Ranger of Path

5. Judicial Sunset

 It won't be via doves, crows, or griffins

It won't be rumor at a bar or from a minstrel's lips

When the pantheon begins a fresh game

All minds that dream will know righteous fear

And align to one color or another

Then we slaughter each other for a hundred years

—Ola Ishtaran

Staying low and near cover, Ishkur trails the gang of thieving crusaders. The men march single file around a curve, carrying his gear like the divided carcass of a deer. The youngest brings up the rear. A parading scarecrow, the man rests his arms on Ishkur's prized polearm lying across his shoulders.

I'll have that back, boy.

The young soldier turns his head, and Ishkur drops into the flood ditch at the rough road's edge.

No traffic.

The afternoon sun warms his face as he counts a hundred breaths.

Where's that worked land?

He rises with a drawn dagger and runs to where the empty road bends.

Ahead, a hamlet of buildings welcome. The rocky road smooths into a street and splits at a large tavern backed by a hill. Small farmhouses civilize the land to the left all the way through, but the right is grass and bushes until after the street forks and then well-tended farms crowd both sides.

"There we are." Ishkur sheaths his blade and practices a smile. "All cozy and quaint."

A dozen locals, old men and women of varying ages, face the five soldiers at a stone well in front of the tavern. Spears get leveled at the country folk, and the locals clear a path to the fields on the left.

Where are you, Haden? Are you hiding in plain sight, wearing one of these bumpkin's faces?

Ishkur jogs as the crusaders leave the street.

At the first farm's field he runs onto the dirt and drops to his knuckles and toes. The soldiers march through plowed land three farms down. A few locals follow at a respectable distance and then stop where wild grass takes over.

Not losing me ... Ishkur parallels into bushes, cutting to intercept the crusaders' trail where the trees take over. You got my gear, but I'm still a rang—

Crunch.

"Fu—" He bites his lip and hops away from a rock.

Funny ... He rubs his big toe until the pain dulls to a throb. Can't blame a demigod for that one. Blood colors the nail, but the toe still bends.

The stone that tripped him is cobbled.

Hello, trade route ... He worms his fingers into the soil, scraping flat stones with his nails. No big trees in a straight line east.

He pulls out his rough-drawn map and labels a dot for this hamlet "Sarvernway."

Odd, soldiers ... His finger traces the distance to the coast. Why start such a long trip so late in the day?

Boot prints matching the Obsidian crusaders overlap each other, churning up the forest floor.

Can they really be alone, without even a pack mule?

Taking care to avoid stirring leaves, he sprints in bursts. Stopping at bushes and trees with eyes wide and head cocked, he breathes deep before moving on.