Bran Wolfe's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

The tracks led Bran a half mile down the hay road before he pulled up. He sat the horse and looked at the two things in his hands. The folded list. The dead captain's signet ring. If he lost either, no one would believe a word he said. A blacksmith with a story about a crown was a madman. A blacksmith with a hit list and two rings was a threat that had to be answered. He rode back to the farmhouse. Inside, he set the list and the ring on the swept kitchen table. The hound came to the door and watched him. Bran unbuckled the wristblade housing from his forearm and laid it beside the paper. He worked the small screws on the side plate with the point of his knife. The housing opened along a seam he had cut himself, months ago, for a different reason. Inside was a hollow the width of two fingers. He folded the list once more, tight, and pressed it into the cavity. The captain's signet ring he wrapped in a strip cut from the dead man's shirt so it would not rattle. He fit it in beside the paper. He closed the plate and turned the screws down. His own ring he kept on his finger, turned inward as always. If a man searched him and found one ring, he might stop looking. He strapped the housing back to his arm and flexed his wrist. The blade still dropped clean into his palm. He worked it three times to be sure. The weight was a hair heavier. No one but him would know. He stood in the quiet kitchen a moment longer. The captain sat behind him in the chair, hands folded. Bran did not turn around. Outside, he whistled the hound to his heel and swung up. The bay's tracks pointed east through the cut hay. He had proof now that could not be pulled from a saddlebag or shaken from a pocket. To take it, a man would have to take his arm. He touched his heels to the horse and followed the tracks. A quarter mile on, the hound stopped in the road and lifted its nose. The dog's hackles went up along the spine. Bran reined in. The tracks he had been following bent off the hay road into a stand of birch. Fresh. Wet at the edges where the horse had cut the turf. The bay had circled back. The rider was not ahead of him. The rider was watching him ride. Bran slid down from the saddle and led the horse off the road. He put his hand on the wristblade housing and felt the small hard weight of the ring and the paper under the plate. Safe. For now that was enough. He stepped into the trees to meet whatever was waiting.