Nosretap23
May 14th, 2014, 04:06 AM
Here is the first chapter of my new (and first) fantasy adventure. Please give me honest feedback and if you're interested, check it out at amazon.com. Its been out for only a week and I am pretty happy with my first week's worth of sales. Thank you all and I hope this isn't too much to read. FYI some of the spacing got screwed up when I pasted it, so I apologize for that.
ChapterOne
Distant Dreams
Befel threw his rake to the ground. He looked to the east. The sun barely peaked over a horizon of freshly planted fields, divided into neat rows by an oxen-pulled plow.
“It’s not even close to noon and it’s already too hot,” Befel grumbled. He wiped a bead of sweat from his tanned forehead.
“I love the smell of early morning,” Erik said,smacking his hoe against the hard root of a tall, bushy weed. Witch’s Brush his father called it for the shape in which the weed grew, all bushy and stiff and stringy. “It smells like it just rained, doesn’t it? I love the rain. I can’t wait for the monsoons.”
“No,” Befel spat, “it doesn’t smell like rain. It smells like more work, a day full of it.”
“It’s no different than yesterday.” Erik smiled asthe thick, brown root began to crack and give way to his iron tool. “Got you, you stubborn plant.”
Erik squatted and grunted, tugging on the toughroot. It didn’t move.
“That’s the problem,” Befel said.
“What is?” Erik looked up at his brother. “Am Idoing something wrong?”
“No. Seriously, Erik, I don’t know about you sometimes. Don’t you listen? The problem is that we did this yesterday.” Erik just stared at his brother, shrugging his shoulders.
“And we’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow. And then the day after that, and the day after that, and for the rest of the days of our life,” Befel continued.
“Not for the rest of our lives; well, your life at least. This will all be yours someday.” Sitting on the ground, Erik smiled, hands still wrapped around the weed’s root, feet propped inside the small hole hishoe dug around the weed. He grunted and pulled on the plant again.
“And you think that makes me happy?”
“I don’t know. It’d make me happy.” Erik leaned back and the plant’s root began to give way.
“I need to leave.” Befel brushed an errant strand ofsandy colored hair out of his face.
“You had better pick up your rake before mother seesyou and gives you a tongue lashing.” Erik held up the knee-high, bushy weed likea conquering hero.
“I don’t care.” Despite his words, Befel looked overhis shoulder at the house and snatched his wood-pronged tool off the ground. “Ineed to leave.”
“And what would you do? Where would you go?”
Befel leaned against the warped handle of his rakeand turned his face to the east. The sun sat several hours above the horizon,glaring at Befel like a condescending eye, one that brought with it unbearable heat and burnt skin.
“East,” he muttered. “I’ll go east.”
That night, Erik sat behind his father’s barn,staring at the moon and the stars hanging in a cloudless, crisp sky.
“What are you?” He pointed to each star like bubbleshe might pop floating along a gently churned stream. A sudden breeze glided along the still fields. It kicked up loose dirt that swirled into short-lived tiny tornadoes. Despite the warm ground, Erik shivered, the gentle wind carryinga coolness collected from the dozens of ponds that dotted the farmstead.
The moon stood high this night, looking down on the Eleodum farm. Cricketsand night birds sang by the darkness of the world. Courageous rabbits wandered into newly planted fields, the moon like a beacon lantern spying a fugitive hidden in a dark corner. Their daring could be a death sentence if Erik’s father caught them—or a wandering fox or coyote for that matter—and still they braved the chance at tasty seeds and young shoots. Erik threw a rock at one, a little grey fellow with a skinny tail and short, fat ears. The skinny, grey-haired creature scurried away. Erik watched it hop to the first row oftrees in his father’s apple orchard and disappear.
“You’re lucky you’re not fat and I’m not hungry, orI would’ve hit you and had you for late night supper,” Erik lied. He could never hit anything with a rock, except for himself, testimony of the dying weltjust below his hairline—a failed attempt to hit another rabbit with a sling the week before. His cousin, Bryon, would never let him live that down. Erik seemedto have a soft spot for small, furry creatures.
