The Mutant Child - Section One

This is the first of six sections - I have the second complete as well. The estimated wordcount for the entire 'book' is about 32,000 words. This section is a bit more than 5,100.

+++


Hope

Book One: The Mutant Child


Poc had gone quiet again—that wasn’t good. It never was. Somehow, he always knew when trouble was coming.

“Poc?” asked Ghuto. “Is something bothering you?”

The little boy looked up at him. “It’s too quiet…”

The dry, dusty road stretched out ahead, coiling like a fat, lazy serpent. On either side, the fading leaves of the summer-baked trees rustled quietly.

It was quiet. Now that Ghuto thought about it, there weren’t even birds singing. The idyllic calm now seemed almost menacing. The sun beat down hot and sticky, soaking his nape with sweat and making his temples throb. The trees’ shadows grew deeper, concealing terrible secrets and unknowns. Was that snapping twig a hidden watcher moving? Was-

“Poc,” Ghuto spoke softly, touching the child on the shoulder. “you’re projecting. Don’t worry. It’s probably just a boar that’s come out of the deep forest.”

He didn’t believe his own consolations. He’d seen Poc’s uncanny knack for sensing trouble too many times. Still, he had to do something to get the kid’s mind off... whatever it was. “You want a shoulder-ride?”

The boy giggled and reached up. Ghuto took his hands and hoisted him up onto his shoulders. He began to spin around as he walked.

“Wheeee! Faster, Nuncle, faster!”

Ghuto laughed, twirling like a top. Soon, though, the sun demanded that they rest and he collapsed by the side of the road. Nearby, a creek gurgled and splashed. Ghuto let Poc off his shoulders and lay against a tree in the shade, still wheezing with laughter and exertion. The vague, lingering fear wasn't gone though. It never was entirely...

He looked at Poc, who was already enchanted by something he’d seen on the in thick layer of mulch that sat around the base of the tree. They’d been through so much, he mused. Would they ever be safe? He looked around again, seeing nothing but empty corridors of trees and the occasional scraggly bush. Fat, billowing clouds were beginning to creep towards them across the western sky. How would their enemies come at them this time?

“C’mon Poc, we've rested enough. Time to go.”

He looked down at his nephew who hadn’t heard him or, with childish duplicity, was simply ignoring him. “Poc.”

The boy stirred, turning to Ghuto. “They’re not done yet though. I’ve got to watch.”

Ghuto leaned forward, seeing what Poc was so avidly staring at. Pincher-ants had surrounded a finger-sized spider and latched onto its jointed limbs. The spider writhed and twisted, but it was slowly being torn apart by the hordes of ants. Poc was sitting on the ants’ nest—but they weren’t biting him. They weren’t even crawling over the bandaged fingers that he’d stuck into the loam.

“No, Poc. We’ve got to go.” Ghuto looked at the spider again and shuddered. He stood and held a hand back for Poc.

Reluctantly, the boy straightened and took Ghuto’s hand with his own slightly grimy one.

Are we the ants, wondered Ghuto, or the spider? I feel like the spider.

Later, when they weren’t molested in any way for the rest of the afternoon, he thought that maybe for once, nothing had come of Poc’s premonition.

+

The rain poured down. Gustav was glad to be inside his warm inn. He sighed, belched, and leaned back in his chair. The fire crackled and spat, its fuel still damp after being brought in. He’d have to repair that woodshed sometime soon.

Around the room, several customers slumped in various states of sobriety. It was getting to be the hour that wives started complaining that their husbands were never home, so only the truly drunk and desperate remained. As a testament to their stupor, nobody so much as leered at Marie as she circled the room with fresh mugs. No matter what the rumors said, Gustav didn’t go about selling Marie's body. She slept with whomever she liked.

The door shuddered in the wind, shedding splinters and a layer of dust. That also had to be replaced soon—hell, the whole place had to be rebuilt. Things had gone down the gutters since the missus died.

