Wicked Hunt

Chapter Sixteen, Part III

Rafe: Conclusions

Hawthorn's village was clean and cobbled. It smelled of pine and baking bread and a glow like a warm fire seemed to radiate from the brick buildings. Lord Jamal Denizen was a popular man among his people, using the taxes he collected and extra money he earned to give back to them. Their houses seemed well-kept and inlaid in matching brick. The streets weren't covered in mud despite the hammering rain from the previous evening.

Children bustled along, carrying books and lined paper instead of dirty rags or broken toys like they did in Pine Village at Dunhelm. Women held laundry baskets instead of ripped bags of stolen money, and the men all seemed to hold respectable jobs at the nearby farms or lumber companies.

His people respect him. Here is a man who rules by confidence. Warmth. Friendliness. Not fear...

Rafe pushed the thoughts away. He did not know these people, the secrets they kept. He barely knew Denizen.

"So, what did she look like?" Christopher asked as he and Rafe strode toward Black Hollow.

"Who?" He raised his eyes, looking up from where he had been glaring at the stones beneath his boots.

"You know." He motioned up toward the keep. "Jamal's witch."

Rafe grimaced and shook his head. "She isn't a witch."

"Not what I heard," Christopher replied easily. A small grin worried at his mouth. Fair stubbled had begun to sprout on his chin.

"His niece is quite captivating," Rafe remarked, his words laced with sarcasm.

"Is she as ugly as they say she is?"

"Worse," Rafe said instantly, earning a high snicker from Christopher.

"I heard she's got four noses," Christopher said with a sly look. Rafe shrugged simply.

"The room was dark," he offered. A smirk tugged at his lips too, but he would not pull them up into a full blown smile. That was a rare occurrence, something that he did not feel comfortable showing Christopher. Even after their many years of shared servitude to the realm, Rafe knew that to get too close was to invite problems. He needed to remain separate from his men to inspire obedience. Openness had no place in leadership.

"Probably for the best-" Christopher was cut off by a man suddenly moving to block their path.

"Pieces of horse shit!" He promptly spat onto the ground by their feet, then angrily stomped off.

"Hmmm." Rafe shook his head, eyed the man's retreating back, briefly thought about chasing him down and beating him to a bloody pulp, and continued onward.

"That was pleasant."

"Not surprising though," Rafe said. "There'll be no love lost between any of the villagers here and the king, even if Hawthorn is more cultivated than most towns in Verlic."

"They're right on the edge though," Christopher said, his clear eyes scanning the buildings and the few villagers along the street.

"On the edge of what?" Rafe asked gruffly. He hated when Christopher presented some vague idea then made Rafe ask him to explain it. Speak plainly, damn it, he wanted to say, but this time he kept his mouth shut.

"The edge of..." he lowered his voice for dramatic effect "... rebellion."

"That," Rafe growled, "is ridiculous."