Most of the caravan had already unhitched their mules and left them at pickets for the evening when Ketrim and his party returned. Usually they would still have made use of a few more hours of daylight to make some headway but everyone agreed that since they would be waiting anyway, it made sense to settle down. They could make up the lost time tomorrow, or maybe the next day.

Jormand had found an old log and dragged it to where the beginnings of a cookfire were crackling away in roughly the middle of the circle of wagons. He wasn’t expected to guard at night, most of the threats they might encounter were on the roads anyway. He appreciated the chance to rest, feeling strangely drained. His ribs were aching from his stumble down the hill earlier and something harder to place had him feeling leaden long before he had his makeshift seat in place.

Across the fire from him, Tomas was chatting with Gisela as she tuned her lute. She’d become a staple at the caravan’s evening meals over the previous few days. Among their number there was a woman with a drum and an old man whose skill with his flute was rather impressive. The three of them made a respectable band of minstrels. The caravaners thought so too and each evening all three had their instruments at the ready well before the meal was made.

The man with his flute was there too but Tomas did not pay him any mind. Neither did he try to find a better seat than the wilting grass beside Gisela’s splintered folding chair. Gisela didn’t seem interested at all, all of her attention was on her instrument. Once it was tuned well past the necessary point of perfection, she moved on to polishing the turtle shell body with a corner of her shirt. After that it was a peg that needed polishing and then the neck too. She did anything but pay attention to Tomas except for those few times when he was distracted and she cracked a sly smile for a moment.

Jormand chuckled to himself watching the two of them from across the fire. If you saw them on duty, they would be nothing but serious watchfulness and on their daily treks, they were polite with one another at best but every evening around the fire, the same little story played itself out. Tomas would spend the evening fawning over Gisela and her lute, even lending his voice to her songs at her prompting, though he was none too good at it. Eventually, once people had begun to trickle back to their wagons for the night, Gisela would put her lute back into its case and as soon as the clasps were shut, Tomas would be there with a bowl of whatever stew or soup had been served for dinner, now long cold, to offer to the tired minstrel. She’d accept of course, acting as if she hadn’t expected it in the slightest and without fail, the two of them would be the last around the winking embers long after everyone else left. No one talked about it, least of all the two of them, but Jormand was sure everyone else saw it too.

The rest of their little band of fugitives had begun to settle into caravan life too, if not so comfortably as Gisela. Elyas always had an audience for his stories and even if he appeared harried each time he settled down to tell one, Jormand knew him well enough to see the twinkle in his eye that said he was more than happy to do it. Even Ketrim had established good enough terms with the caravaners that he spent his evening meals talking amiably with someone or other about nothing in particular. Lately it had been Lyra, a tall woman who worked as a carpenter in the caravan, repairing the damage the wagons took from their prolonged use. Lana had spent a good deal of time with her as well, especially when Gisela was preoccupied by her evening routine with Tomas.

It was good to see everyone getting on well with the caravaners. It reminded Jormand of merging two disparate groups of landsmen when a raid favored both parties. Common goals produced fast friends and the camaraderie only made their mission easier. It wasn’t so different melding Jormand’s group with the caravan. The closer the people were, the smoother everything went and the easier the journey was. There were squabbles and tensions, true—most centering around Ketrim unfortunately—but that was to be expected. At least these people didn’t resort to violence at provocation like soldiers did. There were no fights to settle and no wounds to bind. It was an easy feat by comparison.

As people finished their tasks, they began to crowd around the fire as well, dragging over logs for seating or procuring folding chairs and tables from their wagons. These purefolk were ingenious when it came to making furniture easy to pack. Some of their tables and chairs folded up so small it almost seemed like they must disappear at some point. Jormand had offered to buy a chair from one of them, but the no he received in reply made sure he did not ask again. Still, he thought that given enough time he could probably replicate their design, if crudely. Such furniture would be priceless on a long campaign when any touch of homeliness added to a camp was welcome.

Even though it was early, nearly the entire caravan congregated around the fire once everything that needed doing was done. They joked and laughed like they always did, no one really cared that they were wasting good daylight and eventually, Jormand had to give in.

Truthfully, there was no real reason to hurry to Derranhall. There was little chance they would be found on their way there and the journey was pleasant enough. The weather would probably hold out as long as they needed too, especially if Ketrim’s foray into the town proved fruitful.