The door shook again. Was somebody knocking? Who’d come around at this time of night? Late travelers? Angry wives, maybe?

Gustav staggered from his chair. Perhaps it was time to start cutting back on the beer. Surely the room shouldn’t be spinning this much. He began to haul his bulk to the door.

The door shuddered a third time. “Coming,” he grunted.

He got to the door, fastened the chain and then cracked it open. “Who ‘sit?” he asked. “What der yer want?”

“Please,” came a muffled voice. “I'm just a traveler with my son.”

“Awright,” grumbled Gustav. “Come on in.” He fumbled with the chain.

A tall man entered, followed closely by a boy of about seven years, both with soaked, dirty-blond hair.

“Yeh wanna stay th’ night?” When the man nodded, Gustav continued. “Then it’s ten pennies per sleeper, three fer supper, an’ one fer brekky.” Not strictly true, but times were hard.

“What? That’s outrageous! I could find a bed elsewhere for that much with meals included! And per room, not per occupant!”

“Yeh want to sleep out there in the rain? That’s yer only other choice besides here.”

“Fine,” sighed the man. “But my son’ll be sharing the same bed as me, so he should only cost half as much.”

“That’ll do, I guess. So I have you down for board and bed fer two?”

“Just... just bed. We can’t afford your trenchers.” He began counting out pennies from a pitifully small purse.

Gustav scribbled an illegible note in his book. “Ver’ well good sirs, whats’s yer names?”

“I’m Talere. We're from Tilea.”

“Tilean. Roight... Bloody for’ners. Yer all alike. But you, boy? What’s yer name?”

The boy stopped shrinking back behind his father. Nervously, he said, “I’m Po- Polem.”

“Ver’ good, Polem.”

Gustav finished his scribbling and looked at his new customers. The man didn’t look as if he had a drop of Tilean blood in him, being tall and fair and blue-eyed. The boy had bandaged hands and hazy, azure blue eyes.

“You, Talere. Yer boy give you trouble?”

“Sometimes… not much, though. Why?”

“Cause you done a bloody fine job of punishment, crunchin’ his fingers like that.”

“What? No, no, he was burnt. Playing with fire and such.”

“Roight. Roight… I unnerstand. An ear’s th’ same as an eye to me. So, you might not want food, but yeh both look half-starved. How ‘bout a bowl of soup fer th’ kiddy? Free o’ charge?”

The man exhaled and smiled. “Sure, that’s fine,” he said. He handed over the money for the night’s stay. Gustav counted each of the fifteen pennies out before tucking them into his own pouch.

“Marie!” He called. “Come on over and give this boy a wash and a bowl of soup!” As the barmaid began to come over, Gustav noticed that his guest had turned a sort of custard-color and seemed to be choking. “Talere? You awright?”

“Yes… I just… I just caught something in my throat. Polem doesn’t need a bath, though. After all, we just came through one!”

“Yeh sure? He smells like a midden heap, meaning no disrespect to you.”

“Yes,” Talere nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Awright then. Marie, you ‘eard ‘im. No wash fer th’ boy.”

Marie nodded and moved off demurely, leading the child by the hand. Gustav turned back to Talere again. “Now, let’s be going upstairs t’ check out your room.”

+

Poc splashed in the tub as Marie poured another bucket of rainwater over his head. It was a shame that the boy’s father wouldn’t even let the boy stay clean—he obviously enjoyed the bath, despite the fact that the cold water would have had most children his age in tears. After the boy had gulped down his hot soup, Marie had bundled him into the tub.

He was now naked except for his arm-wrappings, which he had insisted upon continuing to wear. She reached down and tried to start peeling the soaked bandages away again.

“No!” the child cried, yanking himself away. “Nunc- Talere said that my hands had to heal before I could take my covers off!”

“Well,” asked Marie, “what if we put some beeswax salve on them? That would help them heal faster.”

