He was running through the forest, ducking under limbs, darting through underbrush, jumping over fallen logs. They were behind him and gaining. In a small clearing, he spotted a tiny hut. He ran inside and closed the door firmly behind him. Turning around, he saw it was a bakery, and the smell of fresh bread was strong. Would it cover his scent?
Then he sat bolt upright in his bed. Fortis blinked, stiff and sore, but not immobile. Turning his head, he saw George holding a half-eaten small loaf of freshly baked bread, a mug in the other hand.
“So, you have escaped. What was chasing you?”
Fortis began fumbling for his boots. “Giant insects with human faces.”
“That would do it. I’d run, too. Your thrashing the last half hour provided a perfect cover. Fortunately you weren’t vocalizing, as that would ruin my story.” George took another bite of bread, set down the mug and pulled a few dark berries from a bowl.
“Cover story? To whom, and regarding what?” Fortis noted the fresh bread was the strongest smell coming from the basket between them.
“That busybody woman. She nearly ran me over trying to barge in here with this marvelous breakfast. She’s never given me a second glance in the past few years, but today she makes a desperate ploy of to get inside the tent. Your thrashing allowed me the excuse you were still dressing, and indecent. I barely restrained her.”
Fortis found the stiffness hardly restrained his impulse to dig into the food. But the faint cool on the sea became a bit of chill in the forest, so he reached for his jacket.
George held up his hand, “Wait. I want you try out the forest cloak in your bag.”
“Forest cloak?” Fortis opened the top of his pack and found a large rolled bundle of fabric. Pulling it out, he saw an interesting cloth of mixed colored threads, resulting generally in a brown appearance. He shrugged into it and found it fairly light, yet feeling substantial and warm. “Nice. Why?”
George finished off his food, pushed the basket toward Fortis and sat back on his bed. As Fortis began pulling out warm bread and cheese. George poured him a mug of tea, and refilled his own. “We need to stay together, but I need to find where the old men gather. In a village this size, there are always a few retired woodsmen or something, men who know what’s going on, and can help us find some hunters for our escort. Someone in this village really wants to get a look at you, so while we are out, you should wear the hood.”
Fortis felt for it, then continued eating. Life on Misty created an appetite he never knew could be so powerful. Between mouthfulls, “Is there some danger in them seeing me?”
“I don’t know, but whomever it is seems to think it matters, so we’ll deny them if we can.” George stood and strapped on his sword. It hung just off his right shoulder, and it occurred to Fortis George was probably left-handed.
It didn’t take long to find a knot of older men gathered in front of an open tent. A middle aged man stood behind a counter with his heating plates, one supporting a sizzling skillet, two with lidded pots, and a tall urn from which a young woman repeatedly drew mugs of tea for their guests. The men sat on short benches turned at random angles away from tables to allow them a sort of circle, chattering away in their local dialect.
George and Fortis took seats at a table just inside the tent opening, which was a bit shadowy in the wan light of early morning. The young lady approached with a pair of mugs for them, exchanged a few words with George, then left them alone. Fortis caught one word he thought meant food and a negative. He then turned his attention to the patois of the old men’s chatter, finding there were a few words he could decipher now and then. After a few minutes, George stood while motioning Fortis to stay put. He approached the knot of old men with his mug in one hand.
George spoke in Galactic, “Good men, could you tell me where I might find a couple of hunters? I am in need of an armed escort for a few days.”
The men maintained their dialect. From the ensuing conversation, Fortis gathered there were a couple of young hunter apprentices up for licensing in the coming summer, sons of someone named Farrell. But the conversation was interrupted. From the other side of the entrance, a balding man stood and approached the group. Speaking plain Galactic, he addressed himself to George. He placed a palm on his chest.
“Sir, I am a hunter — a senior hunter at that. I have business in the city and was planning to leave today, very shortly. I submit to you, one highly experienced hunter would be the equal of two apprentices. And I won’t charge any fee, since I’m already going that way.”
George’s face was impassive. “Well, we can’t leave right away. Our tent needs a full day to charge.”
The stranger was quick. “Oh, but I have a spare battery pack, fully charged. There’s no need to delay. We can be well on our way by nightfall.”
“No, really, we aren’t in a hurry…” It seemed George was almost making excuses.
The stranger betrayed just a tad of impatience. “Come on, old fellow! What are you waiting for?”
George raised to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. “Show me your sword,” he said coldly.
The stranger’s eyes diverted downward, and it was his turn to stammer. “I… I’m just a hunter, Sir. Elder, please forgive my impertinence.”
There was a long silence as the muscles in his jaws flexed a few times. George remained frozen. Finally, the man turned quickly and stomped away. He passed close by the table where Fortis sat, as the latter tilted his hooded head forward a bit to meet his mug. George watched the man until he disappeared between two tents.
Turning back with mildness to the old men, he said, “Please be so kind as to inform the sons of Farrell I will offer a premium for their services. We depart with the dawn tomorrow.”
Setting his mug on a table, George looked at Fortis and began moving slowly away. Fortis hurried to join him. George maintained his regal demeanor, scanning the street and open courtyard of the village until they entered their tent. Fortis noted the basket which had brought their fine breakfast, and which they had then placed just outside the entrance, was now gone. George checked his baggage, then Fortis’ pack. Fortis checked his bedding, then his jacket. Nothing seemed to have changed, nothing gone, nothing added.
They sat down on their beds facing each other. Fortis ventured, “So the sword is a mark of social standing.”
“These days it is mostly symbolic, but I have used it a time or two.” He reached back and drew it out, confirming Fortis’ guess about being a lefty. The off white ceramic blade betrayed nothing of its history, as George cradled it in his hands. It was clearly designed more for thrusting than slicing. “That man may know how to do some hunting, but he’s no hunter. He slipped three times.”
Fortis thought a moment. “I suppose the ‘old fellow’ was a breach in protocol. Did he forget he was playing a lower rank?”
“Indeed. Plus, the batteries are thin sheets built into the fabric of the tent. Since I helped in making this one,” he waved his right hand to indicate their shelter, “I knew precisely what was involved. There is no way to add external power without destroying the high efficiency of the meager current this thing generates.”
“What was the third item?”
George half smiled, “Did I say where we planned to go?”
Fortis caught it. “No, but he did. Are there other places likely?”
“Of course. There is a second academy with a large village, a different direction from here. It’s a business school, supported by a shipyard, and three logging houses. While the harbor we used does minor repairs, the staff shipwright there mostly performs inspections. A few kilometers farther east is the shipyard. This very village is mostly a bedroom for the woodsmen whose cutting feeds it. Take the narrow track northeast of here and you’ll find a logging camp. This part of the forest is pretty much limited to selected species of tree for lumber. A ways north of here we’ll be passing through one of the largest natural forest preserves on Misty. That’s where the predators are more likely to appear.”
“Both kinds, I suppose,” Fortis said.
“We will surely have at least one encounter. If Farrell’s boys are any good at all, we’ll be fairly safe. I surmise whatever is working against us has been too hastily arranged, so it won’t amount to much. When I refused to grant that stranger forgiveness, he surely realized I was on to him, so there will have to be a Plan B.”
Fortis cocked his head to one side. “You seem awfully relaxed about all this. I suppose it’s part of mysticism, though — a sense of detachment.”
George chuckled. “It is, but there’s much more to it than that.”