Jormand sighed to himself. The commander in him wanted to push the pace, to make it to their destination with as much time to spare as possible, but looking at Gisela across the fire, starting up her routine with a coy smile or Elyas relaying yet another improbable tale to a small, enraptured audience, Jormand was forced to confront the fact that sticking with the caravan and letting their speed slack a little was better for morale. Besides, they probably wouldn’t even listen to his urging them faster. In fact, as much as he denied it, he enjoyed it as well. A comfortable bed was welcome, yes, but so was the company and for more than just the safety of numbers. Though he did not really talk with the caravaners much, it was pleasant to have them around, perpetually good-natured as they were. Sometimes it was almost enough to make him forget what had started him off on this journey and the grim destination he was still headed towards…

The fire began to leap as wood was added to the flames. The flames were barely visible in the sunlight. They blended into the background so completely that at times the only mark that they were there at all was the substantial heat that radiated a good distance from the freshly dug firepit. It would be a while yet until the fire collapsed enough to cook on. The massive pot they always used was ready regardless, filled to the brim with a stew ready to be cooked.

Jormand himself had contributed a fair share to tonight’s stew. The caravan moved so slowly that Jormand was able to regularly spot and dig up a few tubers or some wild onions on the side of the road. They were always shocked when he brought his meager harvest to the stewpot in the evening. Of course they never turned him down, but the strange looks had been there from the first time. He tried to ignore them.

The looks weren’t only directed at him around mealtimes. That was only the time they were the most obvious. Jormand caught others every now and then. When he turned about quickly or stood up unexpectedly. The people were quick to look away and perhaps he could chalk the first few up to coincidence if not for the fact that he saw them daily.

He was used to ignoring such looks from his time in Maerin, they had followed him from when he first arrived. Soldiers were little more than weapons there, traded among the wealthy and powerful with little regard to the men and women who were their trade goods. It was a far cry from the landsmen Jormand was familiar with. People who had taken up arms for the good of their people. Soldiering was an honorable thing back home. In Maerin it was shameful. And while Jormand tried not to think about the things he had done for honor in his past, he still thought his people had the right of it.

The looks from the caravaners were different though. The ones in the city held disgust and occasionally contempt but the ones here were… distrustful. The way Jormand might look at a dog that was known to bite.

Even as Jormand watched them prepare for the evening meal, he caught one of those glances from the woman tending the fire. She redirected her eyes quickly but Jormand had already noticed. He sighed to himself and looked down at the dying grass between his feet. They wouldn’t stop if he didn’t see them but it helped him to ignore the fact that some people just thought he was a monster.

They didn’t look at Tomas, their own guardsman, the same way, not Gisela or Elyas either for that matter. Gisela had been accepted with open arms and Elyas, well maybe not with open arms, but certainly without hesitation. For Jormand though, it was as if his clothes were stained with blood even though they hadn’t been after the first day.

Whether warranted or not, their looks kept Jormand at bay effectively. The only members of the caravan he ever really interacted with were the dogs. Tomas too, but only to coordinate their patrols. The dogs reminded Jormand of the ones he had had as a boy back home. Shaggy and lean, they were bred to hunt and they did it well. Rare was the night when there weren’t a few rabbits or pheasants to add to the stew. A dog did not care one way or another whose hand was scratching its head.

***

When Lana, Ketrim, and the others returned, all burdened with bundles of clothes except for Ketrim, the sky had still not begun to darken. Ketrim would not be happy at seeing the caravan stopped for the evening. He was always pushing for a better pace.

But as Ketrim was entering the camp, he did not seem to even register the blazing cookfire around which everyone was gathered. Instead he hurried over to Elyas who was sitting at the edge of the group with a pair of caravaners, their attention fixated on him.

Ketrim looked shaken. He waved away the people clustered around Elyas and proceeded to speak to him fervently in a voice low enough that it did not carry over to Jormand. Ketrim was gesticulating close to his chest with tense hands, the way he did when he was anxious. Something was wrong.

Jormand stood up casually and, trying not to appear anything but calm, made his way over to Ketrim. He only caught the tail end of what Ketrim had to say but it was enough to send a cold shock down his back.

“...looking for us, Elyas. We have to move.” Ketrim kept his voice low and tried not to give away his anxiety. No one else seemed to notice.