“How can I kill them? They look like one of Beth or Tia’s toys,” he would tell his brother, his heart almost aching as Befel and Bryon laughed at the rabbit or squirrel they had just killed, jiggling them about by the ears or tails as if they were, indeed, dolls.
“You say that and then go hunt with father, skinning and gutting whatever he kills right then and there,” his brother would respond.
“It’s different,” Erik would reply.
“How?”
“It just is. They’re not small and furry I guess.”
Erik heard the crunching of wood and iron hooves on pebble covered ground and the jingling of iron bridle and bit—his father’swagon and their mule.
“You’re early,” Erik muttered. He rolled over to his hands and knees and peered around the corner of the barn. A lantern hung fromthe wagon’s post by an iron hook and bobbed back and forth each time the wagon rolledover the bumps and dips of the rough road. His father’s head hung, chin dippedalmost to chest, the long, thin pole of a whip leaning against the footboard.It moved out of view, but Erik heard the crunching of the wheels and the clopping of hooves stop. Erik crawled along the backside of the barn and peeredaround another corner.
The wagon sat in front of his house, right in frontof a small, wooden gate that opened to a slab stone walkway. Red, pink, whiteand yellow roses that glimmered and shined even in the moonlight bordered thewalkway on both sides. His father slumped in the wagon’s seat and sighed sodeeply, Erik could hear it from where he crouched.
“You’re not due back for another two days,” Erik mumbled.He stayed just inside the shadow the barn created. How many times had he gottenin trouble for being out by the barn this late?
His father removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and turnedit repeatedly in his hands for at least several minutes, inspecting it, poking his index finger through several of the holes that dotted it. Erik smiled, rememberingmore than one occasion when his mother tried to throw that thing away. Finally,the Farmer Eleodum climbed down and leaned against the side of his wagon, backfacing the farmhouse, arms crossed across his chest. Erik heard him whisper,but couldn’t hear what he said. Then, the front door opened. A wash of candle and lantern light flooded the wood porch. Erik’s mother walked into the night,wiping her hands with the white apron she always wore. She walked to herhusband and stood in front of him. An old and yet well cared for shawl of whiteand red hung around her shoulders to ward off the same breeze that caused Erikto shiver. The middle-aged farmwife nuzzled her forehead into the man’s hard chest, finally resting her cheek there. She closed her eyes.
“You’re home early, my love,” she said, her eyes still closed. His tensed shoulders relaxed a bit at her soft voice. “Was the market good to us?”
After a moment, she looked up at him, head at hischin’s level, eyes trained on his, a smile on her face. Erik’s father alwaysdoted on his mother, often mentioning how not on a single day in her life, noteven on her wedding day, did that woman wear any sort of paint on her face likethe ladies from Hámon and still, here in the darkness of midnight, her lips gloweda red as bright as her roses.
Erik found it interesting how so many people reveredhis father, patron of the Eleodum Farmstead. It didn’t seem to matter how talla man was—he and his brother stood eye level with their father and, yet, theyfelt like he towered over them. People watched him from some seat below as hestood behind a pulpit and spoke truths and wisdom. Farm elders, travelers,broad shouldered youths, even wealthy merchants from Hámon, they all listenedintently to Rikard Eleodum when he spoke, and they all seemed to revel in whathe said.
“The blooming market.” He grumbled and turned hishead away. He could never meet her eyes and curse at the same time. “To hellwith the bloody, flaming, maggot infested market.”
“That bad, my love?” She dropped her apron and rubbedher husband’s shoulders.
“The sheep-loving dung beetles in the market,” hehissed.
“Husband!” She whispered loudly. “Must you curse so?”
“The nobles of Hámon.” He finally met her gaze.