“But… but Nuncle said I couldn’t take them off at all,” the boy pouted. Water glistened on his stomach in the gloom of the kitchen. Marie bustled around him a few times, scrubbing his hair with a dishscrubbing rag that was slightly less filthy than its fellows. Eventually, she spoke.

"Isn’t he your father, not your uncle?” she asked.

“I meant Talere! I meant Talere, not Nuncle. You didn’t hear that! Please?”

Marie chuckled softly. “Of course I didn’t, Polem. Not if you didn’t want me to. Tell you what. I didn’t hear it if you didn’t hear your father say-“

“Not my father. My father’s a bad person. Gh- Talere’s nice.”

Marie sighed and carefully reworded her offer.

“How about this- I didn’t hear you say that Talere was your uncle if you didn’t hear him say that you had to keep your bandages on, all right? Anyways, wouldn’t it be nice to get some cool salve on your burns?”

Poc looked around, a nervous scowl twisting his face into a knot.

“All right,” he said. “All right. But don’t tell anybody. And don’t be afraid of my burns. Talere said that was another reason why I shouldn’t take them off, so don’t be afraid of them.”

He cautiously stuck his hands forward. Marie took them gently and started to unwind the wrapped cloth. She slowly unwound the snakes of coiling cloth, starting at his elbows and working her way towards his lumpy finger-wrappings.

Poc stared at the hanging strips of cloth as Marie undid them, watching as they settled into the tub of water at his feet.

Marie looked at his tender flesh. She stopped unwinding when his arms were fully unwrapped but his hands weren't. She slowly ran her fingers over his smooth, unmarked flesh.

“Where are the burns?” she asked. Poc looked up and frowned.

“On my hands.”

Marie’s gentle fingers teased the rough fabric from his palms and fingers off in one more soft push. The discarded cloth slipped into the water below and uncoiled, forgotten.

Poc’s hands were burnt. Little flowers of scar tissue both old and new sat in layers across them, and both hands were raw and pink. A few of the burns hadn’t even healed. That wasn’t what had drawn Marie’s attention though.

On Poc’s left hand wiggled six little pink fingers.

+

Ghuto sighed and leaned back on the bed, regardless of the countless lice that no doubt he popped beneath his weight like rotten fruit. From just a cursory glance at the mattress, he knew that he’d be itching his hair for weeks. At least Poc wouldn’t have to worry about them. Ghuto had never seen a single creature from bug to bear harm his nephew.

After the fat, greasy innkeeper had left, he’d started trying to decide what to do and where to go next. He had no real plan after they reached the nearby city of Gerholtz. They couldn’t risk staying in the city more than a few days any more than they could turning around- either way, they’d be falling straight into the arms of Phe’s minions.

Whatever they did, they couldn’t stay long enough to earn much money. That was the main problem. His purse was stretched far too thin as it was.

Where was Poc? Ghuto was sure that he couldn’t take that long to eat a bowl of soup- by now he’d probably run off to play under the tables. Ghuto knew what kind of trouble he could get into if left unwatched.

He stood, if slightly hunched because of the low roof, and made his way to the door. Surprisingly, it didn’t creak as he opened it and stepped into the dingy hallway. Everything in this place seemed like it was on its last breath.

The stairs weren’t empty. That maid from earlier, Marie, stood at their base whispering frantically with Gustav.

“Don’t worry,” Gustav was saying to her. “I can’t imagine him comin’ out here anytime soon. He sank onta the bed like he’d been runnin’ about fer years.”

“Who?” asked Ghuto. They both span around. The way that they looked at him gave him a clear idea.

“Well, Talere, I was talking ‘bout yeh. It appears that yeh weren’t entirely honest with us.”

“What?” Ghuto frowned. This was not good at all. “How so?” He slowly finished coming down the stairs. Gustav and Marie backed away slightly. Marie spoke first.

“I gave him a bath anyways, despite what you said. I see why you wanted to hide him.”

Ghuto’s heart sank. Gustav took a step forward, brandishing a meaty fist.

