21. Strange Welcome
Chapter twenty-one
Strange Welcome
Imalroc crouched among the treeline that formed a narrow, dark border between two fields, watching the squat red house at the center of the farm.
It was meant to be their safe stop on the path south, but Almatra had not reemerged to give them the signal that they could advance.
She’d vanished inside for longer than he liked.
He glanced back at the band of battleboxers tucked among the shrubbery behind him. Most were young, two were injured although pressing on, and all of them were exhausted. They needed a place to sleep that wasn’t a fucking bramble patch.
Shuffling alerted him to one of them approaching. He wasn’t surprised to see it was Martau. The Western fighter was keen to plunge into any situation with a blade already raised. He was a decent hand with it, too. Imalroc had been glad of his skill when they’d had a run in with the Red Guard.
“She’s been in there a while,” Martau murmured, eyeing the house. “I could go across to see if she needs support.”
“I would wait. Almatra can handle herself.”
“It’s taking longer than usual. That doesn’t worry you?”
One of the Eastern battleboxers, a scrap of a girl with a scar-ravaged face, looked up from where she’d tucked her head against her knobby knees. Imalroc shifted his weight. “I’ll worry about it once there’s a problem,” he muttered.
Martau subsided, but Imalroc could feel the glances both he and the girl kept directing at him. They watched him almost as much as they watched the house. His shoulders tightened, and he resisted the impulse to fidget. Kept his hands loose and relaxed, kept himself balanced in a squat.
He stayed still even when Almatra reappeared, jogging around the corner of the house. Martau shot up, but Imalroc tapped his arm with the Draalish sword. She’d given no signal that it was safe to leave the trees.
She continued her run toward them and reached the trees out of breath, color splotching her narrow face. Imalroc held out a water canteen, and she took a swig. The battleboxers who hadn’t dozed off all shuffled closer, listening.
“We can’t stay,” Almatra said.
His stomach sank, but he kept his expression blank. He was learning that the others looked to him and Almatra for signs of when to panic.
“Isn’t it the sanctuary house?” Martau asked.
“It’s the right place, but they don’t want us.” Almatra shook her head. “They were warned that the Red Guard caught up to another group in the Midlands. The good news is they went down fighting. No survivors, from what I heard.”
Martau gaped at her. “That’s… good news?”
“No one left to give away the safehouse routes. Anyway, they’re spooked.” She jerked her head at the red house. “We can’t stay here, but we’re only a day’s march from crossing into the Southern Felds.”
“Not everyone has a day’s march in them,” Martau said. “The safehouse—”
“Isn’t an option.” Almatra turned a fierce gaze on Martau. “We make for Sol Serene.”
“Our choices,” Imalroc began slowly, “are to leave now and be ready to carry the ones who can’t make that march, or rest here until the sun goes down and then go. I like our chances better with the second.”
Almatra pursed her mouth a moment, but Imalroc saw her take quick stock of the worn-out group strung through bushes behind him. “Alright,” she said gruffly. “Sundown.” She slunk past him to spread the word.
Martau glared at the red house, its walls aglow in the late sunlight.
“They shouldn’t be allowed to just turn us away.
And I wish we hadn’t needed to trade in the horses.
” He sat back heavily in the dirt. “I can’t keep doing this.
Staggering onward, hoping to survive one step to the next. It’s unbearable.”
Imalroc smiled without humor. “Yes, you can. For longer than you think.” He moved away soundlessly, still in a crouch, to check on the others.
They could make it. They had to.
Dawn found them limping onward in a deep, humid forest. A misty rain dampened his cloak and slowly soaked his hair.
Even days of rain and wading through two rivers had failed to wash out the scent of smoke in his clothes.
It clung to his cloak and tunic, summoning memories of the conflagration they’d left burning behind them as they fled Drida.
Imalroc poked a broad leaf aside with the Draalish sword, smiling faintly.
Nothing like turning a battlebox into a bonfire to warm the heart.
He walked toward the rear of their group, keeping an eye on the girl who moved as though sleepwalking, and the man with the gashed leg who kept refusing help. They were far enough behind the others that he couldn’t properly see Almatra at the head of their small brigade. But he heard her shout.
Imalroc barreled toward the sound, hurtling over exposed roots and between vine-guarded tree trunks. Rain plummeted down the gutter of the Draalish blade, already in his hand.
