2.2


    Smoke pt.2


    Nevynthi tilted her head to the side, clicking her neck to relieve the stiff, uncomfortable feeling that had crept in throughout the night. They had ridden for several days under the cover of darkness, moving in the hours when the hunting packs of men would be less likely to spot them, and sleeping in places where they hoped not to be found.


    Unfortunately, however, as it did for men, this also meant they could scarcely see that which surrounded them. All but the ground beneath their feet seemed a pitch-black nothingness – as if they rummaged through the dark, wet caverns deep beneath the Aryds. Should they be walking into an ambush, or headed straight toward a thousand-man army, they would not know – not until it was much too late, at least. Lucky, Nevynthi thought, that they had met no such trouble so far. The common people in this realm of men, it seemed, had no will to fight when their lords were targeted. That, or word of their attack had not made it this far. It was a race against time.


    Their convoy was much more orderly now. Sentries had been placed at both front and rear, swapping shifts by the day. They were in charge of scouting, of hunting for hiding enemies. Even so, it was not just those stationed to watch who remained alert. In such conditions as they found themselves, it seemed that none allowed themselves a break from vigilance, from scouring the visible circumference. Their formation was rigid, more soldier-like than they had forced themselves to be in recent years. Escape was the only thing on their minds, escape without losing more members.


    “Shouldn’t we stop, already?” Cathan groaned.


    Nevynthi almost ignored him. She wished to keep going for as long as possible, as long as it would take them to get to where they needed to be.


    “Nevynt—” He continued, his voice rising to a slight shout before he caught it with a cupped hand.


    She turned back to him, scowling. How could he be so stupid as to shout? Did he not hear how quiet it was, how quiet they needed to be? “What?” she said, teeth gritted.


    He rode up beside her, unwilling to make the same mistake twice. “Why do we not stop for the night,” he repeated, “our people are tired, too tired. And their horses need rest.”


    Nevynthi glanced past Cathan. Her men’s faces fell loose from their bones, the skin under their eyes sagging with the weight of their journeying. Some, she noted, slumped in their saddles, hanging on weakly to the reins as their horses trudged forward.


    But what was another few hours to those already beyond sleep? They could go further; she was sure of it.


    It had become apparent over the last few nights, however, that their pace was slowing. On the first night, they had made it nearly ten leagues. On their most recent, they managed only five. The horses were tiring. But if they could make it a little further... if they could just get that little bit closer to home!


    “Nevynthi!” Came the call again, only this time it wasn’t Cathan. Ruadan, who headed their formation, had shouted back from the front and was gesturing her forward with a stubby, waving hand.


    Nevynthi rode cautiously forward, passing many more tired faces. None looked up in her direction. Ruadan, unlike Cathan, was not one for causing a scene if he did not need to. Anything that he had called her forward for was enough to make her nervous.


    A single tree stood closer to the road than the rest, forming an overhanging shelf that reached for the other side. Its branches were mostly thin and scrawny, twisting unnaturally as if aiming or grabbing at something. Nevynthi’s eyes traced the thing from its roots, up its rough, bark trunk, past holes that more than likely housed birds, and finally to its thickest branch; the one that hung highest. As if in some ironic mirroring of the deathly tree, some form of justice had been carried out – if justice was truly what it was. Left to rot in the harsh weather, two lifeless figures hung like morbid decorations. They swung minimally with the wind, rocking back and forth.


    Nevynthi couldn’t help but stare as they passed beneath the corpses. Both she and her party were silent, either out of respect for the dead or from sheer tiredness. The exposed faces of the hanging ones had been chipped away, leaving dried blood and mangled flesh, while their clothing seemed equally torn and tattered, draped unfittingly atop thinned bodies. Even had they been criminals, she could not help but feel sorry. None deserved such a fate.


    “A bad omen,” Cathan managed, covering his face with a piece of white cloth, “nothing good will come of us continuing tonight.”


    Nevynthi struggled to come up with an argument against it. Whether she liked it or not, an eery fog had fallen about the place. A splintery chill passed through her spine.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    “Let us,” she replied, forcing her gaze away from the bodies, “get far enough away from here, at least. This is no place to make camp.”


    Days passed more quickly than nights as they neared Hafynstur. Cathan had stopped much of his grumbling as Nevynthi had decreased their riding times, while their supplies grew increasingly strapped. Much of what had remained of their dried fruits and meats was gone, and they now relied almost entirely on what could be caught on the road. They had found a fox one night, which had not lasted long, while on other nights they had found nothing at all. In the darkness of night, it seemed, not many creatures roamed freely here. Those that did would make themselves scarce at the coming of a convoy of horses.


