Filgrin, the bowyer, had given him a mug of something thick and bitter before bed to help him rest. Jarod had been tempted to just walk back home, and try to sleep off the evening’s aches on his own, but the old man’s house was practically on the way. Truthfully, he couldn’t get the image of the unnaturally tall man atop the carriage out of his head. The way his dark black eyes had looked at Jarod, puzzling out something beyond understanding. Those eyes were enough to make Jarod stop at the bowyer’s house on their own.

  He’d awoken several times in the night in a panic, eyes darting about the black room on the hunt for intruders. Each time though, the peaceful breathing of Filgrin, deep and repetitive snoring from sleep without care, had lured him back to his own dream realm.

  Dream he did. Although Jarod could remember the rare dream that’d stuck with him through his childhood, he was more than just Jarod. As Voyager, he hadn’t dreamed at all, or if he had, it was nothing like this. Jarod’s dreaming couldn’t help but feel prophetic. He dreamed of a tall castle made of black stone and amethyst, ruled by a man with a mammoth skull for a head. He dreamed of himself, running from a thousand small things in a forest far from Cleftshire. And finally, he’d dreamed of the void, that white nothingness from which he was born.

  Like many dreams though, when the dawn broke, and Jarod blinked awake to songbirds and crows, the dreams drifted sideways, visible only in their afterimage impressions.

  As Jarod sat up and stretched his sore muscles, another message awaited him in his not quite sight.

  Full rest (1) + recovery elixir (1)

  Health: 4/5

  Jarod certainly felt better this morning than when he’d gone to bed last night. Last night, he’d been running on the fearlessness of a strong ale and the rage of an insult. It felt much better to be running on his own vitality. He bent over the bed, looking for his shoes, and winced back in pain. A head-sized bruise had developed around his midsection. At least he was mostly healthy.

  “How’s the head feel?” Filgrin said. He was already up and clothed in the other room, frying up some eggs to go with bread.

  “It’s okay.” Jarod put a hand up to feel the swelling where he’d been hit. “Hurts to the touch, but no headache.”

  “Yer lucky lad. Not many could take sucker punch to the back o’ their head, then get up and fight back.”

  Jarod didn’t know what to say. He just nodded slowly and took a seat at the table in the other room.

  The bowyer’s cottage was small, but bigger than he would need for just himself. The bedroom where he and Jarod had slept was spacious enough for a small family, and the main room was furnished with a large table and a half-dozen chairs. The wooden floor was littered with chips and shavings of the bowyer’s craft, and bows in various states of completion were lined up in neat rows on racks across the back wall.

  He was cooking on a sooty wood-burning stove which was dented and cracked along one side, though the smoke at least was contained up the chimney. It seemed dangerous to keep such an old stove alongside wooden kindling from shaping bows, but Filgrin paid them no mind.

  Filgrin finished the eggs, then came over to the table and threw the plate down in front of Jarod. He took a seat across the table with no food of his own and just sat there watching. Jarod was conscious of the man’s eyes on him as he ate, but he dug into the food without acknowledging the stare.

  Jarod would have been content finishing the food in silence before the conversation he knew was coming, but Filgrin couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Do ye know why we need to talk?”

  Jarod met the man’s gaze and swallowed the hunk of bread he’d torn off. “I’m guessing we haven’t seen the last of those rich folk.”

  “Aye,” said Filgrin. “You didn’t do anything wrong, but they’ll be back looking for ye. Just the way of the world.”

  “Can’t Warin talk to them?” Warin was the mayor of Cleftshire, and Jarod remembered him settling disputes among farmers and lovers in the past. “There were plenty of witnesses to back up my story. That coward swung at me first.”

  Filgrin chose his words with a frown. “I’m afraid it won’t do nothin’. Warin has power in this town because we respect him, and we voted to give it to him. But those surveyors have no respect for Warin or anyone here.”

  “But he’s official! We sent off papers with the last courier to the capital.”

  “It don’t matter, lad. We’re too far away from anyone for them to care. First officials been here in 20 years is them surveyors. And’ll be another 20 before the next. They don’t care what the law is, they have the power to ignore it.”

  Jarod knitted his brows and scooped another bite of bread and egg into his mouth. He wanted to protest, but he knew Filgrin believed the words he said, and he knew there must be some truth to them. He was just a boy when the army squadron came through, looking for food on their return from some war far to the west. He remembered the mess they’d left the town in, trashing the inn, and then underpaying on their way out.

