Engraved - The Hunted Warrior

Chapter 24.2 - Lasthome

Alam had slept behind a shrub near the edge of The Trail. With no food in his stomach, and no fire or blanket for warmth, it was hard to sleep. He finally gave up trying when the barest glow of approaching dawn warmed the horizon. It looked to be the beginning of a cloudless summer day. He felt that the world was yet again mocking him. Late summer was supposed to be a time of enjoying the goodness of the world and forgetting about the privations of The Endless Plains' deep winter; it was a time of feasting, laughter and storytelling; it was a time of raiding and glory. Instead he was cold and hungry with nothing to his name except the clothes he wore and two exceptional weapons.

What do I do when I reach Lasthome?

I have no money and nothing to trade except this axe and bow.

I can't trade the bow. It isn't mine. Unless Tajar dies. If that has happened I guess it's my responsibility to trade it and take the coin I get for it back to his mother.

His ring will also fetch a good price.

If I can get it off his finger.

His thumb rubbed his own wide silver ring that Saphire had given him. It was too dark to see its design, but he well knew its intertwining serpentine pattern by touch.

"What am I thinking?" he said aloud. "Frost would have gotten him to Lasthome on time," he said without conviction. He rubbed his eyes, picked up the weapons and rose stiffly from behind the shrub. He took a deep breath and started down The Trail towards Lasthome. His stomach gurgled a demand to be fed. As he trudged along misery overcame him. He was alone travelling to a strange town where the people would treat him with suspicion or worse; he was banished from one clan and hunted by another; he had not slept or eaten well for days; his arm was still sore and swollen where Gretch's arrow had struck him; his wounds from the hellcat were far from healed; he had given the only chance of his friend's survival into the hands of a woman who herself told him not the trust her; and the woman he loved was betrothed to another man. He closed his eyes and sent a supplication to the Heavens.

Please let Tajar live.

He is a good soul and a loyal friend.

I have no-one else on this earth to turn to. I know it is selfish to pray for him for my own sake, but none the less please let him live. I don't want to be alone.

The morning wore away. Two caravans passed him heading east, covering him in dust. When they informed him that they had left Lasthome early that morning he knew he was getting close. When the sun was at its highest point in the sky the steep roofs of Lasthome came into view. His happiness at reaching the town, with its promise of food, shelter, and company, combined with his hopefulness of seeing Tajar alive, outweighed his concerns of being treated poorly by the people who lived there. He examined himself. Not good. He was dirty, blood-stained and smelly. He ran his fingers through his tangled long hair and tried to rub off the worst of the dirt and dried mud from his clothes and skin. It was a waste of time. Sparkling next to the road was a young river that flowed out of the broad lake that Lasthome was built beside. He walked over to it, braced himself for the cold, and dunked himself, clothes and all, into the frigid water. After scrubbing himself and his clothes he emerged looking a mess, but at least he was a cleaner mess. He drip-dried in the hot sun as he walked the final stretch into the town.

As he entered he collected stares from everyone he passed. He smiled equally broadly at the children running feral on the outskirts of town as he did with the townspeople who stared rudely at him from their doorways. Khalesar had often said that if he was friendly to others they were more likely to be friendly to him.