“Enough,” Karsef said, panting. He’d been sparring with Asar, primarily using his left hand. The right hand was out of its sling now, but it was still sore. He did a few easy bouts with the healing arm, but wanted to keep up his skill with his left, as much as was possible.
Ren sipped his canteen again, the small wooden nozzle filling his mouth with bitter water. Their little camp was nothing but a ring of sleeping cots and trampled dirt. It was past time to roll up their beds and The duelers paced around one another, breathing heavily.
Woodro chuckled. “Will you spar with me at least?” he asked, looking at Ren. Karsef had chosen Asar over Woodro, saying that Woodro didn’t know how to go easy.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Ren said. He tipped the canteen to his friend, and then patted the folded letter in his pocket, the blackmail of Axar.
He suspected that the next day, or the day after, would bring their group to that little village of Olston, and another week or so would bring them to Vagren once again. The duellers dried off with sweat-stained towels and the camp was quickly packed up.
The rolling hills of the Raderan highlands blurred together after a time. Each day brought only a certain amount of variety between them—a rocky ridge here, a brook-split vale there. As they ventured, they heard the horning call of a Vorin buck, the hoofs of running Oryx, the cracking of a cedar bark to the needle nose of a woodpecker.
That evening, they gathered around a campfire together, stretching out sore legs into uncomfortable postures. The twilight was splayed across the bumpy horizon in sepia tones of orange and brown, an auburn glow that made Karsef’s sandy brown hair look red. The mercenary nursed his healing arm and said what was on all of their minds. “I’m damned tired of all this walking. We’re sailors, not infantry. Smugglers not revolutionaries.”
Renado was still eating a rabbit’s leg, tearing dark, oily meat off of a grey bone. He wiped his chin as he finished chewing and muttered, “It’s just a season. This is what we do now, so that one day, maybe, we can do the rest again.”
“Here, here,” Woodro said, lifting his canteen. “The glory days.”
Asar chuckled. “Your glory days, my friend, were after our smuggler days. The day we lost the Dispatch.”
“Oh, the Dispatch,” Woodro replied. “Remember the fire?”
“Here we go again…” Renado said, under his breath, and the others started to laugh. As Woodro fell silent, sarcastically pouting, the fire crackled loudly and a few sparks lifted into the ever paling sky. The brown-scale colours were fading, and the twinkle of watery stars gleamed through a few of the thinner clouds.
Karsef sighed again. “I wonder what happened to Zashee and Jendar.” He flexed his fingers back and forth, stretching them out as much as he could each time and grimacing.
“You’re assuming,” Asar said, smiling and leaning over, “that something happened to them. Maybe they travelled to Lo Mallago, or High Raena. Maybe they started families.”
Woodro, Karsef, and Ren stared at Asar blankly.
“Nah, you’re probably right,” Asar said, and they started to laugh. It was a sad laugh. They’d known Zashee and Jen as well as they knew each other now. They had all been brothers, but the smoke over Sheld had spelled an end for that. And Ren’s decision to make more smoke.
As they quieted, Ren took a sip of his canteen—old ale now, not water. He knew what Karsef meant, when he first said he was tired of all the walking. What, by the gods, were they doing out here? He tossed the stripped grey bone into the fire and watched the grease sizzle.