It was still early in the afternoon, when her stomach forced her to leave the river and move nearly a quarter of a mile to the north where there were sparse groups of trees, and high bushes. She hoped to flush a rabbit, a bird or even a squirrel, though how she would catch them she did not know. She knew that if she had to she could live on mice, or even insects, but hungry as she was she was not that far gone yet. Her journey inland paid off far sooner than she expected, though not with any sort of meat, instead she came across a patch of large blackberry bushes. Her mouth watered when she recognized them, though they were still young, reddish and hard, even so she nearly twisted her ankle jumping from Bull’s back, and walking quickly, bare footed to the bushes.
Her fingers, mouth and lips were soon purple from the juice of the bitter berries but Sam was sure she had never tasted anything quite so sweet. Surprisingly it only took about ten minutes of constant eating before her stomach began to settle. Bull snorted, and she remembered that he had not eaten either.
“Sorry Bull,” she said and walked to him and removed his bit. The horse did not go for the berries, but instead moved to a patch of nearby grass and clover. The two of them ate contentedly for another quarter of an hour before Sam moved to Bull and removed the saddle and then the blanket underneath. She put the saddle back on and then began to load the blanket with as many berries as she could pick. She was so involved with the picking that she hardly noticed the weather until it began to rain, sporadically at first, with large wet drops, but then it opened up and drenched her where she stood. She cursed softly; her clothes had almost completely dried from her plunge. But there was nothing to be done for it, so she wrapped the berries up in the blanket and then carefully walked up to Bull. She hated the storm. She hated to be wet, and she was afraid a nearby lightning strike would startle the horse and he would bolt. She knew she was dead without Bull. The horse allowed her to lead him away from the clover and back into a copse of trees in order to find what shelter they could. There were more blackberry bushes here, thick along the tree line. She stopped and let Bull graze once more but she kept one hand on his reins at all times. They were hardly in the midst of the foliage when she heard voices, male voices, carrying through the storm. She froze and looked out beyond the trees in the direction of the approaching men, and her heart nearly sprang from her chest when she caught sight of a group of Deutzani soldiers. There were seven of them in all and they were moving quickly in her direction, likewise trying to find some shelter.
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Gwaynn woke the next morning confused and in pain. His head pounded as if his heart now lived between his ears. He struggled to a sitting position, the pain so bad he had to fight the urge to throw up. He lost that battle, puking on the floor. The pain increased as he retched and he saw blinding white flashes even though his eyes were closed. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed for several long minutes listening to Krys groan before he finally had the courage to try to stand. Waves of dizziness and nausea hit him almost immediately but slowly subsided as he stood there, very still.
Slowly and carefully he made his way over to the bureau and the pitcher of water. His tongue felt thick, heavy and scratchy as if someone had placed a sand-filled, waterlogged sock in his mouth. With great effort he lifted the pitcher and drank directly from it. The first sip was small, but wonderful, the best water he’d ever tasted. The next drink was larger, and after a moment he began to drink in large gulps. He wanted more, but forced himself to stop, knowing that Krys would be in a similar state when he finally came around.
Gwaynn placed the pitcher back on the bureau, feeling much better, his thirst and much of his dizziness gone. His head was still pounding, keeping time to some sadistic song. He suddenly remembered the women, nude. His hand went instinctively to his belt and found the bag of coins Paulo had given him was missing. He was not surprised, but angry, both with himself and the two who did this to him. His anger exploded into rage when he noticed that their bags were missing. The bags held all their personal belongings, but most importantly, their kali.
“Krys!” Gwaynn shouted loudly, then groaned and held his head in his hands. Gwaynn shuffled back over between the beds and in his effort not to step in his own vomit, kicked his knife, which lay on the floor. He slowly bent down and picked it up with a great deal of satisfaction, then leaned over and punched his friend as hard as he dared in the upper thigh.
“Aaah,” Krys moaned and sat up very fast. His face went from red to pale in a blink. He squinted and grabbed his head, moaned once and then vomited.
“Welcome to the party,” Gwaynn said softly.
Krys continued to vomit until his stomach was empty with Gwaynn struggling not to join in from the sound and the smell. When the retching seemed to be over Gwaynn handed him the pitcher of water, which Krys drank gratefully.
“What happened?” Krys finally asked, placing the pitcher on the floor and bending over to hold his head in his hands.
“They robbed us,” Gwaynn said feeling better by the minute, though his head was still throbbing painfully.
“Robbed,” Krys repeated, dimly thinking of Emm. He was having a hard time believing she would rob him, or anyone.
“Our money and our kali,” Gwaynn answered, his anger growing again.
Krys jumped up, groaning and looked on both sides of his bed. His bag was missing, but Gwaynn was already aware of the fact. He watched, only slightly amused, as Krys’ hands immediately went for his knives, which were still safely in their sheaths.
“How?” Krys asked.
“Drugged, I would say.”
“What now?”
“When we are up to it, I would like to go and talk to the old gentleman at the desk,” Gwaynn said. “I find it hard to believe that the proprietor of this establishment would not be aware of such thievery.”
Krys nodded and stood. “I’m getting more water,” he added and moved to the door. He stopped when Gwaynn put a hand on his shoulder.
“Save the confrontation until we’re ready,” he advised. After Krys had left, closing the door softly behind him, Gwaynn went to the window and tugged it open. The morning was clear and bright but the sun hurt his eyes. Painfully he stuck his head out the window and took a few deep breaths. Manse was already busy with horse and wagon traffic moving about in the street below. He pulled back inside and moved the heavy curtains as far out of the way as he could to allow as much fresh air into the room as possible. The smell inside was atrocious, so he sat on the sill and even considered moving out on the roof, but in the end decided that it was too steeply pitched to be safe. He closed his eyes against the sun and enjoyed the cool breeze against his face. His headache remained but he was recovering quickly, and though his anger was still present, he’d forced it away from the boiling point.
They would find the girls. He was confident of the fact, unless they fled town, but that was not very likely. He was of the mind that they had been targeted because of their youth, and thus a lesser danger than others might be. It smacked of a well-rehearsed crime, one that reoccurred regularly.