They wound their way through the cattle pens bordering the tanneries, the poor doomed beasts staring at them from their muck-ridden confines. Beyond, Pocket could hear the dull thud of the maul and the desperate lowing of the soon to be slaughtered. Sir Corc approached a low wooden shed amongst the myriad of outbuildings and leaned near the filthy curtain that served as a door. He whispered something that Pocket did not catch, but the reply was loud enough.

“Come ahead,” said a strangely accented voice.

Sir Corc pushed back the curtain and held it open as Flyn ducked inside. Pocket followed closely behind. He was not surprised to find a dwarf inside. He had seen many since coming to the city. Finding him brushing down a mule inside the shed was a bit odd, but nothing was as shocking as the small, naked girl with wings trapped in a bronze cage hanging from the wall. She looked up when Sir Corc entered and despite her size, Pocket had to take a step back when she yelled.

“Stop staring, you sword-wearing game cock and get me out of here!”

T HIRTEEN

THIRTEEN

“Pains in that tender hide, boy?”

Padric ignored the jibe and the mocking chuckles of the other men that followed, silently cursing Drefan’s sharp eyes. The sour, old warrior must have spied the wince that played across his face when he shifted in the saddle. Almost a fortnight of daily rides and still Padric’s body protested at spending hours astride a horse. His legs had grown stronger and the tight, painful pulling of the previously unknown muscles down the insides of his thighs had lessened mercifully, but the soreness in his back and hips seemed to worsen with each day. The rain only made matters worse. His clothes were soaked through and clung to him, the wet wool rubbing his skin raw where it touched the hard leather of saddle and harness. Still, he never complained outwardly and found he had a natural skill while ahorse, a feeling validated when Kederic granted him permission to accompany the patrols.

He could feel Drefan’s stare, the bastard waiting for a reaction, but Padric would not be baited and focused on the entrance of the crofter’s dwelling. After a moment, Aglaeca emerged from within, sword still in hand and shook his head. Acwellen ran a hand down his face, pulling the rainwater from his beard, then spat onto the flooded ground. With a jerk of his head, he signaled Aglaeca to mount.

“Fled or dead?” Drefan asked whimsically and even without looking Padric could see his slimy grin.

“Both.” It was Banan who answered; his first word of the day and likely his last.