Page 39 of The Unencumbered Warrior
She nodded, offering a faint smile. He squeezed her hand once and slipped into the flow of the market.
Ingrid stood still for a moment, watching him disappear into the crowd. Then she turned to her blankets, arranging them again though they didn’t need it, but she had to do something, anything, to keep her mind from dwelling on how their lives were about to change forever.
Raff moved swiftlythrough the market, his every step sharpened by unease. The air stank of smoke and wet wool, and conversations, those that weren’t hushed, held a clipped, uneasy tone. He kept one hand near the hilt of his blade, not because he expected a fight, but because he no longer trusted what this place might become.
He passed by a stall selling root vegetables, the merchant barely looking up. Another selling dried meat barked a price without being asked. But it was the cluster of men near the ironmonger’s tent that stopped him in his tracks.
Six of them, maybe more—cloaked, armed, and not trying to blend in. Raff recognized the look of them. They were hardened mercenaries, the kind who didn’t care about coin as much as the excuse to spill blood. Two wore the markings of a northern clan, the others bore no sign but carried themselves like men paid to hunt.
One of them glanced his way and nudged another. They said nothing, but the stare lingered too long.
Raff moved on.
He bartered for salt, for food preserving, root vegetables to fatten the supply they already had, and honey to sweeten some foods and some meant to use on wounds. He kept his eyes moving, watchful. More warriors walked the market than he could count, most pretending to shop, their eyes always drifting to faces in the crowd. Searching. Hunting.
This was no longer a market, Raff thought grimly. It was a net being drawn tight.
He turned down a narrower path of stalls, the noise fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hammer on iron. Behind the blacksmith’s forge, he found the trader who dealt in winter tools—snow shovels, axes, dried pitch. He made his purchases quickly, his gaze drawn to a young lad standing nearby, pointing out names in a ledger for a broad-shouldered warrior who wore a silver clasp that mercenaries from the north wore.
Raff didn’t like what it meant, but he couldn’t ignore it. The lad had probably been promised good coin to point out people at market to match the names. A list of possible witches.
His grip tightened on the sack in his hand. This wasn’t just about fear anymore. This was a witch hunt craze building by the day.
He turned back toward the main square, faster now. He had seen enough. The market wasn’t safe. Not for Ingrid. Not foranyone like her. And the longer they stayed, the more likely they’d be caught in a snare that was already closing.
Ingrid triedto keep her focus on her stall, arranging and rearranging the wool blankets as customers passed. Many stopped to admire her work and purchase blankets for the winter. Talk was lively but guarded. The unease was obvious. It could be felt and seen, fear as well. Everyone avoided eye contact with the many warriors or mercenaries walking through the market, fearful they would be claimed a witch and dragged away.
Kate, an older woman who lived alone and sold her potions to ease various annoyances; tooth pain, churning stomach, hair loss, and more, hurried over to her.
“I was warned they wait for me at home. I cannot go back. I need to go to my sister, far from here,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “I have nothing to barter, but you have always been kind, Ingrid, and I need a blanket to keep me warm on my journey. I have no right to ask?—”
“This is a perfect one for you,” Ingrid said with a smile and handed it to her as if she was purchasing it. “I have something else you can use as well.” She went to the cart and returned with a small sack. “Just what you need. Safe journey home.”
Kate looked in the sack. A tear rolled down her cheek, seeing food. “Bless you, Ingrid.” She took hold of her hand, the one with the fused fingers and whispered, “You should leave. You are marked. They will come for you.”
“Go,” Ingrid urged seeing warriors headed their way and Kate quickly vanished into the crowd.
Two older men whispered behind their hands, staring her way. She smiled and they turned away.
Then children came eager to run their fingers across the soft wool, not yet aware of the madness that was taking root. New mothers purchased blankets for their bairns, and the elderly bought blankets to keep the winter cold off them.
Her hand rested on the edge of one of the two blankets left. She hoped—perhaps foolishly—that the witch craze hadn’t reached the market and that there were people who would stand firm for those they knew, family and friends. Now feeling the fear spreading, she wasn’t so sure.
A shiver crept through her, and not from the cold.
“Ingrid.”
She turned, startled. Raff was at her side, his face grim, his tone urgent.
“We leave. Now.”
Her eyes widened. “What?—”
“Too many mercenaries. Too many warriors who aren’t buying a thing but watching everything. I saw a lad pointing to a page on a ledger a mercenary held and then pointing to people linking the names to the faces. Grab what’s left of your blankets.” He hurried to the cart to deposit his purchases and ready the horse.
Ingrid reached to grab the last two blankets when the jovial woman selling herbs was suddenly in front of her.
“Will you take a pouch of my finest herb mixture for one of those lovely blankets,” she asked with a smile, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “It will keep you safe. Hide who you are.”
