Chapter 10

Chapter 10

DAYS BECAME WEEKS, and those weeks blurred into a menagerie of running, hiding, escaping, and running again. They had fled throughout half of Vimiland, seeking a buyer for the Golden Baby, but instead encountered an endless array of people looking to turn them in to Calus Grey. Rory had grown used to his fame preceding him, granting him access to every town (and every bed therein), and was not quite sure how to react to entrances being barred and legs being closed. Well, the legs never really close, he thought triumphantly. At least there was one solace in this mess.

And a mess it was! The trio quickly determined that major cities were definitely out of the question. The vile scum of humanity resided in the lowest spots of major metropolises, but so did the bigger, bolder, more heavily-armed police forces. The same wanted posters that Rory used to covet and blush over were now the bane of his existence. Where once a wanted poster was the pirate’s all-access pass to debauchery, now there lingered bounty hunters and heroes-for-hire, hoping to catch their big score.

After fleeing New Garrison, the party headed west to Liebert, a large city on the edge of the Acreaire Forest. Surely this was to be their salvation, but the city’s proximity to Castletop only made it the worst possible option. The boys barely made it out of the city with their lives, not to mention still carrying the Golden Baby. They moved east and attempted to stay ahead of the manhunt, but at this point it was too late. The major cities were all along the highway system, and news traveled fast via paved roads. Avleron and Purdil were both busts, and from there travel became a great big blur. Journeys that should have taken two days took five, a week’s travel became a fortnight’s adventure, and the road was paved with dread.

Rory was running out of options, Bozius was already beyond the limits of his patience, and Rafule did not have a choice or a say in the matter. His magic had gotten them out of a fair share of predicaments, and—though it pained him to admit it—Rory might be dead or captured if the boy had not been around. The Pirate of Vimiland was strongly considering foreign countries at this point. At least the Grey Callus of Castletop would not have placed wanted posters beyond the borders of Vimiland.

“It’s time to head outside the Knot,” Bozius suggested that morning as they broke camp somewhere in the valley east of the road to Heflirin.

The Knot was the nickname for the Royal Highways, as the outside roads nearly completed a ring with the Crescent Mountains, and the Queen’s Parkway crossed through the middle over the Yuklit River, making was looked like a knot when drawn on a map. The largest cities were dotted along the highway system, and most of the population of Vimiland resided within the Knot. Beyond the limits of the Royal Highways were some unincorporated parts and small towns developed back in the early days of Vimiland’s history (some whose residents carried very anti-Vimiland sentiments). Also outside the Knot was the great body of the Unforgotten Drift, a desert so big that the borders of three countries were lost within its fruitless expanses.

Rory had many reasons to avoid the desert.

“We still have places here that we haven’t visited yet,” Rory spoke, though even he was aware of how distant and non-committal his tone was.

“Where, Rory?” Bozius roared. “Where haven’t we been since we got our hands on this damned stupid baby doll? The Pit was a real treat, there are still two nooses tailored just for us waiting in Heapsworth, Appleton might be missing a guard tower thanks to us, and thanks to you an entire angry mob of townsfolk would love to see our corpses in New Garrison!”

“Thanks to me?” Rory was taken aback. “Don’t blame me, Bozy, that was a team effort.”

“We shoulda left you there!” Bozius blurted.

“And went where, Bozy?” Rory asked. “Sanguan for the man-twin? How about Horncrest? There’s always the road to Castletop!”

“All places I can’t go because of you,” Bozius proclaimed. “Situations you got me into! Why don’t we just go into the Drift, go to Parke, and sell this damned thing to Chaca? Then I can get my damned share and be done with you!”

“Be done with me?” Rory asked. “You don’t mean that!”

“I think I do.”

“Chaca is a last resort, and even then I don’t like it.”

“A last resort?” the buff enforcer questioned. “Rory, where do you think we are now?”

“Bozius, it’s not that bad! We’ve been in worse.”

