they not tried to harm me first.”
Tcharron stared into the fire a little while longer. Grabbing a nearby stick, he used it to poke at the embers. “This has been my life for as long as I can remember,” he confessed. “Am I supposed to go around looking after grannies and kissing babies on the cheek?”
Dulnear produced a large knife from under his coat and watched the slaver throw his arms up in defense. He reached down with the blade and cut the ropes from the man’s legs. Once he had tossed them into the fire, he said, “Just start by doing one kind thing.”
“Why would you do that?” Tcharron asked. “What’s to keep me from running away?”
With a flick of his wrist, the man from the north released his knife through the air, impaling a scurrying squirrel and pinning it to the trunk of its tree. “I am sure you will do the right thing,” he said. He then got up, retrieved the squirrel, and brought it back to the fire to skin and eat. When it was cooked, he shared it with the slaver and told him the story of how Maren bravely fought off bandits on the road to Blackcloth.
Dulnear, Faymia, Son, and Tcharron walked through the dreary village of Dorcadas cautiously. As they did, the townspeople either stared or scampered away timidly. Faymia was used to people behaving that way upon seeing the man from the north for the first time, but this felt different to her. There was a darkness about this place that caused her to wish she had waited where they’d tied the horses just outside of town. “These people are terrified,” she observed out loud.
“They live under the shadow of the most powerful slaver in Aun,” Tcharron answered. “Fear and suspicion are all they know. They hang over this place like a damp fog. I’ve been here as a guest of Ocmallum himself and still didn’t feel at ease.”
A shiver ran down the woman’s spine as she considered his words. She swallowed before asking, “Are you really going to help us find where Maren is?”
The slaver from Ahmcathare pursed his lips and looked at the woman as they walked side-by-side toward the town square. “I reckon I will,” he answered slowly. “But then I must head back to clean up the mess you all made of my inn.”
After saying nothing at all since leaving the horses, Dulnear broke in, “I am hungry, and I would not want to approach the slaver’s estate on an empty stomach. Let us eat.”
The town square contained a derelict, crumbling fountain in its middle, and was surrounded by gray, gloomy stone buildings that suggested Dorcadas was once a beautiful village but had now been abandoned by cheer and ambition. As they walked through it toward the nearest pub, Faymia noticed that all sound seemed to be hushed. She couldn’t hear birds singing or children laughing. Even their footsteps seemed to make strangely little noise.
The tavern was large but mostly empty, with tables and chairs covering the floor in a haphazard manner. It reeked of smoke and filthy mop water, and the barkeep didn’t bother to welcome them. They took their places around a table toward the back and Dulnear sat, as he always did, facing the door.
“What a hole,” Tcharron observed, sitting across from the man from the north.
“’Tis but a