Almatra spun toward him with a wild smile and another whoop. “Welcome to the South, champion!” she cried. She pointed through the thinning trees ahead, and he saw a scattering of rooftops and a single chimney sputtering in the rain. “Good to see you can still run.”
He skidded to a stop just shy of slamming into her, his legs and lungs burning. “Fuck you for that,” he gasped.
She laughed. “Come on, just a bit longer. That place with the little bell tower is a waystation.” She led the way forward with renewed energy, most of their party struggling after her.
Imalroc hung back, sheathing the Draalish sword. “I’ll wait for the other two,” he called.
Something turned in his stomach at the sight of the building.
They’d been trying for so long to get to the supposed safety of these lands, but he had yet to meet any of the people who lived here.
Stumbling over their doorstep covered in grime from days of frantically scuttling through the countryside wasn’t exactly the way he’d imagined his arrival in the South.
He still wasn’t quite prepared when the other two finally made it to the tree he leaned against, but there were no other excuses. And these two needed a chance at medicine and actual rest.
“We’ve crossed.” He spoke to them quietly. “There’s a waystation close that Almatra thinks will take us.”
Finding the building was easy. Knowing what to do from there was not.
No sign of Almatra or the others. There was a large stable to his right, but no stable hands came out to tell them if they could approach the waystation proper, or if battleboxers were relegated elsewhere.
Twin lanterns glittering with everburn flanked the door to the main building.
It was larger than it looked at first, at least two stories high.
Lacy curtains obscured the windows, but he could see light seeping from behind the largest ones on the first floor.
He cleared his throat and waved his hand at the bell tower building. “So. I think this is it.”
Neither the wan girl nor the grim-jawed man spoke. They both just looked at him. Imalroc tried not to glare in return. They wanted him to go first, like a fucking sacrifice into the battlebox. “I suppose we just… walk up to the door,” he mumbled.
He tightened his braid, pulled his shoulders back, and marched toward the entrance. Behind him came the crunch of cautious footsteps.
No one answered his knock, but the door tugged open easily when he tried it. Light spilled golden and warm over the threadbare rug. A worn staircase dominated the entryway. Through another set of doors propped wide, he saw overstuffed chairs and benches drawn up around tables.
“Fair morning, sir!” A boy with a huge pitcher in hand and a long apron sprang lightly down the stairs. He stopped in front of Imalroc, still wearing the polite sort of smile servants could paint on in a flash.
Imalroc twitched a glance over his shoulder to see who the boy was addressing, and then realized. “Oh. Uh, fair morning.”
“Will it be a bite to eat, or would you and your companions like to take rooms and freshen up first?” The boy did an admirable job of not letting his gaze linger on the rainwater dripping from Imalroc’s braid onto the floor.
“I… uh… don’t—”
“Those beetlebrains are with us, Shel!” Almatra shouted from the other room.
The boy’s polite smile split into a delighted grin. “I should’ve realized! Come through here; you’ll want to wash up and then we’ll get you food.”
It wasn’t a proper bath, but it was still a welcome relief to rinse as much of the muck away as he could and squeeze out his hair.
When they were ready, the serving boy led them back to the dining hall.
The waystation didn’t seem to have any other patrons, or at least none of them were awake yet, but Imalroc still felt twitchy as he situated himself on a bench.
It was too calm and quiet, and too impossible to believe they might not have to run any further.
Food provided a welcome distraction, especially as it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d seen before. He poked at a bowl of yellowy soup. It swam with surprisingly crunchy red leaves and thick potato wedges.
Martau, seated on the bench opposite, sniffed at his glass. “What is this?” he murmured.
Imalroc caught a whiff of blackberries, and his lips twitched. “Blackberry wine. It’s good.” But the memory slipped too quickly to everything else that had passed in Lakara. A vision of sun-flooded forest overtook him, and then the bed at Manolia, sinking beneath combined weight—
He cut the memory off at its knees and buried it.
“By all means, Martau, get drunk at breakfast,” Almatra said. She finished what was apparently her second bowl and scooted onto the bench beside Imalroc. “You and I can’t stay long.”
Before Imalroc could explain that he’d just fucking sat down, thank you very much, Martau looked up, frowning at him. “You’re leaving?”
“I don’t know why I would.” Imalroc shifted to Almatra. “And you’re supposed to be our guide, aren’t you? Help people decide what to do next?”