“When?”

Rory thought for a minute. “How about Overloft? That was a time, huh?”

Bozius’s face turned so red with anger it seemed as if it might erupt into one of Rafule’s spells. “With the hicks? You really want to bring up Overloft now? Is that really where you want to go, Rory?”

“Bozy, you’re just tired, and probably a little hungry,” Rory figured. “Raffy, pass us some Daisy, will you?”

“That’s it,” Bozius cursed, taking the jerky from Rafule and tossing it to the road. “I’m done! I’ve been dragging this trinket of yours around for weeks when we should have very well sold it a long time ago, nobody wants to let us into any town, the closest I’ve come to a woman is seeing the red door of the whorehouse in Maso from a distance, and now I’m eating donkey meat from a boot! I’m done!”

To add to their troubles, the party ran into some bandits while attempting to avoid the main roads, and a stray arrow from a bad shot struck Daisy in the neck, sending the reliable ass to the dirt. By the battle’s end, she had bled out. The trio managed to defeat the bandits, who dropped their bags as they fled—one thief barely escaped, having been charred near to death by Rafule’s magic; the boy had grown quite fond of Daisy. All the thieves had in their two tattered and horrendous smelling bags were some top hats and a few pairs of well-kept boots. Rory gave Daisy her last rites, but as the party had been starving for two days at this point, she was reluctantly chopped into bits and turned into jerky. It took nearly a day to convince Rafule to eat some, and he was still not taking kindly to Rory simply asking for some “Daisy” whenever requesting jerky.

Because the thieves’ bags were so tattered and gross and the saddlebags the mule had carried were filled with what little supplies the party still had, Rory and Company had little choice but to carry the jerky around in the boots the thieves left behind; this put Bozius into a further horrible mood.

“Bozy, why so glum?” Rory asked, gnawing on some jerky. “This is the life! We go where we want, when we want; sleep where we want, with whomever we want; and strike out together on the open road. What could be better?”

“My back, for one,” Bozius snarled. “When are you going to take a turn with this damned thing? And when are we doing what we want when we want? All we’ve been doing is running from Grey’s men, who seem to always be everywhere!”

“In the name of King Robert and under the authority of Lord Grey,” shouted a police figure from the open field east of them, “As well as His Honor, the Mayor of Quinn, I declare that you, Roderick Casbury, come into my custody at once!”

“Told you!” Bozius cursed.

“How does someone sneak up on us in a field?” Rory asked.

The party immediately fled to the other side of the road, eyes remaining firmly on the five armed men that approached them. “Roderick Casbury? Where?” Rory shouted.

“Don’t play fool, Casbury,” the man continued, his party cautiously stepping off the grass and onto the road. “I recognize you for what you are, pirate.”

Rory laughed. “Pirate? You think I’m the famed Pirate of Vimiland? With what evidence?”

“First off, that pansy frock of yours that you have the nerve to wear as a shirt,” the officer stated. “The bandana, the lankiness—“

“Lanky?” Rory was outraged. “Sir, I’ll have you know that it requires a very specific diet and exercise regimen to keep my sleek, tone, and chiseled body.”

“Lookin’ pretty lanky to me, Muscles,” Bozius whispered through gritted teeth.

“Shut up, Bozy, you’re not helping,” Rory hissed in return.

“The fact that you travel with an oaf and a child in a dress…” the officer continued, unaffected.

“How do you like it, oaf?” Rory shot at Bozius.

“If someone takes notice of my bulging muscles and actual ability to put them to use and then calls me an oaf,” Bozius replied. “I’ll gladly take that as a compliment.”

“And the fact that you carry a sword on your hip, Mr. Casbury,” the officer finished, nodding to his men to approach Rory, “it’s all a dead giveaway.”

“You wear a sword,” Rory called out, stopping the men with a raise of his hands. “Are you a pirate, Mister…”

“Gibson,” the officer replied. “Lieutenant Jonathan Gibson, and, no, I’m not a pirate.”

