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Two days out of Black Pots and still no sign of Bent. We had deliberately ridden slower than we should, consciously giving Bent every opportunity to catch us up, yet the road behind us remained empty. Come night time we settled close to the road and built campfires bigger than was both necessary and sensible to. Turned were after us and yet, so desperate were we for Bent to find us; we dismissed caution and lit veritable beacons in the night.
Still no sign of him though. Was this guilt or was I beginning to grow fond of the miserable git. I talked it through with Smidgen on the second night. Both of us sat close to the fire. It was the biggest one yet and could have been seen for miles around. Sometimes I deserved to be found.
“I know you’re thinking we should’ve stayed in Pots,” said Smidgen.
“Part of me does. There were a lot of them in Black Pots and I can’t help but fear the worst. One Bent against six, seven, eight Turned?”
“It was his choice to stay.”
I was feeling brave tonight. “We could’ve helped him though.”
“Not against that many Turned. I still remember Silhed,” said Smidgen rubbing the last of his bruises. They had all but gone; four faded yellow marks around the left ribcage still tender to the touch. He pulled a face as he touched them. “It wasn’t that long ago you didn’t trust him,” he added, reminding me of my insecurities. Like they needed promoting for they were constantly at the back of my mind, ready to unsettle me the moment I felt most vulnerable.
“I still don’t,” I said, eyes fixed to the centre of the fire. “All his mystery bothers me. But what if I’m wrong. I wouldn’t like to live with myself if I was wrong about him. Not after what he did for me.” I stretched my legs out and tried to get as comfortable as I could with twigs, rocks and stones jabbing me in the back. Smidgen still had my bag. Some sort of unspoken edict had passed between us that he should be custodian of it as it would be harder for someone to prise it from his massive fingers than mine. He was one tough monster. Plus he liked having it. It was like some badge, some indication of his acceptance and worth. With the bag he felt needed.
My sword hilt was jabbing me in the back so I untied the back strap and laid it on the grass next to me. It was a short stabbing sword, wide bladed and as sharp as the day it was forged. One of its last victims had been that female Turned back in Bush, the one I’d all but sliced in half. I shivered. It had got to me, killing the woman. The image of her cadaver splayed out on the hardwood floor haunted my memory like no other event in my life had. I’d killed before, a man in my profession wouldn’t last long if he couldn’t, but she had been precious to behold. Typical of Tracker Hunger to turn something so pure into something so utterly corrupt and perverted. Thinking of the woman reminded me of Hunger and I wondered where the stalking Golem would be this night.
The trees around us were still. It was a quiet night and I took some comfort from that, as he couldn’t be close.
If I’d to fight Hunger then I would rather do it with Bent and Smidgen close to hand and not fragmented as we were with Bent way back in Black Pots.
It was Bent who had told me about the Tracker and his Turned. Told me of Hunger’s diabolic magic and the manner to which it added the weight of his victim’s souls to his own thus every Turned created made him physically heavier, more sloth-like. One soul too many and, bang, he would be incapable of moving. Least that was what I reckoned would happen and that would make killing him easier, wouldn’t it? And Smidgen and me were going back to Never to kill the Golem.
We have long days ahead of just travelling only I was hankering for the fight now. There was a fire in my blood and I didn’t want to wait less it cool and leave me feckless.
This Tracker was a thing of ancient magic, so too his hat, so we would have to act quickly and take the pair down before they could bewitch us. It would only exasperate our situation if we ended up being cursed and have to spend the rest of our days with our arses on our heads so we would get in fast and hack them up. Maybe Smidgen could eat them too, just to make sure.
It was one thing to prepare to strike first, to seize the initiative and yet another to do so in practice. We needed to keep our wits about us and take the Tracker down as soon as we could. But it wouldn’t be a straight fight. As I said he was a thing of powerful magic and he had powerful allies.
Watch the hat, Bent had warned me once before. Don’t underestimate the hat for it too is a thing of unremitting evil.
A rush of sparks billowed up into the night sky and suddenly I was severed from my reverie. A few embers landed on my thigh and I patted them out. Smidgen had tossed more logs onto the fire to keep it going through the night. “I’ll take first watch,” he said, squatting back down.
“No, I can’t sleep. I’ll take it. You get some rest. Soon Silhed’s bruises will be a thing of the past.”
Smidgen peered around the fire to look at me, “Are you sure? You haven’t had much sleep either.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll give you about three hours. Don’t feel much like sleeping.”
“Okay. Then you’ll wake me, yes?”
“Yes,” I lied.
It took a while for Smidgen to get just so. I heard every roll, stick snap and sigh as he fidgeted himself into a comfortable position, shaping the ground around him rather as a bird would fashion a nest. He slapped his lips together twice and not long after that the first of his barrage of snores shook the low level branches. He was out cold.
I wished that I could find sleep so effortlessly and put it down to the advantage of a trouble free mind and an uncomplicated conscience. His was a good soul, a prize possession for Hunger if the Tracker ever bested us.
There is more evil in the world than there is good. For every honest citizen there is someone like me, ready to take what isn’t mine. For every natural death there is a contract killing, a bloody dispute or just plain murder. More people think of ways to better themselves than help a neighbour and it is easier to think ill of someone than make the effort to get to know them. I know this for I used to see it all around me in Never. Hell, it is how I used to behave too. The naïve didn’t last long in Never’s unforgiving streets, and back there cynicism was a defence mechanism; a way of keeping a distance from those we feared may abuse us. And Never has many abusers, from the street begging opportunists to the corrupt politicians lording in the grandest estates in the New Quarter. On a sliding scale between white and black I considered myself somewhere in the dark greys. I wasn’t spiteful for spites sake but if there were something I needed I would take it, regardless of whom I hurt. Though I would try to preserve a level of decorum. No one said that to be a thief you had to be bullish and, to be frank, such coarseness irritated me. Just like those gorillas Maver Kane employed, so backward and grunty they still ate with their hands. A man should always respect himself regardless of his profession, situation or condition. It was, after all, what separated us from the animals.
Animals, I was sleeping like one again tonight, so too Smidgen. Whereas my companion had known no different I had and I missed my feathered bed more than anything else. And then there was good food. I’d not had a satisfactory meal since leaving Never. I smacked my lips together and swore I could taste roast chicken. This fugitive life didn’t suit me. I loathed it. If it weren’t for that canvas bag Smidgen clutched so protectively I would be back in my beloved city, sleeping on soft beds and eating hot roasted meats.
I wondered how the city had coped since my absence. Before I’d left I was top of my game in every quarter, the New, the Old, the South and the Walled. Wherever I went everyone knew me. I kept a kind of equilibrium between the rival gangs, kept them subdued. I was respected, often begrudgingly, but they listened to me.
Being the best at what I did carried some weight around the back ways of Never.
Yet with me gone all criminal factions would be vying for power. I knew that Maver Kane would be the most trouble and hoped that Ordesky would have the sense to stay away from that cold-hearted killer.
Ordesky was a fence. He could shift anything to anyone and at twice as much you thought he would get for it. I’d known him since childhood and he had been in my pay since then too. He was a quiet man; introspective I think the word is. Some cruel folks would call him a coward but he was just slow to action. Thinking situations through fully before acting upon them. Ordesky was a man who didn’t like change. He was a creature of habit and change unsettled him to the point of aggravating his ulcers. I felt bad for not finding him before I fled Never. He wouldn’t cope well on his own. Stay low Ordesky, I willed, stay low and I will come and find you.
I must have fallen asleep for when I opened my eyes daylight half blinded me. So much for keeping watch. Smidgen still snored.