  “Well what now?” Jarod asked. “Do I just wait for them to come?”

  “That’s up to you. Now’s yer chance to slip away. If you want.”

  “I couldn’t do that. I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Then you can stay and try’n plead yer case. Maybe make off with a public whipping. But you risk death, or getting dragged off to some prison.”

  “What about hiding? They can’t stick around forever if they’re surveyors.”

  “We’d do it lad. We’d hide you until they left, but don’t think you have the stomach for it. They’ll drag people off and beat them tryna find ye.”

  “They’d beat you to get to me!?”

  “Aye. I’ve seen it before.”

  Jarod stopped to think. It didn’t seem like there was a good option for him to choose from. He reflected on how strange it was that he cared so much about these people, despite having been dropped into this world just a day before. Logically, he knew that he should have no problem running away or hiding if these people were willing to suffer for him, but he couldn’t do it. The feelings that Jarod had built up from living in this village were a part of him now, and he wouldn’t condemn these people for his sake.

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  “How do you know all of this?” Jarod asked.

  Filgrin leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “I didn’t always live in Cleftshire. I was a hired hand, travelling with lesser nobles and gentry for protection. Saw all types of ‘em, good ones, and bad. And I saw firsthand how the bad ones treat those beneath ‘em. Those surveyors are bad types.”

  “I won’t let them hurt the people here,” Jarod said. “I’ll stay and try to reason with them. I won’t go gently if they threaten to kill me, but I can take prison or a beating for the safety of everyone else.”

  Filgrin nodded and stood up from the table. “I respect ye for it lad. Now finish up yer breakfast and run on home to get cleaned up. They’re more likely to kill you if you look like a dirty peasant.”

  * * *

  The realization of how much his life could change hit Jarod as he was cleaning himself up. He’d stripped down and was pouring water over himself to dislodge the last traces of mud when he’d suddenly collapsed onto his knees. Filgrin had been so matter-of-fact about the whole situation, that he hadn’t had a chance to fully absorb how ridiculous it was, how absurd that he’d had to choose between leaving his home behind while his friends were beaten to reveal his location, and staying behind to have a mockery of justice enacted in the form of a public whipping or jailing.

  He questioned then why he’d been dropped into this. Why he’d been dropped into Jarod’s life at this tumultuous decision point. Had he been chosen to atone for past sins by living a man’s life at its worst? Had that voice that spoke to him in a sound that was not a sound been a demon or devil, laughing at his own pain? Or maybe it was all just random chance, grim misfortune that had placed him here and now.

  Whatever the circumstance, the decision to make was his, and so he’d continued on with his cleaning ritual, trying to prepare himself for whatever came next.

  He was back at the inn now, dressed in the nicest clothes he owned, his father’s sword from the war at his hip. All he could do was hope it would be enough to convince the surveyors and that damnable Avery that his life was worth enough to spare. At least this way, if they judged him unworthy, he’d have something to fight back with.

  Jarod was sitting at the bar, watching the bottom of his cup of watery ale for an answer that might reveal itself. Basma was talking to Filgrin quietly, no doubt trying to find a solution of her own. An exclamation of disbelief would occasionally slip out from their murmurs. Jarod did his best to ignore them.

  After an expected amount of anger and frantic reasoning from Basma, she finally accepted the bowyer’s pronouncement of Jarod’s fate, and came over to stand in front of him at the bar counter.

  “It’s a noble thing you’re doing,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to make that choice.”

  Jarod nodded, not looking up from his ale.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. We can hide you down in the cellar, or you can run away and hide in the woods for a while. We’d all be willing to do that for you.”

  “There’s no telling what’d happen to you then,” Jarod said. “No, it has to be this way.”

  “Oh, Jarod.” Basma took his hands in hers and waited until he met her eyes. “You’ll get through this. It’ll all work out right in the end, I’m sure of it.”

  With a bang, the door to the inn flew open. It slammed against the wall, leaving an indent in the well-worn wood. Basma jumped back in fright, and Jarod had to fight his natural reaction to spin around. As he peered over his shoulder as calmly as he could, he saw the group of surveyors, dressed in their red robes, swagger in.

  “Jarod of Cleftshire, you are wanted for criminal charges. Come with us peacefully, or face your death.”