Looking into those blue eyes could be dangerous. Erik knew that all too well. They saw lies. They read minds. It felt they turned him to stone more than once.
“They grow crops half as good as ours. On the backsof little better than slaves, too. They demand the highest price. They leavenothing for us. Those burning, flaming idiots think it’s the seed that givesthem crops that aren't even worth cattle feed. So they demand the first seed;and at lowest price.”
“Shh . . . You’ll wake the girls.” She soothinglyrubbed his chest. “We will make do. We always do. We will send up our prayersevery night and the Creator will watch over us.”
“There is talk that Hámon is expanding its lands.”Erik’s father pushed on as if he hadn’t heard his wife. “They mean to take our lands, lands our family has farmed for hundreds of years as free men. They willcome take our lands, demand a price we can’t pay to keep them, and then turnaround and make us work them anyways, sending our best crop and livestock tosome noble who sips spiced wine and walks around in slippers all day. Thosebastards!”
“Rikard, please,” Erik’s mother scolded, folding herarms across her chest.
“I am sorry, my love.” He pulled her close. “I onlyfear that I will not be able to pass this land to Befel, as my father did to meand his to him. I also fear that I will not be able to give Erik a small plotof land that he might work and grow for his own like my brother did. I fearthat my daughters will not have strong, faithful men to marry, ones who willprotect them and put a roof over their heads and food on their tables and sayprayers for them every night.”
“It can’t be true.” His mother closed her eyes. She sighed and pressed herself closer to her husband, wiping a single tear from hereye. Her auburn hair blazed in the moonlight and Rikard kissed that hair. “Theycan’t mean to take our land.”
“The world is changing, Karita. We can only hope theCreator will have mercy on us.” Rikard stared over the top of his wife’s head,looked in the direction of Erik. The boy slinked even farther back into the shadow. Under the darkness of the barn, he could barely see his own hand. Certainly, his father couldn’t see him. Still, Erik thought he did. “And if they do come,we will fight.”
Erik shook his brother awake. Befel turned over,eyes still closed, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders.
“What?” he groaned, eyes squinted. The dimcandlelight that peaked into his room seemed too bright.
“I want to go with you.”
“Where?” Befel mumbled, rubbing his forehead. Heplopped his head back down onto his pillow, pulling his blanket nearly all theway over his head.
“East.”
Befel lifted his head, propped himself up on both elbows. “Quiet,” he hushed. “If mother hears that kind of talk, she’ll switchboth of us. Go to bed. I was only kidding anyway.”
“No you weren’t. I saw that look in your eyes, the look you get when you set your mind to something. You were serious, and I want to go with you.”
“Why?” Befel asked.
“Just because,” Erik explained. “Because ofsomething I heard father say tonight.”
“Father’s home?”
Erik nodded. “How are you getting east?” he asked.
“Jovek’s oldest, Jensen, left last month,” Befelexplained, his voice hushed. “He traveled to Bull’s Run, so I heard. He plannedon either buying his way into a merchant’s train traveling east across the Plains,or going south to Finlo and buying his way onto a ship so he might sail east.”
“A boat?” Erik questioned. “I think I’d rather goacross the Plains.”
“It doesn’t matter how we get there,” Befel scolded.
“How will we buy our way into a caravan?” Erik asked.
“I have enough money saved up, I think. Bryon will go with us too. He has money also.”
“You talked to our cousin before me,” Erik spat in aloud whisper. A hurt look crept across his face.
“I didn’t know you wanted to go,” Befel retorted unapologetically. “Up until tonight you loved this farm life. Somehow, doingthe same thing day in and day out appeals to you.”
“I still love this farm.”
“Then why do you want to go? Are you just trying toget me in trouble?”
Erik ignored his brother’s prodding. “There is money in the east?”
“More than we can imagine,” Befel replied. “And an easy life. Not this getting up with the cock at daybreak and working until the stars come out. Within two years, we’ll have homes of our own. Clean clothes,servants, beautiful women.”
