Clank, clank, clank, clank.
So on and on the racket went. Dawkin glanced at the column of young men, some younger than he, as they trudged in the opposite direction. His gaze fell upon their feet. Bare, caked in sweat and dirt, they bore shackles linked to the same shared chain which bound them all.
Who would choose such torment?
Atonement for sins was one thing. But this? Such agony, self-inflicted, for guilt? Dawkin shook his head at the notion. He could not compute the idea of a persistent feeling, much less a damning one, capable of leading to one’s demise, however traumatic the inciting event may have been.
His mind turned to Ely. That poor chap. ‘Tis must be how he feels at times. Captive to his own mania.
“Judgment is expected.”
Dawkin looked to his left. Lady Cora rode at a pace matching his own, one which had slowed considerably as they had come within sight of the Lost Souls. Though neither had reason to fear the restrained, unarmed, and repentant mass, she avoided eye contact nonetheless. With her head lowered, her cowl nearly obscured the whole of her head, save for the skin of her right cheekbone and a single golden curl peeking out from the wool border. Enchanting.
“Judgment?” Dawkin queried, many moments after she had spoken.
“By onlookers who forget their manners.” She twisted her head toward him, flashing a wry grin.
“I, I had no intention of staring.”
“They want the attention, though in their humility, they would never admit it. Rumor has it they added the chains because their travels no longer garnered the admonishing looks their predecessors received. People had simply grown accustomed to seeing pious men in dingy robes. So they started to ignore them. Such apathy to outward repentance could not stand, so they added the chains for . . . shall we say . . .” Cora paused, the word she grasped for suddenly out of her mind’s reach.
“Theatrics?” Dawkin ventured.
“Not the phrase I would have chosen, but it’ll do.”
“So, I do them a service by staring.”
“Hardly my point.”
“‘Tis mine.”
“You’re imprudent.”
Dawkin smirked. Damn, this is fun. His mood lifted, he sat taller in his saddle as the entourage – and their song of shame – passed.
For the past two days, their journey to Seafall had been uneventful. On the morning of their departure, Dawkin had obligatorily met with Cora’s uncle to convince him of his intentions. Namely, that he would protect his niece, and abstain from behaving as anything less than a gentleman. To Dawkin’s surprise, the man seemed indifferent to him. He offered no protest to the proposed escort, nor did he question Dawkin about his family history or profession. The lack of interest disappointed Dawkin somewhat, for he had spent the previous night concocting an elaborate backstory tied to his alter ego.
In truth, Lady Cora had not expressed concern over his intentions either. She seemed far too lax over the past few days, hardly the demeanor expectant of a woman – or man – riding the highways. At taverns, she did not press him for her own room, though he always made arrangements for such. Around the cookfire, she did not flinch when he used his hatchet to split wood or draw his knife to cut meat. She acted as if she had known Dawkin his whole life, a sense of familiarity he found both puzzling and refreshing.
“Odd,” Cora mused. “How such men can travel the countryside and not be caught up in its wonder.”
“You certainly appreciate it.”
“Ever since I was a child.” Cora brushed one of her golden curls behind her ear. “There is a peace to these woods, a sensibility lost by being in the city, or even in a village. Many people lose their connection to the natural world. The only place where the spirit can be free. Except maybe when reading a good book.”
“Is that why you visit Sir Nygell’s?”
“In part. Reading strengthens my mind while also putting it at ease. Sometimes my passion for nature and the written word converge, which is when I grow most excited to lose myself in that bookstore.”
“Oh, pray tell. Any volumes of interest you can recommend?”
“Hmmm, for a fellow traveler and bookworm such as yourself? A delightful question. I’ll need time to consider it.”
Dawkin smirked, waiting for Cora to offer him a title he had yet to read.
“Have you ever considered being one?” Cora asked instead.
“What?”
“A Lost Soul.”
“Me? Why ever would you ask?”
“No reason, other than we just passed a lot of those fellows.”
“Still, I mean, your question seems so –”
“You think yourself above them?’
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you’ve never looked at the whole of your sins and thought, ‘I need to atone for this one.’”
“I didn’t say that, either. As for the Lost Souls, I admire their level of faith. Such dedication is admirable. It’s only that . . .”
“Go on.”
Mar, this woman knows no boundaries. “It’s a waste.”
“Of?”
