“It was a lovely town just a few days ago,” she said.
They rode their horses up to the nearby tavern and tied them to a post. As they stepped inside, the man from the north noticed how few people were there for an afternoon meal. He also observed that those who were there were relatively quiet and bore somber expressions. Continually scanning the room, he approached the old barkeep, who was busy wiping down a clean countertop. “Good afternoon,” he said, announcing his presence.
The barkeep looked up and seemed surprised by the presence of the considerable fur-clad warrior. “Good afternoon,” he swallowed.
“Two mugs of ale, please,” Dulnear ordered as Faymia joined him at the bar.
“Yessir,” the barkeep replied and turned around momentarily to fetch the brew. Setting the full tankards on the counter, the man smiled awkwardly and exclaimed, “It’s nice to get some business from the likes of folks like you today.”
“What do you mean by that?” the man from the north asked.
“Well, I mean that there ain’t hardly been any business since everyone went off,” the old man explained as he toweled out a mug.
Dulnear furrowed his brow and examined the room once again. “Please continue explaining,” he said.
“It’s just that most of the town took off in wagons with a bunch of fancy-dressed gents the other day,” the barkeep said with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
As the man was describing the exodus of the townspeople, Faymia drew closer to Dulnear and clung tightly to his arm. He looked down at his wife, then back at the old man. “And what of the slovenly appearance of your village?”
“Oh, that would be the celebrations that went on for days before they up and left,” the man said.
Dulnear knew exactly where the barkeep was going with his story, but he pressed anyway. “What kind of celebrations?”
“Grand ones! They started out free, too. Then, every day, they grew more grandiose, and the fancy-dressed fellas charged more and more for them. I don’t know how they did it, but they got the people to keep coming back, and keep paying more and more until—”
“Until they agreed to go as slaves,” the man from the north said, finishing the barkeep’s sentence. He could feel Faymia trembling as she held onto him. Suddenly, his heart beat faster and he asked, “Which way were they headed?”
“East, toward Laor,” the old man answered.
Dulnear could feel his wife’s grip tighten like a vice around his arm and his chest burned. “Where did you say?” he demanded.
“Laor,” the barkeep confirmed.
The burning sensation in the warrior’s chest spread upward to his face in blotches of red and pink. He struggled momentarily to focus his eyes on the man behind the bar. He inhaled deeply through flared nostrils and regained his focus. “Here is payment for the ale,” he said as he dropped a couple of coins on the countertop. “We must be going.”
“All right, Godspeed,” the old man said, scratching the back of his head as he fixed his eyes on the northerner’s troubled grimace.
Dulnear began to turn around with Faymia still holding firm to his arm. He then halted abruptly, remembering something. He glanced back at the barkeep and announced, “Thank you for the information. I will leave a freshly slain elk by your door.”
The man wrinkled his forehead and squinted his eyes. “An elk? I don’t need an elk.”
“It is yours,” the man from the north continued as he walked toward the exit.
“What am I going to do with—”
“Good day.”
As Faymia and Dulnear rode east toward Laor, ill-tempered skies forced out cold rain, filling the narrow, winding road along the jagged hillside. It was slippery and dangerous but there was no stopping. Faymia’s stomach turned at the idea of slavers in Laor. She herself had fallen into slavery for many years and was fortunate to have had help to get out. Her imagination tormented her with thoughts of Son and Maren falling for the trap that is so skillfully set to ensnare people all over Aun. She drove her horse hard, not wanting to waste a single moment.
“Take it easy,” the man from the north admonished as he struggled to keep up with her. “’Tis best to arrive a day late than not at all.”
“But we may already be too late,” Faymia contended. “Why did we choose to hunt so far away?!”
“Son is a wise lad and a warrior in his own right,” Dulnear argued. “He would not easily fall into a slaver’s snare.”
“Perhaps, but what about Maren? I’m far more concerned about her ability to discern a ruse than I am with Son’s,” the woman explained. As she spoke, she risked a little more speed from Tapp as they passed rock, hill, and evergreen with panicked quickness.
Dulnear conceded, “Yes, she would be particularly susceptible to the slaver’s type of deception. However, let us be careful.”
As if in response to the northerner’s warning, the next curve in the road revealed that the deluge of rain had washed away a large section of their path. Faymia’s horse skidded to a stop at the edge of the temporary river that blocked their way. As she observed the obstacle before her, she clenched her teeth and cursed under her breath. “I can’t believe this is happening!” she grumbled.
The man from the north stopped his horse and dismounted. He walked over to the flowing water and put his hand in. “Perhaps we can walk the horses through it,” he said. He then jogged over to a nearby tree that had long ago died and he broke off a long, narrow branch.
“What are you going to do with that?” the woman asked.
“I need to see how deep it is,” he explained, and he began to insert the branch into the flow.
Just then, the rushing water turned a cloudy brown and it filled with debris. A sound like thunder mixed with falling trees filled the air from above. “Look out!” Faymia
