Chapter 8: Everly

Chapter

Eight

EVERLY

Frustration crashes over me as I make my way to the outskirts of Karra. Hawke said there is a Bloodstone army camped outside the city. Now, it's left to me to stumble upon it. Then what—beg the Bloodstone army to let me cook for them?

"Great job, Everly," I grumble as I glare up at the sky. "You've really outdone yourself this time. First, you stumble into a rebel plot. Then, you get blackmailed. And now you're off to spy on Cenric."

My foot catches on a hidden root, and I flail wildly, my arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to regain balance. For a brief, glorious moment, I think I might stay upright, but no. I plummet face-first into a massive mud puddle. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I sputter, spitting out grit.

I sit up and survey the damage. My surcoat is now a horrible shade of brown, and mud drips from my hair in thick globs .

I stand, my legs wobbling. Mud trickles from every inch of me, and I swear I hear it laughing. I attempt to wipe some away, but my hands are just as filthy. All I do is smear it around, creating abstract mud art on my surcoat.

Instead of giving up, I grit my teeth and continue my search. I crest a hill, my legs burning from the effort.

Mud has dried in places, leading to a crusty armor that cracks with each movement. I probably look like a swamp creature. Maybe if spying doesn't work out, I can find employment scaring children.

After walking up two more hills, I finally spot it—a sea of tents sprawling across the valley below.

I slow as I approach the four men standing guard at the entrance of the camp. Their eyes widen when they see me.

"I need to speak with your leader," I announce, trying to sound as authoritative as possible while looking like I've lost a wrestling match with a mud pit.

They stare at me, mouths agape, as if I've just asked them to pluck the sun from the sky and cradle it in their hands.

I stiffen my spine. "Perhaps you didn't hear me. I need to speak to your leader."

The guard on the far left, a burly man with a beard that could house several squirrels, actually has the audacity to laugh. It starts as a low chuckle, then builds into a full-blown guffaw that shakes his entire frame.

"Listen here, you overgrown shrub," I snap, my patience wearing thinner than the soles of my mud-caked shoes. "I didn't trudge through half the forest, fall into a puddle, and ruin my only decent surcoat just to be laughed at by a man whose beard is probably smarter than he is."

The guard's laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief.

Well, at least I have his attention now.

"I want to speak to your leader," I repeat.

The guard's face turns as red as a ripe strawberry. "Go away, you mud-caked harpy," he snarls, jabbing a meaty finger in my direction. "I don't know what swamp you crawled out of, but—"

"—oh, please. Save your breath for cooling your porridge. I've heard better insults from a toothless grandmother."

The guard's nose flares, and I think I see steam rising from his ears. His hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and I suddenly regret that I have never learned when to keep my mouth shut.

My mind races faster than a donkey with its tail on fire as I look around, searching for an escape route. To my left is a dense thicket of thorny bushes. To my right is a steep drop-off. And behind me is the forest I just walked through.

Fantastic...

Just as I'm contemplating which direction will lead to the least painful demise, the sound of horse hooves reaches my ears. The steady rhythm grows louder, coming from somewhere behind me.

The guards straighten as their attention shifts to the approaching rider. I consider making a run for it but decide against it, knowing I'd probably trip over my feet and fall into another mud puddle .

As the horse and rider come into view, my heart gallops into my throat and lodges there.

Oh, you have got to be jesting with me.