paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to him. Asher unfolded the sweat-creased paper and scanned the list of fruits, vegetables, oils, silks, and leather.
“Quite a list,” Asher said. “The king informs me there is nothing due to His Majesty of Deasroc.”
The captain snorted—a sound that mimicked a swine, and shook his head. “There never is. Yet you ask every time.”
He did ask each time, because the answer nagged him. How could nothing be due, ever? Tons of supplies entered this port and not once was payment ever asked of Eriroc. “Your people have been quite blessed of late,” Asher observed. “I do believe that is another new sail. Impressive.”
The captain’s face darkened. “I’ll have the lads unload.”
“Of course.”
Asher tapped the paper on his hand as young men marched up and down the plank, arms full of boxes and canisters and bolts. All were dressed nicely, except for one. Asher focused on him immediately. The boy’s coloring was off. His skin was different than the others, a very dark drown, and he was not as plump as the rest of the crew. Definitely not from Deasroc.
Asher waited until the misfit was close and then stuck the tip of his boot out. The boy toppled headlong, his basket of apples spilling across the ground.
“You fool boy!’ the captain bellowed. “I’ll skin you alive for that.”
“It was my fault, Captain,” Asher called back. He knelt to help the boy, who was frantically picking up produce. “You’re new.”
The boy looked at him with black eyes and nodded.
“You’re not from Deasroc, are you?”
The boy shook his head no.
“Been there long?”
“About six months, sir.”
Asher fell quiet and continued to help as a few boys marched past them and hoisted their loads to the men in the cart. “Lots of storms in Deasroc I hear.”
The apple in the boy’s hand dropped and rolled across the ground. “We’re not supposed to talk about the weather. Captain forbade it.”
Asher fished in his pocket and took out a coin. He held it out. “Lots of storms I hear?”
The boy hesitated for a second, and then looked over his shoulder at the captain before snatching the money. “Yes.”
“These storms, do they look strange?”
The boy’s lips tightened in a thin line, and he gathered up an armful of apples without a word.
Asher huffed and pulled two more coins from his pocket. “Are they tinted purple, these clouds?”
The boy snatched his payment. “Yes, strangest thing I ever seen.” He picked up the loaded box and stood.
Asher stood with him. “I thought you didn’t have wizards on Deasroc.”
The boy’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Wizards are demons,” he whispered. “And there are no demons on Deasroc.” He hurried off.
If there are no demons, then how are the purple-rimmed clouds finding their way there? Asher wondered.
A rain of arrows erupted from the trees—the men abandoned the cart, running for cover. The arrows thudded into wood and sand. Asher swore and dashed for the ship. He needed high ground and he needed it now.
He leapt from the planks to the deck and ran towards the mast, climbing it faster than any sailor ever could. He straddled the crossbeam and pulled his bow. The thieves were streaming from the forest, covered in cloaks and still firing arrows. Some of the men headed straight for the wagon. They grabbed boxes and ran back towards the trees.
Asher fired. His first arrow caught one of the thieves in the shoulder. His stolen goods crashed to the ground, and apples rolled through the mud. The warning cry of “Hunter” went up from the thieves. Several took protective stances, firing towards the ship. An arrow thudded into the mast inches from his face.
“You’re getting better,” Asher murmured. “Much better.”
Several thieves disappeared into the trees with boxes. Asher fired again and again. His arrows hit several in arms and legs and another in the chest. He would’ve hit more, but
“Quite a list,” Asher said. “The king informs me there is nothing due to His Majesty of Deasroc.”
The captain snorted—a sound that mimicked a swine, and shook his head. “There never is. Yet you ask every time.”
He did ask each time, because the answer nagged him. How could nothing be due, ever? Tons of supplies entered this port and not once was payment ever asked of Eriroc. “Your people have been quite blessed of late,” Asher observed. “I do believe that is another new sail. Impressive.”
The captain’s face darkened. “I’ll have the lads unload.”
“Of course.”
Asher tapped the paper on his hand as young men marched up and down the plank, arms full of boxes and canisters and bolts. All were dressed nicely, except for one. Asher focused on him immediately. The boy’s coloring was off. His skin was different than the others, a very dark drown, and he was not as plump as the rest of the crew. Definitely not from Deasroc.
Asher waited until the misfit was close and then stuck the tip of his boot out. The boy toppled headlong, his basket of apples spilling across the ground.
“You fool boy!’ the captain bellowed. “I’ll skin you alive for that.”
“It was my fault, Captain,” Asher called back. He knelt to help the boy, who was frantically picking up produce. “You’re new.”
The boy looked at him with black eyes and nodded.
“You’re not from Deasroc, are you?”
The boy shook his head no.
“Been there long?”
“About six months, sir.”
Asher fell quiet and continued to help as a few boys marched past them and hoisted their loads to the men in the cart. “Lots of storms in Deasroc I hear.”
The apple in the boy’s hand dropped and rolled across the ground. “We’re not supposed to talk about the weather. Captain forbade it.”
Asher fished in his pocket and took out a coin. He held it out. “Lots of storms I hear?”
The boy hesitated for a second, and then looked over his shoulder at the captain before snatching the money. “Yes.”
“These storms, do they look strange?”
The boy’s lips tightened in a thin line, and he gathered up an armful of apples without a word.
Asher huffed and pulled two more coins from his pocket. “Are they tinted purple, these clouds?”
The boy snatched his payment. “Yes, strangest thing I ever seen.” He picked up the loaded box and stood.
Asher stood with him. “I thought you didn’t have wizards on Deasroc.”
The boy’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Wizards are demons,” he whispered. “And there are no demons on Deasroc.” He hurried off.
If there are no demons, then how are the purple-rimmed clouds finding their way there? Asher wondered.
A rain of arrows erupted from the trees—the men abandoned the cart, running for cover. The arrows thudded into wood and sand. Asher swore and dashed for the ship. He needed high ground and he needed it now.
He leapt from the planks to the deck and ran towards the mast, climbing it faster than any sailor ever could. He straddled the crossbeam and pulled his bow. The thieves were streaming from the forest, covered in cloaks and still firing arrows. Some of the men headed straight for the wagon. They grabbed boxes and ran back towards the trees.
Asher fired. His first arrow caught one of the thieves in the shoulder. His stolen goods crashed to the ground, and apples rolled through the mud. The warning cry of “Hunter” went up from the thieves. Several took protective stances, firing towards the ship. An arrow thudded into the mast inches from his face.
“You’re getting better,” Asher murmured. “Much better.”
Several thieves disappeared into the trees with boxes. Asher fired again and again. His arrows hit several in arms and legs and another in the chest. He would’ve hit more, but
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