Draka was worried that Vigora would feel his shaking. He clenched the reins until his knuckles were sharp points and pressed his hand into the saddle. His thighs squeezed her sides. His heart pumped adrenaline that added to his uncontrollable shaking. The breeze swatted the cool of the early spring air from his face and washed the taste of fresh leaves from his mouth, replacing it with the grainy texture of sand he knew wasn’t there. His vision narrowed through a dark shadow as glaring eyes rose to him. Where was his sword? His shield? He felt naked. Vulnerable.

  Vigora side-stepped toward a cart of grain, likely from the last of the winter reserve judging by the darkened bits mixed with the browned. Draka gave her bitless reins a tug. He instantly regretted giving them such a hard jerk. He was tense. The eyes fixed on him were gleaming red and hollow as a cat’s in moonlight then returned to their actual colors. Greens, browns, a couple blue eyes. He blinked it away as Vigora veered past the cart with a huffing glance. Her ears tucked back. He was going to pay for that later.

  Demon eyes flowed toward him with hatred. Leathery wings flashed in his vision. No, he shook himself, This isn’t Heblem. The siege was over. That city was lost. These are merely people. Simple villagers living simple lives which he was disrupting by being there.

  The village road slipped narrowly between houses and buildings that were connected by shabby roofs of thin thatching. A few walkways were on the roofs between second floor balconies with no outside stairs to access them and high wooden walls with slits that were perfect for archers. Linens were draped over rails and opened windows. Hand carts lined either side between the few vendor stands; one with fish on the table and rodents hanging from hooks, another with hanging herbs. The early season for planting, maybe an early harvest, perhaps? Draka had no idea. A blacksmith hammer beat a familiar rhythm from one of the buildings. The smell of cedar and charcoal struck him with another taste of the sand. He swallowed it down. I’m here, not there, he tucked his lower lip.

  There were no hanging signs. No painted windows or anything whatsoever that indicated a general store or trader. He began considering a turn back. None of the villagers, few as they were in comparison to the crowded streets of the grand cities in the Holy Lands, moved. They were straight backed, glaring. Fists twisted on broom handles. He peered through windows in search of a trader for his furs cushioning his lower back. Table and bed, hearths beyond them, a few with small children playing with wood toys and stuffed dolls. And more glaring eyes, this time from the first men he had seen since entering the village, standing in a line at the window of what he recognized as a tavern. Bearded faces ready to kill. Why, Lord, would he leave his sword?

  An open door beckoned him with furs draped on hooks surrounding a long bearded plump man tapping notches into leather. He slid off the saddle and rubbed Vigora’s side. He untied the stack of furs from the saddle as she turned to something behind him. The grain. Draka shook his head at her and tapped her nose to catch her attention. He held up a finger of warning. Her ears turned outward. He glowered with a tilt of his head.

  She huffed and turned away. He hefted the stack to his shoulder and went inside the unmarked store, clenching the side of his trousers with his free hand to hide his shaking. A warm, welcoming smile spread in hopes of calming the look of disgust on the bearded man.

  The man said nothing and never changed his expression as Draka set the stack of furs on the counter. He knew his skills in fleshing and turning. He prided himself in smoothing the inner skins until they were perfect for seaming and coat lining. He kept the fur itself as soft as they had been before he removed them from the meat. The value in a place like this was likely beyond compare. The man raised an unimpressed brow.

  Draka’s brows crinkled at him. Brown bear pelt, black bear pelt, and a golden lion pelt. How could he be so apathetic as a fur trader and tanner? These were the best he could likely find in a hundred miles, maybe a thousand. He should recognize this if he is worth his weight in salt.

  “Pretty,” the man’s tone said otherwise.

  Draka bowed his head and motioned with open hands toward him. Then, he raised his chin and rubbed his thumb to his fingers to signal trade. The man rolled his eyes.

  “And you are?” the man sighed.

  Draka shifted his eyes to the hanging furs to think of how to say it without saying it. He motioned that he could write to the man, whose shrug was dismissive. Draka thinned his lips with a bite on the lower one. This was not going the way he had imagined.

  “Can’t read.” Such a flat tone. God must be testing him.

  He put a hand to his chest and bowed amicably. Another dismissive shrug. He pointed at the furs and motioned for trade, this time with slight urgency.

  The man shook his head with an eye roll and grabbed the brown pelt from the top. Draka saw the swallow through the man’s fa?ade of indifference. He knew what he was looking at. Draka narrowed his eyes expectantly as the man slid his thumb across the inner skin and shoved it aside. Like it was worthless!

  “I’ll give you three. One each.”

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  Draka blinked in surprise. Three platinum was a much better price than he expected. At least the trader knew his skill’s worth. Then he set three copper pieces on the counter with a slap that made them bounce.

