Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1), стр. 27

It takes longer than I expect to wrangle Gem into a dirt-brown tunic, with her squirming and complaining about the fabric itching the entire time. Once she’s dressed and I begin to put my own new clothes on, I start to understand her plight. I’m not sure I’ve ever worn anything so coarse before.

When the shopkeeper returns with the rupees and a pouch, I accept it with a gracious bow and shuffle Gem back onto the street.

The crowd that was once there has mostly subsided, moving on to the next spectacle just down the path—a man walking across hot coals—and allowing us to walk freely among the people without detection as royalty. It’s liberating, in a way to be seen as normal. I’ve spent my entire life under the scrutiny of others, never amounting to the prince I was expected to be, but here, among the people, I feel, oddly, like I belong.

If I’m being entirely honest though, it’s also slightly disappointing how easily I can go from being the future king, noticed by everyone, to just another commoner walking the streets. I guess I’ll have to get used to it though.

Caw!

The guttural cry of a crow locks my knees mid-step, causing me to trip into someone in front of me. I apologize, or at least I try to, the words jumbling together as I search fretfully for the source of the sound. Finally, after looking atop every rooftop and shop sign, I spy the black creature on a barrel, almost within arm’s reach.

Gem sees it too, her bottom lip quivering. I pull her behind me and search the street frantically for the Reaper.

There’s no sign of her though. Only the bird. I guess it’s possible—although doubtful—that it isn’t her crow. Maybe it’s not even a crow at all, but some regular black bird that my non-bird-eye is mistaking for a crow.

For once, my optimistic hope isn’t worth the risk.

I yank Gem into a nearby building, one I recognize from my previous visits to Ngal. Upon our abrupt and lurching entrance, people shift their focus on us. My cheeks redden at the attention, but I try ignoring it, pushing through the populated tavern with my head down, taking Gem to a door at the back.

A large hand comes down on my shoulder, and the barkeep stops me in my tracks. “Can I help you, kid?”

I peek past him, the door almost within my grasp. “No. No help needed here. I was just…coming to ask you for an ale.”

He eyes me from head to toe. “Don’t look like much of a drinker, and that one there,” he says, nodding at Gem, “shouldn’t be in here.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake,” I say, turning away from him. I take a step back in the direction we came, feeling him resuming his duties behind me.

When the crow caws again, I look down at Gem, apologizing for what’s about to be a bumpy, possibly dangerous ride, before twisting back around and rushing for the door.

“Hey!” the man yells. “This ain’t the place for—”

Bursting through the back door, Gem and I find ourselves staggering at the edge of the woods surrounding the town. Our options are limited: go through the woods or try to go back into town for our horse.

We don’t have time to go back for our horse though, not if that crow really belongs to the Reaper. In fact, we don’t have time to sit here thinking about the time we don’t have.

I squeeze Gem’s hand and run.

White-barked trunks blur past us. Neither Gem nor I are sure-footed, but we manage to stay upright as we flee, dodging roots, tree trunks, and low-hanging branches. Or at least trying to. Once or twice I run face-first into a low-hanging branch, or worse, a spiderweb. I try not to think about the hideous creature that is most certainly somewhere in my hair and keep pushing forward.

When Gem’s legs tire, I heave her into my arms, feeling the light weight of her like a boulder atop my own legs. My lungs ache, my legs burn, but I can’t stop. Stopping means the Reaper will catch us. Stopping means with one touch, Gem will die.

It is the only thought I need to keep me going.

Just then, an arrow whizzes past my head, a rapid stream of air following, as the bolt plants itself into a nearby tree with a thud. Since it came from the direction we are heading, I stop running, thinking to myself that running at full speed toward something with a bow and arrow might not actually be a smart idea.

As we stand there in the clearing though, I feel like a clueless rabbit being stalked by a leopard while a pack of wolves closes in from the front. My heart is pounding so hard that I think I can taste blood.

“Fine afternoon for a jog,” a voice like a bear’s rumbles from the woods.

As if having conflict with one stranger in the woods wasn’t bad enough, five additional menacing characters step into view alongside the first, each dressed in leathers and furs, covered head-to-toe in dirt. No introduction is needed, as I recognize them immediately. Woodland bandits.

I’ve heard stories about bandits during some of my meetings with Father. They prey on travelers journeying through the woods to steal their belongings and valuables. But from the stories I’ve heard, they usually ambush roads where there is likely to be a lot of traffic, not people in the middle of the forest.

They surround us almost entirely, leaving only the direct path back to Ngal unblocked.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” another man says with a smile. He’s missing a tooth, so he whistles on the word such. But that is the least surprising detail about him. Outlining his right eye, nose, and half of his cheek, his face is covered with a tan splash of skin. Considering such deformities are generally dealt with at birth, I’m surprised that someone with