  Jarod drained the last of his ale before standing up to face them. He could see Avery behind the one doing the talking, looking angry and indignant with a sling around his left arm. Jarod didn’t recognize the lead man from last night, although he could have missed him in the business of the evening's two performances. He was taller than the others, and had an air of authority the other’s lacked. He was observant too, and his eyes darted to the sword on Jarod’s hip. Jarod did nothing to assuage the other man’s fears of violence.

  When Jarod didn’t make another move, the man spoke up again. “Jarod of Cleftshire, will you come peacefully to face these charges?” The man’s hand had dropped to his own sword, remaining composed, but clearly demonstrating the threat if Jarod didn’t behave.

  “I’ll come peacefully,” said Jarod. “I have nothing to fear from a fair and just trial.”

  Jarod noted disappointment on Avery’s face, but the anger never drained away. The man at the front gestured with a flick of his head, and a couple of the other men stepped forward to guide Jarod by the arms out the door.

  Basma called out after him as he was taken away. “Jarod’s a good man, he’s done nothing wrong.”

  The head man turned back to her, raising an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen. As it stands, we have multiple witnesses who say he assaulted a member of the gentry. He will be given a chance to describe his own recollection of last night’s events.”

  Jarod was in the belly of the beast now, as he was escorted down a line of over a dozen red-robed figures, all watching him intently. When he passed Avery, he couldn’t help but flinch when the surveyor feigned a hit at him. Avery laughed, though he did notice a stern look from the man who had read his charges.

  A few other villagers from around town had noticed the sizable group of strangers passing through, and were watching from windows and doorways when Jarod was lead outside. A few shouted out their support for him, but angry stares from the other surveyors quelled anything further.

  They walked through the streets and across the massive bridge that spanned the chasm at the center of the town that gave Cleftshire its name. Jarod stared off at the edges of the abyss, wondering if it might be better to simply jump down and hope he survived the fall into the domain of the creatures that were rumored to live down there. The bottom of the chasm was only visible at noon on certain days of the year, and the villagers had determined that it dropped down for over 2000 feet before reaching the bottom. If he was lucky, he’d get the chance to see its depths again.

  “Right here is good,” called out the leader of the surveyors. “We’ll hold the trial at the start of the bridge, where anyone who wishes can watch.”

  He turned to Jarod. “Make any wrong move, and it’s easy enough to toss you over the edge.”

  Jarod stared the other man down, remaining placid in the face of the threat.

  Another red-robed stranger, one of the ones Jarod remembered from last night, got right in his face. “I don’t think this peasant understands the situation he’s in. Maybe that sword’s got him a little too confident for his own good.”

  Jarod felt a hand go to the sword on his hip, and instinctively grabbed the other man’s wrist. The others who had gathered around, moved forward, hands on their own blades.

  It was the leader who spoke first. “Don’t go antagonizing the accused, Matthias.”

  The man with his hand still on the pommel of Jarod’s sword responded slowly. “I’m not antagonizing him, just making sure he doesn’t hurt himself with a dumb decision. You wouldn’t want this trial to be over before it even began, would you?”

  Jarod held his grip tight, fighting his instincts to not let himself be pushed around like this. He finally breathed out slowly, releasing his hold on Matthias, but watching the man closely.

  Matthias withdrew his hand and looked at it dramatically. “Such a violent man,” he said. His hand went back to Matthias sword and began to draw it. “I’d better hang onto this for you.”

  Watching the sword slowly drawn from its scabbard, Jarod held his breath and bit hard into his cheek to keep from saying anything. He tasted blood. Matthias slowly inspected the blade, turning it over in his hands, then held it out to test the balance.

  “Hmm, feels like a proper blade. You didn’t make this one, did you, blacksmith?”

  When Matthias didn’t get a response, he smiled sourly. “This looks like something from the army, but too old for it to have been yours. Maybe a family heirloom?” He gave it a couple flicks, demonstrating he was familiar with a blade. “Seems like the balance isn’t quite right though. Easy enough to… whoops.”

  The fell out of Matthias’ hands, the momentum of a thrust carrying it forward. It clanged against the wooden railing, and then tumbled out and over. Jarod’s eyes went wide, and he tried to lunge for it, but was held fast at either arm by the guards. His father’s sword tumbled end over end, ringing brightly as it struck a rock on the side of the chasm, then glinted once in the sun, and twisted down into darkness.