The Childseeker's War • Chapter 11: The Outpost (pt. 1)

This is Chapter 11-1 of a serial fantasy novel.

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Chapter 11: The Outpost

Part 1

Frix crossed the river the moment he cleared the hill.

After ten minutes of forestrunning, he came to the alien path. He sensed it before he truly saw it—a sort of blindness or gap in the way the woods flowed. Sounds and animal essences seemed to pile up and grow ever slightly thicker and confused before rushing past it, like water piling atop a dam in the river.

When he reached it, he peered out of the treeline. Brave, low grass ventured past the threshold, creating a little shoulder before the packed dirt took over. It was soft, semi-smooth and maybe five cart-lengths wide. Leaves and other forest debris littered it, and Frix saw at least three trails of animal tracks criss-crossing the expanse. Assuming a cart’s wheel’s didn’t get caught in it, one really could race along this thing, and probably make it to the place where they’d rockpunched the bridge in a sun’s turn or less.

The path Mossa took, on the other side of the river, was rocky, twisty, and bumpy. He hoped they had orders to move at a regulated pace. He thought he could make it. He could get there close to the same time they did. There was plenty of fresh water to his left and he knew a few Seedwind drops on this side of the Rainroot that should provide him with provisions. But he knew he was going to miss his slinger when it came time to rest for the night—and he wasn’t sure he had time to be hunting with his shortsharp or cudgel.

Frix edged out onto the grassy side lane and broke into a jog. Based on the movement of the trunks, he estimated this weird form of plainsrunning was almost twice as speedy as forestrunning. Yes, he could make it.

The real trouble was in figuring out how to lie his way out of this mess. He hoped Mill wasn’t stranded out there for too long; surely someone traveling to or from the camp would come across him before the water ran out—it was a popular enough trail. It would be many suns before word got out that he was missing.

The weather was gloomy and overcast, for which he was grateful. A scorching sun would have made things much more uncomfortable. On the first day, he encountered not a single person, witch, nor transport. Frix thought it was likely because of the bridge. He fell asleep high in a tree that evening, wondering how long it took the witches to repair such a thing.

His dreams were fleeting, filled with red haze and dancing wisps.

He woke before sunrise, counting himself lucky. The next day was boring as well. There was one moment when he stopped, certain that if he went to the river he’d be able to spot one of the camp’s fishing outposts on the other side. It was still possible to call it all off. But Frix found himself moving soon enough, and without remorse nor regret. He kept trying to feel what should be panic at this crazy idea. He found himself more nervous about the idea of what he might even say to Mossa if he found her. Or to Atrocity should he find her first. A hundred different scenarios played themselves out in his mind, each one usually feeling stupider than the last.

On the third night, he climbed high into a demontruck and watched a star-kissed horizon bleed into the leafy horizon. He thought he saw a distant triangular shape—the tip of a witch’s pyre, but it could have easily been a tree. He imagined how high the flames might reach, orange and wavy. It was easy to picture those curling sheets of fire deepening to red, thinning out, spiraling up and up and up into a wild, shooting fountain.

The thought settled his heart and soothed his nerves. Whenever his stomach clawed, he felt for those bright red threads, mystical and all-reaching in the sky. It didn’t fill his belly, but it kept him focused on moving forward.

But by the fourth day, his body was near its limit. It was difficult to keep a solid pace, and he had to cut down on his trips to the river since the witchpath veered northeast and got farther and farther away from the Rainroot. To make things worse, the sky was finally clearing, releasing sapping rays of sunlight that stabbed out at him through holes in the clouds. He realized he might have overestimated his ability to stay steady on the flat, punishing path. He’d found fewer drops than expected, and they’d been scant in their provisions.

There would be food (and even weapons) at Point Starfire. He sat in the shade around high sun, watching the gaps in the sky grow bigger, weighing his options. The detour would slow him down and take him a little off course… but he was slowing anyway. And the shade of the woods would be welcome indeed.

Mind made up, he broke from the witchpath to weave towards the outpost. The hopjack runs were numerous, but his flagging energy kept him slow. As the sun started to set, he resolved to see if he could find one more Seedwind drop. His own group had stashed a few in this area and he remembered that one of them had fatty preserves and snares.

As he got closer to the drop, he looked for little nicks and notches high up in the tree branches. The Seedwind had many signals and signs, some warned of caves with beasts or vipers, some guided the way to Point Starfire, and some pointed towards the hidden supply caches.

Night’s veil draped over the sky, and it was soon time to find a sleeping tree. He might have to wait until morning, which was unfortunate because he was hoping to set snares tonight for the chance of a nutritious breakfast. He was close though, and was again resting and figuring out what to do when a dangerous sound came riding in on a strong breeze.

Campfire.
 
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Continued in Chapter 11, Part 2

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