Felix left the fragile security of the spike-bordered fishing village and walked into a circle of armed guards.
As he moved slowly away from the gate, obsidian-tipped spears followed him, only a few feet away. For all of Moira’s assurances that he wouldn’t be harmed, it certainly felt like they were capable of ending his life at any moment.
Finally, he reached the horse.
It was a beautiful black stallion of a beast, saddled and armored in ornate leather. Felix mounted.
There were no reins. No bit.
Four guards continued to surround him, their spears elevated toward his chest.
He considered kicking the horse into a run, but without any means of controlling the animal—and with four spears pointed directly at him—he knew that would be suicide.
And where would he go?
This land was completely foreign to him. His maps and belongings were under the control of the guards.
Felix looked back over his shoulder toward the cottage where Kyle was tending to Lydia.
As promised, the other contingent had entered the village.
He turned back toward Moira. She was speaking quietly with the lead guard. A moment later, one of the guards returned from the village and approached her. They exchanged a few words.
The lead guard looked toward Felix.
There was concern in his expression.
He nodded at whatever Moira had said, then turned and walked toward his own, more elaborately decorated horse.
He mounted and trotted toward Felix.
As he approached, he removed his helmet.
Felix saw the face beneath it.
A middle-aged man with hard features and a severe scar running from his right eyebrow, across the bridge of his crooked nose, and all the way to the lobe of his left ear.
His voice was deep and gravelly, brokering no protest.
“The priestess would like you to ride abreast of her steed, on her right. I am to ride on her left. We will have sentries forward and two aft until we reach the vanguard.”
He paused.
“She assures me you have entered into a contract with her, and that you have agreed to certain terms. I trust you will conduct yourself honorably.”
His eyes settled on Felix.
“Should we encounter trouble along the road, I may need your aid. Would I be able to count on you not to attempt flight, and to help defend the priestess?”
He raised a hand, indicating that Felix should wait.
The lead guard brought his horse closer, inside the ring of spears and alongside Felix’s.
His eyes were a deep brown, ringed in gold.
They were hollow and sad.
Understanding.
And deadly.
His gaze bore into Felix.
Neither man spoke.
Felix could feel the danger in the silence. This wasn’t a threat. It was an appraisal.
Something inside him began to roil.
Ire.
He didn’t like being evaluated like an animal.
He studied the man in return, refusing to look away.
The guard’s eyes hardened and narrowed.
Felix began to understand that he was going to have to deal with this man, and that could be a problem.
He stared back, unflinching.
The guard slowly raised his right hand, extending it out to the side, palm flat toward the ground.
The other guards’ eyes shifted between their leader, his hand, and Felix. Their expressions grew uncertain.
Felix didn’t relent.
Neither did the guard.
From several paces away, Felix could feel Moira watching them. Calm. Unconcerned.
A muscle unconsciously tightened in Felix’s neck.
Only for a fraction of a second.
The guard caught it.
His eyes flicked toward the movement with raptor-fast precision.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
A slight grin.
Then he moved his right hand toward Felix.
The spears moved with it.
Felix’s muscles tensed.
But the guard extended his hand.
A handshake.
Felix looked at the offered hand, then at the spears surrounding him.
He reached out and clasped it, expecting a crushing squeeze—a demonstration of dominance.
It never came.
Instead, the handshake was warm and firm.
Friendly.
The guard’s expression relaxed, and the surrounding spears lowered with a collective motion.
“Call me Jacob.”
“Felix.”
Jacob smiled.
“I like you.”
Felix raised an eyebrow.
“But only so long as you keep your word.”
The smile disappeared.
“One step, and we’ll turn you into a tent.”
He released Felix’s hand.
“Form up.”
Artavus Quill 