“But you assume I am?” Rory asked, mocking offense. “Why? Because I dress with an obvious sense of high fashion? So I’m guilty of being sexy, and being sexy makes me a pirate? If I’m such a pirate, why is this a short sword and not a rapier? Would that not be more authentic, Lieutenant Gibson?”

“Yes, but—” Gibson started.

“And for that matter, so what if my shirt has some frills? Do I have a tricorn hat? Sure, I have a bandana, but it is worn at my neck, not upon my head. And what of the official pirate accessories? Sarcastic parrot, hook for a hand, corncob pipe—”

“That would be a snowman,” Bozius corrected.

“Snarling accent? Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum?” Rory caught himself, continuing on without missing a beat. 

“And most important, Gibsy, what of my pirate ship? If I were this pirate, would I not have a boat?”

“The Pirate of Vimiland doesn’t have a boat…” Gibson countered, his voice lacking the bolster and candor of before.

“Well neither do I!” Rory finished, now leading his friends away from the road.

“Halt!” Gibson insisted. “You are still under arrest!”

“By you?” Rory asked. “By the authority of the Quinn Police Force? Are you serious? Not on our side of the road, you won’t be. You fly no pennant of the king, and you already noted your mayor in that little speech earlier. In all honesty, your jurisdiction is limited by county lines, Lieutenant Gibsy, and this road would be the border.”

“It’s Gibson! And we can arrest you on the road as well, Casbury,” Gibson responded, some vigor back in his voice as his men all mumbled in agreement.

“Haven’t we already established that I’m not this Casbury fellow?” Rory asked. “And more important, we’re not on the road, we’re next to it. And, quite frankly, we’re happy traveling this way.”

“You’ll have to cross eventually,” Gibson foretold, waving his men back to the eastern roadside with him. 

“And when you do, I’ll be right here waiting!”

* * *

GIBSON WAS A man of his word: Rory and Company made progress along the western side of the road, and Gibson and his men kept pace on the eastern side. The lieutenant from Quinn was not giving up, and it seemed as this match would only end in Heflirin, where Rory would surely lose.

“Good work on the jurisdictional lines there, magistrate,” Bozius stated. “Any other bright ideas before these guys decide to turn a blind eye to the rules and just come over here after us.”

“Justice is blind, Bozy,” Rory noted.

“What?” Bozius asked. “Way to make a case for them then!”

“Sorry, I’m thinking,” Rory commented. “It’s hard to focus, I’ve been living off ass jerky for nearly a week and I’ve only had the two shirts to switch between since we left New Garrsion. Why couldn’t the fashion show have just gotten to me a bit sooner…”

“The fashion?” Bozius almost slapped himself in the head, he was so perplexed by Rory’s words. “Rory, look over there, on the other side of the road: those guys aren’t going to just hang out and wait for the authorities in Heflirin to take all the credit. I say we run.”

“The only thing we have going for us right now is that we’re not running,” Rafule jumped in.

Both Rory and Bozius stopped in their tracks and looked at the boy, baffled.

“What?” he responded to their confused glares. “I’ve been part of this from the beginning! I think I am entitled to an opinion.”

“If I have to listen to both of you talk, I might just walk over there and let them have me,” Bozius sighed.

“If we run, they’ll probably just chase us,” Rafule inferred. “Right now, they can see us, we’re not making any obvious moves to escape…”

“Except the whole part where we stand around here plotting,” Bozius cut in. “Can we at least keep walking?”

The party moved on as Rafule continued. “But Bozius is right, the police from Quinn are not going to want to share their bust with Heflirin. We’re running out of time to make a choice. Why don’t we just turn around?”

“And walk to Dree?” Bozius blew out a deep breath, likely in an attempt to calm himself as best he could. 

“Great idea, kid! Do you want to know why we prefer when you don’t talk?”