“Everything. I find the whole notion of atonement a bloody, bloody mess. Consider the average faithful Marlish citizen, who spends his life trying to do what is right. Or hell, consider the whole of humanity for that matter. We strive for good works and strong faith our entire lives, only to be damned by actions and faults which make up a smidge of our time here on earth? Our one percent of errors wipe out the ninety-nine percent of things we do well? As if the blemish defines the enormity of ourselves. Tis a waste, I believe.”
Lady Cora burst into laughter, throwing her head back so that her hood fell back to her shoulders.
“Foolish, I know.”
“On the contrary. Brilliant. I’ve heard abbots and bishops go on and on about the meaning of Mar’s will, including his perspective on sin. They bore me to no end with their references to The Papyr, quoting scripture as though they have some understanding of life, which they don’t. You, on the other hand, give a refreshing take on an ancient dilemma.”
“Which is?”470Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo5VD2ftmTO
“How to talk of religion and not put your audience to sleep.”
Dawkin smirked. He glanced at Lady Cora, who turned to him at the same time, so their eyes met. No sooner did he look at her when a golden curl parted from behind her ear, to bounce against the side of her left cheek.
Suddenly mindful of his stare, Dawkin turned his head.
Fool, fool, fool. Am I red?
“Are you blushing?” Cora asked.
Damn it to hell. “The long ride has me working up a sweat. Tis all.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The last utterance made Dawkin even more self-conscious as he clipped his heels into his steed to trot ahead. In response to the gap now between them, Cora started to whistle a tune as she gave the reins of her mare a hearty snap to catch up to him.
She needn’t ride far, for at the bend of the road, Dawkin pulled up on his mount to pause.
“What? What is it?”
A towering Marlish ash tree split the path before them. Dawkin recognized the fork in the road. But from where?
Right.
He turned to Cora. “Would you mind a detour?”
She replied with a raised brow, though not at all unbecoming to her.
“I have an errand . . . No, a debt. To an old friend. It won’t take long. Plus, we can stretch and rest a while. In a manner befitting my lady.”
“Why, Sir Jameson, you wouldn’t be seeking to dishonor me.” A smile, as wry as they come, crept onto Cora’s lips.
“The thought has never crossed my mind, not even with your present mention,” Dawkin replied, proud his face had not reddened as before.
“So it seems. As you wish.” Lady Cora looked to the fork before them. “Which way?”
“So, this is what you had in mind with ‘a manner befitting . . .’” Lady Cora coughed, the heavy stench of must overwhelming her.
Not exactly. Dawkin eyed the black mold inhabiting the crack in the stone wall beside him. To say it was a solitary blemish would have been a barefaced lie. Moss crowded those gaps and splits by the windows even though most had been shuttered. Cobwebs claimed every corner they passed as a dour-faced servant decades past her prime, Lady Agnes, led them through the hallway. The flame of her candle served as their guide, moving past the streaks of dappled light peeking in from the poorly-thatched roof.
Cora burst into another hacking fit. Agnes halted.
“Are you going to continue on with that racket?” she uttered through her three remaining teeth.
Delightful. Since his youth, she had served Har-Kin Furde. Even back then, she had struck him as a salty thing with all the manners of a backcountry wench.“Are the baron’s quarters nearly this astringent?”
“A-what?”
“Oh, for the love of . . . Just lead us to His Liege.”
“That’s a where I was taking you, before all the commotion.” She twisted to continue on her way, with nary a consideration towards whether they followed her or not.
“This friend of yours, I hope he’s worth this drudgery,” Cora said.
“He is. And more,” Dawkin replied.
“Well, now I have to meet him.” The Lady straightened, fighting the urge to hack once more.
Their haggard guide eventually paused atop a stairwell, where a large hall lay with a fireplace at the far end. There, embers smoldered, their center pierced by an iron poker held by the lord of the har-kin. The soft light from the hearth fell all about him and the chair in which he sat, revealing only the silhouetted left side of his profile.
“Me lord, you have guests. This one says he knows you, by way of your son –”
His servant paused as the baron lifted his finger. Though several dozen feet away, Dawkin noted it shook.
The servant motioned to her liege with her candle holder, turning her back on them without awaiting further orders from her master. Dawkin edged closer to the fire as Lady Cora trailed, allowing him the space she felt he needed.
“Baron?” Dawkin ventured. “Baron Ralf. Tis me.”
“My boy?”
Dawkin stopped. Baron Ralf turned to lean over the arm of his chair. He searched the whole length of Dawkin, from top to bottom, eagerly seeking to recognize him.