“Enough money to buy a farm; to buy acres of land?”
Befel cocked his eyebrow, tilted his head curiouslyand nodded. “More than we can imagine,” he repeated.
“When do we leave then?” Erik asked.
“We wait,” Befel explained. “We wait until afterharvest. Then we leave this life behind.”
Erik opened his eyes with a sudden, quick breath.His nostrils immediately curled as the smell of rotten food, dung, dirt, and stalewater hit his nose. He rubbed his face hard, rubbed his eyes and sat up. Heleaned against the wall that made up the back rooms and kitchen of The Red Lady. Befel and Bryon stillslept, curled up under tattered blankets, bent arms used as pillows. The starssparkled overhead, at least what he could see of them past three and fourstoried buildings. He poked at them as if he poked bubbles floating in a . . .he smiled. What a childish thing to think?
“I haven’t had that dream in months.” Erik pulledhis knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.
A heavy, hacking, phlegm-filled cough from fartherdown the alley echoed off the walls of the alley’s buildings. He hated theothers that slept in this alley. His mother always told him hate was a strong word, but that’s whathe felt. They used all their coin for drink and spat at him when his cousin andbrother weren’t around. At night, they looked like shadowy ghosts lumberingfrom wall to wall, stumbling over trash and other bodies.
Erik didn’t need to look to his feet to see whatmade the tiny squeaking sound. He kicked and sent a western rat, white ratsfather called them, flying into a wooden cart. They seemed indestructible andthis one, not as big as they could get, bounced back to its feet and hissed atErik before scurrying away. He preferred the lumberyards to this. The smell ofcut wood seemed to remind him of home, even mixed with the smells of unwashedclothing and open waste pits. He also favored the hot meals and the cot tosleep on to a hard, cobbled alleyway and begging for scraps, but no work meantno work. By heaven, he would take the pigsties of Venton to this. Even when heate slop with the pigs, he ate better than this.
“How much longer?” he quietly asked himself.
He lay back down, resting his head against a sack ofold rags a cook from The Red Lady hadthrown into the alley. He needed his sleep. Tomorrow might prove to be a bigday.
ChapterOne
Distant Dreams
Befel threw his rake to the ground. He looked to the east. The sun barely peaked over a horizon of freshly planted fields, divided into neat rows by an oxen-pulled plow.
“It’s not even close to noon and it’s already too hot,” Befel grumbled. He wiped a bead of sweat from his tanned forehead.
“I love the smell of early morning,” Erik said,smacking his hoe against the hard root of a tall, bushy weed. Witch’s Brush his father called it for the shape in which the weed grew, all bushy and stiff and stringy. “It smells like it just rained, doesn’t it? I love the rain. I can’t wait for the monsoons.”
“No,” Befel spat, “it doesn’t smell like rain. It smells like more work, a day full of it.”
“It’s no different than yesterday.” Erik smiled asthe thick, brown root began to crack and give way to his iron tool. “Got you, you stubborn plant.”
Erik squatted and grunted, tugging on the toughroot. It didn’t move.
“That’s the problem,” Befel said.
“What is?” Erik looked up at his brother. “Am Idoing something wrong?”
“No. Seriously, Erik, I don’t know about you sometimes. Don’t you listen? The problem is that we did this yesterday.” Erik just stared at his brother, shrugging his shoulders.
“And we’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow. And then the day after that, and the day after that, and for the rest of the days of our life,” Befel continued.
“Not for the rest of our lives; well, your life at least. This will all be yours someday.” Sitting on the ground, Erik smiled, hands still wrapped around the weed’s root, feet propped inside the small hole hishoe dug around the weed. He grunted and pulled on the plant again.
“And you think that makes me happy?”
“I don’t know. It’d make me happy.” Erik leaned back and the plant’s root began to give way.
“I need to leave.” Befel brushed an errant strand ofsandy colored hair out of his face.