“No, Bozy, I don’t think that’s what the kid is saying,” Rory smiled. “When we get closer to Dree, we just turn around!” Rafule nodded and grinned.

“Genius,” Bozius snapped. “This idea is brilliant until you idiots realize that there is nothing stopping the Dree or Heflirin police—or, even better, the soldiers from Castletop—from patrolling this road. Are you going to give your jurisdiction speech to them, too, Rory?”

“We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it, Bozy,” Rory smiled, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“I’ll jump off and leave you to die,” Bozius mumbled and shook his head.

“Hey, Gibsy,” Rory shouted across the road. “We’re going this way!”

* * *

A DAY CAME and went with Rory’s party choosing to change directions along the roadside at random. Fortunately there had not been any traffic during this particular excursion, and even better, the officers from Quinn were starting to get bored. Or maybe they’re frustrated, Rory considered. Either way, I hope they leave.

Rory and Bozy had become used to taking watches through the night during their travels, though it became frustrating to have to rotate sleeping times for this long a period. At first, they were both reluctant to give a watch to Rafule, but one night Rory fell asleep when it was his turn, and Rafule just happened to wake up and pick up the slack. Rory offered to work it out with Bozius to allow Rafule to take a watch each night if the boy promised to never admit that Rory fell asleep. The agreement worked out and now the watches were shorter because all three men took turns.

With the officers from Quinn merely across the road, Bozius insisted on staying awake with Rafule for the kid’s watch. Rory smiled privately that it was not the kid who Bozius should be worried about. But the night was uneventful. As a matter of fact, the Quinn men offered Rory and his friends some breakfast in the morning in exchange for some donkey jerky. Expecting a trap, Rory reluctantly agreed.

“How do you want this to go?” Rory asked.

“Leave the jerky in the middle of the road,” Gibson called out. “Then we’ll come get it and leave you some breakfast.”

“I don’t like it,” Rory argued. “We go out there, leave, then go out there again? No way. You leave the food for us, then back off. We’ll come over and get it and leave you some jerky.”

“I’m not trusting a pirate,” Gibson retorted.

“Who said anything about pirates?” Rory scoffed. “I’m just a guy who likes to express himself through his wardrobe.”

“This food’s getting cold,” Gibson said.

“This jerky is running out,” Rory smiled. “Ever have donkey jerky before, Gibsy?”

“It’s Gibson!” Gibson corrected. “And no! Fine, here we come. Don’t try anything fancy!”

“Like what?” Rory asked. “Come over there and arrest you?”

“We want this pot back,” Gibson called over as he and his man left a small dish full of steaming breakfast in the middle of the road and retreated to their side.

“Go get it,” Bozius ordered, nudging Rafule with his shoulder.

“Ow! Why me?” Rafule asked, rubbing his tender arm.

“Because somewhere along the line you have to actually be a man,” Bozius insisted, and shoved the boy into the road, where Rafule tumbled into a cloud of dust. “Don’t go gettin’ no dirt in my breakfast!”

Rafule leapt to his feet and brushed off his robes—the once bleach white of his wardrobe was now a mix of faded beige, dirt brown, and grass stains, due in no small part to the boy having nothing else to wear. He slowly stepped over to the dish and reached down for it, but jerked his hand away with a hiss and put his fingertips to his lips.

“Good, still hot!” Bozius cheered. “Come on, Sally, bring it over!”

“Where did you get this kid from?” Gibson smiled.

“Some private girl school,” Bozius joked.

“Well, isn’t she a dandy?” Gibson cracked, and both his men and Bozy laughed.

Rory choked down his laugh. “C’mon, Rafule, it’s alright. Just use your sleeves and come over here.”

“Hey,” Gibson called out to Rafule. “Jerky!”

“Oh right,” Rafule put a top hat full of jerky down on the ground. As he picked up the pot, he kicked over the hat, sending some jerky into the dirt. “Oops! I guess they didn’t really teach us girls proper etiquette.”

