Trader

[Psimon]

The cold stone walls seemed to close in on Ryl.

 

The darkness was nothing to him. He could see in the dark as clearly as if he were standing in a field of knee-high grass with not a cloud in the sky to trouble him. No, the darkness was not the problem. It was the cell.

 

His Faeling heart threatened to trample its Talimar brother in its desperation to leave his chest. Confinement he could take in measure, but this was altogether different. These cold stones whispered his impending doom. They spoke his name with the intimacy of the grave.

 

‘Soon - very soon. It is coming. Can you hear the footfalls of your executioner? Can you hear his axe glide over the sharpening stone? It is coming soon...’

 

This waiting threatened to drive him mad. 'Just kill me and be done with you!' he cried.

 

Within himself, Ryl sensed only three days and two nights had passed, and yet it seemed like an eternity. Then, quite suddenly, he slept.

 

*****

 

He could barely open his eyes. Perhaps I am still dreaming, he thought, or perhaps I am already dead.

 

The light blinded him. Fresh air, a hint of grass and dank vegetation on a cooling breeze, caressed his face. He rolled onto his stomach, expecting the chains to pull him up short, biting into his flesh at wrist and ankle, but there were no chains and his face pressed into the dew-glittered grass. He forced himself to breathe slowly. Do not panic he warned himself as the breeze teased his back. He raised himself a few inches and opened his eyes. It was all real - the grass, the leaves, the breeze. He was not dead.

 

He raised his head a little more - narrowed eyes against the glare of the day revealed a brush covered rise to his left and sparse trees in all other directions. He dared to move, testing limbs that his mind told him were fine. How could he possibly believe his mind? He had been imprisoned, awaiting execution, and now here he was lying in a clearing, at the bottom of what appeared to be a dry stream bed. His change of circumstance raised a good many questions.

 

He sat up slowly, still too unsure to get swept away with thoughts of freedom. Nothing broken, no cuts, no bleeding. Good. He stood up, and came close to falling straight down again. He was light headed. I suppose that is what prison rations will do for you, he mused, bitterly making an oath never to be in the position of having to eat such food again.

 

Turning slowly to survey his surroundings, he realised he had not been lying in a dry stream bed at all. He had been lying in a roadside ditch. The road disappeared between rust-leaved trees several yards in each direction with no sign of fresh tracks.

 

Not a road well travelled, he shrugged, tearing the arm of his shirt loose. These rags won't last me a day. Draped in ill-fitting prison-issue rags, with no food, water or weapon - if he were a lesser man, he might have begun to worry.

 

As he sat pondering, he heard the unmistakable squeak and groan of a wagon approaching. He cast his mind out to the wagon, listening for snippets of loose thought. A simple minded farmer carting his goods to market - that would do as well as anything else he was likely to meet on this road. Ryl stood and strode into the middle of the forest road. Raising a hand, he called, 'Greetings, friend!'

 

The wagon was pulled up sharply. The ragged old horse, not being used to such wild movements, struggled to stay upright. It rolled its eyes and snorted in agitation, swinging its gaunt face to glare at the farmer.

 

'Sorry, 'orse. Only it weren't my fault now, were it?’ the old man complained to his travelling companion. 'It were his fault, I mean, your fault there, feller. You've no business jumping about on roads scaring my old 'orse and me. No business at all'. His startled expression clouded to righteous indignation and Ryl felt the full fury of the farmers glare.

 

'Be that as it may, good sir, you will kindly get down from your wagon and give me your clothes and some of your wares. In return I shall give you these fine clothes I wear now. Now you must admit that is a more than fair exchange'.

 

'I'll admit no such thing. That isn't a fair deal at all. Why, its as near as like to thieving, I'll say it as clear as the day around us. Thieving. And I'll have no such thing done on me and mine, you hear? I'll run you off. Run you off, I will'. The farmer stood shakily in the wagon, raising his travelling staff and his voice, 'Just you step closer and see if I don't'.

 

'Now, now, old timer. There's no need for shouting and stick waving. No need at all'. Ryl concentrated a little harder, moved past the old man's anger, and planted the seed of a reasonable notion in the farmer's grey-haired head. 'It is a perfectly reasonable offer - one businessman to another'.

 

The farmer shook his head and blinked firmly once, then again, as though he was clearing the effects of too much strong cider. 'Well, I suppose...' he hesitated, 'I suppose it might be fair, seeing as how I've got quite a bit to sell this season, it being a good harvest and all, so I don't suppose I'd miss just a little bit of it. And your shirt does look to be in better nick than mine', he started to mutter while removing his shirt, 'Don't know why you'd want my torn old thing, but mine ain't to wonder such things, no sir, not old Tuvrik. Just make the trade and be pleased about it'. The farmer began to ramble on and on about this woe and that, how none of it was of his making and not his to question, but it would be nice to have some good luck now and then in his poor and lonely life. Ryl barely resisted the urge to yawn.

 

When the exchange was made, Ryl patted the old man's horse and fed it one of the carrots he'd been given. 'There now, old boy. You take care of him now, won't you?'

 

'Of course I will. He's the only beast I've got' the farmer promised.

 

'I was talking to the horse', Ryl replied. He turned from the road, stepped lightly down into the ditch, and began to make his way into the sparse cover of the trees.

 

'Well, I never!’ the old man exclaimed and took the reins firmly in hand. With an indignant shrug he shook the leather straps, bidding the horse to walk on. 'I never...’ he started again, but then was at a loss to remember just what it was he never did. The horse took the weight of the wagon and slowly they moved off down the road, just a touch lighter than when they'd stopped. The farmer started to whistle off-key and could still be heard a minute or so later, his lack of a tune finally fading away on the breeze.

 

Ryl moved freely through the trees, his light step and trained eye leaving no trace of his passing. He considered his long training well worth the effort at times like these - on the run in the wild with few resources, if any at all. There were always resources at hand though - you just had to have the time to find them. He loved the chase and if he could not be the hunter, well then, being the hunted was the next best thing.

 

He had rarely lost such contests, and when he had, it had always been to another Agent, and that gave him cause for concern. During his briefing there had been no mention of others working on this issue - not that this had been the first time the Administration had withheld information - yet he had been captured. For the moment, he moved this vital piece of information to one side. For now he had to get as far from the road as possible, as whoever had dumped him there may be looking for more sport. He had to get out of these trees, get his bearings, and learn just how far he had been carried from Adin.

 

He did not particularly wish to return to the city, but return he must if he was to learn anything more, and Argentrane was undoubtedly still being held there. To get back in he would need a new cover.

[WrenWind]

*claps her hands in joy* Great story so far Beloved. I want more please.