Chapter 3: 03 : The Trip

“It’s father’s order.” Will kept his tone flat.

“Father orders many things.” Bram stepped close, the barn lantern carving hard lines over his features. “He also says a dog learns quickest under the stick.”

He swung without warning—a sharp hook that caught Will’s ribs. Pain flared white. Another blow followed, a knee to the thigh, and Will stumbled into the stall gate. The bow clattered to the floor.

Bram sneered. “Tell him I fell and dented it, see who he believes.”

Will pressed a hand to his side, breathing shallow. Fighting back meant worse later. Silence was safer.

“Clean the mess.” Bram snatched the yew, stormed out, slamming the door so hard dust rained from the beams.

Will stayed crouched until the ache steadied. Then he gathered spilled feed, straightened the tools, and lay among the hay bales where moonlight striped the loft. Above, the rafters creaked like distant trees in the wind.

He shut his eyes.

In darkness the deer waited, antlers glinting. The voice behind him—

Fight.

Will clenched his fists until straw bit his palms, but no sleep came.

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Morning broke pewter-gray. Garret’s shout snapped Will upright. Bruises throbbed along his ribs, but he moved quick—saddlebag packed, canteens filled, bedroll rolled tight. Bram lurked on the porch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, smirking at Will’s limp.

Garret emerged, sword belted, cloak flung across one shoulder. He tossed a smaller bundle to Will—Bram’s yew bow, unstrung.

“String that. Don’t nick the horn tips.”

Will slid the bow into his pack instead. Better to string it where Bram couldn’t see any tremble in his hands.

They set off.

Garret rode atop his broad gelding, Chud, the horse’s breath puffing white in the chill. Will walked behind, matching Chud’s pace with long strides. His feet sank in mud; frost rimmed every weed.

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No words passed for the first hour. Garret’s cloak snapped like a flag. Will kept eyes forward, mind dividing chores: skinning knife honed? check. Fletching? good. Avoid father’s drink-fueled lashes? unknown variable.

Ahead the lane forked toward the Polock spread—low barns, smoke curling lazy from chimneys. Ricket’s silhouette waved madly from a gate.

Garret grunted. “We’ll water the horse and take their cordiality.”

Will recognized the tone—I need a drink first.

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Harbin Polock met them at the porch, broad belly straining a stained apron. His laughter boomed as he clasped Garret’s forearm, already steering him toward a jug of honeyed brandy.

Ricket bounced beside Will, eyes wide. “Going on a hunt? Catch a wolf for me, Will! I’d give it a name. Maybe Cloud, or Knuckles—knuckles is funny.” He giggled at his own joke, then sobered. “Your eye’s purple. Did you bump a door?”

Will forced a thin smile. “Something like that.”

Inside, voices rose and fell—Harbin roaring, Garret answering in soldier’s slang, mugs thudding. Efram stalked past with a sack of grain, nose wrinkled at Will like he smelled manure. Brinna leaned in a doorway, arms folded, whispering to Efram words Will couldn’t hear but felt like flies on skin.

When Garret finally reappeared, the brandy glow lit his cheeks. He tossed Will a half-loaf of rye. “Rations. Thank the boy.”

Ricket beamed. Will nodded gratitude. They left to the tune of Harbin’s laugh trailing across the yard.

Garret’s saddlebag clinked heavier now.

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That night they camped on the fringe of the northern woods, moon silvering every branch. Garret drank deep, eyes shining with firelight. Stories poured out—spears in Orrath passes, silent dawns after battle, a girl named Maelin who braided garlands even for dirt-caked soldiers.

Will listened. The only safe response was silence.

Eventually the stories curdled. Maelin became Miriam, soft garlands became soft mercy, and Garret’s stare sharpened on Will like a whetted blade.

“You think kindness lasts,” he slurred. “It doesn’t. I let her keep you. ‘He’s so small, Garret,’ she said. ‘He belongs somewhere.’”

He spat into the fire. Sparks hissed. “You belong nowhere.”

Will’s heartbeat drummed louder than the night insects. He shifted his gaze to the flames, letting Garret’s words pass through—detached, unreachable. A trick he had learned young.

Garret swigged again, words melting into incoherence. At last his chin sagged to his chest, snores rumbling.

Will waited. Clouds slid over the moon; the woods darkened. Somewhere an owl called. The dream’s hill of bones rose in his mind, the sword gleaming at its peak. The deer’s eye—sad, knowing—watched him from between the trees.

He lay back on his bedroll, fists tucked beneath his head to hide their trembling, and stared at the slice of sky framed by branches.

Sleep crept in jagged fits.