“You had better pick up your rake before mother seesyou and gives you a tongue lashing.” Erik held up the knee-high, bushy weed likea conquering hero.
“I don’t care.” Despite his words, Befel looked overhis shoulder at the house and snatched his wood-pronged tool off the ground. “Ineed to leave.”
“And what would you do? Where would you go?”
Befel leaned against the warped handle of his rakeand turned his face to the east. The sun sat several hours above the horizon,glaring at Befel like a condescending eye, one that brought with it unbearable heat and burnt skin.
“East,” he muttered. “I’ll go east.”
That night, Erik sat behind his father’s barn,staring at the moon and the stars hanging in a cloudless, crisp sky.
“What are you?” He pointed to each star like bubbleshe might pop floating along a gently churned stream. A sudden breeze glided along the still fields. It kicked up loose dirt that swirled into short-lived tiny tornadoes. Despite the warm ground, Erik shivered, the gentle wind carryinga coolness collected from the dozens of ponds that dotted the farmstead.
The moon stood high this night, looking down on the Eleodum farm. Cricketsand night birds sang by the darkness of the world. Courageous rabbits wandered into newly planted fields, the moon like a beacon lantern spying a fugitive hidden in a dark corner. Their daring could be a death sentence if Erik’s father caught them—or a wandering fox or coyote for that matter—and still they braved the chance at tasty seeds and young shoots. Erik threw a rock at one, a little grey fellow with a skinny tail and short, fat ears. The skinny, grey-haired creature scurried away. Erik watched it hop to the first row oftrees in his father’s apple orchard and disappear.
“You’re lucky you’re not fat and I’m not hungry, orI would’ve hit you and had you for late night supper,” Erik lied. He could never hit anything with a rock, except for himself, testimony of the dying weltjust below his hairline—a failed attempt to hit another rabbit with a sling the week before. His cousin, Bryon, would never let him live that down. Erik seemedto have a soft spot for small, furry creatures.
“How can I kill them? They look like one of Beth or Tia’s toys,” he would tell his brother, his heart almost aching as Befel and Bryon laughed at the rabbit or squirrel they had just killed, jiggling them about by the ears or tails as if they were, indeed, dolls.
“You say that and then go hunt with father, skinning and gutting whatever he kills right then and there,” his brother would respond.
“It’s different,” Erik would reply.
“How?”
“It just is. They’re not small and furry I guess.”
Erik heard the crunching of wood and iron hooves on pebble covered ground and the jingling of iron bridle and bit—his father’swagon and their mule.
“You’re early,” Erik muttered. He rolled over to his hands and knees and peered around the corner of the barn. A lantern hung fromthe wagon’s post by an iron hook and bobbed back and forth each time the wagon rolledover the bumps and dips of the rough road. His father’s head hung, chin dippedalmost to chest, the long, thin pole of a whip leaning against the footboard.It moved out of view, but Erik heard the crunching of the wheels and the clopping of hooves stop. Erik crawled along the backside of the barn and peeredaround another corner.
The wagon sat in front of his house, right in frontof a small, wooden gate that opened to a slab stone walkway. Red, pink, whiteand yellow roses that glimmered and shined even in the moonlight bordered thewalkway on both sides. His father slumped in the wagon’s seat and sighed sodeeply, Erik could hear it from where he crouched.
“You’re not due back for another two days,” Erik mumbled.He stayed just inside the shadow the barn created. How many times had he gottenin trouble for being out by the barn this late?
His father removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and turnedit repeatedly in his hands for at least several minutes, inspecting it, poking his index finger through several of the holes that dotted it. Erik smiled, rememberingmore than one occasion when his mother tried to throw that thing away. Finally,the Farmer Eleodum climbed down and leaned against the side of his wagon, backfacing the farmhouse, arms crossed across his chest. Erik heard him whisper,but couldn’t hear what he said. Then, the front door opened. A wash of candle and lantern light flooded the wood porch. Erik’s mother walked into the night,wiping her hands with the white apron she always wore. She walked to herhusband and stood in front of him. An old and yet well cared for shawl of whiteand red hung around her shoulders to ward off the same breeze that caused Erikto shiver. The middle-aged farmwife nuzzled her forehead into the man’s hard chest, finally resting her cheek there. She closed her eyes.
