DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3) by Frankie Robertson Page A

had become an Oathbreaker. No one in their village would do business with such a man. Shamed, his father had packed a carry sack one day and left the responsibility of providing for his mother to Aren.
    Having touched Annikke’s belongings and the seedlings in her garden, Aren had a sense for the woman. He knew Benoia’s feel, too, but the cottage was Annikke’s and his understanding of her was stronger. He didn’t think the women would separate, given what Nellor and the smith had said of them. They’d painted a picture of an isolated woman shunned by most, except when they needed her healing skills. Aren knew what that kind of isolation felt like. Many in his old village would look past him unless he had venison or pelts to trade, not willing to see him as any more trustworthy than his father.
    Annikke may have purchased Benoia’s service, but she treated the girl more like a daughter, or so the smith had said. Finding one would be as good as finding the other.
    Aren paused beside an oak thicket. They’d tarried there a long while, probably that first night. It wasn’t very far inside the forest. Why hadn’t Lord Tholvar’s men seen them? The cover wasn’t that good.
    He continued on, moving quickly, guided by his Talent, stopping only briefly to rest his mount, dig out journey-bread, or by necessity, when the light fled completely. His Talent would have guided him even in the dark, but it wouldn’t protect him from turning an ankle.
    The next day was much the same. The women were heading northwest, roughly in the direction of Quartzholm, following the downward slope of the land. Odd. And misguided. They would run into the Rift if they didn’t turn aside.
    Late in the afternoon he began to see signs of the women’s passage. Drifts of disturbed needles. A rock overturned. He was gaining ground on them as they tired. He’d probably catch up with them tomorrow morn. Again he stayed on their trail until dark made continuing too risky. As the last light faded, Aren saw to his mount’s needs, and then made another meal of foul-tasting journey-bread before rolling himself in his cloak and falling into a light sleep.
    *
     
    The nearly full moon had passed its zenith, casting the forest in slanting black and silver when Aren awoke. Stars sparkled overhead between the tall trees and the crisp mountain air was still. Too still. He sat up abruptly, reaching for his dagger, and saw that he wasn’t alone.
    An Elf dressed in leathers stood limned in moonlight not ten feet away, a recurve bow in one hand, and a brace of rabbits dangling from the other.
    “Torlon,” Aren named the Elf. It had been half a lifetime since the Fey lord had saved him from a charging bear with an arrow loosed from that same bow, but Aren remembered him clearly despite the intervening years. A meeting with the Fey wasn’t easy to forget.
    Torlon lifted the rabbits. “I brought dinner.”
    For a moment Aren wondered if he were dreaming. He awoke sweating at least once a year from nightmares about a giant bear charging him, its foul breath hot on his face, its tooth-filled jaws about to crush his skull. In truth, the bear had indeed been huge, but it hadn’t come so close. Torlon’s arrow had sprouted from the beast’s eye before it could eviscerate Aren with its finger length claws. But in Aren’s fear-drenched dreams, Torlon was sometimes too slow.
    Aren blinked. Torlon was indeed here, not a figment of dream or nightmare. Though miles away from the place of their previous encounter, Aren’s one-time rescuer was matter-of-factly offering to share the fruits of his hunt.
    “More like breakfast,” Aren said, gauging how far gone the night was. He set about clearing the ground and building a fire ring.
    Torlon crouched and began cleaning the rabbits. “As you say.”
    Another Elf came silently through the wood bearing deadwood and joined them, setting his armload down next to Aren. He sat beside Torlon and began gutting the second