Jarod had no notion of what time it was when he awoke. He’d been dozing on and off for hours since he’d gotten the message from Filgrin, his body slowly recovering from the two fights he’d gotten into in two days. His most recent nod off had been long enough for at least one change of guard and the night’s passing, for the guard that shook him awake undid the manacle on the wine cabinet and led him out of the mayor’s cellar.

  The sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon when he blearily emerged from the hatch, though a hazy glow to the east signaled that it would soon. A light rain and crisp wind woke him enough to notice another message.

  Full rest (1)

  Health: 4/5

  Another point of health recovered for the journey which would hopefully involve less violence. He waited alongside the unfamiliar surveyor who was guarding him until Nikolao and another surveyor walked over with hooded lanterns.

  “Good, he’s on his feet,” said Nikolao, taking pains to not look Jarod in the eye. “Put him in the wagon with the feed for the horses. Shackle him up into whatever solid you can find in there.”

  The guard he was with nodded and pulled Jarod along to where the surveyor’s group was convening.

  It was the first time Jarod had seen all the surveyors’ group gathered together, and it was more sizable than he’d thought. There were nearly a dozen carriages and wagons spread out on an open patch at the north edge of the village. It was in the direction of the larger town the surveyors had stayed at, but they’d have to pass over the bridge and through the town to get back on the main road to Chath. It was one last opportunity to parade their prisoner through town and make an example of him.

  The group seemed to comprise almost entirely of the surveyors themselves. Gentry as they were, Jarod had guessed they would have a whole contingent of servants running around to attend to their every need, but he only spotted enough to drive the carriages and a couple spares.

  “Step up inside,” the man who’d been leading him said roughly. They’d arrived at the wagon piled high with bales of hay.

  The surveyor flagged down a servant as Jarod situated himself. “Keep an eye on this wagon on the way back to Chath,” he said. “I’m locking him up, but we wouldn’t want anything to jangle loose during the trip.”

  “Yes sir.” The servant bowed his head to the surveyor and turned to watch Jarod.

  The surveyor leading him locked his manacles into a stout wooden post that supported the covering of the wagon, gave it a firm tug to make sure it was secure, and then stepped out beyond Jarod’s sight.

  Jarod blinked the sleep from his eyes, and shifted around to get into a more comfortable position amongst the hay. The post he’d been attached to was solid, and there was no chance of breaking it off to escape. Where it connected up top to the canvas covering though, it was secured by just a small wooden plate and some nails tamping the canvas down. It could prove a potential means of exit if the opportunity presented itself. For now though, he was resolved to stay where he was. Trying to run this close to home would just make more trouble for the other villagers of Cleftshire, and besides, he had the servant watching him who would surely sound the alarm at the first sign of trouble.

  While Jarod had tossed about in the wagon, the servant had watched him. The servant was tall, even taller than Jarod, and he’d nearly smacked his head on a barrel strapped to the side of the wagon. For all his height though, he was very thin, and his arms and legs showed no signs of muscle. Jarod thought he could definitely take him in a fight if it came to it, but not before an alarm was raised. For now, he’d be friendly.

  “What’s your name?” Jarod asked.

  “Davis, sir… that is, umm… Davis.” The servant looked down and shuffled his feet at the slip up, but quickly looked up again to keep his eyes on the prisoner.

  “I’m Jarod. I wish I could have met you under better circumstances.”

  “Yes, sorry about that…”

  Jarod could hear the youth in the servant’s voice when he spoke, and noticed his age for the first time in the gathering light. He couldn’t have been any more than 16, but Jarod would guess even younger than that based on his awkward movements, as though he was still adjusting to his newfound height.

  “Do you know when we’ll be leaving?” Jarod asked.

  “Oh it shouldn’t be much longer now. They’re just rousing the gentry who overnighted in your town. Should be on the way soon.”

  Jarod opened his mouth to ask another question, but the servant interrupted him before he could speak. “Sorry to interrupt you sir,” the boy said, “but I don’t think they’d like me talking to you this much.”

  Jarod nodded, but held up a finger for one more question. “Just one last thing, and then I’ll be done,” he said. “What’s with the tall, hunched man driving the carriage? I can tell he’s not a human, but I don’t know what he is.”

  Davis’ face paled when Jarod mentioned the gangly man who he’d spied driving the carriage the night of his first fight with the surveyors. “I definitely shant talk about him. Wouldn’t want to anyway.”

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Jarod shared the boy’s sentiment, even if he was still curious about him. Cleftshire was no stranger to non-human races, though they were rare out in these parts. He’d never seen anything like the driver of the carriage however: he who looked so human, yet entirely out of proportion. It was as though a child’s drawing had been brought into real life.

  The silence sat ill with Jarod as the sun rose. He could see the surveyors moving about in groups, laughing with a morning glass of coffee or ale while servants trailed behind them with luggage. It was a foul situation to be condemned to such a plight.

  Visitors from the cities never fully understood their life in the village, and that went doubly so for members of the upper class. Despite their ignorance though, the villagers always seemed to bend over backwards to fulfill every request. Under normal circumstances, Warin would never have let another villager be imprisoned in his cellar, and the raucous group at the tavern would have been kicked out straight away had they not been gentry.