“Get out,” he growled. “Get yer mutant-lovin’ arse out of my inn. Get out, traitor!”

Ghuto held up his hands. “I’ll go, I’ll leave. Just don’t hurt him. Where is he?”

“GET OUT!”

Marie flinched away from the innkeeper.

“He’s out there, in the rain…” she whispered.

+

Poc and Ghuto sat shivering, Ghuto’s coat wrapped around them both. Together, they watched the rain dripping through the slats of the dilapidated woodshed. Ghuto’s cheek had a series of purple marks where the innkeeper had struck him.

“Get some sleep,” Ghuto said over the musical ‘plunk’ of the rain. Poc shook his head.

“We can’t.” The child turned back to Ghuto, his cerulean blue eyes now glinting with faint flashes of gold. “Father’s coming.”

Ghuto stiffened. Phe was that close behind them? Ghuto stood, leaving his coat on the boy.

“Then lets get moving. We don’t want him to catch up.”

Poc shuddered with fear and cold, but stood up. Together, they ducked back out into the pouring rain.

Hopefully, Ghuto thought, this village would slow his Beastmen down until they escaped. Hopefully, they’d get away from Phe. Hopefully, they’d get out of his reach entirely, soon. Hopefully, Poc wouldn't grow up having to look behind every door for danger…

The rain closed behind them like a curtain.

+

Smoke rose in acrid billows, choking lungs and bringing tears to eyes. Here and there a survivor labored, striving to dig through the rubble to find lost friends or belongings. Beams still smoldered and embers glowed in the deeper recesses of the charred houses. The cold breeze bit into the faces and hands of those still alive. It scattered their cremated friends, mixing gray ashes with the churned mud.

They’re pitiful, thought Witchhunter Melchias. They weren’t worthy of saving. They’re just the same as so many other villages across the Empire—undeserving of spiritual and physical aid. Where are their menfolk? Who will drive the beasts away from their hearths? They’re all dead or captured now. Sigmar helps the strong.

He could not do his work here—the beasts and their heretical kin had despoiled this town and the light of Sigmar shone too weakly. These citizens would likely mob and kill him if he tried to purge their sins now.

“Rakwith,” he said without turning his head. “We won’t be stopping here.”

Behind him, his aide murmured assent. For a few minutes, all that could be heard was the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves and the bitter whisper of the wind. Eventually, Rakwith stirred and cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we help them, sir? They have no food left, no supplies. They’re unsheltered and unprotected. Surely it is our duty-”

“Do not lecture me on duty,” snarled Melchias, “as you obviously do not know ours. Our duty is not to be benevolent benefactors, weakening and softening the lives of our quarry. All are heretics; we merely sniff out the worst of them. You are young and naïve—these people will survive. They’ll rebuild. Now shut your mouth and ride.

“Y’sir.”

Melchias rode through the smoke, considering the boy’s words. They struck perilously close to memories that he had spent the last eight years trying to bury.

Behind him, Rakwith sulked. Melchias felt his disapproving glare and sneered. The boy would have to learn that the Empire wasn’t a nice place the hard way.

A woman shrieked as they came into view past the rubble that had been the inn. She stumbled in front of the horses and Hartfeld reared, ready to protect his master from any danger.

Melchias pulled on Hartfeld’s reins. Cold he may be, but he wasn’t about to run over a helpless woman.

“Out of the way, girl!” Melchias roared.

Weeping and crying out in distress, she stumbled forward and grabbed his stirrup. He freed his foot and kicked out with his booted foot, his sharp spurs gashing her cheekbone. She fell back stunned, sitting down hard in the black mud.

Filth, blood and soot had smeared together to make her face a swirled mask of black and brown. Fat teardrops traced clear pathways through the grime.

“Please, sir,” she begged. “Please!”

“Please what?” Melchias snapped. “I’ve no time to aid you unless you wish to be aided to the pyre. Other more deserving heretics await the confessor’s blades; do not try my patience unless you wish to be stretched across them yourself.”
She slid herself backwards through the muck, cowering in fear.