  Copper? Draka tightened his jaw. He shook his head and motioned for more.

  “Take it or go elsewhere,” the man challenged. “Though you won’t find better.”

  He motioned again. The man let out a dismissive chuckle and shoved the furs off of the counter onto the floor with a puff of dust from the mud tracks.

  Draka widened his eyes and dropped his mouth open at the audacity.

  The man swiped the copper pieces back into his hand. “Welcome to Talkro. Now, get out.”

  God was testing him. He scooped the furs under his arm, fuming. If he stayed too long, he would have to confess to murder. He rushed out the door back to Vigora, who was taking short, sliding steps toward the grain cart. The village women had given a wide berth to the seven men standing as a barricade across the road. Two of them were closer to Vigora than he felt comfortable with.

  He whistled for her. She cantered to him, oblivious as ever. With a haphazard, hurried wrap of the twine around the furs, Draka turned away from them. He tied the bundle to his saddle and turned to face the seven. His eyes blazed at them. One tapped a hammer expectantly on the side of his leg. Another cracked his knuckles.

  Vigora’s ears slicked back and she lowered her head. Her eyes were as narrow and fiery as his own. She scraped a hoof.

  The seven were undeterred. They stood their ground. Seven bearded, long-haired men ready for a fight if ever he had seen it. Two were tall, lanky, with long arms. Another was slightly shorter, broad shouldered and barrel chested, filled with muscles that bulged his shirt. Two were Draka’s height with similarly long arms and bulging muscles. The one with the hammer was a little smaller, but also barrel chested and strong. Knuckle cracker, a redhead, was younger than the former, but had the crook of a nose that had been broken more than two or three times. That one was a brawler. The last, the second redhead and older than the other, was the only one with an expression of curiosity rather than threat.

  Draka mimicked the trader’s apathetic shrug at them. They were sizing him as well. But he wasn’t intimidating in stature. He wasn’t bulging with muscles, his strength was deceptively hidden in strong bones and thinness. They would underestimate him like everyone else he had faced. He saw their confidence as clearly as their intentions.

  He only lowered eyes, shook his head, and leapt into the saddle, signaling Vigora to turn toward them. A slap of the reins and lifting of his knees, Vigora charged at full sprint. The men’s eyes shot wide and they braced for her charge. She leapt high, clearing their heads by several feet even if they hadn’t dropped to their knees in that instant. A trail of dust followed behind them as she sprinted down the road back to the house.

  The light-haired woman was carrying a basket over her head across the road at the last house before his own.

  Oh no! Draka thought with a wince. There was no stopping Vigora at this speed without throwing him from the saddle and getting her to veer off would do the same.

  Draka leaned into Vigora’s whipping mane. The woman whipped around with a squeal and threw the basket as she dropped to the ground. Vigora flew over her with another overly high leap that arched a cloud with her. He tucked his heels back with a squeeze of his knees and straightened in the saddle, signaling for Vigora to slow to a halt so he could see that the woman was alright.

  The woman only looked up, her face still full of terror as she reached for the basket and the jars that had scattered from it. Vigora twisted and stomped. She would charge and attack but was jerkily circling in place in defiant expectation. Draka would never do such a thing, attack a helpless woman, and she knew it. He waited for the woman to stand.

  The woman brushed her skirt of dust and stood upright with a glare of pale blue eyes. Then she threw up a pinky and roared, “Cockbiting ass!”

  She was fine. Draka turned Vigora and lifted his knees for her to continue her sprint home. He felt the same. How could he be so na?ve? So foolishly hopeful? For the hundredth time in his life, the world beyond his forested homeland left him confused, distraught, and downtrodden.

  In a rage, Draka leapt from the saddle in front of his door. He broke the rope fastening the furs to the saddle with a hard tug and stomped inside. He threw the furs into a heap beside the other stack and kicked at it. He bared his teeth and made like he was going to scream his anger out without making a sound. His chest tightened. His arms and legs were tight with adrenaline driven pressure. He flipped his bed. His mouth was dry with the memory of the east filling it with the grainy taste of the sand. He threw his table into the hearth with a spray of splintered wood. An upward swing and shelves on the wall tipped and dropped to the floor in shambles. His fist hit the wall with a resounding crack.

  How he was able to hold in the yelp, even he couldn’t say. But he did. His knees gave out from beneath him to the jolt of pain shooting up his arm from his smashed knuckles. The frustration bottled inside him intensified despite the agony. He slid his legs from under him to plop himself on the floor and cradled his hand in hopes of easing the hurt. Inside and out. He kicked the bricks of the hearth and fell back as his ankle twisted painfully from the impact.

  He let out a long breath. He needed to pray, needed to confess the one sin he asked forgiveness for more than any other: wrath.

  May God forgive him his anger and the villagers their hate.

  And give him the strength to do the same.