    It was an arduous journey, monotonous in all the worst ways. They passed trees, then fields, then trees again, sometimes interrupted by the battering rapids of a waterfall or stream. Whatever beauty they had seen in it on their way through had grown tiresome and dull. Nevynthi, if not all of them, longed only for home; her real home.


    Finally, a few hours after that familiarly sharp seaside smell had emerged as a tinge on the breeze, they topped a steep hilltop, coming upon a scattering of stone-based buildings. Though rain created a mist before them, they could see much of the town. Most had tall, triangular-fronted rooftops, some tiled, some thatched. They crowded around a central square, bordering the seafront at one side, where piles of barrels and boxes were tied together untidily with rope. Water crashed against the sea wall, and a few fishing boats rocked uncouthly a little further out. The square was empty but for a few buildings where smoke plumed from rooftop openings and orange, flickering light escaped from gaps in walls and doorways. Hafynstur! It was the same as it had been when they arrived.


    They waited until the sun emerged from its resting place beyond the horizon. As it did, visibility increased, and it became evident that they had beaten their pursuers here. No army camped outside the town. No unwanted guests could be seen patrolling its outskirts. As the first few inhabitants emerged from their homes, no questionable urgency was shown, no evidence that news of their ambush had reached the town yet. It should, Nevynthi hoped, be safe to continue.


    Nevynthi could wait no longer before descending upon the town. How could she? The boat that secured their freedom was there waiting for them, ready to leave as soon as they arrived. That, and they were in dire need to escape the night’s rain.


    The road became more sophisticated the closer they got, better maintained and more comfortable to ride. Though their steeds’ shoes clopped loudly against the shiny cobbles, the racket was almost entirely covered by the sound of heavy rainfall.


    Nevynthi caught a glimpse of some sticks and other bits as they floated beside the road, water carrying them down makeshift gutters. She watched one as it passed her, faint memories of a childhood game she had played creeping in, before it disappeared into a shimmering reflection of the rising sun.


    They passed the first of a few scattered buildings on the town’s outskirts. Its door was boarded up, shutters closed. Not a peep escaped as they passed. Nevynthi paid little attention, instead focusing on the larger buildings that lay before them, the inhabited ones.


    “It is quiet,” Cathan said as they passed between two close-built buildings and emerged in the town’s square. His head was jerking from side to side atop his broad shoulders. “Where are the people?”


    Nevynthi spared a second to follow his gaze and listen. “It is no different than anywhere else we have been passing,” she said, “it is not like we have seen many people since we left the forests, is it?”


    Cathan thought for a moment before responding. “But it was not like this when we arrived the first time, was it?”


    “We are a large party,” she continued, “and we arrive under the final moments of darkness. It is no wonder that the townspeople have no wish to interfere with us. Let us pass peacefully; we need not cause any harm to them and should be grateful that they pose no threat to us in return.”


    But Cathan was right; the town was quiet – even more so than it had been upon their arrival the week prior. Where had been a bustling marketplace, empty stalls remained. Where had been children playing amongst themselves, toys were left untouched. That eery, dark feeling seemed to follow them still as they crossed the square.


    The few that ventured into the streets avoided Nevynthi’s party at all costs. Two, what looked to be a mother and a child, cowered into a dark alleyway until their horses passed, before quickly scurrying away behind them. Something seemed wrong, but Nevynthi could not place what had changed.


    They would continue onward. It was all that they could do. They would be rid of this place soon enough.


    They were headed for The Desperate Traveller, a tavern built conveniently beside the main shipping port. It was, for most, nothing more than a tavern, a place to drink and dance and sing. Of course, it had its fair share of unscrupulous folk, but such was common in places where men were prevalent. For the Epeltu Beiri and other informed people, however, it was something else entirely. A smuggler’s outpost, men called it. For Nevynthi, it was nothing more than a convenient means of travel where travel would be otherwise difficult.


    Knock three times, then say the magic words, the smuggler’s rules had been quite childish. But Nevynthi had no other choice. She raised a hand, damp cloak slipping down, revealing her arm. Water had seeped through, and a droplet dripped slowly down her skin, finally falling as she brought her hand forward.


    She knocked once, a heavy slam against the wood – that would be sure to wake any who might still be sleeping – before finishing the other two with more rhythmic precision.


    Then came the silly part. Nevynthi cleared her throat. “Show me the light,” she said quietly, embarrassed.


    Nothing.


    “Show me the light,” she said again. She could hear her companions snickering behind her. As she turned, intending to give them a dirty look, their faces showed no signs of laughter, and they made no noise.


    The door creaked open, and Nevynthi’s head snapped back. A hunchback sort of man, the kind that looked as though he might be near the end of his life, held the door open.


    “You’re early,” he croaked. “Come in.”