The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

The Burrows

When Lark and Able had gone downstairs in dire need of breakfast, Lark had marched straight up to Sol with his mouth full of apologies and reasons they should leave before anyone was hurt on his account. Sol would hear none of it. He explained he had already sent a messenger to Light Hawking in the night and that the two of them would go nowhere while they waited for the response. So they were to eat their fill then go back to bed and maybe try sleeping in it this time.

Somehow, Able had succeeded at that. Or rather, Lark had succeeded in pushing his worries away by folding him up in his arms and murmuring, "Let me look after you now, like you did for me last night." Another thing Able let happen, sinking into Lark instead of struggling for space, learning he was starved for touch instead of uncomfortable with it.

When he'd awoken, four spearmen and two archers awaited to escort them to the Burrows. The Burrows was a knoll tucked away in the forest that had, over the centuries, been burrowed into to serve as a fortress first by a particular tribe then later by Borealunders at large as they faced invasions from the Eastern nations long before Dagobar sailed in from the West. Presently the Resistance's base of operations, Light Hawking thought the wayward Larbant prince should be safe there.

All the more reason for Red to stop them from ever arriving.

The landscape was impossibly bright between the sun and the snow it was melting. Able was traveling well above the squelching mess on the back of Dusty, one of the Larbant coursers he and Lark had absconded with the night before last. It was initially terrifying to be up this high, but Dusty's long-legged amble kept a gentle and easy pace with the ponies trotting along below. Able tried to put this vantage to good use, scrutinizing the trees as the group rode through the field.

Lark showed little vigilance, though perhaps he—she, today, was simply relying on her supposed preternatural senses. One of the archers was a tall and surprisingly dark-skinned woman Lark had called Tem before catching her up in a hug. Perhaps they had bonded over their mixed heritage. Lark, aboard Red's black coarser named Pacer, fell in beside Tem on her brown and white splotched pony and chattered away. Tem contributed little to their conversation, but Lark still had her frequently cracking her stoic visage with smiles and chuckles.

However, the other archer rode to and fro around the group, scowling at the shadows in the distance. Able did his best to coordinate with his efforts, peering between the spearmen at scraggly bushes and brush, between the trees in the distance, and craning to his neck to check around mounds and snowdrifts. Any shadow could have been the Black Sword. What was their chance of recognizing her before it was too late?

As the day wore on, they passed into the spindly shade of the winter forest and were forced to line up single file. Though he fell into the center of the line, Able's view remained unobstructed, for the only other person on a tall horse was cheerfully humming behind him. He doubled his efforts, glancing back every tree they passed and peering into the less disturbed snow for signs of tracks.

It took him a moment to realize Lark had started singing instead of humming, "You should relaaax, Houser."

Able turned in the saddle to give him a withering glare. But Lark only grinned and jutted his chin forward. Able turned forward again. Through the span of trunks ahead...yes, perhaps that was a knoll he could make out. He risked standing in his stirrups to find a clearer view. Dusty whickered at this, perhaps to express annoyance or concern or something else entirely. Able had a long way to go before he could understand horse.

He sat back down but did not relax until the forward scouts had called their hails and their escort had returned them. He glanced about one last time before he exhaled his tension then took in the base as it revealed itself. The rockiness of the knoll disguised some, though not all, of the arched entrances that peppered its base and sides. Look-outs hailed the party from cavern perches near the knoll's pinnacle. Half the people milling around the base wore the gray coveralls and the rest wore overcoats of other drab colors. The snow here was still a soft layer that Able sank into when he dismounted. He looked up as people began clapping.