Chapter Four

  “Hills Have Eyes”

  As I reflect on what little I’ve relayed to you so far, I believe we’ve come to a moment of increasing hypocrisy.

  I knew this was going to happen. I'd just hoped we’d be further along. That maybe you’d overlook it when it finally came to pass because you liked me.

  But then again, if you are still reading, then it probably isn’t for my health. It's for yours.

  What am I talking about?

  If you remember just a little bit ago when I mentioned that the key to surviving is to avoid the areas of certain death. That this is paramount.

  Things like dragon lairs and bandit camps. Madrigal dens and arachnid nests.

  Mordred Barrows would without a shadow of a doubt fall under the label certain death.

  And yet, here I sit, contemplating entering the damn place.

  This story could be over sooner than I thought.

  Wait! This might be what people mean by learning from the mistakes of others. Yes. That is what this is. It makes me think worse of you, dear reader, that you would wish me ill. Of course, this conclusion comes without any ounce of input from you but so it goes.

  And to be honest, I wouldn’t be much good if I hadn’t been through the kind of things I’m warning you about. I guess I’ve done this to myself.

  After failing to formulate a proper plan, I found myself staring up at the stars, contemplating what it would be like to be skewered by a broadsword. I’d heard the barrow lords carried them. Dull and deadly. And no, a blade did not need to be sharp when it was swung by a life-envying, rage-filled being of utter repulsion.

  That thing would sink into my chest like a warm butter knife.

  I wore no armor. Only a year-old set of robes I’d picked up from a baron. The man had left it out on his front porch as I’d been passing by. Or had it been in his study next to his safe?

  Anyways, it had mild magical properties. The chief of which was that it masked the wearer's smell. It kept the hounds off my back. Quite literally sometimes.

  And all those wicked little mages in Humphrey’s court had one less way to track me.

  I tried to take a mental inventory of my things, but my mind didn’t want to. It wanted to continue down the track of self-immolation. It was wondering about things like self-preservation and how long it takes one to go mad if buried alive. Assuming you don’t die of lack of air.

  But I wanted to know if I’d left an unopened bottle of wine in my cache. Unlikely but…

  I snapped my fingers. It took a second longer than expected but a sloshing bottle of red liquid dropped into my hand. It had a picture of a stag on it. From the north, then. I couldn’t remember for the life of me when I’d picked it up. I popped the cork. It smelled like cider and ashleaf. Definitely from the north.

  It felt like fire going down.

  And it made me wish I’d set up my tent before taking a swig.

  So, I did the smart thing and kept drinking.

  It was a weird thing. When I drank, all my fears and worries just melted away. Which was why when, an unknown time later, I had a brilliant idea.

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  A brilliantly stupid idea.

  I needed an accomplice.

  And no, Rory would not do. For one, he’s annoying. And for two, he can’t wield a sword. Or a shield for that matter. And there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d go into a cavern or cave of any sort. He was a high sky bird and wouldn’t hear of it.

  I chewed my cheek.

  The nearest tavern was…about fifteen miles southwest. I could do that easily in a day. Then it would be another twenty to the Mordred Barrows. That would take longer. There weren’t many roads into that country.

  I’d need to jump into the lake in the morning too. This northern wine was a punch to the gut. Not to mention my lack of sleep would make those fifteen miles feel like twenty-five.

  The moon was right above me when a chill that had nothing to do with the small breeze washed over me.

  My body went rigid for about half a second and then remembered that it was drunk and slumped back.

  But the ring on my left pinky finger grew very warm very quickly. I immediately snapped my fingers, and my Cerulean dagger fell into my hands. The silver-blue metal gleamed in the moonlight and the slightest hum of its power lingered.

  Not for nothing, but I can’t quite tell you what it does yet. Secrets that could save my life and all that. Can’t have that information just floating around out there.

  But because I’m such a gracious host, I’ll say that what appears to be a dull blade, is in fact, a dull blade. You really thought I was going to just spill it. Psssh.

  The ring grew warm to the point of annoyance and then died down, growing cold. It was one of six I wore on my hands. Of which I will also neglect to explain.

  Except for the pinky ring.

  It protects me from those who are using spells to track me. The warmer it grew the more magic it was using to combat the tracking spell. Which meant someone was close. I’d gotten quite good at estimating distance based on how warm it got.

  The person tracking me now was within twenty miles. Give or take. Which meant I would be sleeping with the knife.

  I invited the shadows to wrap further around us. Or I tried to. They weren’t so interested. They will listen to me on occasion. But only the friendly ones. Which these weren’t.

  I found a little sleep. Probably four hours, based on how groggy I was when a ray of sunshine hit me in the face. I rolled over and almost gutted myself with the knife.

  It only half-surprised me that no slaughter bugs had burrowed into my flesh in the night. Or that no knife had either.

  My dreary brain briefly remembered how the pinky ring had gone off.

  The northern wine had really gotten to me.

  I got up to stretch and saw that Rory was picking through his feathers.

  “How’d you sleep?” I asked.

  Whoops. Sometimes even my better nature reared its ugly face.

  “Because you were snoring again.”

  There, that was better.

  He shot me a quick glance and went back to his fluffing.

  “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the dirt patch,” he said a few minutes later.

  It was a little late and I told him told him so.

  To which he said, “You had a nightmare again last night.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

  Only then did my headache kick in. Felt like someone was pick-axing into my skull. Just another day in the life of an intrepid mage.

  I stripped and walked into the water. Yes, the rings stayed on but that was the only thing. No, I won’t paint you a picture with words. Except to say that the morning sun felt good and the water wasn’t cold enough to make my chest heave.

  The sickly feeling seeped from my bones into the water as I floated on my back, staring up at the scooting clouds. They looked like giant hornbills snapping at their prey.

  My mind drifted to who I might find in the tavern to join my quest.

  Which poor sap was desperate enough?

  It would have to be a drunkard. That much was obvious. Perhaps someone with low moral fiber. Or someone that hated their profession. Or even better, their family.

  I know that might be unethical to seek a person like this out, knowing they would most likely die. But I myself am desperate. Anyways, their prize would be gold and silver beyond their wildest dreams.

  It would have to make do.

  You may wonder if it was greed or even some kind of power that I was seeking. It's a fair question, given the lengths I would go to achieve my goal.

  To that I’d say…maybe?

  I didn’t really know at this point. I was just…going. It wasn’t some heroic ideal, you know this already. It was a desire to disappear. To cheat death and all those long fingers of Humphrey’s. The wanted posters and bounty hunters. They would never stop.

  And Humphrey was going to live a long life. He’d seen to that.

  Nor would the bad memories and broken promises. Losing a war does that to you.

  I knew I couldn’t outrun those either, but I’d prefer to live with them in quiet solitude. Not as prey.

  I realized dimly that someone was talking to me as the world slowly came back to focus, dragging me along with it.

  And it wasn’t Rory.

  He knew better than to bother me in these moments of utter relaxation.

  I lifted my head out of the water and saw a blurry figure on the bank. Something glistened by their side.

  A sword my numbed mind told me. Duh.

  The water cleared from my ears, and I heard an angry, youthful voice say, “How embarrassing. Not even caught with your pants down, just off. This must be your unlucky day.”