At a glare from Gibson, Rafule practically ran back to his friends. An officer fetched the hat of donkey jerky and headed back as Rory, Bozius, and Rafule eyed their delicious breakfast. The pot was full of eggs mixed with a little cheese and ham, with three cold biscuits sitting on top. They were salivating just imagining the flavor.

“Hey,” Rafule called over. “There are no spoons or forks!”

“They didn’t teach us etiquette either, kid,” Gibson shouted back.

The trio didn’t care; they all reached in with there hands to eat the first meal of real food they experienced in nearly ten days. The pot was scraped empty in what seemed like an eye blink. Every delicious bite ravenously ingested and gratefully received.

“This is disgusting,” Gibson shouted over.

“We know,” Bozius responded.

“Bad deal, Gibsy,” Rory chuckled.

“Seriously, this is horrible,” Gibson called. “You guys live off this?”

“I wouldn’t call it living so much as surviving,” Bozius replied.

“It’s enough for me to take pity on you,” Gibson mentioned.

“Enough to let us go?” Rory asked.

“Not nearly,” Gibson smiled. “But I’ll make sure you boys get a good meal in Quinn.”

“Any whores where you’re from, Gibson?” Bozius asked hopefully.

“Best this side of the Yuklit,” Gibson pledged.

“Maybe we should just let them arrest us,” Bozius grinned, licking egg and cheese remnants from his fingers.

“Yeah, I’m sure they make house calls to prison cells, Bozy,” Rory laughed.

“Never know…” Bozius’s eyes lit up at the prospect.

“Boys, hush,” Gibson called over, then mumbled some commands to his men.

The road sat a little higher than the shallow trenches along its sides, so Rory and Company could only see the men from Quinn stand up, some ran east, and vanished into the soft morning mist and high grass. Rory and Bozius both drew swords, neither sure whether a trap was about to be sprung by the officers or some other danger lurked. Either way, they prepared themselves for whatever unexpected thing may come from across the road.

Gibson’s side remained quiet, and he and his men either hunched down or ran off to investigate whatever disturbance they experienced, rendering them all invisible. Not a single sound pierced the silence; not so much as even an animal or the wind.

Then Rafule sneezed.

“Shut up,” Rory hissed, as Bozius accompanied with, “Are you an idiot?”

“Sorry guys, that was completely on purpose,” Rafule mocked; he was getting bolder.

Bozius slapped him. “Bless you. Now shut up.”

“Run, boys,” Gibson called out, stepping out onto the road. “They got Ranbin. We’ll try to hold them off. Just run!”

“Run?” Rory thought. “Yeah, sure, you get ‘em, Gibsy!”

“No, Rory, wait,” Bozius stopped his friend, grabbing his arm. “Gibson, what is it?”

“Bandits,” Gibson called, as his three remaining officers stepped into the road to join him. “Raiders, actually.”

“The Step,” Rory and Bozius noted in unison.

There were many thieves guilds in the world, and few concentrated in Vimiland. The only one whose members were referred to as “Raiders” were those initiated into the Unfaltering Step, an organization that never seemed sure weather it wanted to be a guild for thieves or murderers. Not enough was know about the Unfaltering Step to really understand it, but the Raiders were feared. They had not been heard of in sometime, and rumors had it that the guild moved east across the Devilarke River and out of Vimiland; apparently they had not completely vacated the premises.

“Is this bad?” Rafule asked.

“The Unfaltering Step is what the Cache of the Hand would be if the Hand didn’t abide by a code and promoted killing en masse,” Rory answered, grip white-knuckle tight on the hilt of his short sword. “Actually, think of along the lines of the The Unforgiving International Circle of Death and Robbery, if the Circle didn’t sit up in Rande Bahn and just play house all the time.”

“So bad then,” Rafule gulped.

“Yeah,” Bozius nodded. “Real bad.”

