Wesley

"I'm so glad that you won't let any trifling little disagreements come in the way of our friendship," Crow said, then held up a finger. "But not to worry—I won't press the issue about coming along on your little trip. After all, friends need to set healthy boundaries, give each other space, and I'm no boor. I'll find some other form of entertainment for the time being."

"Good to hear," Sam replied with an air of forced neutrality.

"That being said…" Crow leaned closer until she was almost in the other woman's ear. "We'll see each other again real soon. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

Sam said nothing; just stared straight ahead.

Crow took a step back with a giggle. "You know what? I've changed my mind. I want to give you a little parting gift—something to remember me by until the next time our paths cross."

With that she reached back and unclasped the delicate chain of her star-shaped amulet, and held it out dangling for Sam to take.

Reluctantly, Sam held out her upturned palm. Crow let the chain fall into it with a soft hiss of metal links.

"Now, don't be ungrateful and go and sell or regift that," Crow said, wagging an admonishing finger, "it's very valuable, so always keep it close to your heart."

"Sure," Sam said, and weighed the thing in her hand. "Whatever you say."

"Good girl." Crow sighed and knuckled the small of her back, as though to release some pain. "Well, I can see that I've overstayed my welcome here, so I'll go ahead and bid you adieu for now." She straightened out, rolling her shoulders. "Oh, just one more thing. When you see your dad, tell him hi from me."

"I keep telling you, you don't know what you're talking about. My dad isn't here."

But Crow didn't reply. She just tipped her head back and laughed, a febrile madness in it. The sound abruptly cut off as she vanished into thin air, except now it could be heard somewhere in the distance, a faint echo from the wilds barely audible over the merriment inside the town.

Then that sound disappeared as well, and Wesley's tight muscles slowly unwound as his careening heartbeat began to slow. The surge of adrenaline left him twitchy and tingly, alternating between wanting to laugh and cry.

Sam collapsed against the wall, all that stone-sure strength gone out of her in an instant, and Wesley scrambled up to keep her from falling. She was heavy, but he latched onto one of her arms and eventually managed to help her into a sitting position. Her undershirt was soaking through in a dozen places where her wounds had come open.

"Shit," Wesley muttered. "Are you all right?"

Sam just stared at him wide-eyed like she thought he was from the moon. The look on her face was not one of pain, but more like… fear.

"Are you all right?" he repeated, and gently shook her shoulder.

"He's alive," she said in a dull, faraway voice. "She was lying. My dad isn't here."

"I'm sure your dad is fine." He tried to sound reassuring.

Sam was quiet for a long while. She ignored him completely when he tried to convince her to go inside and lie down, and moving her against her will was like trying to push a house, so after a while he just gave up and sat next to her.

"You probably saved my life," Wesley said after some time in an attempt to cheer her up. "I'm pretty sure she would have blown me to bits if you hadn't stepped in."

Sam gave a long, slow nod. She opened her clenched fist to peer down at the amulet. She had been gripping it so tightly that the sharp silver points had pierced her skin, little pinpricks across her palm beading with blood.

"We need to tell someone about this," Wesley urged. "Mongrel, or… anyone, I don't know."

"No," Sam replied firmly. "We keep this to ourselves."

"What? Why?"

"This is big stuff. I have no idea what to make of what she said—or this thing she gave me." She bounced the amulet on the heel of her palm. "All I know is that it's definitely the kind of thing we don't want the wrong people finding out about. So until we get back to Sheerhome, we tell no one. Not even Mongrel. It's not that I don't trust him, I'm just not sure I trust his ability to shut up when he's had a few."

"Okay," Wesley said slowly, "but once we get to Sheerhome, what then? Do we just sit on this forever?"

"If we can get this to Will, he'll know what to do. He always knows what to do."

She sure had a lot of faith in this Will person Wesley knew precious little about. Then again, he was happy enough to pretend none of this little episode had ever happened. A large part of him wished he could simply delete it from his memory entirely.

"Promise me, Wesley," Sam said with a deep, earnest frown, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Promise you won't say anything."

"All right," Wesley replied. "I promise."