“They killed him. They killed Gustav. Please, help us.” Her voice shook and cracked as she pleaded. “They came with nets and axes, the Beastmen. I hid in the woodshed, but they killed Gustav!

“They were looking for that mutant! I heard them. They asked, ‘Where’s the boy?’ Gustav didn’t know, so they killed him!”

“What are you babbling about, girl? What mutant-”

Rakwith’s horse sidled up beside Melchias. He cleared his throat again. Melchias sighed and put a hand over his eyes.

“Go on, then.”

Rakwith dismounted and handed his reins to his master. He turned around and offered his hand to the woman. She grabbed him and scrambled up, hanging from him for support. Rakwith leaned back, trying to keep his leather coat clean.

She began shuddering and weeping again. Melchias looked at the sun; they would have to make good time to reach the next village before sunset. Rakwith consoled the blubbering woman and Melchias studiously cleaned the underside of his fingernails.

Eventually, she began to talk. Having nothing better to do, Melchias listened.

“We—Gustav and I—are, were, the innkeepers,” she gasped. “Well, he was. I was the barmaid. There was also old sour Corlem, the cook. Recently, a man and his boy came through, running from something. He gave us names, Talere and Polem, but I don’ believe them. They even claimed to be Tilean, if you believe it.

“I gave the child a bath, an’ he told me that the father was really his uncle. I didn’t really care either way; I just like to know things, really. But then his hands were bandaged, so- so-”

She lapsed into sobs again. Rakwith patted her on the back and Melchias snorted. Eventually, she began speaking again.

“The boy, he was a mutant. His hands were burnt and he had an extra finger. We kicked them out of the inn. Gustav was angry for the rest of the night.

“Then I fell asleep for the night—Gustav lets me use one of the actual beds when nobody’s staying in the room. I stayed in one of the windowed rooms, I like the breeze when it comes through.

“I woke up to howls and screams. There wasn’t anything that I could do! I managed to get out the window before they got through the door, and I hid in the woodshed. Then…”

She died away, but Rakwith finished for her.

“Then they killed Gustav when he couldn't tell them they didn't already know.”

Through her sobs and tears, the girl nodded. Rakwith looked back up at Melchias.

“Sir?” he asked.

Melchias frowned.

“What?” the Witchhunter asked. “You expect me to go chasing after a pair of travelers that could be anywhere by now? How do we even know where they went-”

“South!” Marie cried. “South, I heard one of those… those beasts say it! They said, it, I swear!”

Melchias grimaced and turned to face forward. He still felt the two imploring gazes digging into his back. He tried to ignore it, tried to form the words “Rakwith, let’s go. We've nothing more to do here; we head back to Averheim”. He couldn’t. The memory of Keasha was still too strong. Damnit, he thought that he was stronger than that! He should have been, then…

“Fine,” he said, his voice hollow. “But we go in chase of the Beastmen, not the travelers. They’ll be nothing but a bonus. Take the girl, Rakwith. She might know something else, and she’s the only one who’s seen them.”

“Who?” asked Rakwith, “the travelers, or the Beastmen?”

Melchias nudged Hartfeld with his spurs.

“Both,” he growled.

+

Poc squirmed in Ghuto’s grip.

“I wanna go to the stream!” he cried.

Ghuto’s sigh was matched by a gust of wind that rattled the drying grass and leaves. A few hundred yards away, the clear stream shone invitingly. The sun beamed down upon it, promising an enjoyable relaxation from the tension of the road and the dry, billowing dust. Ghuto shook his head again; they couldn’t afford to lose the time that they’d lose. Phe was still too close behind them.

Perhaps the Beastmen would be too bloated with their spoils. Perhaps the village had even beaten back the beasts! Perhaps—but that was the thing. Perhapses cut them no bread and bought them no time.

