Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 10 of 57

The boot prints ran past the barn and did not stop. Damian followed them along the road until they broke sharply left and plunged into thick brush. He reined in his horse. The tracks vanished under thorns and low branches, into ground no rider could cross. If he pushed the horse in, he would lose it to the tangle. If he went on foot, he would lose the road and his bearings. He stared at the prints and felt his enemy slipping away again. Rolo swung down from her horse and crouched at the brush line. She read the ground the way she read everything, fast and sure. "He didn't run in here to lose us," she said. "He ran in here to reach something. A trail this deliberate ends somewhere." "We can't follow it," Damian said. "Not without the horses." "Then we don't follow the prints." She stood and pointed down the road, past the brush, to a low roof half-hidden by trees. "We follow where they go." They led the horses on foot. The brush curled away from the road and opened onto a clearing. A small shop stood there, bright and out of place. Painted fruit ran across its sign. Behind the glass counter, cups and wrapped food waited under a cheerful board. Smoke curled from a compact kitchen at the back. Someone had set up trade here, at the edge of nowhere, on the road east. Rolo caught Damian's sleeve. "There. Same tread." Fresh boot prints crossed the dust to the door and stopped. Their man had come out of the brush here. Damian loosened the wrapped sword on his back and stepped inside. A woman worked behind the counter, wiping it down. She looked up without surprise. She had seen armed travelers before. "A man came through," Damian said. "Out of the brush. Not long ago." She kept wiping. "Men come through. I sell drinks and wraps, not their business." But her eyes flicked once to a side door, then back. Rolo drifted to that door. It stood ajar. Beyond it lay a narrow track, and hoofprints, fresh and deep, heading east through the trees. "He didn't walk out," she called. "He rode. He had a horse waiting here." Damian understood then. The prints had not led into the brush by accident. His enemy's people had built a way station on this road, a place to eat, rest, and swap to fresh horses. The organization ran the whole route. Their agent had gained a full day on tired legs while Damian tracked mud. He set a coin on the counter. "How far to their next stop?" The woman took the coin. She weighed his sword, his steadiness. "A day's hard ride," she said quietly. "Walls. Men who wear the mark." Damian pushed back outside and mounted. The brush no longer mattered. The road did. He knew now where it led, and who waited at its end.