Dear Mar. The hollowness of his soul struck Dawkin, an unholy union bequeathed by age. The innocence of a doe-eyed child coupled with the creased shell of the once-mighty man he knew. Those bear-claws of hands he had believed capable of crushing stone tremored, their motion reverberating up their host to the base of his thick neck. His head had shed the remnants of its mane save for a few strands of gray, wisps like those of the dying coals before him.
“My Lord . . . Do you know me?”
“My boy?” Ralf repeated. “My son?”
Tarnation, he thinks I’m Everitt –
“Adequin, come closer. Let me have a look at you.”
Dawkin froze. He glanced over his shoulder at Cora. Reading him and his concern, she pulled the collar of her cowl closer around her neck, as unsure as Dawkin of how to proceed.
“Adequin, come.”
Dawkin obliged. He inched before the hearth, so close the faint heat bathed him. In its warmth, he knelt before the baron. Ralf gently caressed his cheek.
“My son . . .” A tear cascaded down his cheek. “Tis been so long. An ocean of time. Why?”
“I, I . . . I have been away, serving my kingdom. In your name, our har-kin’s name, Father.”
“Right, this war. By Mar, will it ever end? So many good men lost. Like Baron Marvynn. Or even lords like Oweyn, who never seemed the same since he returned. All the rest, though not lost, scatter the continent fighting for the sake of Marland.”
“Aye.”
“Mayhaps Artus’ son can make some headway in Afari, put to rest this longstanding conflict for good. Remind me, have you met the King? Admere?”
“Audemar.”
“Yes, you’ve got the right of it. You know him?”
“Yes. Very well.”
“Good, good. His father is a bit stale for my taste though I remember in my younger days . . . What, what is it?” Baron Ralf paused upon seeing a contained smile twist on Dawkin’s lips.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Dawkin said, as the off remark about his grandfather put him at ease.
“Oh, well as I was saying, I saw King Artus lead many a battle against the odds. So if the young monarch has the capability of his father and the gift of youth, well, I dare say we stand a chance to see the end of this war.”
“King Audemar will do well to end it.”
“Then lads like you can return to their manors to settle down. Marry. Sire a grandson or two.” The old lord winked, satisfied with himself.
Dawkin glanced over his shoulder, not sure if Cora would take the chance to introduce herself. Baron Ralf, noticing his stare, leaned over the arm of his chair to peek into the shadows.
“Oh,” he said, picking up on the outline of the lady. “I seem to have spoken a tad late.” Ralf turned his attention back to Dawkin. “Is she . . . you know . . .”
“I am Lady Cora, my lord,” she replied with a curtsy. “It is an honor to meet your acquaintance.”
“No, my lady. The honor is mine.” Baron Ralf stood from his chair. Dawkin sprang to his feet to help him. Ralf waved him off as he stepped forward to take Cora’s hand and offer a gracious peck. “My manor is yours.”
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Lady Cora replied.
“My boy, where are your manners? Having a beauty like this stand in the dark while we banter. Offer her a chair.”
“Yes, sire.” Dawkin scanned the room to settle on a stool, which he pulled to place beside the lord’s chair. He motioned to the squat seat as Cora took to it. Even in low light, the mischievous grin on her lips did not escape him.
“My Mar, you’re as bad as your younger brother,” Ralf went on as he settled back into his seat. “Where is Everitt anyway? Probably attacking the chickens again with some makeshift sword.”
“I will check on him later,” Dawkin assured him.
“So, Lady Cora, please forgive this old man for his memory. ‘Tis not what it used to be.”
“Pardon?”
“I swear we’ve met, though for the life of me, I can’t put a finger on when or where. Tell me about your family. What kin claims you?”
“Oh, I’m of Har-Kin –”
“– Mallory,” Dawkin interjected. “A distant second cousin of Baron Gale.”
“Ah, that old lord is still swimming. Well, then, Marland stands a chance at this war. Gale the Narwhale we used to call him. A true sailor, that one. He could swim all day and emerge from Mar’s sea to take a sword and fight.”
“With a reputation like that, tis no wonder how Uncle Gale earned his moniker,” Cora added.
“Aye, is true. So my lady. Is this visit a prelude to a . . . union?”
Lady Cora twisted away, blushing. In truth, Dawkin fought the urge himself.
“Is that a ‘yes’?” Ralf inquired.
“No. I fear we are not there, quite yet,” Dawkin replied.
“Pity. Some grandsons would do this manor some good.”
“Tell me, sire. How long has your har-kin inhabited these lands?” Cora asked.
