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“Do you think the wound is infected yet?”
Joss shook her head in response, her body swaying in the saddle as Drakon picked his way along the path. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, glancing over her shoulder at Henrik who was following behind on Bluebelle. “It depends on what kind of arrowhead was used and if he was able to get it out in time.”
Henrik thought about it, knowing she was right. He had seen the different ways Joss extracted arrows from some of those they helped, injured bodies they found, just like Aric. They all had different reasons—a walker who was accidentally shot by a hunter, a boy who was a target after stealing back his belongings, a lover trying to escape the wrath of a husband—and they all were subjected to different treatments. One had to have the arrow pushed all the way through because it involved a broadhead, which meant pulling it back would have done more damage to the flesh around it. Another was plucked out as smoothly as a feather, the arrow having such a narrow point that she was able to remove it cleanly. But there was always room for error. There was always a possibility of hitting a vital blood vessel or an infection would erupt, largely due to fragments of clothing being caught and dragged into the body until they were irretrievable. Even if the arrow was removed successfully, it didn’t always mean the person survived.
“Well, not finding him yet must be a good thing,” Henrik joked a little as they continued on, the pine trees creating a canopy that shielded them from the late morning light. He was admiring the view when he felt a bug bite his neck, ending his trance as he slapped at it. “It must mean he’s still alive and on the move,” he continued in a grumble, wiping his hand clean on his pants.
“Yeah,” Joss agreed, her eyes constantly scanning their surroundings for a body or any signs of movement.
Or an assassin, one with eyes that were hard to forget.
Their journey hadn’t started out this slow when they left Hodgson’s farm. They rode hard through the farmlands, taking the hunter’s path into the forest that paralleled the main road, an attempt to put as much distance between themselves and Galmoor as they could. But it was rough terrain, only made for single riders, which forced them to bring the horses down to a trot. While it wasn’t a faster route, it kept them from running into other travelers. The hunter’s path was too isolated for robbers to mess with, and passing patrols usually left it alone since it was really only used for hunters themselves. Since they were both wanted, Joss and Henrik agreed that staying off the main road would be the safest option, and since the prince was in their position, assumed he might do the same thing.
“I wonder if he’s reached Burnlyn yet,” Henrik thought out loud, curious for a response but not expecting one, considering how attuned Joss was to their surroundings.
“Given his shoulder, the pain will drag him down,” she replied, ducking under a fallen tree trunk obstructing part of the path.
As Henrik followed suit, not having to duck as far since the pony wasn’t as tall as Drakon, he commented, “Yes, but he is running on adrenaline. His life is literally at stake right now.”
“Everyone has a breaking point,” Joss reminded him. “It doesn’t matter if he wants to keep running. His body will stop for him.”
The words hung in the air as they continued on, the trail flattening into a widened area overgrown with ferns and pines. Sunlight streaked in between the branches, and Joss gazed up to find slivers of blue sky that the pine trees couldn’t hide. Her gaze fell forward again, looking from one side of the trail to the next, searching for a body she hoped was still alive.
“You know, I never liked Lord Wolburn,” Henrik spoke up, causing Joss to smirk.
“I think the feelings are mutual,” Joss replied, still scouting the area while also thinking back on the councilman’s actions. It was Lord Wolburn who had given the guards their orders on how to handle Callan; had told her to proceed with his execution, knowing good and well that a pardon had been received. She wondered if he, too, had been threatened by the same masked goons that were after Aric, or had just been paid handsomely. Part of her assumed it was the latter.
As the path curved, Joss suddenly caught sight of it, a break in the ferns. It was subtle, possibly from a herd of deer or other wild animal, but she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss it. Reining Drakon to a stop, who chomped at the bit as if tired of the slow pace, she dismounted and approached the beginning of the trail, crouching down in order to study the dirt.
“How’s your ankle?” Henrik asked, noticing she wasn’t limping anymore.