“I wanna go to the stream now!” Poc was almost shouting.

“Poc, we can’t. We can’t stop for a while still.” Ghuto tightened his grip on Poc’s hand as the boy started yanking away viciously. “Poc! Stop! We have to keep moving!”

The boy sunk his neat white teeth into Ghuto’s hand, cutting skin and drawing blood. Ghuto cursed and let go. Poc darted away.

“Stop!” Ghuto yelled after him, clutching his hand. The child paid him no attention and vanished into a tangled snarl of bushes. Ghuto cursed the gods and ran after Poc.

His long, loping strides ate up the ground much quicker than Poc’s pistoning legs. Soon, the boy was huffing and puffing with the effort of keeping ahead. Poc crashed noisily through the bracken and snagged his clothes on dead bushes, barely keeping out of Ghuto’s reach.

Then he tripped and fell. Ghuto snatched for his arm, but the boy managed to roll away. Coarse sackcloth slipped through Ghuto’s fingertips.

No sooner was the boy down than he was up again, bouncing energetically through a patch of fanged brambles. Ghuto wheezed a snarl and staggered forwards again. He ripped his way through the thorns, feeling the stabbing, needling prickles.

“Poc!” he called. “Stop!

A branch that was throttled by thorns caught his arm. He tore away from it in frustration, instead pushing his face through a dangling spider-web. He sputtered and wiped his face, tripping through the vines that Poc had bounded through so easily.

When Ghuto looked around again, Poc had vanished. Ghuto whipped his head around, looking for the boy. The trees swayed slightly in the breeze. In the distance, the stream gurgled. Birds sang, but his nephew was nowhere to be heard or seen. Ghuto sighed and turned toward the creek. That’s where the boy would have gone.

He found Poc on a mossy boulder—the boy wasn’t even trying to hide. His shoes sat beside him and his bare feet dangled in the burbling brook. The rock was one of two that clinched in both sides of the stream, squeezing the water into a miniature waterfall. Ferns draped both banks, weaving a tapestry of green, brown, and flowing water.

A smile wreathed Poc’s face. It wasn’t mischievous or triumphant; just a smile of sheer bliss. His eyes were squeezed shut and the misting spray from the fall speckled across his face. In the small pond formed by the rocks, Poc’s legs were visible. Even through the rushing water, the angry red scratches were visible. Ghuto’s expression softened a little bit.

Poc opened his eyes and looked up.

“All right,” he said calmly. “I’m ready to go now.”

Ghuto choked on his tongue.

“What!” he exclaimed, clutching his hand tighter, “You make me chase you out here, get cut up on brambles, you bite me—and now this? You’re just done?”

Poc frowned, considering Ghuto’s words. Eventually, he nodded.

“Yup.”

Ghuto violently tore a strip of cloth off his tunic and began binding his hand. He hissed in frustration.

Poc continued, saying, “I just wanted to get away from the bad person on the road. He should be gone by now.”

Ghuto stopped binding his hand and frowned.

“Your father?” he asked the boy.

“No, not him. Somebody else,” replied Poc, shaking his head assuredly. Ghuto considered the words as Poc looked at his surroundings. The boy continued, saying, “Look! The road crosses the stream down there, Nuncle. There’s a ford. We can go back to it that way!”

Ghuto gave up trying to fathom his nephew’s sixth sense. He looked.

“Yes,” Ghuto replied, seeing a band of brown bisected by the flowing waters of the stream, “there is. Let’s go.”

Poc slipped his scratched feet out of the water and began to shove them back into his ragged shoes. Ghuto turned back to tying up his hand. With his teeth and his other hand, he pulled the half-tied knot tight. A ‘crack’ rang out behind him and he whirled. Poc grinned at him, holding a stick broken from a dead bush. Ghuto relaxed.

+

Ghuto sank down onto the slick side of the ford and sighed. Now, the afternoon, was when last night’s fatigue truly caught up. They hadn’t dared sleep the previous night and had only caught about four hours this morning. They couldn’t risk any more; Phe followed them too closely.