“Oh, well, it seems my son hasn’t told you much. Shame on him. This castle once served as the outpost to the western edge of our lands. It started out merely as a tower before more defenses were raised during the beginning of the Century War. Though how quickly it has come to disrepair baffles me.” Baron Ralf scanned the ceiling before his gaze searched out the rest of the hall.
“Well, it is a fine manor, indeed.” Lady Cora lowered her shoulder as she looked around with his lordship before her eyes found Ralf and Dawkin. “I hardly knew such luxury. My distant relation to the Mallorys – along with the stubbornness of my father – meant we roamed the countryside as he looked for work.”
“Oh? What did he do?”
“A tad of everything, though his particular specialty was as a sawyer.”
“Ah! Good man. The kin of Baron Gale has always produced fine woodmen, including sawyers. An honorable profession.”
“One could say that.”
“Adequin,” Ralf leaned in towards Dawkin. “Do you remember when we hosted those builders at Manor Furde?”
“Oh, well, I don’t seem to recall –”
“Yes, yes, you do. King Artus issued a decree asking the kins and har-kins for their aid in building the latest round of ships. A squall had claimed much of the fleet moored across the sea, so he needed replacements in haste. A manor to the north . . . Oh, what’s their name? Anyway, they sent a host of carpenters along with their apprentices down the road in answer to the call. Trouble was the lot brought their families with them. How one har-kin could claim so many builders still baffles me. Still, they came from that nobleland to aid the King, so when they crossed into our estate, I took them in. They stayed all but a night and a day. ‘Twas long enough for this one though . . .”
Ralf winked at Dawkin, a twinkle settling in his eyes. Dawkin waited.
“You remember,” Ralf insisted.
“What?”
“The girl.”
“Girl?”
“One with light hair, though not as golden as that of our present company.”
“I –”
“Oh, you shouldn’t play coy, my son. It happened so long ago this one hardly has reason to be jealous.”
“I agree. Whatever transpired occurred ages ago.”
“Still, you should remember. The love-struck looks you two shared across the banquet hall. The whispers she shared with her sisters. Then how the riding master caught you two in the stables.”
“I think, I mean . . .”
“You have to remember your first woman. Honestly, how could you forget, Adequin . . .”
Baron Ralf paused. He stared at Dawkin, his eyes suddenly empty, as though the soul behind them had been robbed and replaced by stone.
Dawkin froze. He knew what the look meant.
Realization.
He had seen it before, in his grandfather. Mostly in his right mind, Artus nonetheless suffered rare bouts of memory lapse, which transported him back to the reality of a time long since passed. In his case, such episodes lasted but minutes. Yet upon their end, Artus would find himself returned to the present, with the shock of the occurrence causing a mixture of panic and embarrassment. In one instance, Dawkin stood present to witness the brief transition between forgetfulness and consciousness.
A pitiful sight it had been. Now, he counted himself fortunate it had not turned his grandfather into someone like the broken soul before him.
“You . . . You aren’t . . .” Tears swelled from Ralf’s eyes.
“I am not he,” Dawkin confessed.
“I . . . Get out.”
“My Lord, I am sorry.”
“Begone.”
“Forgive me. But I bear news from your other son, Everitt.”
“Leave, you devil!”
“Certainly, you must –”
“You are no king of mine, Prince Jameson! You let your father die. Murdered. In your own castle. What kind of royal allows that?! I’ll tell you — a worthless man. No, a shell of a man. A louse!” Baron Ralf rose to his feet, nearly falling over. Dawkin moved in to brace him only to be met by his hard hands, which shoved him away. “Out! Out!”
Lady Agnes returned with a candle in hand, along with a young lad and a portly woman at her side. The three, stirred by the raucous cries, stood by as Dawkin collected Cora from her seat. Baron Ralf, for all the frailty he showed before, had shed his slight demeanor. He tossed his chair across the hall, where it crashed against an endtable, sending it toppling. He flailed about, throwing everything in his path until his eyes settled on the hot coals within the hearth. With his sense lost, he reached down into the smoldering mass, picking up coals by the handful to launch them at Dawkin and Cora.
His servants rushed to his side. They encircled him, their arms outstretched as they attempted to reason with him. Their efforts, however bold or vain, at least distracted him, allowing Cora and Dawkin the chance to escape.
“‘Tis not your fault.”
Dawkin nodded. He tightened the strap of Cora’s saddle before moving on to his mount. From the stables, they heard nothing of Ralf’s madness. Nonetheless, Dawkin made haste to ready their horses.
Stupid, stupid, fool, Dawkin chastised himself. I should have known better than to humor an old man in such a state.
