The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [2]
Drix sank back to the ground, breathing deeply. “Nothing to worry about,” he told his crossbow. “Situation entirely under control.”
The crossbow said nothing. At least she’s not mocking me, Drix thought.
He felt like a fool. He’d traveled from Callan to Seaside many times with his father and never strayed from the path. And his first time walking the woods alone, he let fear drive him into the thorns. He had a full year left as an apprentice, a year of wandering the countryside and facing the world alone. He was just in the first week, hardly an auspicious start.
Still …
He’d seen those eyes in the darkness. And something had followed him off the trail. A fox wouldn’t chase a man, but Drix was certain he’d heard claws scraping against the soil behind him. Perhaps it was just his imagination playing tricks on him when he was walking the road alone for the first time. Or maybe—just maybe—he had outrun his pursuer in his wild scramble. And if that was the case, it could still be out there.
He might have outrun his enemy before, but Drix wouldn’t be running again for a while. He ran a hand along his left leg, wincing as he touched the ankle—sprained at the very least. Twine from his pack and pieces of a broken sapling formed a splint, and with the help of a makeshift staff, he was able to walk. But there was the problem. Where should he walk to? He was still two days away from Seaside making good time, and it would take nearly as long to go back to Callan. He’d made the choice to walk the Southern Wood, as his family had done for generations. But when you were hurt and possibly hunted, it was a bad place to be.
The music came with the breeze, a warm wind that flowed through the trees and tugged at his hair. He heard soft pipes and the faint cry of a fiddle. There was a flicker of light in the distance, a hint of a warm fire. Whoever they were, they were far from the main path. But lumberjacks or hunters might well have set up a camp in the deep woods. And the music was welcoming. Perhaps he’d just imagined the eyes in the darkness. Either way, the thought of companions for the night was a comforting one. And if they had need of a tinker’s skills, well, that’s what his apprenticeship was about. He could sharpen an axe, fix a broken trap, show them ways to build a better snare. Perhaps fortune was with him after all. Perhaps it was the night he truly began his new life.
As he stumbled through the woods, he searched for the right words to say, an introduction to offset his shabby appearance, to convince his potential hosts to trust his skills. There were no signs of the pursuing beast. All he could hear over the night breeze was the faint sound of the music. And ever so slowly, the light grew brighter and broader, and the music grew louder. It was a camp for sure, a celebration by the sound of it. The laughter and faint voices were still too far to hear.
A glimmer caught his eye, something twinkling on the ground. It hurt to bend down, but there was something metal on the ground. Reaching down into the darkness, he felt cool leather and steel against his skin. It was a knife—a lovely weapon, with red leather wrapped around the pommel and patterns of gold beaten along the steel blade.
“Where did you come from, little one?” he murmured.
As his fingers closed around the hilt, Drix could feel the handle move, steel and wood mystically shifting to perfectly fit his grip. It was a princely weapon, to be sure—and a costly one. If he held it until he reached Seaside, he could probably get more for the knife than he’d earn in the next five years with the Tinkers’ Guild. For a moment he was tempted, but his upbringing and the desire for a warm fire won out. The weapon must belong to the people at the camp ahead. Returning it would undoubtedly earn him a friendly welcome and a good meal, and that was all he really needed. And if a grateful host felt a greater reward was called for, well, he’d be happy to accept it.
“Hello?” The