  Upon reflection, Jarod realized that he’d done it too. Even if he’d stood up to the surveyors a couple of times, it had always been for his own honor. He’d accepted his prison sentence with barely a protest, and now he was stuck without any way to get out of it. Not that it was likely that protesting would have changed anything, but maybe he would have gotten some of the other villagers on his side. At least it would have let them know that the people of Cleftshire couldn’t just be walked all over.

  There was no sense thinking about what-ifs now though. Jarod adjusted his seat in the hay to watch out the back as the other gentry finished loading up. For now, he’d just have to deal with the hand fate had given him.

  Jarod heard the snort of one of the draft horses up front, and the wagon shifted as the driver took their position. It was Vernon, one of the guards that had watched over him in the mayor’s cellar.

  Vernon looked back to give his prisoner a sardonic smile. “Get yourself nice and comfortable now, it’ll be the best bed you sleep on for the next five years.”

  Jarod acted as though he hadn’t heard the man, and craned his neck forward to see if he could spot where the servant had gone. The boy had disappeared when the surveyor had arrived, probably to attend to other whims of the gentry. That was too bad. Jarod had hoped he might be able to win over the boy on the journey they had ahead of them.

  The wagon started forward with a lurch, and they began the short trek through the town and out to the main road.

  Another wagon pulled behind the one Jarod was chained to. The driver grinned when he saw Jarod, and gave him a wave, but Jarod just stared at the man, unwilling to be intimidated or made fun of. The surveyor frowned, annoyed that Jarod had ruined his fun, and began looking off to the sides, or down at the wagon wheels. Anything to avoid having to look at their staring prisoner. Jarod smiled at the small, pointless victory.

  It was late enough in the morning now that many of the townsfolk were out and about. Jarod saw them stare from windows and the side of the road as the chain of horses and wagons drove past. Those he’d known well gave a wave or bowed respectfully, but others were furtive in their glances, not wanting to risk another prison sentence.

  He heard loud voices from up ahead, and the wagon train slowed, but did not stop. The surveyors were shouting about something, shouting at someone it sounded like. As his wagon came closer, he recognized it as Filgrin. Jarod sat up and crawled as far as he could to the front of the wagon, straining to hear what was being said.

  “…something down there. …heard it,” Filgrin’s muffled voice called out. Then the wooden clanging of carriage wheels on the bridge drowned out the noise.

  The wagons continued until Jarod saw Filgrin out the side of the carriage. The old bowyer’s face was pale and his eyes were wide. He did a double take when he saw Jarod.

  “Jarod,” he called out. “There’s something coming from under the bridge. You have to get out of here.”

  “What is it, Filgrin?” Jarod asked, quickly matching Filgrin’s panicked energy. “What did you see?”

  Filgrin shook his head, eyes distant. “I… I don’t know. One of the boys disturbed something. When we went down to get your sword. You have to get out here. We all do.”

  The horses began to whinny, and Jarod felt his wagon jostle and lurch.

  “Damn horses,” said Vernon as he fought to keep control over the reins. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Voices ahead began to shout. A wooden groan from the bridge, and then a splintering sound as something tore apart the massive wooden timbers. The shouting became screaming, and a jibbering sound, loud and inhuman, filled the air.

  Vernon had left the driver’s seat now, and Jarod saw the surveyor behind him leap from the driver’s seat and draw his sword as he ran in the direction of the bridge. Filgrin looked around, and suddenly leapt into the wagon alongside Jarod.

  “Come on,” Filgrin said. “We don’t have much time.” He procured a thin strip of metal from some unknown pocket and slipped it into the manacles. With a shove and a quick flick, the mechanism sprung open.

  “Filgrin, they’ll drag you to jail too,” Jarod protested, but he stood up and looked around, ready to follow the bowyer.

  Before he was given the chance though, a loud booming sound outside shook the ground. The horses reared up, and fought at their harness. The wagon spun around, and listed precariously onto its side wheels. Jarod and Filgrin were thrown off balance, and tumbled against the canvas side. The extra momentum was the last bit of weight the wagon needed to finally fully topple over.

  Jarod landed hard against his shoulder on the impact, but he sprung up to his feet quickly. He found Filgrin, who was sprawled on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, but fighting to regain his feet.

  Jarod helped the older man to his feet, but spoke sternly to him. “Filgrin, you have to get out of here. If they find out you freed me, we’ll both be in a heap more trouble than before.”

  Filgrin found his balance again and led the way out of the capsized wagon. “It won’t matter. They’ve got more perilous matters to attend to.”

  Jarod stepped outside and took in the scene. Wagons were capsized everywhere. Villagers were rushing into houses, or standing in doorways holding meager weapons, while the surveyors ran about in fear and confusion. The bridge was badly damaged. The railings had been torn away in splinters in many sections, and a giant chunk was taken out of the south edge near the far end.

  Several surveyors and a few servants lay on the ground, blood seeping from open wounds as they stared off into space, drawing their last breaths. The remaining ones had drawn weapons, but were mostly too disorganized to properly defend themselves against the ongoing threat.

  Running around in screaming pairs on the bridge, and still crawling up the chasm walls, were dozens of small little monsters. One pair lugged an enormous barrel amongst the screaming melee and leaned it against an intact railing. It drew a small match out of its hair, and held it to the barrel. The fuse was lit.