“Run, boys, while you can,” Gibson asked.

“And let you die?” Bozius snapped.

“He does kind of want to give us over to Calus Grey, Bozy,” Rory shrugged, considering escape the best option.

“He gave us breakfast,” Bozius argued, before turning his head back to the road. “And he was gonna give us whores…”

“He was never going to give us whores!” Rory barked.

“I might have got you one whore,” Gibson rolled his shoulders, preparing for the oncoming melee.

Bozius jumped up into the street, but upon making eye contact with Gibson, leapt back to the roadside.

“Really?” Gibson asked. “Big fish up here, Bozius. And this at least gives us the high ground.”

“We’ll guard the low ground,” Rory called back. “From behind…”

“Ugh!” Gibson grunted, nearly pouting. “Come on, men, fall back to the other side.”

“No need for strategy, captain,” squealed the thin voice of a Raider just joining them on the road. “We’re already here. Brought you something!”

From behind his back, the Raider pulled out the eyeless and tongue-less head of Officer Ranbin and flung it at Gibson’s feet. The Raider himself was not the kind of imposing figure that Rory expected. He was thin, but not even lean. The tight leather breaches and jacket that he had buckled about his person were still a bit loose in the chest and arms, though his gut protruded against the worn material. His neck was no thicker than his arm, and his beaklike nose and thinning, unkempt light blonde hair atop his scarred pate made him out to be a diseased man, possibly mad. The blood splashed about his face, hands, and clothing sold him as a psychopath. He was chewing on something large, and when he finally gave up and spit it out, Rory realized it was a tongue. A human tongue. Ranbin’s tongue!

“Monster!” Gibson screamed, raising his sword and bull rushing the frail Raider.

But the skinny bandit was surprisingly lithe, dodging Gibson’s swipes and landing in shocking kicks to the police officer’s sides and abdomen. Gibson and his men only wore leather armor, about an inch thick at best. It was not offering the lieutenant much against the cackling crazyman’s barrage of kicks and chops. Then, when the Raider managed to finally knock the wind out of Gibson, the psychopath pulled out a long, serrated dagger to finish the job.

Then he dropped to the dirt of the road, a throwing dagger driven into his skull.

“That’s enough of that,” Bozius proclaimed from the roadside, prepping another throwing dagger. “You guys coming or what?”

As Gibson and the other officers from Quinn joined Rory, Bozius, and Rafule, at the side of the road, the rest of the Raiders of the Unfaltering Step stormed across the road. It seemed like there were a hundred of them if there was one, but Rory found his center and focused. He quickly noted at least fifteen, though he hated uniforms; they made counting so difficult. Almost all of the Raiders were wearing similar garb as the dead psycho in the road, though some had minor alterations made. A cape here, an extra belt there; not all of them were cackling madmen, and not all of them were men. Rory could not help but admire bloodthirsty, marauding women in tight, form-fitting leather outfits, particularly the ones who chose to exploit their “talents” with more revealing changes to their costumes.

“If this is the way I have to die,” Rory noted to himself. “Even if it’s only half the way I imagined it, I will be a happy man!”

“They’re not going to kill you with sex, Rory, they’re just going to plain ol’ ordinary kill you, and it will hurt,” Bozius stated, dragging his friend back from the road for a better vantage point. “Rafule, fire would be real nice right about now!”

“I can’t,” Rafule admitted, waving his hands in frustration. “The officers are in the way.”

“Gibsy, get back,” Rory commanded, but it was too late: Gibson was already in the middle of another fight.

