A brook burbled amid the oaks of the Fairwood. Thickets and shrubs grew randomly, choking
out the short emerald grass that spotted the landscape. The thieves’ cave camouflaged amongst the greenery. Tinges of red and orange were only beginning
to betray its stealth.
Flattened undergrowth formed a
path under Rowan’s feet. A light crunch
emitted with each step. Above, the air
smelled of light decay, a sort of sweet, subtle aroma.
The Triplet Moons shone in a cloudless
sky. Melanie, the brightest, hung far to
the west on the horizon. Rowan guided
his band in its direction, traversing some thousand paces.
The bustle of an ox-pulled
wagon revealed Count Lungren’s Highway long before it came into view. By the time they could see the packed dirt
and drainage channels of the Highway, the cart was too far off to make out in
the blackness.
“Lay low,” Rowan
whispered. The other men nodded.
With those words, Rowan’s thoughts
turned back to his fallen Sarah. Memory
flashed before his eyes. She had told
him to lay low, to apologize if he had to.
It wasn’t worth getting into another fight over. He didn’t listen, couldn’t listen over the
lust for blood pounding in his temples.
The drunkard returned Rowan’s sloppy hook with an ales mug to Sarah’s
head. He stood there, gaping, as the
brute sent her to the tavern floor in a crumpled heap. By the time he found the sense to knock him
off his stool, she was gone. Rowan
coughed back a sob.
Melanie arched a full finger’s
length in the sky before the clop of horseshoes became loud enough to hear. Two tall, dun horses emerged from the shadows. Their forms wavered, backlit by two torches
affixed to a carriage. The driver sat on
a velvet pad atop a high-seat. He glanced
in the thieves’ direction and crinkled his brow.
“Release,” Rowan said, just
above a whisper. Wolf shot out from behind a bush, his
dagger stuck out in front of him. Valter
raised an iron-rimmed buckler and followed.
Lock pick in hand, Wasp crept toward the covered body of the carriage.
The driver’s drooping eyes
flew open. His hand crawled to the knife
scabbard at his belt. Wrapping the reins
around one wrist, he scrambled to his feet and swore. Wolf drove an elbow into his leg, knocking
him back onto his seat. A flick of the
driver’s knife came within a hair-breadth of Wolf’s throat. Wolf’s manner lit up, turning even
smugger. He plucked the knife from where
it had imbedded into one of the poles supporting a canopy and somersaulted
backward from the high-seat.
A sword gleamed in the low light
from above Valter’s fist. Its hue tinted
red, oozing, as Valter jabbed it clear into the driver’s ribcage and withdrew
in one smooth motion. Crimson dripped
across his lips, spread by a sputtering cough.
The driver’s body spasmed, then slumped in the seat, lifeless.
Rowan sprinted off to settle
the horses as Wasp and Wolf ran to keep up with the vehicle. He tore the reins from the driver’s failing
grasp and whistled in a low-pitched whine.
The equines slowed.
Inside the carriage the
screaming had only just begun. Wasp
tinkered with his pick on the door’s entry-lock. He mumbled as he worked, “Right, up,
quarter-turn…” The door slamming into
his face stopped him short.
A feminine voice called out,
“I plead to you highwaymen, take all you can carry, but spare my daughter and
me.”
“We don’t kill maids, milady,”
choked Wasp from the drainage channel. He
sounded hurt.
A new cry flew through the black. It brought all four looters to a martial
stance, Wolf with his own howl and Valter a heavy grunt. Rowan cut the reins before the horses could
jerk the carriage away in their fearful frenzy.
As Rowan glanced toward Wasp’s
paralyzed form, his worst fears felt confirmed.
He couldn’t make anything out yet, but he had heard too many horrific
tales to doubt the beast’s name. A foul
nemu stalked the night before them.
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