“You’re home early, my love,” she said, her eyes still closed. His tensed shoulders relaxed a bit at her soft voice. “Was the market good to us?”
After a moment, she looked up at him, head at hischin’s level, eyes trained on his, a smile on her face. Erik’s father alwaysdoted on his mother, often mentioning how not on a single day in her life, noteven on her wedding day, did that woman wear any sort of paint on her face likethe ladies from Hámon and still, here in the darkness of midnight, her lips gloweda red as bright as her roses.
Erik found it interesting how so many people reveredhis father, patron of the Eleodum Farmstead. It didn’t seem to matter how talla man was—he and his brother stood eye level with their father and, yet, theyfelt like he towered over them. People watched him from some seat below as hestood behind a pulpit and spoke truths and wisdom. Farm elders, travelers,broad shouldered youths, even wealthy merchants from Hámon, they all listenedintently to Rikard Eleodum when he spoke, and they all seemed to revel in whathe said.
“The blooming market.” He grumbled and turned hishead away. He could never meet her eyes and curse at the same time. “To hellwith the bloody, flaming, maggot infested market.”
“That bad, my love?” She dropped her apron and rubbedher husband’s shoulders.
“The sheep-loving dung beetles in the market,” hehissed.
“Husband!” She whispered loudly. “Must you curse so?”
“The nobles of Hámon.” He finally met her gaze.
Looking into those blue eyes could be dangerous. Erik knew that all too well. They saw lies. They read minds. It felt they turned him to stone more than once.
“They grow crops half as good as ours. On the backsof little better than slaves, too. They demand the highest price. They leavenothing for us. Those burning, flaming idiots think it’s the seed that givesthem crops that aren't even worth cattle feed. So they demand the first seed;and at lowest price.”
“Shh . . . You’ll wake the girls.” She soothinglyrubbed his chest. “We will make do. We always do. We will send up our prayersevery night and the Creator will watch over us.”
“There is talk that Hámon is expanding its lands.”Erik’s father pushed on as if he hadn’t heard his wife. “They mean to take our lands, lands our family has farmed for hundreds of years as free men. They willcome take our lands, demand a price we can’t pay to keep them, and then turnaround and make us work them anyways, sending our best crop and livestock tosome noble who sips spiced wine and walks around in slippers all day. Thosebastards!”
“Rikard, please,” Erik’s mother scolded, folding herarms across her chest.
“I am sorry, my love.” He pulled her close. “I onlyfear that I will not be able to pass this land to Befel, as my father did to meand his to him. I also fear that I will not be able to give Erik a small plotof land that he might work and grow for his own like my brother did. I fearthat my daughters will not have strong, faithful men to marry, ones who willprotect them and put a roof over their heads and food on their tables and sayprayers for them every night.”
“It can’t be true.” His mother closed her eyes. She sighed and pressed herself closer to her husband, wiping a single tear from hereye. Her auburn hair blazed in the moonlight and Rikard kissed that hair. “Theycan’t mean to take our land.”
“The world is changing, Karita. We can only hope theCreator will have mercy on us.” Rikard stared over the top of his wife’s head,looked in the direction of Erik. The boy slinked even farther back into the shadow. Under the darkness of the barn, he could barely see his own hand. Certainly, his father couldn’t see him. Still, Erik thought he did. “And if they do come,we will fight.”
Erik shook his brother awake. Befel turned over,eyes still closed, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders.
“What?” he groaned, eyes squinted. The dimcandlelight that peaked into his room seemed too bright.
“I want to go with you.”