Jormand looked around the camp before lowering himself to sit on the brown grass in front of Elyas and Ketrim. Everyone else was crowding around the fire where the stewpot had been set up. The water was not even boiling yet but the smells were already inching their way through the crowd of people.

Jormand caught sight of Lana as well as the caravaners who had gone into the town near the fire. Lana was looking at him as he turned but she quickly swung her head around to talk with Lyra, one of the caravaners. They spoke lightheartedly, no one else seemed to notice whatever it was that had spooked Ketrim. Jormand was able to relax a little. Perhaps his brother was overreacting to something meaningless.

“Can you be sure?” Elyas asked. It was a measure of Ketrim’s fear that he did not take issue with the old soldier ignoring formal honorifics entirely.

Jormand’s brother nodded, leaning closer. He did not want to scare the others but his eyes were wild and there was sheen of sweat on his normally composed forehead.

“They were waiting for us. We only got out because their garrison was recalled. They’ve sent for the closest one by now, I’m sure of it.” His anxious glances and nervous fidgeting faded as he spoke. He channeled it all into whatever plan he was concocting. That was what he had always done. It made him dangerous to his enemies but to his allies as well. They would have to be cautious as outnumbered as they were but Ketrim could not be relied upon to see clearly.

“We have to pack up the camp immediately. They saw the direction we came from so there was no way for me to leave a false trail. They’ll be coming straight for us. We can’t afford to take the road, not even if we go around the town. We’ll have to skirt around the town while hiding behind these hills as cover…”

Ketrim launched into a plan immediately. The most straightforward one, he no doubt thought, but he was acting as if he were commanding a regimented military. The caravaners would not be able to break camp so quickly and neither would they take kindly to sudden and terse orders. They had to find another way. Jormand was sure there was one if he could get enough time to consider it…

Elyas felt the same evidently as he cut Ketrim’s planning off with a raised hand. His brow was darkly furrowed but his eyes moved erratically. The man was trying to plan too, even if he disagreed with Ketrim’s idea.

“They’ll catch us if we stay with the wagons.” He said in that low, rumbling voice of his. It commanded attention. Somehow it carried the weight of countless battles fought and survived in so few words. “The wagons will leave ruts in this.” He rammed a fist into the limp brown grass. It stayed, crushed and indented into the soft soil after he raised the hand. “They’ll follow us easily. We can’t move faster than them. They’ll have horses but even if they don’t, these mules won't be able to outrun spearmen on foot.”

He was right of course, Jormand saw it and so did Ketrim. Jormand was surprised to see his brother so easily cowed but he stopped his planning immediately, conceding to Elyas’ points. He knew when to listen to his advisors when he did not know enough.

Despite their circumstances, Jormand felt a swell of pride for his brother. He was still headstrong and a little full of himself perhaps, but he was growing. Growing into the leader their house needed now, hopefully.

“What if we go into the town.” Jormand spoke into the silence. Both men turned to look at him, puzzled. Jormand was quick to elaborate before either man could raise an objection. “We disguise ourselves. Just the five of us they have descriptions of. They’ll leave the caravan alone after searching it.”

Ketrim was shaking his head before Jormand had even finished.

“They got a good look at me.” He said. “We don’t have the time to make a good enough disguise for that. What's more, they saw Lyra and the others too. They’ll massacre the caravan if they don’t find us.”

Jormand deflated. Ketrim was right, the caravaners wouldn’t stand a chance if they were searched. Their options were dwindling quickly.

Behind him Jormand heard a rustle. He turned to find Lana crouched closeby, clearly listening in on their conversation. She smiled slyly when she was sure he had deduced her intent then scurried up to their little circle, wriggling her way into one of the sides of the tight triangle.

“Why don’t we just hide?” She asked while Elyas and Ketrim were busy being surprised at her presence.

“Wh-what?” Ketrim sputtered. He was surprised and probably ready to chastise Lana for her intrusion but she did not give him the chance.

“It's simple. We hide in the wagons, there’s plenty enough space for us and the ones who were in the town.” She said in a surprisingly confident tone for someone effectively suggesting that they rely on the guards not searching the wagons.

As if to voice Jormand’s own misgivings, Ketrim cut in with a sneer and a condescending tone. “They’ll check all the wagons before letting us through the gates. They’ll gut us in those wagons before we…”

Lana wasn’t even listening. She carried on without seeming to even notice Ketrim. “Under the mattresses there’s a cubby, for storage I think. At least there is in our wagon. You can’t find it unless you know what to look for. Even then…” She shook her head, looking slightly ashamed but Jormand had no idea why she might. “They won’t find us there if they even bother looking in the wagons.”

