17th of Summer, 513
Sweat trickled down between Zeal's shoulder blades. The damp spot on the back of his once white shirt grew. Candlelight flickered in the small tent, creating distorted shadows that danced along the walls.
Zeal slammed back another sip of ale and stared into the bottom of his mug, desperate to ignore the prickling of skin on his forearms.
Seasons had passed since he’d last had reason to worry over what blemishes lurked in the absence of light.
He suffered another chill, despite the increasingly warm air inside the tent. All the ale in Endrykas was still not enough to numb him.
The shadows were empty, he reminded himself.
Empty.
At the thought, his gaze lowered from the mug to the packed ground by his feet. He felt the weight of Vanya’s absence. His deerstalker was sick at home and the extent of his worry for her crushed his spirit. And still it wasn’t enough to keep him home.
Zeal threw his head back and drew heavily from the mug; leaking half the swallow down his chin. He swiped away the drip with the back of his hand.
The mug clanked against the makeshift table where he dropped it, his brain barely registering that he’d moved.
The bells slowed to a crawl.
His bloodshot eyes lifted to the two men sitting on the barrels across from him. Two travelers he’d picked up outside and seduced into a game of dice.
No one wanted him playing in their establishments anymore. His debt was too great or his tab was too high. Some claimed he broke things he didn’t replace.
Their loss.
Another sip and he drained the mug that he didn’t remember picking up. This time the empty mug fared less well, hitting the dirt floor with a dull tink.
Petch. He was out of ale.
One of the men scowled at him and murmured something Zeal barely caught. He had no idea who these men were. Nameless travelers, who tomorrow would also be faceless.
The guy’s scowl deepened, etching longer lines into his face. Looking at the shadow lines transformed the prickling in Zeal’s skin into a live current that snaked its way up his bicep and settled into the back of his neck. His skull started to pound.
Zeal wanted up off the barrel and out of the tent, but he needed to take their mizas first.
He picked up the dice with his right hand, shakily fingering them. The motion was slow and exaggerated because his body had become a traitor. Carefully, he set them between his finger and thumb, gave them a half-concealed shake and rolled them out onto the board.
When they landed in his favor, a smile turned up Zeal’s cracked lips, but a dark red stain spread across the stranger’s face and spit flew out of his mouth as Zeal reached out to grab his winnings.
“You cheated,” the man bit out.
Of course he cheated. Zeal opened his mouth to retort, but the shadows in the tent seemed to move on their own—again. Fear coiled in his gut despite the liquor that coated it. Nothing but ale-soaked breath came out of his mouth.
“Leave it on the table.” Another male voice was talking but Zeal couldn’t make himself turn his head, tethered as he was by the shadow. He barely noticed when both men stood, out-of-sync.
The taller one didn’t carry a lot of weight, but his hand was a vice. He easily pried the mizas out from Zeal’s paled fingers.
His arm jerked as he reached out to get the mizas back, but the thicker guy tossed him on the ground and stood over him, pinning Zeal with his stare.
“This game’s over. You’ve been cheating all night.”
Zeal fumbled on the ground, trying to get to his feet, but his struggles only brought the worn sole of the man’s boot down on his chest with a thud.
“Stay the petch there. You get up again before we get out of this tent and you’ll regret it.”
The tall one stuffed every miza—Zeal’s mizas—into his pocket, turned and lifted the tent flap.
All of the air in his lungs left as the boot on his chest pressed down, squeezing his ribs down toward his spine. Then suddenly the pressure eased up as his attacker headed for the exit with his friend, leaving Zeal on the floor with nothing but shadows.
Zeal was better off taking his chances with the men.
Getting back up to his feet was a different story. His legs barely held up the weight of his body and stumbled—toward the men and the exit.
The rest was a blur.
Someone’s hand wrapped around Zeal’s neck and held him still while another fist connected with his face. He heard the tear happen in his cheek, more than felt it, but the trickle of warmth down his face was unmistakable.
The knot of fear in his gut tightened as he struggled to get free of the tent. Away from the shadows.
His struggles only angered the men more. They must have seen him as a threat. They had no idea what he really wanted to get away from and Zeal had no way to form the words.
Run!
That’s what he wanted to say.
Run! Run! Run!
The men heard nothing. Instead they grabbed him by his arms, yanked him free of the tent flap and drug him behind the tent.
Air. The air was fresh. Zeal was outside. The shadows slowly receded. He'd finally petching won something!
Then a series of punches landed on his stomach. More across his chest. The wind went out of him and another blow connected with his face.
This time the darkness took him.
