Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
There’s a subtle chiming, and something that crackles? The weapons are … too many to count. A length of brass chain. Folding knives (two)—
“Ow,” I hiss as I’m stung by something.
Snatching back my hand, a row of pinpricks on my fingertips bloom blood, and I brush them off on my hip before proceeding with greater caution. What spools out is another length of chain, except this one has barbs. Like everything else—and my own knife now—it’s clean and very well tended, and it’s not hard to picture what it could do around someone’s throat.
I glance up again. Look behind myself.
Then I carefully put the thorned steel back, and go through the rest of the surcoat. Every square nic. All I find are folds of damp leather that smell like him, arrow lily, and more weapons that can do dreadful things to people.
Absolutely no compass.
Then again, would he have left the instrument here with me if he stole it? Perhaps it’s stashed on him somewhere—
A rustling of undergrowth rips my head up, and I flap the surcoat around, trying to remember what it looked like when he dropped the heavy weight. Then I wait, with just my pounding heart to keep me company.
Nothing comes of it, and I eye his pack. Even though he probably did the same to my things, the idea of going through all his possessions makes me distinctly uncomfortable. I go to my own strapped bag again, and this time, instead of just rummaging through it, I pour the contents out—
The satchel is the last thing to fall free, and it hits the ground with a dull thud.
“Thank the crescent moon,” I exhale.
Falling back into a sit, I go to work on the plain brown satchel’s tie. As my sloppy fingers make messy work, I find myself murmuring, “I was orphaned on the birthing bed and left in the village square where…”
As my words dry up, I wonder why I’ve never noticed that that’s as far as I ever get, but then the compass pours out into my hand and everything stops for me.
The weight of the palm-sized instrument registers first, and after that, all I can think about is how ancient it appears to be—yet it’s so very well preserved. With covers on both sides, and a release mechanism on the top, the yellow metal of the casing is untarnished, and I wonder if it’s made of gold … or perhaps just a brass that was polished to perfection before it was stored with care away from the air. What appears to be the front cover is etched with a fine attention to detail, the directions of North, South, East, and West spelled out in beautiful cursive. In the center, there is a knobby outline that I know in my gut is Anathos itself.
Squinting, I focus on the area where my little village is located, on the lowest edge of the Kingdom of Prosperitus’s territory. Merc said it was a day’s ride to the Badlands, and I extrapolate how much farther south I’ll have to travel if I’m to make it to the Outpost, which I’ve heard is the last settlement in that area.
I can’t help but notice that the Kingdom of the South is, comparatively, not that far away.
And according to what I’ve overheard in the pub, there is a warrior queen on that throne who has an appetite for war and will see no one.
Travelers regularly came through our little village and tarried at the Gauntlet for their rest and refreshment, and they’ve always brought with them news and history from all around Anathos. That queen’s reputation proceeds her, to the point where few ever wanted to go all the way south, for she defends what is hers with a fierce army of a thousand mounted soldiers.
I’ve even heard she feeds her victims to her men.
My thumb hovers over the release button on the compass’s top, and as I hesitate, I tell myself if I can survive the tunnel and the moat, surely the effort required to flick the tiny latch is nothing. But I cannot do it. For some reason, I’m frightened of what’s inside—
I shove the compass back into the satchel, and go for the box. It’s made of wood, and at first I think the grain is stained with an onyx bark solution, but that’s not it. Great age has darkened the container, and the little latch that holds the top and bottom together is corroded. I score my fingernail as I try to get the hook free, and just as I’m about to give up, it slips out of its dock.
I have to claw into the seam that runs around the sides of the container, and when I finally pry the box open, the hinges creak—
“What am I looking at…” I whisper with awe.