“It actually feels a lot better,” she admitted, realizing the same. While Henrik had re-bandaged it for her, it was the little bit of thymelock salve she put on beforehand that took the soreness away.
Henrik pulled Bluebelle up next to Drakon, remaining in the saddle. “Might be the beginning of a game trail?” Henrik offered as he patted the pony’s neck, a habit he always had when riding.
Joss wouldn’t have called herself a tracker, but the years she and Henrik spent having to find dead bodies or help search for an escaped prisoner had taught her where to pay attention. The number of hoof prints that could be counted, the way branches broke or signs of things left behind, like a torn cloth or bit of hair. Years of focusing on these little things helped her see what was in front of her now.
“There’s a set of hoof prints,” she assessed. “It’s definitely a horse.”
“How many sets?” Henrik asked, looking around to see if they were still alone.
“One,” Joss replied, looking down the trail. The path curved against the ferns, and she found it led towards an area that sloped down, the trees falling away with the earth.
Stalking back to her horse, Joss mounted as Henrik reached into his boot and pulled out his dagger. “Better safe than sorry,” he admitted, both knowing how well—and accurate—his knife-throwing abilities were.
Agreeing, she nudged Drakon forward onto the small trail, Henrik remaining close behind, keeping a lookout.
As they followed along, she realized that as the earth began to roll steeply downward, the path itself veered away from it, and she saw for a ways it zigzagged through the underbrush. Game trail, her mind decided as she stopped Drakon again, sitting in disappointment as Henrik came to sit next to her.
Looking to Henrik, he shrugged in response, a lop-sided grin his only form of solace. She mimicked his shrug and looked to where the landscape dropped. “Let me just make one last effort,” she commented.
Dismounting again, Joss moved off the trail, snaking her way through the ferns and foliage. Her boots crunched against leaves and branches as she trudged on, the ground beginning to slant. She came up towards a pine tree leaning halfway over, using it to position herself for a better view as the rest of the world began its descent. Searching, she found it nearly impossible for someone to make camp there. The ground was too much at an angle, the trees descending into the overgrown forest below.
Resigned that she had wasted their time, Joss was looking back towards the trail when she saw something in the undergrowth near one of the trees, just where the land was still barely flat. From the trail it was easy to miss, but at this angle she could see a clearing had been made with something dark in the middle of it.
“Henrik, over there!” she called out, pointing to the area. Henrik turned the pony, grabbing Drakon’s reins as Joss started making her way over at a jog.
Reaching the clearing, she came upon the remnants of a small fire pit. The ferns around the area were ripped out and used as fuel, while a few others were flattened and used as a bed against the base of the tree. A closer look showed there was dried blood against the leaves. Eyeing the ash, there was something lying on the other side, tossed into the undergrowth.
As Henrik rode over, stopping outside the clearing, Joss was skimming the fern along the edge, bending down and retrieving what was hiding underneath. “I hate to say it, but this is typical of hunters,” he reminded her.
Joss stood up then, and in her hand was a broken arrow, the tip burnt. Henrik swallowed hard, the rest of his argument gone.
“If this was him, he tried to use it to cauterize the wound,” she commented, relieved when the arrowhead proved to have a narrow point to it, making it easy to pull out. “This is about the length it would be too, about where I broke it off for him.” She could see herself doing that all over again: the way Callan yelled to have her break it, the way it snapped in her hands, all while Aric stalked them in the distance.
“He’s pretty resourceful,” Henrik replied. “I mean, I guess he has to be since he’s been lost at war this whole time.”
Joss continued to eye the arrowhead, still apprehensive about Callan’s wellbeing, unsure of how well he could have cauterized the wound with it. “How far do you think we are from Burnlyn?” she asked as she made her way to Drakon, tossing the arrow away and placing the ax in its holder.
Henrik fished the worn map from his pant pocket, as well as the folded parchment of the missing prince, the flyer they took from the Lost Wall at the Lazy Ox. Putting the parchment back, he unfolded the map and scanned the contents before pointing to a faint circle where their path joined with the main road.
