Grit

One

The wind was a hot one that sent sand stinging into every exposed inch of my body. I tugged the white bandana I wore around my neck up over my nose and mouth, silently cursing the land, the weather, and the sun. I grimaced as sweat ran down my back, making the gun shoved between my skin and my belt all the more uncomfortable.

I hated the journey to the Boneland, to the shit-hole town that was Murkrune. But it was the closest trading post to the Outlands, which meant if I wanted to continue living, I had to make the trip every several months.

I looked to my donkey, Gunpowder, who was loaded with every fur and bone I had from the last season of trapping. Very few people lived as far at the edges of the Outlands as I did, as danger came with every winter, every catamount and bear making life a little more treacherous. But the trapping was good at the base of the Drevahs, the high, vast mountain range that walled in the west side of Lorn.

I wiped sweat from my brow, squinting at the skyline. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and we were only just nearing Garroter's Rock, a massive, flat-topped boulder about two miles from Murkrune. It was dangerous, as a trader, to be beyond the walls of an outpost at dusk. Raiders plagued the Boneland, profiting from poorly armed travelers. That was something I wasn't. Along with the pistol and stiletto in my belt, I always kept two throwing knives strapped to my thigh, and Gunpowder carried with him a crossbow I had made, two loaded black powder rifles, and a double-edged hunting knife.

Gunpowder's lead was tight in my hand as we approached Garroter's Rock. Something was setting off alarms inside my head.

A shadow at the edge of the boulder shifted. I reached back, gripping my handgun.

"Show yourself," I growled. There was no reply.

"Now," I said. "Neither one of us has time for this."

Someone stepped out from behind the rock. I drew my weapon, holding it at my side.

"Step into the light," I commanded. The figure did so, and I studied the woman before me. She was probably about twenty, a dagger in her hand. Her eyes were wild with fear, her clothing disheveled.

"You have to help me!" she gasped. "Please. The bandits, they grabbed me while I was on the road. They tried to–"

She broke off, sobbing. I swallowed, studying her. I couldn't tell if she was crying.

"Let me see your hands," I said, suspicious. "Drop the knife."

"Please!" she cried. "I'm begging you. If we don't go, they'll catch up with me!"

"Bullshit," I snarled, raising my gun to her head. "Drop the knife!"

A slow grin spread across her face, and her knife clattered to the ground.

"You're smarter than most," she laughed. "A few tears and a pretty face won't fool you."

"Get on your knees!"

She slowly knelt in the dirt. He stepped forward as she looked up at Garroter's Rock.

"Come on, boys!" she called. "He may be smart but he's alone."

Four people emerged from the top of the rock. I pressed my gun to the woman's head. She went silent, staring up at me.

"You move," I said to the men. "And she dies."

"Shoot her!" one of them shouted. "One less person to split the haul between, one less mouth to feed!"

Her eyes widened slightly in shock, and she went white. But she said nothing, didn't speak to the men who'd just betrayed her, didn't beg me for her life. I could hear her former friends drawing their weapons. It was a trick – they couldn't have so little respect for one of their own. But if it was one, it was a trick that was going to get me killed.