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Chapter 13: The Trespasser
Part 4
His slumber was broken by a nuzzle at his leg.
“Hm—hey!” he cried, whipping out his cudgel. An animal scurried away. In the darkness, he thought it was maybe a swamp pig. Frix realized he had fallen asleep on the ground, propped up against the underside of an uprooted tree.
His stomach woke up too, gurgling displeasure. He felt the gravity of sleep beckoning him back. Frix forced himself to stand, resolving to get his stupid ass into a tree before something with sharper teeth decided to come by.
Standing made him a little lightheaded. Something nagged at him, telling him he wasn’t going to be moving very fast tomorrow. What if Swinn beat him there? He almost certainly would, being better supplied and better rested.
They’d stop him. There had to already be some scouts in the area—Bettine would never attack with a force of this size without some preliminary units.
He heard the animal rustling in the bushes, and sent it a silent thanks. He had to move now if he was going to get there.
Night travel was especially challenging in his condition. He had to keep all his focus on stepping softly and avoiding things that wanted to trip him. There was no real way to keep his senses tuned to the riot of chirrups and peeps of the nocturnal insects and creatures. If there was an adept sentry out there, he would miss them. He had to hope they’d miss him too.
He beelined, approaching the witch village from almost exactly due south, losing all sense of time.
The sky began to lighten, and the songs of the night exchanged the stage with the early birds. He could see better, but his brain was slow and stupid. Hunger had stopped clawing and now settled into his gut like a hot stone. His steps were clumsy. He thought he recognized the area from his raid scouting, but that could have been a dream. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming now.
This was why he didn’t feel fazed when a real-life sentry did step out in front of him, slinger drawn.
“What the… Frix of Bit? Is that you?”
Frix squinted, half-recognizing someone he had trained with. Maybe. He raised one hand by way of greeting, and almost let a burst of giggles escape. He was so tired.
The sentry lowered his slinger. “What happened to you? Where’s your detachment?”
One more lie, and he’d be home free. “Captured. Witches. Go get Mossa, quick.” He collapsed to his knees, which was a lot more real than for show.
The sentry rushed over to steady him. “I don’t know exactly where she’s positioned. Come on, come with me, my shoot-lead isn’t far.”
“No no, you need to hurry, put them on alert. I’ll wait here, quick, quick.”
The sentry still held onto him, seeming skeptical. Frix was too close now. He was not but a few minutes from the edge of the town, he knew it. He twisted in the sentry’s grip, giving himself better access to his shortsharp. The dreamy feeling dropped away and his heart rate surged. The sentry looked away, exposing his neck.
Frix sucked his lips back, grabbed the handle, and—
“Okay, but get off this trail. We’re too close to…” the sentry said, tilting his head north.
Frix relaxed, and managed a nod.
“What am I telling them?” asked the sentry.
“Uh, just find Mossa. And watch for witches. North of the river. Maybe ten of them.”
“Right. Six minutes. Hold on, and here.” The sentry dropped a waterskin and melted away. Frix struggled to his feet, took a swig, waited about thirty seconds, then bolted for the town. The water helped a little, but this was truly the last of what was in him. His sprint was loud and messy, and if there were more sentries, he was going to get caught. The one that had left him behind could probably hear it. Too late to think about that now.
Leaves and branches slapped at him, his feet came down on bad angles and caught sharp rocks and stubbing roots. He barely felt it, because he could feel the red fountain. He couldn’t see the lines, but there was a soft tingle and lift in his heart.
Then, like magic, the trees stopped. He bounded through some high weeds and now ran on a neat little lawn. Squat, boxy structures spread out in front of him along a slight hill. Ahead, in the cloudy, fog-rich distance was a great rising wall. It was a triangle? This is how witches camp, his brain mused, foggy and semi-delirious.
He kept going, passing by several of the hard, wooden tents. It was still barely morning, and it seemed everyone was still asleep. How was he supposed to know which one she was in? Did she even live in this area? A crazy thought flew through him: what if she wasn’t even there? What if she had just been a visitor to the town? Something was trying to argue that he was pretty sure this wasn’t the case, but the panic in the thought used his exhaustion as fuel. Tears pushed out of his eyes, escaping in thin streaks. Frix slowed and choked on weird, gasping sobs.
He stood in a maze of sleepy dwellings, lungs now finally punishing him for the sprint. He heaved, he cried, he hurt all over and thought he felt blood trickling down his chest. This all had been a terrible idea.
A wave of fatigue came slamming into him. He swayed, and stumbled sideways, wondering if this is how prey felt when he stunned them with his cudgel.
The last vestiges of consciousness bounced around in his head. They saw the door of one of the hard tents and flung him towards it. He collapsed into it with a clatter, not feeling a thing. Frix thumped it a few times before his fists fell to his sides.
He was going to leave now, swallowed up by darkness, in this terrible, embarrassing, raid-compromising slump on a witch’s doorstep. And he didn’t care if he—
The door moved, someone gasped, and he found himself in a much more comfy position on his back. A strange face floated above him, upside down.
“Atrocity,” he whispered.
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