Mounted back in the saddle, Joss leaned over to see the map.
“There’s an outpost here,” he remarked, his finger trailing up from the circle, following the dark line that symbolized the continuation of the main road until it met the bold word of their destination. “I’d say Burnlyn is another day’s ride, give or take.”
Joss stared at the map, breathing out a quiet sigh. She could smell the rain in the air, heightening the scent of the pines, while the sunbeams scattered between the trees dipped occasionally out of sight from the clouds rolling in behind them. The thought of camping out in the rain wasn’t desirable, but being around other people toyed with her anxiety. She wasn’t too sure if Callan would be the kind of man to shy away from crowds or try to disappear in them, though she assumed by how the circumstances were playing out, he’d avoid people as well.
“Outposts are generally small,” Henrik offered, as if reading her thoughts. “At least it would be a good place to rest for the night.”
“Let’s give it a try,” she conceded, pushing Drakon forward.
The two continued on, following the game trail back to their original path. Pushing the horses into a trot, they followed the path that rounded into the jagged hillside, the ground becoming open and rocky before slipping back into the density of the forest. Back and forth the scenery changed, a sporadic display that made both of them wish they were safe at home. It didn’t help when they came across a herd of deer, both parties spooked by the other’s sudden presence. The deer scattered into the underbrush while the horses were brought down to a walk, forced to stay under control by their riders who were grateful it was just deer and not something worse.
The sun continued to move through the sky, and as dusk began to threaten their view, the rain started. They heard it before they felt it, the slow drumming against the branches of the trees. Both Joss and Henrik pulled their hoods on and kept going. It was as Henrik was about to suggest they look for shelter that Joss saw light.
The path widened when the outpost came into view, lit torches marking the entrance, a reminder of how far away from home they were. Outposts weren’t equipped with electricity like most towns were, even poor ones such as Galmoor. They were simply resting points for patrols and weary travelers, barely the size of a village. This one was no different, just a handful of buildings clustered together to make it habitable against the forest they carved their place into.
The rain picked up as they followed the path around one of the buildings before being met with the main road, which cut through the outpost much like the river at home did. Looking both ways, they found that despite the outpost’s size, there were quite a few people around, travelers who were hunkering down for the night. Searching the area, Joss found no patrolling guards around as Henrik nudged at her, nodding to a building on the other side. Clearly it was a tavern by how a couple of drunks meandered out of it. Eyeing the two-story structure, she surveyed the rest of the buildings, finding they were just simple supply shops, no signs of a boarding house in sight. There was a brothel next door, evident from the half-clad women who were poised against the wall underneath the awning, looking about as worn through as the building itself. Another option, Joss thought, but decided against it when the women caught sight of her, their eyes piercing at her in disgust.
Not liking the drunk crowd but not fond of the look she was receiving from the harlots, Joss nodded to the tavern, the signal that it would have to do.
The two made their way over, tying their horses with the others along the side of the building where a rickety awning did its best to keep them dry. Not wanting to leave the ax behind, Joss pulled it from its holder and then rubbed Drakon’s forehead. “Be good,” she whispered, turning away to untie the bag from the saddle.
Henrik approached her from the side, carrying his saddlebag with the supplies over his shoulder while Joss kept the bag with the food. Following Henrik, Joss placed the head of the ax underneath her arm, the leather cover protecting both her and the blade as she carried the saddlebag in her other hand.
By now the rain settled in, and their boots splashed through newly formed puddles as they made their way to the entrance.
“You that Brevyn lass, aren’t ya?” someone called out, and Joss looked over to find one of the harlots glaring at her from across the way, her arms crossed against her thin frame.
Joss kept moving, Henrik remaining at her side. She didn’t pretend to ignore them, there would be no point since they were looking her dead in the eye, but acknowledging them would be an open admission that she very much wanted to avoid.
