This is Chapter 11-3 of a serial fantasy novel.
Eventually, the clumsy conversation transitioned to hearty snores. He had not heard them bother to secure anything in a tree. He waited for about twenty minutes, letting them sink deeper. He didn’t think he needed the extra precaution, but his training in these matters was exactly what set him apart from these fools.
Their camp was shoddy and as unprofessional as expected. Loose lean-tos, their packs piled in a heap. In the darkness, he tried to see if any of them carried slingers, but it didn’t look like it. The real prize was the food. They had consumed all the fresh meat, but there was a big bag of nuts, bread and cured hidemeat. Dead to the world, the three goons didn’t even shift their breathing rhythms as he carved off generous portions of the supplies for himself. They probably wouldn’t even notice in the morning.
He put some four hundred cart-lengths between him and the drunks, climbed another demontrunk and allowed himself some of the new food. It was low quality and stale, but tasted incredible to him. If it weren’t for the wall of sleepiness that smashed into him, he might have gorged the whole prize.
He was able to tackle the next day with renewed purpose. The food made a big difference, but it was the conversation about fighting witches and bloodlust that really propelled him. He had to dodge around several more groups, easy for the most part as they all seemed to be amateur or unconcerned with stealth.
He noticed that they were all heading more or less in the same direction. His direction.
He even screwed up once—a sentry spotted and hailed him, then joked about all the traffic. Frix went along with it and asked if he could spare any rations. The sentry didn’t have any extra, but assured him that there’d be a huge spread at the outpost.
Now confident he could play the errant sentry role, Frix moved with more speed. He muddied his face and tied back his hair in two short knots, hoping it’d be enough to make him less than immediately recognizable.
He made good time, and finally reached the Point Starfire’s outer border right before high sun. It had been four and a half suns since he’d left Mill in the dirt. They’d probably figured he’d gone missing by now, but he was well ahead of any orders to apprehend or find him.
A good thing, because by now, the woods were thick with Greatsparkers. He could hear between two and three camps at any given time, and crossed paths with far too many people for his liking. As he neared the outpost perimeter at the base of the hill, he took to moving among the treetops.
This was a lot slower, but the canopy was thick and the branches were wide—part of the reason for placing an outpost in the area in the first place, as it gave any defenders several fronts to work with.
Soon, he was face to face with the reality of his problem. Perched high in a steelbarch, he looked down at the clearing which hosted the main structures of Point Starfire. Ten strong half-tents were built into the side of the boulder pile. Last time he was here, there had been only two. And the clearing had been, well, clear. Now it was teeming with people, temporary tents, washing pits, training pitches and latrine ditches. He even saw some banners and flags that looked like they belonged to independent triads.
Worst of all, he saw people he knew. They belonged to some of the elite All-bit-tel Seedwind units: people who would definitely recognize Frix of Bit, hairstyle change or no. Roots untangle him, Ottrah himself might even be here by the looks of it. If it were true, his whole plan could be shot.
If he was going to find Mossa and see Atrocity again, best odds were to go around. Even if it meant no extra food and no replacement slinger.
He scanned the edges of the camp, trying to get a sense of the flow of traffic. Most of it arrived from the south, where he had come from… but he had to now choose if he was going to make for the flat path again or take the woodland routes to his destination. Then he spotted a familiar bob of fluffy brown hair.
Swinn exited one of the main tents. Frix tried to spot either Mossa or Dreff to no avail. Swinn spoke with a marshal, then darted to the cliff and began to scramble up. Frix watched for a second, confused. Then it dawned on him.
He was headed to the witch town!
Why else would Swinn go up the cliff rather than around? Speed. Something was happening, Frix could feel it. Had the attack started? There was really no question about what was going on now… just a matter of how and when. He had to try to catch his fellow Seedwind. And the only way to do that was to cut straight through the camp.
Frix hesitated for a second, watching the boiling crowd below. Then the image of a swinging cudgel came to him, followed by a cry cut short as blood fanned in a smooth arc. He swallowed, and climbed down.
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