To his left lay the start of the switchback trail that led down to the lands below. Rough going, true enough, but far better than the sheer drop before him.
Dust whined behind him, sitting back aways, guarding his pack at the edge of the cleared area that marked the trailhead.
Vren walked back and knelt at her side, pulling his pack close over the loose gravel. “We made decent time,” he said softly. “Fairly sure we’ve lost our pursuer. You’ll need to be careful on the way back.”
Dust huffed.
The baby bundle was still strapped to his chest, a bit worse for wear. He removed the sling and set it aside carefully, still in the habit of treating it like an actual child. Amused at himself, he opened his pack and started to pull out the items he would cache here, among the rocks and scrub. Knives, buckles, the ring, and most important, the mage key.
Dust backtracked a bit and started digging at an old animal hole between some rocks, making it wider. Vren wrapped the items in leather and tied the bundle tightly shut. Dust moved aside as Vren knelt, crammed the package into the hole the vore had created, then filled it with dirt, gravel, and small stones. Good enough for a casual eye, especially up here, where few ventured. He brushed off his hands and stood. Mingled with his joy at homecoming was pain.
Time to say good-bye.
He knelt again beside his pack. Dust came to lean slightly against him.
“I wish you could go with me,” he said, closing and tying the pack. “I wish I could show you the beauties that are to be found in the Wastes.”
Dust nudged him with her nose.
“I know,” he said. “Too dangerous.” He stood, looking anywhere but at her. His sadness was an ache in his heart. “I don’t know when I will see you again, Dust. I have enjoyed our travels, and I don’t want to leave you, but—”
There was a wet thud, followed nearly instantly by a horrible, hurt whine.
Dust collapsed on her side, a crossbow bolt in her chest.
Vren spun.
There, on a rock above them, a woman was raising another crossbow.
She’d gotten ahead of them. Vren dodged, rolling, tumbling away, the grit of gravel under his shoulder. The next bolt hit the ground where he’d been standing.
Vren regained his feet and threw his pack at the woman, drawing his bone knives while the pack was still in the air.
She dodged, dropping the crossbow as she dropped to the ground. She’d a knife in each hand, same as him, and a look of hate in her eyes.
Same as him.
Vren snarled, she echoed him, and they began the dance. Moving this way and that, feinting with blades high and low. Watching for the first mistake, the first chance—
Her eyes drifted to the baby bundle on the ground.
Vren lunged, slicing at her eyes while trying to catch her wrist. He nicked her forehead, slicing deep. Blood flowed, but she was fast, very fast. She twisted in his grip and would have hit his heart if he hadn’t retreated.
She followed, teeth bared, and slashed, cutting deeply into his wrist. Vren ducked and got inside her reach. He butted her hard with his shoulder, knocking her to the ground.
The woman sprawled near Dust’s body and the bundle. She was braced for his attack, but he backed off to catch a breath.
Blood dripped from her forehead and down the side of her nose. Her face was contorted with rage.
With a roar, she grasped the doll, tearing into it with her knife. Vren laughed at her expression as dried pease flew everywhere.
“Where is it?” she demanded as she rose to her feet. “Where is the babe?”
He shrugged and grinned. The bitch could just wonder. He planted his feet, aware that the footing had changed.
She glared. There was something in her eyes, an anger that told him this one didn’t deal well with failure.
“Not here,” he taunted.