“Ya got your ax there, don’t ya? Always gotta go around killin’ people, just like with my cousin,” she spat, spitting on the ground as if it would somehow reach Joss. “Ya killed that poor boy, you and that lot in that shit town of yours!”
Another one of the harlots slinked around her, draping her arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Be careful with that one, love. I heard she beheaded her own sister. Ironic, given she must be a tempestarius herself.”
Tempestarius. Weather witch.
The harlot extended her hand out past the awning they were under, the fresh rain hitting her hand as if it were proof that Joss’s presence had brought the storm.
Joss’s throat tightened but she continued on, passing the threshold of the tavern and leaving the harlots out in the cold.
Upon entering, she was slapped in the face with the smells that usually lingered in taverns—alcohol, sweat, and a musky-sour odor no one ever named. This one seemed very pungent, but knowing there were no other options, she endured the stench. She made her way past the tables where men were drinking or already passed out, Henrik a continuous presence next to her. Someone was fiddling on a lute, singing something sad with a cheery beat. While a couple faces looked exceptionally unfriendly, neither Joss nor Henrik were met with hostility as they reached the bar, the tavern keeper busy pouring a mug.
Finding a place towards the end and away from everyone, Henrik and Joss placed the saddlebags on the floor between them for safekeeping. Henrik surveyed the occupants at the bar as he waited for the tavern keeper, while Joss kept to herself. Looking about the room would bring attention, so she kept her back to them, not needing anyone else to recognize her. Moving the ax around, she leaned it against the bar in front of her, using her body to shield it from prying eyes.
Resting against the bar, Joss was glancing over the bottles, trying to keep her mind from wandering when Henrik nudged his shoulder against hers. “Don’t listen to them. They’re bored,” he whispered.
“What if someone else remembers?” Joss murmured, looking from the bottles to Henrik, both knowing full well she wasn’t just talking about her occupation.
“Doubt we’ll have to worry about that,” Henrik admitted, a grin appearing on his face. “It seems everyone comes here to forget.”
Joss slightly turned to the crowd behind them, seeing he was right by how hard they were all drinking. It was as the tavern keeper made his way over that Joss saw someone in the back of the room, a hooded figure who had just entered. She swore there was a strand of blonde hair falling against the man's neck; something slung over his shoulder like a crossbow. For a moment, the room stopped and all she could hear was her own heart beating in her ears. Aric, her mind whispered, a little too hopeful until he turned and she found it was just a simple bag. Then his hood came off, revealing someone entirely different.
It would have been terrible if he was there, knowing they were both tracking the same person for very different reasons. But thinking she saw him again had startled her. When she turned back around to face the conversation between Henrik and the tavern keeper, the edge of disappointment whittled its way into her already unsettled heart.
“I’ve seen a guy similar to that, but I’ve seen a lot pass through here,” the tavern keeper explained.
That’s when Joss saw Henrik showing him the missing flyer for the lost prince. They ripped off the missing royal part, only revealing the etched drawing that served as his portrait.
“Is he wanted?” the tavern keeper questioned, squinting suspiciously.
“He’s lost,” Henrik explained, folding the parchment and putting it back inside his pocket. “We’re helping his family find him.”
The tavern keeper looked from Henrik to Joss and then back. “The only man who’s come in here matching that description is upstairs, third door on the right.” The man pointed to a stairwell at the end of the bar. “If it’s not him, then I suggest you move on. I don’t want someone interrupting my tenants for no reason.”
Both Joss and Henrik thanked him, and the tavern keeper went back to attending to his patrons.
“I feel that was easier than it should have been,” Henrik admitted as they gathered their bags and made their way to the stairs.
Joss agreed, hoping for the best. As they started making their way up the stairs, she couldn’t help but look back, catching a glimpse of the man she thought had been Aric. Sweeping her gaze across the crowd, she wondered if this was the type of place he would have regularly visited, a place where he would gain his next job or find his next target.
Shaking her head, she tucked his image away in her mind as she followed Henrik, needing to focus on the man they were trying to find and not the man who was trying to kill him.