* * *

[DAY TEN…]

Sam

She could not go back to sleep at all that night, and simply lay awake staring at the ceiling until dawn came.

Dark thoughts churned inside her, Crow's words repeating ad nauseam. What the hell was all that about Sam's father? She refused to entertain the possibility that he was actually on the Frontier, tried to tell herself that it was just some sick mind game on Crow's part.

But the more she tried to deny it, the more those creeping doubts began to nag at her. She hadn't spoken to him in almost a decade. Anything could have happened in that time. Maybe he had died. And if he was dead, she was certain that he had done more than his share to earn his ticket to the Frontier.

The memory of her father's face, coupled with the amulet's cold weight on her chest, were what kept her awake all night.

It was hard to act like nothing had happened the previous night when the others came by in the morning. Luckily, she could pretend that she was just strung out from her recovery, even though her wounds had mostly closed up or scabbed over at this point, and the pain was minimal.

Mongrel looked like someone had put him through a tumble drier, covered in bruises and hickies and with his hair sticking out all crazy, mad professor style.

Crow had been right—Buck was on board with the plan, and had agreed to come back to Sheerhome with them post-haste. And he wasn't the only one, it turned out. There were folk all over town darting into their homes to fetch gear and supplies, then joining an ever-growing gathering of excitable adventurers, all clamoring at the chance to be a part of what they seemed to think was going to be some epic quest. Artie and his friend were among them.

Sam did not see much of Buck himself while they were prepping to leave, surrounded as he was by his sycophantic followers. The few glimpses she did get of the man gave her the impression of a man altogether too enamored by the sound of his own voice. He seemed to spend more time singing, capering about, kissing, or simply basking in the attention of his peers than actually organizing the journey ahead.

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He also seemed to have something against wearing shirts, for whatever reason.

She hoped that Will had known what he was doing when he chose this man to represent the people of Sheerhome. Of course he had. Surely. Probably.

"There was a very big party last night," Gug said suddenly as Sam rose from finishing the last of her packing. "I'm sorry you couldn't come."

"It's all right, Gug," Sam replied with a forced smile, toying with the star amulet through her tunic. "I needed the rest. I feel a bit better now."

"Okay. That's good." He reached into his slacks and pulled out a somewhat squished puff pastry. "Saved you one. They were very tasty, and I know that you like eating."

Sam couldn't help but snort out a genuine laugh at that. "Thanks—that's really nice of you. I'm not so hungry right now, though."

"Take it," Gug insisted, the pastry held out gently atop his huge palm. "You need to eat. A wise man once told me: 'Every journey starts with breakfast'."

Sam laughed again. "A very wise man, then." She took the pastry, and picked off a few pieces of pocket lint before taking a bite. It was pretty good.

She gave a thumbs up, and Gug grinned broadly so his big block of a face was all screwed up with wrinkles.

Once all was made ready, people came and took a good portion of the packing from Sam's group to be put astride some of the reindeer that the bandits used for their pack animals. They were offered two of the moose that they used as riding mounts as well, but no one in Sam's group was particularly eager to take them up on the offer.

The maybe three dozen adventurers were waved off by friends and loved ones who would remain in Freetown. Mongrel seemed to be having some trouble disentangling himself from a young woman who had apparently taken quite a liking to him. He grew increasingly dismayed by her attempts to cajole him into staying. Sam couldn't help but take some pleasure in his misery, hiding her laugh behind her hand.

Then they set off, leaving through Freetown's bramble wall and going into the wilds—headed south, for Sheerhome. Sam's group walked amid the company of bandits. They had Explorer scouts always ranging ahead and returning to report the safest route to follow. The chimps aided in this endeavor from their treetop vantage points.

Surrounded by her friends, Sam found that the bad memories of what had happened last night were already beginning to fade. She and Oatmeal did not speak a word of it. But every once in a while, she found herself fingering the amulet around her neck, letting her thumb trace its eight sharp points. It was a constant weight, and pressed icy cold against her skin.

They were a little behind schedule, but they were on their way. To avoid any potential run-ins with Brimstone's men, they would be staying off the road for the majority of the return trip, but both the bandits and their mounts were very sure on their feet in the woods, and the rough terrain hardly slowed their pace at all.

