This is Chapter 9-4 of a serial fantasy novel.
He waited until nightfall. As much as it pained him to put even more distance and time between him and the light, it was now necessary. They stopped at a small hill that overlooked a gentle bend in the river.
Frix helped to set up their makeshift camp, complained of weariness when it appeared that Mill wanted to stay up and gossip by the fire. Frix offered him the wine his mother had given him before retiring under his lean-to.
In fifteen minutes, he heard Mill’s heady snores.
He slipped out his lean-to and made his way to the cart. Sparky nickered at him, but that was all she had to contribute. He slipped underneath and felt for the main axle. With his shortsharp, Frix began to carve. It took a while, especially since he was trying to keep the noise down. Mill’s rhythmic breathing provided him with a nice pacer: cut-cut-cut snore, cut-cut-cut snore.
He stopped when the cart gave its first unhealthy creak, and got out from under lest his idea work too well and he ended up crushed. And that was it.
Frix returned to his bed and fought the urge to leave. By now, Mossa and the campwitch were almost two suns into their journey. They’d reach the town in two more suns, assuming that the witch slowed them down. It was going to be chancy, and it was going to be close, even if he hurried. Sleep didn’t come easy that night.
Mill was actually the one who woke him up—much later in the morning than Frix had hoped. The sun was already up, pushing flat light through a gray sky. Frix tried not to seem rushed as they packed up and made to leave, but the anticipation gnawed at him.
When they piled into the cart and set off, he was further worried by how well it rolled along. Sparky pulled it down the other side of the hill, it took a bump, and kept going.
“So, what’d you dream about?” Mill asked.
“I didn’t,” Frix said, trying to concentrate on how the cart felt. It felt fine. Maybe he dreamed his sabotage.
“You don’t dream?”
“Sometimes. Well, actually I might have dreamed that you were racing the cart… but that might have been what I was thinking about before I fell asleep. Hard to tell.”
“Ha! Sparky can motor if she needs to. Once—”
Cr-ick-ack! The cart pitched down and they both tumbled forward, Frix hitting the hard packed dirt of the trail on his stomach. Sparky honked and jumped around, seeming more annoyed than panicked.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, Frix had the wind knocked out of him. They lay there in the settling dust for a moment, coughing.
“You okay?” Frix wheezed.
“Fine ‘sides the leg. It didn’t like that. Roots untangle me, I guess our ride was not impressed with the idea of racing.”
Frix stood carefully, hoping that he wasn’t injured. Everything seemed fine. “Well, this is just great. So much for that extra time,” he said.
“Ah, if we can get back on track quick enough, we’ll only lose two, three suns.”
“The outpost, will they have a spare cart? Or should I head back to camp?”
Mill scooted himself back over to the disabled cart, leaning his back against its side. “I imagine that the outpost has a spare but it’s probably best if you head back to camp, it’s closer, and you don’t want to risk the outpost being short on supplies.”
Frix nodded. “I’ll leave the food and water. I can forage on my way.”
“Leave your slinger too, if you don’t mind.”
“My slinger?” Frix felt along his side, touching the handle.
“Sparky’s tough and old, but that won’t stop something really hungry. I’m fat and old; much tastier. Neither of us can get up a tree like we used to, ain’t that right Sparky?”
Sparky had found some grass along the side of the road. She chewed it. Frix took off his slinger and the little pouch filled with perfect stones. He felt quite naked without them.
“Thanks, cloud.” Mill held out his hands. Frix passed the items over, trying to come up with a reason that he needed them more. It wasn’t going to work.
“Okay,” he said, looking north. There would still be time to think through his mad plan as he made his way.
“Bring more of that wine back too,” said Mill.
Frix nodded, took one last look at his slinger, and raced back up the hill—towards Mossa, towards the answers, and towards the girl with her fantastic swirling lights.
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