“Where?” Befel mumbled, rubbing his forehead. Heplopped his head back down onto his pillow, pulling his blanket nearly all theway over his head.
“East.”
Befel lifted his head, propped himself up on both elbows. “Quiet,” he hushed. “If mother hears that kind of talk, she’ll switchboth of us. Go to bed. I was only kidding anyway.”
“No you weren’t. I saw that look in your eyes, the look you get when you set your mind to something. You were serious, and I want to go with you.”
“Why?” Befel asked.
“Just because,” Erik explained. “Because ofsomething I heard father say tonight.”
“Father’s home?”
Erik nodded. “How are you getting east?” he asked.
“Jovek’s oldest, Jensen, left last month,” Befelexplained, his voice hushed. “He traveled to Bull’s Run, so I heard. He plannedon either buying his way into a merchant’s train traveling east across the Plains,or going south to Finlo and buying his way onto a ship so he might sail east.”
“A boat?” Erik questioned. “I think I’d rather goacross the Plains.”
“It doesn’t matter how we get there,” Befel scolded.
“How will we buy our way into a caravan?” Erik asked.
“I have enough money saved up, I think. Bryon will go with us too. He has money also.”
“You talked to our cousin before me,” Erik spat in aloud whisper. A hurt look crept across his face.
“I didn’t know you wanted to go,” Befel retorted unapologetically. “Up until tonight you loved this farm life. Somehow, doingthe same thing day in and day out appeals to you.”
“I still love this farm.”
“Then why do you want to go? Are you just trying toget me in trouble?”
Erik ignored his brother’s prodding. “There is money in the east?”
“More than we can imagine,” Befel replied. “And an easy life. Not this getting up with the cock at daybreak and working until the stars come out. Within two years, we’ll have homes of our own. Clean clothes,servants, beautiful women.”
“Enough money to buy a farm; to buy acres of land?”
Befel cocked his eyebrow, tilted his head curiouslyand nodded. “More than we can imagine,” he repeated.
“When do we leave then?” Erik asked.
“We wait,” Befel explained. “We wait until afterharvest. Then we leave this life behind.”
Erik opened his eyes with a sudden, quick breath.His nostrils immediately curled as the smell of rotten food, dung, dirt, and stalewater hit his nose. He rubbed his face hard, rubbed his eyes and sat up. Heleaned against the wall that made up the back rooms and kitchen of The Red Lady. Befel and Bryon stillslept, curled up under tattered blankets, bent arms used as pillows. The starssparkled overhead, at least what he could see of them past three and fourstoried buildings. He poked at them as if he poked bubbles floating in a . . .he smiled. What a childish thing to think?
“I haven’t had that dream in months.” Erik pulledhis knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.
A heavy, hacking, phlegm-filled cough from fartherdown the alley echoed off the walls of the alley’s buildings. He hated theothers that slept in this alley. His mother always told him hate was a strong word, but that’s whathe felt. They used all their coin for drink and spat at him when his cousin andbrother weren’t around. At night, they looked like shadowy ghosts lumberingfrom wall to wall, stumbling over trash and other bodies.
Erik didn’t need to look to his feet to see whatmade the tiny squeaking sound. He kicked and sent a western rat, white ratsfather called them, flying into a wooden cart. They seemed indestructible andthis one, not as big as they could get, bounced back to its feet and hissed atErik before scurrying away. He preferred the lumberyards to this. The smell ofcut wood seemed to remind him of home, even mixed with the smells of unwashedclothing and open waste pits. He also favored the hot meals and the cot tosleep on to a hard, cobbled alleyway and begging for scraps, but no work meantno work. By heaven, he would take the pigsties of Venton to this. Even when heate slop with the pigs, he ate better than this.
“How much longer?” he quietly asked himself.
He lay back down, resting his head against a sack ofold rags a cook from The Red Lady hadthrown into the alley. He needed his sleep. Tomorrow might prove to be a bigday.