50th Day
Spring 523
Spring 523
Nearly every morning for the last fortnight since arriving in Syka, Bronwen walked the short pathway from the tent she shared with the Insur, Crylon, to the same, usually empty, beach, and every morning, Bron always carried a long, thick stick with her, except for this morning. This morning she was empty-handed, and of all mornings, the beach wasn't empty, and its occupant just had to be this guy.
Bron scuffled backward off the beach, returning to the shaded path, and slid behind a tree, easing out a long breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
The new morning was hazy and damp, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, no doubt stretching and yawning as it prepared to bestow on Syka another humid and hot day. Even the jungle surrounding the village was coming alive with the wild heralding of the new day.
A season ago, the Syliran herself wouldn't have been caught up this early in the day, but thanks to her tentmate, rising early was beginning to become a most unwanted habit. Crylon Stonecraft wasn't a big man, as far as one might describe a 'big man', but for what the Insur lacks in height, his bulk more than makes up for it. The man's muscles have muscles, and in addition to his dense, heavy left arm, Crylon wasn't exactly light on his feet. He was also up and gone before daylight every morning, and Bronwen was a very light sleeper. Hence, her early morning strolls, but of all the mornings.
Bron held her breath before peering back around the edge of the tree. The man's name was Hunter, and Bron didn't know if Hunter was his first name, last name, or occupation. What she did know was that Hunter was a slaver or, at least, worked for one. He was taller than her 6 foot 2 inches, outweighed her by a good 60 pounds, and all his hair had migrated South to his pox-scared face, leaving behind a shiny, bald pate and a grey beard a couple of seasons overdue for a trim. The slaver was a ruthless and cruel sadist who took and tortured, and anyone daring enough to peer into the man's coal-black eyes would see evil looking back.
Had something about the man not caught Bronwen's attention or, more accurately, what he possessed, she'd have fled back the way she had come as soon as she had recognized him. Hunter had her quarterstaff, not just any quarterstaff but the one her father, a Knight Commander or The Order, had given her. She thought it lost to her forever, buried beneath the water in the wreckage of that slave ship.
Bron watched Hunter swinging about the staff and shook her head. The man's skill, or lack thereof, resembled more of a toddler with a play stick than a staff fighter. She could best him if his display were anything to go by to judge his prowess, but she wouldn't do it empty-handed.
Bron slowly backed away from the tree. If she was going to get her staff back, she would need help or, at the very least, a weapon of her own. Turning, she headed back down the well-trodden path back toward the village, her pace quickening as a slow smile spread across her lips. Bron loved a good fight.