“You couldn’t have known,” Cora added, as if in response to his self-admonishment.
“Let’s go,” was his only reply.
Dawkin set his foot in his stirrup, about to mount, when the clip-clop of another drew his attention. He pivoted to find a Voiceless - dressed in an unsuspecting doublet and trousers, save for the robins sewn onto his breast – galloping toward him.
“Wonderful,” Dawkin muttered.
The knight pulled his steed to a stop. He dismounted. Scowling at Cora, he shielded his right hand from her. “What are you doing with her?” he asked with his fingers.
Dawkin pulled him around so that the knight’s horse blocked them from Cora’s view. “What is the meaning of this?” he inquired through the language of the hands. “You know better than to come to me as, well, you, unless it’s an emergency.”
“My news is important. But first, what is she doing here?”
“Why does she concern you so? She’s merely a lady, a woman I met in Arcporte.”
“You brought her from Arcporte?”
“No, I met her again when traveling with the Bishop. She needed an escort to Seafall, so –”
“Do not trust her!” the knight clenched his teeth, nearly hissing.
“Are you –”
“She’s one of them.” The knight peeked over the saddle of his horse to ensure Cora could not see their hands. “A sibyl.”
Dawkin arced his head back to chuckle. He stifled himself though, as the knight’s look of concern deepened into a glare.
“She?” Dawkin asked. “A witch?”
“Don’t you see it? Her kind has a certain . . . look about them. She seems peculiar, does she not? As if you’ve never seen the likes of her before?”
“I admit, she is stunning.” Dawkin leaned back, glancing at the lady from around the horse. He caught her calming her mount with the palm of her hand. Her milky skin once more stood out as flawless, as did the curls framing her face. And those eyes . . . “She, she is unlike any woman I’ve seen.”
“There’s a reason for that. Blond hair and eyes such as those come from the Boreal Isles, further north than even Lewmarians care to sail. Legend has it the sibyls of old settled the ridges of our island in the harshest times of winter, in storms so bleak none would venture out to oppose them, as any reasonable man would expect the ice to claim them. ‘Tis never been so, for the sibyls continued to live on, held up in their mountainous enclaves and wooded refuges by way of their magic.”
“Legend is rumor without reason,” Dawkin quipped. “She’s harmless.”
The knight sighed. “Fine. The stories may strike you as foolish. But is it worth disregarding a warning – and putting the Throne at risk – over a maiden?”
Dawkin balked. “I would never put the Throne in peril.”
“So you’ll stop seeing her at once?”
“We’ll see.”
The knight’s hands nearly flurried in another protest before Dawkin interrupted. “How did you even find me anyway?”
“You should know we track your and your brothers’ every move when in transit. Even when you manage to dodge our guard – which annoys us to no end – we always pick up your trail. Eventually.”
“So what tipped you off this round?”
The knight tilted his head toward Cora. “That one. Like I said, there aren’t many around like her.”
“Fair enough. And this dire news you bring?”
“It’s complicated.”
When is it not? “Care to elaborate?”
“I’ll show you.” The knight mounted his steed. Casting a final glare in Cora’s direction, he offered one last condition to Dawkin. “But she stays back.”
For all the cover from the canopy above, the road before them remained clear, the dappled light from the wind-stroked branches offering enough radiance to guide them. Indeed, with the rustling of leaves, the caress of the soft breeze, and the babbling of the creek adjacent to the road, Dawkin almost found himself entranced on the ride. The only detriment to his calm rode up a ways, as the Voiceless knight pressed on through the Marlish idylls.
Dawkin resisted the urge to swivel in his saddle. The pacing of hooves behind him vouched for Lady Cora’s continued presence. Such confirmation – along with the thought of her stewing for being asked to trail behind them – relieved his concern for her, albeit for the moment.
The halting of his horse lobbed him forward. The Voiceless, having stopped his horse before him, pointed. “Behind the bend,” he signed.
Ahead, over the sound of the running creek, came shouts and splashing. The knight pulled his reins to the left, turning his horse to cross the ford. Dawkin, having no time to pose questions, followed. As he did, he motioned to Lady Cora. “Stay, please. We’ll be right back.”
He sloshed through the water after the Voiceless. Coming onto the other side, they traversed a game trail that led through the adjacent woods to a small ridge overlooking the bend of the creek. There, Dawkin saw it.
Peasants. Dozens of them. Servants. Along with a baron and baroness. Even a handful of monks. Plus, wait . . . Was that Low Bishop Jervis?
