Chapter 11: Two Bloody Weeks
Two bloody weeks.
That's how long we'd been running.
We met foolish bounty hunters who tried to take us down and died for the effort. Then we met clever ones. They died too, but almost took one of us with them.
Our pursuers figured out we were heading east. After that, bounty hunters were always on our tails.
We slept four hours a day if we were lucky.
Most days we were not lucky.
"I'd kill for some deer," Obara complained as we packed our things. "Sadly, none of us are hunters."
She lifted a bruised apple like it was a personal insult.
"I'm tired of apples and hard stolen cheese."
"My grandfather was a hunter," I said, tightening my horse's straps.
Obara glanced at me. "Before he was blind?"
"No," Rowanda said, appearing from the trees with a water skin. Her voice had strength again. Too much strength, considering what her ribs had looked like. "He killed at least thirty of my men before we took him down."
She glanced at me. "That was him, wasn't it, Leno?"
"Yes," I said quietly.
He'd never taught me how to shoot a bow. Always told me I wasn't ready. All he gave me was tracking, patience, and the habit of seeing what other people ignored.
Obara's eyebrows rose. "Your grandfather was completely blind and still hunted?"
"He used hearing and smell," I said. "If he were here, we'd be eating deer right now."
Rowanda snorted. "If he were here, we'd have been dead."
Before Obara could reply, the birds changed.
Wings snapped. Calls shifted. A bunch of them launched at once.
Company.
Usually it was two or three.
This time, the forest sounded like it was clearing its throat.
"Do we run," I asked, "or wait for them to come to us?"
"If we run, they catch up again," Rowanda said, drawing her sword. "Maybe with more people next time."
"So we wait."
More birds burst up around us.
Obara's face tightened. "Fuck. There's more. I say we run."
"Run where?" I asked, already reaching for my blade. "They're all around us."
"Too late," Rowanda murmured.
Men appeared between trees—bows, crossbows, disciplined spacing. Outnumbering us twenty to one. They moved in slow, sure steps, aiming as they came.
"Drop your weapons and surrender!" someone shouted. "No one needs to die!"
Rowanda took one step forward, sword raised.
"Oh yeah?" she called back. "And why would you spare us?"
A dwarf emerged behind the archers and walked toward us like he owned the forest.
He wasn't tall, but he was wide in the shoulders and old in the eyes.
"The Prince wants to speak to you," the dwarf said. "Name's Fáfnir Tungsten."
He lifted one palm.
"On my word, come with us peacefully and you won't be harmed."
My mouth moved before I could stop it.
"Why were you named after a metal?"
Silence.
Rowanda and Obara both turned to stare at me.
Even Fáfnir stared.
"What?" Rowanda said.
"What?" Obara said.
"What?" Fáfnir said, offended.
"Tungsten," I explained, pointing like that would help. "That's an ore, isn't it?"
Fáfnir blinked rapidly, then drew himself up like a man about to deliver a speech.
"Not just any ore, boy. The hardest ore in the world. My ancestors discovered it a thousand years ago. Only Dwarves know how to forge it properly."
He looked proud enough to cry.
"Maybe they did discover it," I said, "but Dwarves aren't the only ones who can forge it properly."
Rowanda's elbow nearly took my ribs out.
"Shut up, Leno," she hissed.
Then she faced the dwarf again. "What does your Prince want with us? Isn't he under the king who wants us dead?"
"The Prince's lands are independent," Fáfnir said. "Old deal. Old blood. Old laws."
Rowanda held his gaze a moment longer, then lowered her sword just a fraction.
"Fine," she said. "We'll hear him."
The archers didn't lower their weapons.
But they did step aside.
And that was the first kindness we'd seen in two weeks.