“Hold on, now. Tell me this, little bitch. And be honest. Is it even legal for someone like you to be a patrolman? Aren’t there laws about stuff like that?”
A crew of about five patrolmen came rushing to the scene. Their uniforms were neatly pressed, and their faces were hard as ice. Their weapons were readied. Half of them held firearms, the others, hatchets and machetes. The music coming from the stage stopped, the commotion too much for the band to ignore.
The angry man waved at the patrolmen.
“What? He’s one of you now? You’re on the bastard’s side? My father was a patrolman in Haid for thirty years, until he got laid off to make room for younger recruits. Did that stop him? No. He busted his ass for his family. Kept us fed and warm. For what? So his son could grow up scraping for crumbs and have some religious nut’s bastard telling him to play nice? This has nothing to do with him! It’s my personal business, citizen business, so he can get the hell away from me!”
The patrolmen held their position, whispering things to one another. They glanced at Samuel and to the patrolman standing in the center. The one who seemed to be in charge of the others had wiry hair and a bulbous nose, a rifle draped over his shoulder. Their indifferent faces betrayed them. Samuel might have been hired as a patrolman, but he wasn’t one of them. They weren’t about to intervene on his behalf, especially not when their integrity had been called into question.
“I’m a whitelander,” the drunk logger proclaimed. “Born and raised in this town. Like most of you.”
Samuel’s nerves caused his hand to tremble, but a new anger was festering. He hated being called a bastard, and he hated being called a cleric even more. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be like Zei. She was strong. He had to be strong like her or else everyone in Haid would continue to think of him as the cleric’s weak bastard. Heat rose to his face as he gradually held up the knife.
He wasn’t a cleric. He’d never been a cleric. He wouldn’t become one now.
“This is your last warning. Sir. Leave him alone.”
The man took his massive fist and shoved it into the young logger’s face. He flailed back into the booth, knocking over several buckets and knickknacks in the process. The big man turned his back and reached after the young logger’s limp body, dragging him out from the booth.
“Curse you, bastard. You’re next.”
In that moment, everything slowed for Samuel: his breathing, his body, his mind. He needed to think. He wasn’t strong enough to stop the man, and it was clear he wasn’t going to be reasoned out of his tirade. And none of the patrolmen were going to help him. He needed to get the man to stop. No matter what.
Samuel shifted his weight and narrowed his vision. He stood eight paces away, a moderate distance for throwing. He drew the knife up and behind his head, his hand remaining steady as he gripped the handle. He closed his eyes, pretending there was a carved X on the back of the attacker. His sight from the distance was a bit hazy, but he’d struck targets much farther away before. Before another thought could stop him, he launched his leg forward and threw the knife.
The blade sang as it whizzed through the air and sank deep into the man’s left thigh. He dropped to his knees and grabbed at the knife, screaming and writhing in pain. His yells were deep and loud, the sound echoing across the entire square.
“What … the … ah!”
The crowd went ghostly silent. Samuel lowered his throwing hand down by his side. He’d missed the target. His nerves must’ve still gotten the better of him. That or he’d only been practicing with the throwing knives, and the added weight of the hunting knife messed with his trajectory. Still, striking the thigh was better than somewhere that could’ve caused real damage. At least he wouldn’t have to live with that guilt.
A loud boom erupted from behind.
“Damn animals!” the sheriff’s voice slurred out as he rushed through the crowds, pulling Samuel to the side.
“I was scared.”
Samuel fiddled with the pencil before writing down the word knife. He passed the sketchbook over to Zei. Her little hand took the pencil from his fingers and she scribbled the word over and over again.
Knife. Knife. Knife.
“You probably don’t get scared. But I did. And I still did it.”
He halfheartedly cocked his arm back and pretended to launch the blade. Feeling ridiculous for making the gesture, he folded his hands together. After the sheriff had put the burly man, whose name was Liam, in cuffs and hauled him off to the doctor, he gave Samuel an earful. “I told you to not be a damn hero. I said to let my guys handle it. Did you listen? No. It’s like you enjoy being a pain in my ass!”
Samuel shrugged, knowing he had no good explanation to give. He’d never done anything that brash before.
The sheriff grunted before snorting a laugh. His anger turned to amusement.
“Still. Never thought you’d have the balls to do that. Loggers will be talking about this for a while.”
The festival had returned to its previous bustle, but Samuel felt as though everyone’s eyes were following his every move. If they hadn’t been talking about the cleric’s bastard before, they sure were now. Charles couldn’t stop ranting about how amazing it was that Samuel had thrown the knife, complaining that he hadn’t been there to witness it himself. The mayor praised Samuel’s courageous actions. Samuel had wanted to stay out of the mayor’s sight at the festival, but unfortunately the incident caught his notice. The mayor patted Samuel’s shoulders as he loudly praised his new patrolman’s courage in keeping the peace.
“A true northerner,” he declared before cuing the band to pick back up their instruments and finish their music set.
Something about the mayor’s hand on him made him uneasy. He made no mention of Zei, but he knew it was only a matter of time. And what would he say? Would he show him all of her sketches? Would he tell him that he was teaching her to read? Reason said his safest bet was to be completely open with the mayor about everything, but something about that didn’t seem right.
Knife. Knife. Knife.
Zei wrote the word more than fifty times before sketching a knife on the bottom of the page. She drew a dual-edged blade with a leather-style handle and then added some sort of dripping liquid to the edge of the blade. Blood.
Samuel smirked.
“That’s kind of gross. It wasn’t a bloody mess or anything. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, maybe when the doctor took it out.”
Zei rubbed the scarred area on her leg where the trap had ripped into her.
“That must’ve been really painful,” Samuel lamented.
Zei said nothing.
“I’m sorry about all of this. I don’t think it’s fair that you’re stuck here. I wish I could help. But I can’t. We’d both be in trouble.”
She lifted her head, cracking several bones in her neck with the motion. Her long red hair fell down her back in a wave of curls. She pulled her head back up and pressed the sketchbook and the pencil in her hand, using what was left of her left arm to help balance the materials.