And now Bozius was as well. He took down two more Raiders with his throwing daggers—though he missed a third—before drawing his sword to take on what Rory could only describe as a towering hulk armed with a large hammer. Bozy was faster, but barely. The hammer came down—wielded in two hands by its long haft—but as Bozius came up to slash at his opponent, the hulk managed to lift the handle in time to block. In the meantime, Rory chose to defend Rafule. The boy was only good for one thing in a fight, and until his opportunity presented itself, he was an easy target. A circle of 6 Raiders formed around Rory and Rafule almost instantly, and despite the alluring fact that four of them were women that chose to reveal as much flesh as their ridiculous leather-and-buckle costumes would allow, Rory was forced to fight. He would hate scarring such pretty faces, but if it came down to him or them… well, finally an easy decision!

“About time all those dance lessons pay off, mom,” Rory said to himself.

“Dance lessons?” Rafule asked, worry in his voice.

Rory spun away from the kid and whirled his sword overhead in a small arc that grew in its range and swept down into a wide circle. Two Raiders jumped back, but one unfortunate victim took Rory’s blade across—and clean through—the jaw. Rory stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by fear.

“Oh good, it was only that guy,” Rory breathed a sigh of relief. “You ladies okay?”

The circle of Raiders quickly closed in on him, vengeance burning in their eyes. Dodging and reflect blows as fast as he could, Rory was suddenly becoming aware of both his depleting endurance and lack of armor. Swiping at one girl’s blade, he spun to dodge another. Rory pushed Rafule out of harm’s way with a boot before dropping to the ground to narrowly dodge the flying kick of another very sexy marauder. A body stepped over him, but not to strike; one of Gibson’s men came to the rescue, offering a hand up while simultaneously locking blades with the remaining male of the closing circle of attackers. Together, the officer and Rory fought back-to-back, taking out Raiders as they came. So many bodies were flying in an out of his immediate vicinity that Rory lost track of where his favorite, lovely opponents went.

Some of them were unfortunately dead at his feet. “Sorry, ladies,” Rory lamented, still fending off attackers. “But it’s you or me. We could have been great, too!”

“Why won’t you just die!” Bozius bellowed, now hanging on the back of the hulk, locking the beast of a man’s neck in the crook of his elbow, attempting to choke him into submission. Finally the hulk stumbled and toppled forward, crushing two Raider’s beneath his massive weight as Bozius rolled away and lept to his feet, tossing two more daggers.

“Missed one,” Rory acknowledged.

“Did you see what I just did?” Bozius shouted. “Points for finesse at least!”

“Surely,” Rory agreed, running his blade through the chest of a man he was sure he owed money to. Well, he thought, that debt’s settled. “But deductions for inaccuracy.”

“Handicap for challenge?” Bozius asked, pulling his sword from what Rory assumed could only be thin air.

“You sure you want to start giving handicaps?”

“Distractions don’t count, Rory.”

“Have you seen these women?” Rory insisted.

“No, sorry, I was busy wrestling around with a four-hundred pound—well, hello there!” Bozius suddenly took notice of one of the female Raiders, this particular redhead donning shorts that almost weren’t really there and a top that was more bikini than jacket.

“See?” Rory asked, after throwing a rock at her and sending her unconsciously to the grass. “You don’t want to kill them. That’s a handicap!”

“Fair,” Bozius agreed, clashing swords with another bandit, though one of the officers took that fight over. “Verdict?”

“Nine,” Rory noted, stopping for a moment to survey the scene.

“Nine?!” Bozius argued. “Finesse is a minimum three!”

“You missed the second toss, Bozy.”

“Are you forgetting that there were two men crushed underneath?”

“Oh, sorry,” Rory recalculated. “Twelve, and that’s generous! Kill the hulk next time and I’ll gladly give you fifteen, no argument.”

“I’m taking your handicap away,” Bozius waved the argument to a close.

“Watch out!” Rafule screamed, leaping in front of Rory and Bozius.