They plodded through the current, their heads down, searching. Most ran into each other, which led to a shove or a shout before they returned to the quest at hand. A few dug their hands into the water, leading those nearby to rush in and do the same. Desperation ensued for whatever unseen spurred their envy.
And in witness to it all, across the creek from Dawkin and the Voiceless, knelt a dozen Lost Souls.
“In the name of all that is holy,” Dawkin started. “What the hell is this?”
“‘Tis the mania gripping the whole of the country. ‘Fools Fever’ it’s called. Come. You need a closer look.”
They crisscrossed down the ridge to the water’s edge, where they dismounted. While the Voiceless secured the horses, Dawkin waded ankle-deep into the creek. He kept a respectable distance from the subjects, who continued to slosh around, unaware of his presence.
Dawkin bent his head, curious as to what could inspire such madness. At his feet, the water rushed over his boots. Though they remained dry, the cold from the creek seeped into him, sending a chill up his legs through his spine and beyond. He ventured to guess how those before him - soaked through and through by the looks of them – would soon suffer from a long-lasting numbness, one which would claim a foot or leg from at least a few.
Aside from the smooth stones beneath the surface, not a thing caught his eye. He waded further as his guard beckoned to him, clapping.
“Your Majesty,” the Voiceless signed once he had Dawkin’s attention. “Not so deep.”
“I’m fine,” Dawkin insisted, though the rush of the current slowed his pace. With the water now just beneath his knees, he paused. Those in the tributary still made a mess of the water, as though salmon spawning for the first time.
Then, turning back to the creekbed before him, he saw it — a glint from the water. As quickly as it came, it vanished. Dawkin bent his knees slightly, narrowing his eyes when he saw it again. This time he held the sight in his view as he leaned in for a better look.
Gold.
His eyes widened. He plunged his hand into the water, his fingers slow to approach the treasure lest they lose it in the current. No more significant than a thimble, Dawkin plucked the nugget from the creek. It shone for him once more as he raised it before his face.
“There! He’s got one!”
The scream shattered his concentration. No sooner did he lower his gaze when the baron in the creek tackled him, sending both of them into the frigid shallows.
Though not deep, the charge still sent Dawkin below water, as the wind had been knocked out of him. He flailed as the whole of his body soaked through. Overwhelmed by frigidity, robbed of breath, he directed his panic toward the baron. His open palms wrapped into fists against the lord who held him under for an eternity, before lifting him out to bellow.
“It’s mine, I tell you! Mine –”
Blood spurted from the baron’s mouth, a gloved fist having connected with his jaw. His unconscious body collapsed into the creek as his wife rushed to his side.
“Ahhh! How could you?!”
The Voiceless ignored her shrieks as he reached for the King. Dawkin – gasping for air and his senses – readily took his hand. As he rose, his legs wobbly, the baroness heaved her husband from under the current.
“You bastard!” she yelled, swiping at the Voiceless with one hand, which glanced off his thigh. The knight forgave the slight, grinning as the baron slumped from the woman’s one-handed grip to reclaim the water.
Others gathered around the baron and baroness, less to help and more to search for whatever nugget had led to his incursion. As the mass moved in to slosh through their small section of the creek, Dawkin emerged, shouldered by the Voiceless.
Lady Cora, drawn by the commotion, descended from her vantage point on the ridge.
“By Mar! Look at you!” she exclaimed.
“I’ve fared worse,” Dawkin proclaimed, even if he couldn’t remember when.
“Come,” she insisted, ducking under Dawkin’s other arm to support him.
They guided him away from the creekbed, to a stand of birch trees where the Voiceless had tied the horses. Dawkin mounted his steed while the Voiceless helped Lady Cora atop his. The knight led them back up the ridge, glancing toward the hysteria still unfolding in the creek.
For his part, Dawkin resisted the urge to glance at the chaos – until he mounted the ridge. As the Voiceless and Cora rode ahead of him, towards where Cora stashed her horse, he offered a fleeting look at the creek.
The baron and baroness floundered toward the nearest shoreline. The rest of the folk meandered through the current, their momentary frenzy having receded, replaced by the more steady delirium of resuming their watery pursuit.
And looking on – unmoved by the baron’s madness, or anyone else’s – knelt the Lost Souls. Remaining on their knees, their hands clasped before them, in dense, grim-stained robes. Their position the same, with no difference in their appearance, save one.
Now, they didn’t look toward the creek. Instead, they directed their eyes at Dawkin.470Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmlkQNa8w8R
