Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 8: Round and Round and Down and Down

"Your friends been missing you, rather," said Matilda, as they hurried through the trees.

"Were they?"

"Entirely. And they oh-so regretted the silly business of tangling ale and spider webs about your fondly-regarded person."

"Don't care."

"Granted, you were being a proud ass, as I'm sure you've already heard from your mirror."

"Was not. And haven't. And won't."

They ceased whispers, reaching the road. Some distance away waited a once-grand stone arch, looking sad and broken as old bone in the light of a single torch. Guarding that gateway stood two of the white-robes. Drawn swords reflecting the sputtering torch.

"Guess I can spare two arrows," whispered Matilda. Barnaby blinked, turning to study the friendly tavern girl. Tall, curly hair, brown slotted eyes. Strong looking, cheerful seeming... and ready to drop two men dead same as partridges in the brush.

"We aren't here to kill folk at their posts."

At which words she focused slotted eyes to study him. Adding a sad smile.

"You're a kindly sort, Master Miller. But you've already said they were doing evil at the river. And mark how they stand?"

Barnaby frowned, returned gaze to the guards. They stood with swords ready, staring inwards toward the shrine. That did seem odd.

Matilda put it to words. "They aren't there to keep folk from getting in. They keep any from getting out."

Barnaby shivered, perhaps with the chill of the river wind. Then,

"For sure, these folk are up to twisted things. But we can't be putting arrows into them without cause."

"Cause, meaning wait till they've sliced your liver first?"

"If I may advise," interrupted the cat upon Barnaby's pack. "I suggest my master feign to be one of the congregants of authority. You, Silenian, can be a new disciple to be brought before the hermitess."

"Don't think much of play acting into a dragon's den."

"Your opinion is not unwise," agreed the cat. "But an aggressive charge into a dragon den shall end in the dragon's gullet. You've not enough arrows to take down a congregation of mad cultists."

Matilda bit lip. "Maybe sneak round the back?"

"Hmm, there is indeed a back entrance. But it will be sealed. This shrine is an old fortress of St. Plutarch You cannot enter except by the front door."

She stamped a hoof.

"How do you know so much, Mister Kitty?"

The cat sniffed.

"When your great-grandmothers danced to Sainted. Silenus's mad piping, Mister kitty watched war and slaughter upon this very spot. A day the dirt turned red, and the river ran red, and even the gore-affrighted sky shone red."

"Fine," growled the Silenian. "Let's walk up smiling then."

Barnaby nodded, wanting to draw his axe. But that would put the guards on alert. So he strode across the road, telling himself he walked up to the millhouse at home. Granted, that'd been full of folk wishing him dead.

"Call out to them first," whispered the cat.

"Ho, there," Barnaby shouted.

The two guards turned, swords raised. Eyeing him.