A large bunch of Raiders came over the ridge of the road, but this time the officers were not in the path. Rafule lunged forth and released a stream of fiery magic in a wave of power that crushed the first oncoming bandits under its might and singed them into an abrupt death, while actually scaring those behind to turn and retreat. Those that did not give in to fear were swept up by the flow of burning magic, cooked to sinders by the wonderous energy wielded by the teenage boy who called upon such ferocity. Even some of those Raiders who attempted escape found themselves too slow for the inferno that hunted them down. Rafule himself was awash in blazing light, a blurred silhouette against the canvas of incomparable force bursting forth from his hands with such magnitude that Rory needed to turn away for fear his eyeballs would melt in their sockets. Then, as quickly as the storm of flames rocked the roadside battlefield, it was gone, leaving in its wake a trail of smoldering corpses.

Rafule fell to his knees, in shock. He looked at his hands as if he could not believe they belonged to him. He looked up at Rory, lip quivering. Try as hard as he could to hold back the tears, the boy had exhausted his strength saving the lives of his companions, though at the great cost of taking the lives of so many others. Granted, people got hurt at Appleton, but the guards managed to escape—albeit with broken bones. To this point, Rafule had never killed anyone, and now his first kill was not one person but a flock.

The boy erupted into a panic-stricken, hysterical fit. He was gasping for breath for he was crying so hard. Overwhelmed, he could do no more than bawl. Rory did the first thing that came to mind: he knelt down and pulled Rafule in to his chest.

“Let it out, Raffy,” Rory whispered. “It will be okay.”

“No it won’t,” Rafule blurted. Rory could feel the tears and snot ruining his shirt. “They’re all dead. I killed those people! I watched you all fight and kill them, but I froze. I was scared! But then the others came over and I thought they might kill you! You and Bozy are all I got, Rory!”

Rory’s heart sank at the sentiment. All this time, he never considered Rafule’s place in this world. Did he even have one? His uncle left him for dead, and as Byron Wordsly is the master of the estate at Dengalde, Rafule may never be able to return home. Besides that, Rafule Charsbic’s universe was flipped upside-down since accepting the job with his uncle: he was left for dead, brought into a criminal enterprise, hunted across the country by royal forces, and now pushed to the edge, or as near to it as anyone should ever go.

“You did good, kid,” Bozius affirmed, squatting down and placing a hand on Rafule’s shoulder.

“Bozius?” Rafule was in disbelief at Bozius’s affection.

“It’s tough out here, and there’s bad people all over,” Bozius continued. “If not for you, those bad people would have won.”

“Very good stuff out there, son,” Gibson added, pulling a pin off of his coat and placing it in Rafule’s hand. It was the image of an eagle carved out of wood. “That’s the only medal we give out back in Quinn. You only get it for a selfless act in the defense of others. You earned it, kid.”

The fight was over. Bodies lay dead or unconscious all around, save for the two Raiders of the Unfaltering Step that Gibson’s two remaining officers held hostage—unfortunately another man from Quinn fell to the bandits. Gibson’s men dragged them back up to the road. Rory, Bozius, and Rafule followed the lieutenant as far the roadside, then kept their distance.

“We’re going to head to Dree,” Gibson admitted. “I could just as easily now send Jonah or William on ahead to inform the magistrate there of our coming, or even the installation of the King’s Rangers, for that matter, but I need them here, to help me… question our prisoners. You’ll be in irons if you continue on.” Gibson paused to let Rory take the information in. “You almost had me believing you when we first met, but now I’m sure that you are exactly who I knew you were all along, Roderick Casbury.’

“You’re good men. We have to inquisition these men before we can go on,” Gibson placed special emphasis on the word “inquisition,” and there was no meaning lost in his words. He looked off into the distance, toward the river that could not be seen from this distance. “It would be a shame if you weren’t here to be arrested when we finished up. Waste of a trip from Quinn, I feel.”

Bozius extended his hand towards the police officer, and so did Rory. “Thanks, Gibsy.”

Gibson merely raised his hands, palms forward. “No offense, Rory, Bozius, but if I take your hand over this here road, I will be obligate to arrest you.”

With that, Gibson nodded and walked away.

Rory and his friends ran west towards the river.