Galen stared down at the strangers on the doorstep, the beginnings of panic fluttering at the base of his ribs. What did they want with him? How had they found him so quickly?
One glanced up, and Galen backed away from the window, his heart in his mouth. Had they seen him?
He heard voices from below: Harrald's, rising on a question, and an indistinct reply. Fear seized him, and one thought overrode all others: he had to get away.
Cracking the door of his room, he paused. The voices were clearer now, and he imagined Harrald must be standing in the open door, blocking the entrance as he confronted the unexpected visitors. He still couldn't make out words, but the tone was tense.
He slipped out into the hall and down towards the opposite end, away from the stairs. Harrald's room had a window facing the back, above the overhanging roof of the kitchen. From there, it was only a drop of ten feet to the ground. He climbed through the window, moved down to the roof's edge, and peered cautiously over the side.
It was clear.
Dangling his legs, he pushed himself off and landed in a crouch, the impact stinging the bottoms of his feet. Then he straightened and edged along the side of the house, past Harrald's forge, and towards the kitchen garden, where he grew a few herbs and vegetables. There was a small gate in the wall on that side, connecting to a narrow path between the neighboring houses, which led out to another street.
He paused at the corner, his back against the side of the house, and peered around it. He could see a portion of the street out front, but no sign of the strangers. Perhaps Harrald had let them inside.
Taking a breath and keeping in a low crouch, he scurried quickly through the patchy garden beds to the gate, slid back the latch, and winced as its rusty hinges creaked. He opened it just enough to slip through and shut it after him carefully.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd done it; now he just had to figure out what to do next. Behn's house, he thought—Behn's father had a huge basement for brewing ale, and he could hide there until the coast was clear.
Thus resolved, he turned and bumped into someone's chest.
With a cry of fright and surprise, he stumbled back and fell in the dusty path. The stranger looked down at him, head tilted to the side and brows raised inquiringly.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
-✵-
The stranger kept a firm hold on Galen's arm as he led him back inside. He didn't bother to struggle. A few weeks of training with Triss had done him no good when the stranger drew his long, thin sword and pointed the tip at Galen's chest, and the strength in the hand that gripped him was many times his own.
Harrald sat in his usual chair, and one of the stranger's companions sat in its match. Another stood by the door, guarding it.
The stranger gave a sharp whistle, and the final pair appeared—one descending from the second floor, and the other climbing the steps from the cellar.
"Got him," the stranger said.
"Good work, Sev." The woman coming down the stairs nodded approvingly. She was pretty, Galen thought, but she also had a sharp, military aspect, and her voice carried cold, no-nonsense authority. "Your instincts are sound, as usual."
"Galen!" Harrald got to his feet as they entered and took a step forward. One of the other strangers blocked his way.
The man holding him raised his free hand. "Peace. He's unharmed."
YOU ARE READING
Healer of Sakkara
Fantasy17-year-old Galen lives with his adoptive father in a small province called Thryn. He doesn't look like the other people there, and the only clue he has to his true origins is a silver pendant that belonged to his mother. One day, while gathering h...
