The large man, Beleg, waved his hand back at his companions. “We cannot turn our back on a child in need. Look at him! He seems lost and alone. We cannot, in good conscience, leave him here.”
“It seems,” one of the other riders said in a soft, raspy voice, “that Master Cuthalion has adopted himself a pet. Let us save ourselves the ensuing discussion and move directly to the end result. Put the boy on a spare horse and let us go.” The speaker was clothed in dark grey and wore an assortment of pouches and knick-knacks strapped across his body. He, too, wore a hooded cloak pulled low over his face.
Now that Kre was giving them a second, more thorough look, he noticed that all four of the riders were hooded, hiding most of their facial features, which didn’t give him an easy feeling that he was among law abiding citizens. The assortment of weapons close at hand made him wonder if they were Rangers out hunting for fugitives.
A young boy that Kre hadn’t noticed leaned forward from behind the others and piped in, “Kersath is right, we all know Beleg won’t leave someone out here all alone.” He looked oddly out of place among the motley crew, yet they all seemed to take his comments in stride, as if he were one of them.
The tall rider, the one concerned about the patience of some guy named Ortho, slowly lifted his hands upwards and raised his head to look up at the sky, “God does ask that we help those in need.”
The big man sighed, “Please do not disparage my beliefs like that Dain.”
“You know I jest Beleg,” the man responded with a wry smile. “Even the devout must laugh every now and again.”
The big man simply shook his head and made a sign with his hands. The gesture was unfamiliar to Kre, though the boy had to admit to himself that he knew very little about actual religion. “Are you a priest then?” he asked the large man. “I didn’t know Rangers traveled with the clergy.” He still wasn’t sure if they were Rangers, but he figured it didn’t hurt to test the waters a bit. If they were Rangers, they might be impressed that he figured it out on his own, enough so that they might not see him as a fugitive but rather more as a colleague.
The assembled gang was silent for a heartbeat or two before they broke out into loud gales of hearty laughter. Even the child that rode with them was doubled over in his saddle, tears in his young eyes.
“I cannot…” the tall man they called Dain said between breaths, “I cannot tell which is funnier… us Rangers… or Beleg a priest!”
That kicked off a new round of guffaws from everyone but the large man they named Beleg. His face grew serious, and his lips curled down into a frown. “What’s funny about me being a priest?”
Yet another round of laughter echoed through the trees. When the mirth finally died down, the raspy voiced man clucked his tongue and walked his horse forward until he could look down at Kre. “Young man,” he said in a tone just above a whisper, “we are far from Ranger material.” With his gloved hands, he pulled his hood back to reveal his face.
What Kre mistook initially as the hood casting a shadow over his features was in fact his naturally dark skin, a deep grey that was nearly dark enough to be called jet black. More striking were his ears, long and pointed, with no hair on his bald head to hide their Ylveryan distinctiveness.
“Nice job Kersath,” one of the others in the back muttered, “now he knows our secret.”