(207) Darkness – 12

It’s an odd thing to be slapped by an apparition in an illusionary world.  The sharp sting and burning sensation on the cheek is felt before the action takes place visually.  As such, there was no way for Kre to anticipate the strike, even if he believed he could somehow dodge or deflect it. 

“This is my son,” the priest growled, holding the stone cupped in his hand lovingly.  “Do you understand?”

Once, a few years ago, a Ranger patrol had stopped in Mintas to procure supplies.  With them was a trio of prisoners, two young men and an older one, all looking quite unkempt and wild as if they had been living off the land for quite some time.  Despite their obvious criminal status, all three were suitably subdued and quiet, not what you might expect out of most prisoners.  An older, wiser Kre, one that has seen the darker side of the Rangers, now realized that the prisoners were likely psychologically broken… subdued out of fear.  Fear of causing the Rangers any problems that their captors might solve easily through violence. 

It was a rare day that Cooter came to town, but that afternoon he did so to pick up a few supplies of his own.  The older prisoner seemed to come alive at the sight of Cooter coming out of the general store, where one of the Rangers had just gone in, leaving his two other colleagues with the three prisoners. 

The prisoner’s eyes lit up and he cackled gleefully, sending shivers down the spines of the townsfolk assembled to watch the strangely curious spectacle of Rangers at work.  Almost immediately, he clapped a manacled hand over his mouth and looked about himself suspiciously, as if he had let slip a secret and was watching to see if anyone caught him at it.

Cooter looked up at the laugh, but Kre could not recall if there was any change in his expression, anything to indicate that he knew the prisoner at all.  “Afternoon Rangers,” he muttered politely, his voice gruff and gravelly.  One of the Rangers nodded in Cooter’s direction while the other was watching the prisoners carefully, tapping his long, yellowy fingernails on the handle of a short black club attached to his belt, as if reminding the prisoners what would happen if they had another outburst.

As Cooter continued past, the older of the three prisoners lunged out from the lineup and dropped to his knees in front of him, grabbing his pant legs with dirty hands and muttering some odd bits of nonsense phrases.

“Foxes in the roost… quail hunts abound… opals and pearls… shattered…”

If the man had intended to say anything that made sense, it was lost after the dull thwack of the Ranger’s club against the back of his head.  Cooter dropped his parcel and grabbed the prisoner. 

“No touching!” the Ranger yelled, lifting his club high in the air.  It wasn’t clear who he intended to strike with it, but the other Ranger intervened.  “That’s enough Strider Beck,” he said calmly.  He indicated the crowd of assembled villagers with his eyes and the club-wielding Ranger nodded, lowering his arm. 

“Did not mean to scare you there, villager,” he said by way of apology to Cooter, his tone shifting immediately to one seemingly more cheerful and friendly.  “Just that this one has been nothing but trouble for the longest time.  Trackin’ that man weren’t no easy run, and he fought like a cornered badger too.”

Cooter nodded as he gently laid the man to the ground.  “He won’t be any more trouble for you Ranger,” he said softly, his deep voice carrying across the oddly quiet street to Kre’s ears.  “That blow to his head…” he shook his head.  Even as young as he was, Kre knew the still silence of death in the air.  Living in the frontier tended to have that effect on folks.

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