Ketrim was fuming, his face a still mask that Jormand knew would give way to a burning rage at any moment. He decided to step in before things got that far, although he had to be careful not to step too hard on Ketrim’s toes. He would ignore the plan out of hand if he felt he was being slighted.

“That is a good point.” Jormand said calmly, trying to diffuse the situation. “They will likely check the wagons,” He said, directed at Ketrim who nodded sharply. “...but if this cubby is as hard to find as Lana says, I think it could work… Provided we’re very quiet.” He added with a chuckle. The city guards would be much less likely to search the wagons than an imperial garrison and if they did, they would do a much less thorough job. He hoped so at least.

Ketrim’s anger was still clearly visible but he had taken one step back from the brink of rage. That would have to be enough.

Elyas nodded with increasing enthusiasm as Jormand spoke and Lana smiled a small smile at being vindicated. Her smile widened as she turned to Jormand, probably happy to have someone backing her up. Ketrim would have stopped her plan before it had begun otherwise.

With that it was settled. The immediacy of their situation did not allow for much argument. Once the urgency was communicated to the caravaners, they were packed up in the blink of an eye. Jormand would have been impressed if they were veteran troops, much less civilians. He made a mental note not to doubt their efficiency as much in the future. He noticed that the stewpot had been loaded up on the driver’s seat of one wagon, still full and with a top tied on securely to keep the contents from spilling. They still intended to have their evening meal. Jormand could not help but smile. These people were painfully optimistic at times, but it was infectious and Jormand had little doubt that it was part of what kept him calm as he climbed into the shallow cubby under the lower of two mattresses in a wagon he had never been in before.

Lana was crammed into the compartment with him as he was the largest of those who needed to hide by far. It made sense to put the smallest in the same compartment he supposed, for whatever comfort they could manage. She had managed to grab a pair of pillows before climbing in too and she offered one to Jormand as he settled down against the unfinished wood of the storage cubby. He accepted gratefully. The wagon would bump and jostle the whole way through the town and his head already hurt enough with his nose.

Then the top was laid back down and pegs tapped in to hold it in place. Then the mattress was replaced. It sounded like a fall of snow from an overladen roof which made Jormand chuckle for a moment. For a little while after, he heard rustling above. They were putting the sheets back on, he realized. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t thought about that. He was grateful that the caravaners were taking the plan seriously despite their apparent nonchalance.

Jormand didn’t really think about the cramped conditions until the wagon began to move. He hit his nose on the wood above him within minutes. Lana must have heard him let out a hiss at the pain because he could hear a sound that was suspiciously like a laugh coming from her direction. That was when it sunk in just how confined he was in that cubby. It was not even tall enough for him to turn over. His shoulder would hit the wood above. His feet touched the end towards the front and his hair was flat against the wood at the back. He could feel one side without reaching out his arm and he could feel the warmth radiating off of Lana on the other. The compartment was like a poor man’s coffin. Small as it could be and rough to the point of splintering. Jormand’s breath caught in his throat. Even if he pushed with all his might, he would not be able to budge the bed above.

His breathing came shallowly and quickly. Would the air run out before they made it through the town? Would the caravaners even be able to get them out once they were through? What if the panel above them became stuck.

His mind raced without a leash. He screwed his eyes shut even though it hardly made a difference in the darkness and he made tight fists with fingers and toes. What if the caravaners turned them in? There would be a reward. It made sense to do so, there was nothing tying the purefolk to Jormand and his companions.

Then he felt a soft touch on his left hand. Small fingers wormed their way into his clenched fist and he had no choice but to relax his grip. Lana’s hand was so small in his that he felt like he might crush it by accident and yet it also felt… hard. Like a thin iron knife. Dainty in appearance but hard and sharp regardless. His breath began to slow. He had something else to focus his thoughts on and although they did not lay still entirely, the swells and waves of his frenetic mind were still there, only their roar was softened to a dull whisper.

Lana squeezed his hand once and he squeezed hers back, indicating his appreciation for the comforting touch. Without it Jormand would surely have tumbled off of the precipice into the depths of panic. Whatever the result, it would not have been good.