Samuel pressed his face against the window, peering harder. In the left corner, a human-sized shape was hunched near the glowing fire. It was hard to be completely sure, but the figure seemed to be dressed in nothing but black.
Samuel held his gloved hands against the window, and when he tugged up, the glass moved with his palms. Everything inside became clearer. He scanned the room hastily, and thankfully found that the figure in black was his father sleeping in the left corner, his head drooped against the wall. His arms and legs were bound with rope, and his face and beard were caked with dried blood. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, and the sleeves of his shirt appeared to have been ripped off, the ragged edges crooked and torn.
Samuel tightened the straps of his backpack. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose before lifting himself through the open window. He slowly writhed his way inside, his backpack gently scraping across the top frame. Samuel got low, eased out his hunting knife, and crept to his father. He tapped his shoulder softly.
His father stirred, his eyelids fluttering. Samuel grabbed his father’s bound wrists, aligning the blade over the strands. He’d made it this far, and his risky plan seemed to be paying off. His courage grew. He was going to sneak his father out of the shop, and they’d be a few miles deep in the woods before anyone noticed he’d gone missing. They’d keep moving, not stopping until they’d crossed over into the greenlands. They could start new lives down south, perhaps in a smaller town where the riots weren’t as prevalent. Or maybe only he would start a new life. Samuel had learned enough to be a butcher, and he wasn’t opposed to becoming a farmer or some unskilled laborer. Anything but a patrolman. He couldn’t imagine his father willingly choosing any other profession than the clergy. Maybe they would separate as soon as they made it to safety, never to cross paths again. His father would more than likely want to go and plead sanctuary with a sympathizing cleric. Perhaps their destinies were always meant to be apart, but at least that one didn’t involve death.
His father groaned as he woke. He stared at Samuel, the confusion visible on his face. Samuel sliced into the ropes binding his father. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”
“You’re not very good at stealth, are you?”
The hairs on Samuel’s body jolted up. He tightened his hold on the knife’s handle, drawing it away from the nearly broken strands. He turned to face the voice behind him.
The redlands foreigner was tucked near the back-right corner of the room. He had his right hand pressed against his cheek. He nearly looked humored, his dark eyes gazing like a spectator. “To your credit, you did manage to slip past the guards outside.”
Samuel rose to his feet, the knife level by his side.
“No,” his father uttered, his large body shuffling. His voice was deep and choked.
The foreigner arched his shoulder back. Hatchets and knives dangled from the wall behind him, their handles fastened with strings and kept in place by nails. The light from the furnace flickered, forcing the shadows in the room to dance.
“I’ve been bored since I’ve arrived. The people in this state are too stiff. Too dull. Too cold.” He nodded to Samuel. “But I like you. You have spirit. Aren’t you the lad from the train station? I do suggest you put that weapon down. Else you’re going to have to kill me.”
“No,” his father said again, fighting to get himself up on his knees. “Samuel.”
Samuel gripped the knife harder. His father was too weak to be of any help, and it was up to him to make a decision. He wasn’t strong, but he was quick. He’d learned that much. His jaw twinged as he pressed the knife’s side across his thigh, hoping to force his hand to remain steady. He’d come this far, and there was no turning back. He had one shot, and it had to be perfect. He whipped the knife behind his back and flung it forward, aiming it at the foreigner’s heart.
The foreigner, as if expecting the blade all along, dropped low and spun to the side, dodging the knife as it whizzed by him and stuck into the wall. Samuel lost his breath for a moment, unable to recover from the shock. His aim had been perfect. He’d felt it in the release. He couldn’t think about it. He had to move. He rushed his hands inside his pockets, fumbling for the other throwing knives he still had.
The foreigner darted across the room and pounced on Samuel, knocking him onto his back. The air left his lungs with a violent thud.
Samuel couldn’t see his father, but he could hear him trying to scuffle to his feet. The foreigner remained steady, his knee pressed onto Samuel’s sternum. He reached out and shoved his father back hard. His father fell with a thud, his bound ankles crippling him from having any sort of balance. The foreigner snaked his hand underneath Samuel’s back and flipped him over. Samuel’s face smacked into the dirt, his glasses plunging hard into his nose. The foreigner worked Samuel’s arms back into his backpack, turning his wrists up in the same way the patrolmen had done before.
“Intruders!”
Samuel forced his neck to turn. One of his lenses had cracked. A jagged line squiggled across the center of the left lens, splitting Samuel’s view from that eye into two parts. The doors to the shed swung open, and in rushed four patrolmen. Two of them darted over to Samuel’s father, ramming him harder into the wall. One of them punched him in the jaw, forcing his head to ricochet.
“No!” Samuel cried.
“Get more rope,” the foreigner ordered as he rummaged through Samuel’s pockets. He took out the knives, tossing them away. “By the anvil. Move.”
One of the patrolmen went to get the rope, but the other stayed close by, hovering over Samuel. He looked up and was able to make out the man’s face. Jax left his mouth open, exposing his crooked teeth. He bent down, glaring at him with wide eyes.
“You have some balls,” he said stiffly. “I was there that day in the woods. I heard what you told that logger. You said you weren’t a cleric. But here you are. With him.”
Jax spat on Samuel’s cheek. Samuel cringed as foreign saliva dripped near his lips. He grunted and writhed his body as he felt rope being tied around his wrists.
“We knew better than the sheriff and the mayor. We knew we couldn’t trust you.”
The furnace burned steadily, the heat causing Samuel’s body to sweat underneath his coat. It might have been snowing outside, but it mattered little in the confines of the blacksmith’s shop. The foreigner sat with crossed legs near the furnace, unfazed by the excessive warmth. He twirled one of Samuel’s throwing knives around his fingers jovially, his motions fluid and natural. Patrolmen stood guard outside of the shop’s doors, and Jax had elected to stay inside. He fondled the blacksmith’s tools, grabbing a pair of tongs and snapping them open and closed.
Samuel sat beside his father, his legs and wrists bound tightly together. For so long he’d been the spectator of the captive, but now he was the one trapped. His father’s broad shoulders touched his left side.
“You shouldn’t have come,” his father said. He sounded so weak.