Ghuto began to go over his tattered trousers pulling out the burrs and the thorn that had lodged there. At this time of year, the long, sharp grasses shed their prickers with the slightest of provocations. Currently, his hems were solid clusters of sharp, poking seeds.

Poc saw was he was doing and began clumsily mirroring him. The little boy pulled off one of his battered shoes and started to work some of the larger, pokier burrs through the tough upper layer of the shoe’s fabric.

Ghuto was almost done with his first pantleg when he heard the hooves. Fear flashed through his mind as he remembered Poc’s comment about somebody on the road. He turned to Poc, who had turned pale.

“Quick,” Ghuto hissed, “hide!”

He pulled the boy behind a gorse bush by his collar and ducked behind it as well. Peering back over the top of the thick shrub, he saw that Poc had dropped his burred shoe. Ghuto cursed, preparing to jump over and grab it. Too late—a pair of horses came around the bend of the road. They clopped along the road at a fast walk.

The first horse was a magnificent black beast, ridden by an ominous, dark-coated rider. The man had a grizzled, salt-and-pepper beard and lank, greasy gray hair that hung to his shoulders. A black, buckle-fronted fedora rested atop the man’s head with all the arrogance of a crown. Expensive steel buckles were scattered about his coat, belt and steel-shod boots. His black charger was slick with sweat from the sun’s heat; the billowing road-dust caked its flanks.

Behind him, a pair of riders occupied the second horse. The first was a younger, bony copy of the other man, but the second, riding pillion, was Marie. Ghuto clamped his hand over Poc’s mouth to keep the boy from crying out in shock or fear.

His own head swam and his temples pounded. These people who’d seen them, who’d recognize them: How were they so close behind? His throat was dry and his heart beat a double tattoo. Their horses, he thought, that’s how.

The lead rider cast a glance about and Ghuto ducked behind the bush. Great Gods above, Ghuto prayed, please, shield us from their eyes. He became aware that Poc was struggling against his grip. He loosened his hand around Poc’s mouth and the boy took in a massive, shuddering gasp of air.

“Shh,” Ghuto breathed him at him. The boy nodded, clearly biting back a whimper.

Ghuto turned his head back to the bush, crawling forward and peering through a small gap in the foliage. He could see the small stretch of the road that showed Poc’s shoe, nothing more. Slowly, Ghuto heard the jingling of the horses’ tack die to a halt. An iron-shod hoof thudded down in his view, followed by its partner.

“Stop here,” came a rough, harsh voice. “We let the horses drink.”

A pair of riding boots descended from the horse and landed heavily in the dirt. They dwarfed Poc’s small, empty shoe. Lusterless spurs dug into the muddy ground, a caking of blood scraping off of one of them.

“Very well, sir,” came a reply.

The black horse shifted its hooves. The man moved to the horse’s front and led it down to the ford. Over the pounding of his heart, Ghuto heard the horse greedily slopping up the water. The second, tan-coated horse eased into his view. Its own rider slid off and helped Marie down carefully. She bunched her skirts in her hands to keep them from dragging in the mud.

“Mister Melchias,” began Marie, but the older man cut her off.

“Silence! If you must speak to me, you will call me sir or Witchhunter: I will not tolerate disrespect.”

Poc's pounding heart skipped a pair of beats. His stomach lurched - a witchhunter! No wonder they were following him and Poc! There could be no doubt that they were mere travelers now, even though Marie was with them.

“No disrespect was meant, sir!” squealed Marie, lapsing into silence. The second man whispered some consolation to her. They led the second horse to the water as well. The horses drank uninterrupted by further conversion.

Finally, Melchias said, “Enough. If they drink too much, they’ll bloat themselves while we still have to ride. Let’s go.”

The riders remounted and moved on and Ghuto sighed in relief. Once they were gone, Poc scrambled out and grabbed his shoe.