A Ranger's Journey: Book Four of the Last Eternal by Jacob Peppers

Author:Jacob Peppers [Peppers, Jacob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-04-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The wanderer came awake to the sound of Veikr’s soft whinny and rose from where he’d lain with his arms wrapped around the great beast’s neck. He blinked his eyes in a vain effort to rid them of the grainy, dry feeling that told him that however much sleep he’d gotten, it had not been enough, then scanned the area around them. Thankfully, he saw no more armored spiders or any pursuing Revenants.

Then, as his eyes settled to the trail in front of them, he saw, through his blurry, exhausted vision, why the horse had woken him.

Ahead of them, in the distance, he could make out the tail end of the procession of villagers. In another few minutes they arrived at the back of the group. As he drew near, the wanderer noted the villagers whispering amongst themselves, staring at him with shocked expressions. He could not hear what they said, but he could feel the weight of their gazes on him as they separated on either side of the path, opening a space between them through which Veikr walked.

In many ways the wanderer felt more uncomfortable beneath those gazes—the meanings of which he could not imagine—than he had facing the Revenants and the armored spiders. Say this for the Revenants—their intentions were never hard to guess at, for they only ever wanted one thing. The same thing.

Beneath the weight of the villagers’ gazes it felt as if it took an eternity to reach the front of the line where Dekker, Clint, and Sheriff Fred stood with the wizard. All of the men, save the old, robed figure, were covered in dust and sweat, as were many of the other nearby villagers. They were passing a couple of waterskins between them, drinking greedily. As the wanderer rode up, Dekker, who’d been tilting his head back and taking a long pull from a waterskin, noted the wanderer and sputtered in shock. “Son of a bitch,” the big man said.

“I’ve been called worse,” the wanderer said tiredly as he half-climbed half-fell from Veikr’s saddle.

The big man handed the skin off to Clint who was grinning like a child, then started forward. Dekker had taken his shirt off during his labors, as many of the men had. The difference, though, was that the big man was twice as large as any of the others and as that mountain of muscle stomped toward the wanderer, his expression intense but unreadable beyond that, several of the nearest villagers flinched away as if afraid. The wanderer could not blame them, for he was tempted to shy away himself, only he knew the man did not mean him violence. Though one might have been fooled by the pressure of the hug as he wrapped his arms around the wanderer and pulled him from his feet, patting him on the back with blows that, from another man, might have been considered a physical attack.

“Son of a bitch,” Dekker said again, as the wanderer fought for breath.

“So you’ve said,” the wanderer managed.

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