It was cold in the woods. Dark, too, but cold was most of it. The mist was thicker where the trees protected it, but the air was no warmer beneath the sheltering boughs which had prevented the day’s heat from suffusing the earth. Dalliance’s hair was slicked to his face with condensation, beads dripping off his bangs, which he had to swipe out of his eyes, and running down his nose.
His nose hurt to the touch.
He remembered every time he wiped it.
There would be time to wallow later. For now, eyes darting around the torch-lit roadway, every member of their group could honestly say they were performing a vital role.
Part of that was because the group was smaller than expected. Seventeen children in the schoolhouse had dwindled to twelve in the woods.
Cowardice, accidents, and his forgetting that Morality Best was only eleven, as was Cordial Monteberry, for that matter, were to blame. But it felt like an omen.
Plus poor sportsmanship. Rotter had been incensed that Dalliance’s second place counted. That he’d have been twelfth of twelve runners had not apparently been significant—Dalliance was to blame for his loss, and should pay. When nobody had agreed, he’d slunk off home.
In the silence of his own head, Dalliance was glad the other boy hadn’t broken anything when the horse ran him down, but did hope he broke a toe on the way home, the craven.
Did it matter who came, or how many? Well, yes, it really, truly did. One monster can only pay attention to so many spears, clubs, rocks, or what have you. Three more is . . . well. More.
He kicked a rock out of the trail they were following, torch dripping pitch onto the overgrown cobbles.
It echoed as it boomed off the hull of a rotted, hollow log.
“You are going to get us killed, you know that?” hissed Charity from beside him. She’d apparently liked the idea of two archers, and had even brought the training bow along for him. Good thing, too: He'd been too absent-minded to even bring a club, what with the coughing fit and having to sprint just to catch up with the group once Da was done with him.
“Wish I’d got a bow,” whined Woebegone. His cudgel was almost five feet long and almost five inches across at the striking surface.
“He was supposed to get a quiver too,” commented Earnest. “What’s the ammo capacity on that Ettinbough?”
The bigger boy stared sullenly at his cudgel but made no comment.
"Victor's rights for any weapons game," commented Prudence. Her throwing axe was tucked into her belt, being nearly useless, but she at least had one. "He placed in archery, he gets a bow."
Lackey’s regretting wrestling, I bet, Dalliance thought.
The mood was souring. Earnest, who couldn't stand a gloomy silence, broke it with a sudden grin aimed at Prudence. “Where’d your spoon end up?” he asked the broad-featured girl. “You placed, right?”
“Spoon?” asked Dalliance. He was half-and-half sure it was a lie, but he wanted to hear where this was going.
“Sure, prize from the eating contest, yeah?”
Nobody laughed, but there were some smiles in response.
Prudence might have been blushing. It was hard to tell in the torchlight. Her strike to Earnest’s shoulder was visibly heartfelt, though.
“I don’t want to die,” complained Charity, looking around cautiously, voice low. “Let’s not roughhouse, please.”
“Half a mile yet to the sand pits,” reassured Steadfastly Pants from behind them. His club was a bit shorter than Lackey’s. “Been down here before, afore it got settled in.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
“Sorry,” said Earnest, voice low. He wasn’t looking great himself. His own short spear, won in the same contest as Prudence's, bobbed unsteadily in his hands as he walked.
The silence was really weighing on him. They walked for minutes at most before he turned to Steadfastly, imp’s grin in place. “You haul a lot of sand?”
The barrel-chested boy waggled a hand, making broad shoulders ripple with the motion. “Some.”
Dalliance heard a crashing sound in the woods, in the middle distance: perhaps forty feet off the trail.
“Wish Knott were here,” Zenith said.
That got her a round of looks. “Well, he usually knows what to do,” she said defensively.
“I’ll take point,” said Sterling over his shoulder. He was one of the few without a torch—the sword and shield took up both hands. “You’ll be fine.”
He had ringmail, too. Suuuper fair.
Crashing in the woods, closer this time, made Dalliance flinch. “What’s the plan?” he asked, as much to say something as anything else. He directed the question at Sterling, but it was Effie who answered.
Zap! flashed the bolt of Effie’s [Shocklance]. “Me,” she said challengingly. "I'm the plan."
“Well. Alright then,” he said, smiling weakly. The bolt had lit the wood like daylight.
“You’re going to get me killed,” moaned Woebegone.
“I will personally guarantee your safety,” bragged the knight’s son impatiently. “Just stop waggling the light around.”
The dancing lights and shadows in the fog were making Dallience sick. But then again, there were plenty of things to make his stomach roil.
Circe, well, Circuitous Mallow, stepped up beside him. "You look like you're going to shite yourself," she whispered. Everybody could hear her.
"I'll endeavor not to," he managed through gritted teeth. His belly was bubbling, but he couldn't pass gas next to a girl.
"If you need healing, now's more convenient than later," she prodded. A calloused hand landed on the side of his face, like a caress but more clinical. Diagnostic magic.
He gently removed her hand. "Thank you, [Healer]," he said formally. "I'm well."
Circe looked genuinely hurt. He released her hand, which she allowed to fall to her side. "Well . . . I guess let me know when you want me to look at your nose, it's broken."
Of course it was.
"Dalliance?" asked Earnest, shock in his voice. The group had stopped. Twenty-two eyes bored into him.
"It's just . . . ” He activated [Deflect], having no other plan near to hand, “an accident."
"He doesn't know his own strength," said Effie archly. Sterling looked at her questioningly, but said nothing. Dalliance pretended not to see Steadfastly miming picking his nose to the armored boy.
He felt his Wit struggling against Earnest's Charm—and he felt it lose. He felt shame well up, a reluctance to speak up. The cost of the failure.
“Fine. I . . . was hasty. Please heal me, and forgive my boorish manners,” he said, turning to the patiently waiting Circe.
Her hand found his face again. Her breath caught.
A wave of goosebumps passed over his body, and an intense pulse of heat, like looking at a forge fire, but then it was over.
A deep cough welled up inside him, and blood and mucus stained the cobblestones. He felt . . . human. He could take a deep breath.
He looked up to a sea of blank faces, but after a moment, Effie began walking again, and the frozen moment was broken.
"Well. I guess I made the right call getting out of the butts before stuff got rough," Earnest joked.
Charity rolled her eyes.
His friend nearly walked into the sturdy, stationary form of the younger Pants without noticing everybody else was also stopping.
At the edge of the flickering torchlight, Dalliance could see the standing sieves, each with a little rain-shed, and the edges of the broad bowl of the sand pit.
They were here.
Guess the victims.
