They caught Yorin. The overseer questioned him, had him beaten. Now he's down here with us again. I see him staring at me sometimes, over his bruised lips and blackened eyes. The look in his eyes scares me. There's so much anger there, I know he'll kill me if he ever catches me alone. I don't know why. I did nothing to him. Maybe he and Isen were friends. Maybe Eska cut him loose because of me. Maybe Yorin was the one who cut my throat. I must keep my distance. I have to hide from him. I can't let him finish the job.
I have to hide my paper and my charcoal from the other scabs. I can't allow anyone else to find them. But that's easy now. There's so few of us left I can sneak away to sit alone in the darkness. Like a shadow at night, invisible. I sleep on my own, eat on my own. No one notices me and I hate it. No one but Yorin notices me. I've been forgotten. Not even the overseer pays me attention anymore. I'm useless. And I'm mute, and the wound on my neck never stops hurting.
I love you, Eska.
I hate you, Eska.
I write them both to see which is true. I'm not sure I can tell anymore.
Chapter 6
There is a sound of a bow being drawn. Some are like the creaking timbers of a ship on the water, bold and unmistakable; others are more like a whisper, the promise of swift death. This one was more like the latter and it came from behind. I froze, one foot barely touching the ground.
"Don't move," said a gruff voice from somewhere in front of us. I knew then that we were surrounded.
It was mid-morning with a high sun, beams of light streaming through the canopy. My breath steamed as it passed my lips, and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled.
"Stay close," Hardt hissed. He was frozen to the spot, head twitching about as he searched for the source of the voice.
Tamura was further ahead but he stopped as well. He was staring at the exact spot where a tall man stepped out from behind a tree, just a short distance ahead of us. Huntsmen have a way of stepping in the forest that masks their movement; it is a trick I have never managed to learn. This one was silent as calm waters, despite having a fair belly beneath his jerkin. He held no bow, but I counted three knives and a small axe hanging from his belt. They all looked like they could be thrown, and I doubted he would miss. Some people have that air of competence about them. It's all in the way they stand, somehow both at ease and ready to spring into action. Back then I certainly had no such air about me; I was rigid as rock and shivering from the cold.
"Fair warning, we have you dead to rights," this voice was from behind. I glanced over my shoulder to see a much smaller man, both in height and girth, with a drawn bow trained on Hardt. "No threatening moves, please." In all my years and everything I have witnessed I don't think I have ever seen a more unruly, unkempt beard than that on the man with the bow. I wondered how so much hair couldn't affect his aim.
A third man stepped out from behind the first. That last man looked older than the others, with grey shocks of hair on the side of his head and a grimace with every step he took. He was huge, maybe a little smaller than Hardt, but big all the same. Go wondering in the woods, and you're likely to meet huntsmen and woodsmen, and neither live easy lives. They are what the forest makes of them. I suppose the same could be said of all people; we are what our environment forges us into. Well, I was forged by my recent experiences in the Pit, and one thing it certainly made me, was ruthless.
Hardt held up his hands. Maybe he was trying to look peaceful, show the men he carried no weapons. The problem with being as big as Hardt is that you look even bigger with your arms held high, and big men often appear threatening even when they're harmless compared to the small woman they are standing beside.
"We mean no harm, friends," Hardt said. He looked at me, clearly expecting me to follow his example. I didn't.
"I don't remember us being friends," said the man with the grey hair. His accent made all the words a lazy drawl. I took him for a woodsman, he had the kind of brawn that is used to swinging something heavy at something hard. I had seen many just like it down in the Pit, what with all the digging we did. "And it's not every day we find strangers in the woods. Especially not an odd group like yourselves."
"Nothing so odd about my family," Hardt continued, his hands still up. "Unless you count my father, Tamura. He's got a touch of the old age. Mind isn't what it used to be."
Tamura let out a giggle. "The mind is what we make of it. Too sharp and it cuts, too dull and it rusts. Bends too far and it can break. Shattered, like a mirror. Have you ever tried to put a mirror back together?"
"Enough, old man. Quiet now." I think it was the first lie I ever heard Hardt tell. I remember it seemed wrong somehow, as though he should always tell the truth. I wonder if that was because I have always seen him as the only true and just person I have ever known. I decided to go along with his ruse; after all, he was far more worldly than I.
"Family, huh?" drawled the grey-haired man. I felt eyes turn my way. My skin bristled.
They won't believe it. They're going to kill you all. It had been so long since Ssserakis had spoken to me directly I almost believed the thought my own. But I recognised the horror now and it wouldn't manage that trick a second time. Still, the words did feel like they had the stench of truth about them.
"What are you running from?" asked the man with the grey hair.
"We're not running from anything," Hardt said. "Just looking for a place to settle down. New town and new roots, is what my father used to say. He moved us around a lot. Before he lost his mind, that is. Now I guess it's me moving us around." Hardt kept to his ruse with a tired smile and a jovial chuckle. I could see the play he was making, from my time gambling with dice and cards down in the Pit. When caught in a bluff there are two options available; you can either fold or double down. Often times it's better to back out, count your losses and be happy you weren't taken for the whole lot. However, if the woodsmen caught us in the lie, I couldn't see any way it would end well for us.
I inched my hand towards my belt, feeling for my snuff pouch. I have to admit there are benefits to standing next to a person as large as Hardt; he tends to draw all the attention away from the real danger.
"What is it? Debt? Crime?" The older man continued. "The three of you don't look like you own much. You must be running from something."
"Prison rags," said the fat huntsman, his drawl a match to his friend's. "They're wearing what those down in the Pit do. It's been a while since I ranged that far, but I once saw a bunch of prisoners being sent underground. They were all wearing the like, though not quite as ragged."
Well, there goes the lie. Either they kill you now, or send you back. The problem with having a voice in the back of your mind is it's very hard to shut it up. The other problem is that it sometimes speaks the truth when you'd rather hear a lie.
"Alright, it's true," Hardt said, taking a step forward.
"NOT another step!" shouted the older woodsman. "If he takes one more step, Deryl, you put an arrow in his back."
My left hand found the snuff pouch tied to my belt and I started working my fingers inside. I could see the older man and the fat one talking quietly, sparing us glances, but trusting in Deryl to watch us from behind with his bow. No doubt they were deciding what to do with us. We were escaped prisoners from a prison where only the worst criminals are sent, they were probably thinking it was easier to kill us than capture us. Or maybe there were already posters up in the local villages, my likeness scrawled on paper, the word WANTED underneath. I had no doubt the overseer was hunting me still. How little I knew; there were far worse things than him hunting me.