This is Chapter 9-3 of a serial fantasy novel.
They rode on in silence for a while after that, and Frix tried to puzzle out how a force of many ranging groups might work together, cohesively. Even his own small group had their friction, he had the gashes on his chest to prove that much. It wouldn't be easy.
Frix looked over at Mill, thinking about how to not ask him something directly. It was an interesting game, at least. He tried: “I'm thinking even if they're a bit of a mess, all working together, that they should be able to find one thief.”
“Oh, you know it's just one thief then?” asked Mill.
“Mossa said manhunt.”
“Interesting. I did not know that. Consider yourself redeemed.”
“Thanks,” said Frix.
“One thief, easy enough. One witch thief though…?”
“Trickier for sure. Is that—Well why else would one of them be hanging out around camp anyway?”
“It's all very odd, Frix of Bit. When's the last time a witch was invited into any Greatsparker camp?”
He had been thinking the same thing, now that they were on the subject. Also, when was the last time they’d had to blow up a bridge? Force a pyre to go up? He felt a weird chill working its way up his spine.
“What do you think of tradition, Frix of Bit?” said Mill.
“I never really thought about it,” he said, still staring straight ahead. “But I guess it's easy to tell when it's being changed.”
“Aye. Something the Head of Spark seems to be courting, no?”
“The Head of Spark? Not your Head of Spark?” Frix had never formally met or spoken to Bettine of All, despite her leading their camp for the past year or so. She seemed pretty private.
“Got-ran-pal’s Head of Spark is as traditional as traditional as can be, cloud. Bettine though. Lots of oddities. I can’t remember ever camping so close to a witch village before either.”
“Three suns by cart, one by foot” said Frix, remembering the trek up.
“Some think we may have a new campground very soon. Crazy of course, but enough challenges to tradition and talk gets loose. Add some drink, and, well!”
“New campground? We moved but a season ago. Ottrah would not uproot so soon.”
“Perhaps just a new playground then.” Mill shrugged. “The rumour is that Bettine wants to move into the witch’s village. By force! To find her lost sparkers or as punishment or something. How’s that for tradition! Ha!”
The cart wheels creaked and turned, and Frix’s mind rolled along in time with them. He thought of the trick he’d played with the witchgirl. With Atrocity—that was her name! She had a little brother, like Callum maybe. He had told her they were going to raze the town to the ground. He remembered her frightened eyes.
He had to find out what was really going on. And he needed to see that light again. That was important, though he wasn’t quite sure why, only that it was true. If anything happened to that town; if anything happened to her… he might never see the red wonder again.
“Ten suns to the Min-sog-say camp, yes?” he asked.
“Assuming the weather holds, yup.”
“When’s our first resupply?”
“This conversation isn’t nearly as fun,” pouted Mill.
“I’ve got a crazy story to tell, but it depends on this resupply.”
“I can’t imagine that, but I’ll bite. Two suns to a little outpost. Stock up and stretch there.”
It took three suns to reach the witch town by cart along the western trails, but Frix figured he could do it in five or less on foot, if he took the witch’s path on the eastern side of the river. A cart could probably do it in one single sun, so smooth and un-windy was the forbidden way. Mill looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“You should wait for me at the resupply,” said Frix.
“This is your story? You going somewhere?”
Frix counted it out on his fingers. “Ottrah thinks it takes three or four more suns than what it really does to get there. I know someone back at camp who would absolutely know what’s going on. I race back, find out, then meet you back at the outpost. We carry on like nothing happened.”
“You said you had a crazy story, not a crazy idea. Ottrah would have your head, great uncle or not.”
“He won’t know. Not unless you tell him.”
“Or if you’re caught,” said Mill.
“I won’t get caught. If I do, I'll tell them I just ran from you.”
“Who do you know who ‘knows for sure?’ You gonna go ask Bettine herself?”
“They wouldn’t appreciate me telling anyone,” said Frix.
“Oh, come on. I’m expected to conspire with you and you can’t even give me a sense of your source.”
Frix had an intuition. “It’s the campwitch.”
Mill was quiet for a moment, then burst out laughing. Frix let his sigh go silently, feeling like he had just rotted Plan A. Mill began to recover, wiping at his eyes. He said, “Oh boy, you are a funny one. Had me going. Had me going for sure. The campwitch, of course!” Frix sat through some more giggles.
“I thought you actually might fall for it,” Frix said, trying to sound jovial.
Mill shook his head. “Are you going to be pulling pranks all trip? I think you just upgraded from cloud to… what was next?”
“Hopjack?”
“Right, right. Ahh, too funny. Campwitch! Ha, no no, you almost had me. Campwitch isn’t even back at camp now that I think of it. I’m getting slow.”
This was news to Frix. He proceeded with the game. “Guess that just makes her a regular witch now. She must’ve gotten sick of living in a tent.”
“Oh, we think she’ll be back. She and Bettine are as cozy as a boghog ‘n’ its mud. A few of the fishers saw her and your shoot-lead heading north along the river near camp. Best guess as to where they’re headed?”
“The new playground…”
“Bingo. That’s where the main bet is.”
Why? More questions flooded Frix’s brain. Was Mossa in on this supposed invasion? Every clop of Sparky’s hooves took him further from the answers. Further from that wonderful red fountain. He was going the wrong way. He knew he was going the wrong way.
Frix rubbed at his chest, cringing as his wounds complained. Mill looked over and said, “Think that hurts? Try living with this old thing!” He gave his bum leg a little squeeze and exaggerated a wince.
Frix then knew exactly what he had to do.
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