The bandits did not appear to see any real need for secrecy even while moving through monster territory. They were almost constantly singing and joking and laughing, a few of them even playing flutes or stringed instruments while astride their mounts.

The noise was bound to draw the attention of something nasty sooner or later. The scouts eventually reported that a grinner pack was closing in, but nobody was very concerned at this news, and Buck himself was eagerly rubbing his hands together.

They halted to wait for the grinners to close in, the scouts all pulling back to stay inside the tight ball of people and animals. Once they showed their ugly faces, Sam made to engage them, but a man held her back, and explained that Buck would deal with it.

The Entertainer stepped forward, clanging two sabers off each other, and launched into a blur of spinning steel that flitted between the trees, difficult for her eyes to keep up with. The grinners died in quick fashion, and Buck came out of the shrubbery laughing and unharmed, his naked torso spattered with black blood that some young man was happy to wipe off for him.

Sam could see why he had a reputation as a good fighter. She didn't know if she could beat a man with that kind of speed.

Not that she was too impressed. She had seen Will move faster than that.

They moved along, leaving the butchered monster corpses where they lay. Buck commanded compliance in his people without ever giving a single order—apparently his natural charisma was enough to keep people eager to please. He impressed upon them the need for urgency, on account of 'his lady' who was waiting to be rescued. Consequently, the bandits ate in their saddles, and there were no rest breaks.

Sometime around noon Oatmeal was already stumbling and exhausted, and wore a constant glower as he swatted at bugs and muttered to himself. One of the bandit women took pity on him and raised him up to sit in front of her in the saddle, and they all seemed to find his deep blushing and stammered protests hilarious.

Already, some of Buck's followers had workshopped a song about their leader, apparently repurposed from a piece originally made by the man himself. They called it The Lord and the Lover, and sang it with obnoxious frequency until the words had stuck inside Sam's head and she found herself humming it against her will when she wasn't paying attention.

There once was a place fair and wondrous,

A fine city ruled by a good lord,

Who for legal reasons will remain anonymous.

This is the tale of that man,

Told true and without frill,

That the common folk may understand,

The many virtues of the man up the hill.

Lion-proud was the good lord's gaze,

And none his equal,

That whoever met his eyes,

His head soon would fall.

Off with his head! the good lord would shout,

Off and off and off again!

As good as dead! the headsman would reply,

Dead and dead and dead again!

But alas! upon a morrow,

From his sheets the good lord awoke,

And spied 'tween his legs a one-eyed fellow,

Squinting rudely from atop a short spoke.

Off with his head! came the good lord's shout,

Off and off and off again!

As good as dead! came the headsman's reply,

Dead and dead and dead again!

So it goes that the good lord lost his pecker,

And good riddance to the little fecker!

With fine luck the lord was blessed,

For he had himself a lovely wife,

Gold of hair and pale of breast.

High in a tower, the good lord kept her,

For safekeeping, you see,

Concealed from the gaze of any lecher.

But alas! A dastardly villain,

A tower climbed and a window broken,

Ensnared the good woman,

With a smile and a kiss and a soft word spoken.

Caught in the act,

The good lord was mighty rankled,

Brought the lover to task,

Before him beaten and shackled.

Off with his head! came the good lord's shout,

Off and off and off again!

Enough of that! came the lover's retort,

Enough! Enough! Enough I say!

The lover slipped his chains,

And went a-springing,

Stole a last kiss from the good lady's lips,

Then downhill escaped; a-laughing and a-singing.

So it goes that the good lord was thoroughly cuckolded,

And some say he rather enjoyed it!

Allegedly! the listener must understand,

Allegedly! Allegedly! Allegedly of course!

For the good lord is ever our greater,

In all his dick-less, feck-less, joy-less splendor.

Big Deal Buck protested fashionably at this heroic (and as far as Sam knew, entirely fabricated) portrayal of himself, but he was clearly nourished by the praise as a flower was nourished by sunlight, and his constant grating laughter had her cringing with annoyance.

Just four more days, she told herself. Four more days, and then he'll be Will's problem to deal with.

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