Page 2 of Through the Wicked Wood

Tobacco looms heavily in the air, layering a hazy fog of smoke to the already dimly lit pub. Drawing my final card, I peek at it through squinted eyes.

Nine of Spades.

Keeping my face neutral, I eye the guards over the tips of the cards. I reel in a grimace as I glance down at the hand I’ve been dealt. The Eight and Nine of Spades in my hand are the only useful two out of the five. Dragging my eyes, I peer down to the cards face up on the ale-stained table. The Ten of Spades stares back at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. The patrons around the card table chatter, their voices lowering, as I flick the tip of my cigar into the heavy glass ashtray.

My heart races, the poor guards have no idea what’s about to hit them. Nonetheless, I spare no pity for them. Anyone who still serves King Roman after the uprising is just as much an enemy as the king himself.

Slowly, the cards I have slipped up the sleeve of my shirt slide down against my skin. Under the table, I give my arm a quick shake. Loosening the cards, they fall into my hand with perfect grace. I lay my cards face down on the table to hide my hand, concealing my smirk and pushing all my shillings toward the middle.

Distracted by my large bet, no one takes notice of the swap of cards. A Three of Hearts and Two of Diamonds for a Jack and Queen of Spades. I seamlessly slip the discarded cards back up my sleeve, thankful to have my lucky Queen with me. Glad I remembered to swipe it from Jarek before I left on this trip. The fool won’t even realize the card’s gone missing. Sure, it’s a childish game between the two of us—stealing this card from each other, hiding it, and using it to our own advantage when we play poker—but the Queen of Spades has never let me down, and today will be no different. The Jack of Spades I’d hidden there was pure luck.

With the swap, I’ve lined up a perfect straight flush.

“All in, boys,” I say as I pick up my cigar and bite down on the end. Leaning on the back two legs of my chair, I lace my fingers, placing them behind my head. My grin is wide around the cigar tucked between my teeth, as I wait for them to make their move. The guards opposite me share a glance. The smugness they wore only moments ago has faded as they contemplate their next move with one another.

I know for a fact the guards stationed in Copenspire make far less than those in Valebridge or even Davenport. Less rations. Less respect. Though, with the famines recently, I’m not sure how many rations even the bigger ports receive.

With the amount of money I’ve bet, there’s no doubt at least one of the guards here will take the bait. I tilt my head to the side, showing my impatience as I take another puff from my cheap cigar, nostrils flaring as the acrid scent fills the air. Can’t even afford decent tobacco here.

“What’ll it be, gentleman?” the dealer, who is also the bartender, who is also the local butcher, asks.

Small town.

The guards appear to weigh their options, their faces giving their tell far before their hands do. The first guard slams down his cards and grunts in apparent frustration.

“I fold,” he says. Not one to risk his fortune. I respect that. My eyes linger on the second guard. His broken nose and missing teeth tells me he has more scrap than the other. I raise my eyebrows at him, pushing him to make a decision. He hesitates, chewing the butt of his cigar, eyes drifting between his hand and the cards on the table. His ego wins this battle as he pushes his shillings toward the middle of the table, matching mine. The pile gleams under the light of the oil lamps. A few “ooohs” and “aaahs” echo around us as the patrons shift on their feet.

“Show us what ye have,” the shorter guard who folded his hand snarls. Curling his lip, he spits his loose tobacco into an empty, glass bottle. I crane my neck to either side, stretching my hands out before me, unlacing my fingers. Getting ready for what I’m sure will be a decent chase if it comes to it. Setting my cigar in the ashtray, I flip over my cards, revealing the straight flush that’s about to take his fortune.

The patrons erupt in laughter, clapping their hands wildly as if they’ve just witnessed a miracle. The guard’s face boils, reddening in embarrassment. Or anger. It’s all the same, anyhow. He balls his fists and attempts to stand, but I gesture for him to stop, pointing toward his cards with a wink. Begrudgingly, he flips them, cursing in my direction as he discards a two-pair onto the table. Not a bad hand.

But not good enough.

I tsk, casting the guard a quick smirk before I begin piling the large sum of coins into my bag. The guard makes an attempt to stop me, standing abruptly from his chair and reaching for the remainder of the coin, so I point my attention toward the dealer.

“A win is a win, is it not?” I ask. He’s a large man with a thick coarse mustache lining his upper lip. Comically unbalancing his face as a sheen of sweat beads atop his bald head. He shrugs, uncrossing his large arms to run a rag across his forehead. Permission enough. I finish pulling the coin into my bag, making sure to grab the Queen of Spades and stick it in my pocket without anyone taking notice. As the last of the coin hits my bag, the guards across from me mutter various curses, and I take a moment to revel in it.

Steal from the rich, and even more from the richer.

My father’s words echo in my mind. Granted, these guards are nowhere near rich. Bottom of the barrel so to speak. But they work for the man directly responsible for the imprisonment and murder of so many innocents. So many Enchantresses. Merely doing my civic duty by stripping their pockets. Not to mention the tax I evade on my regular routes through Copenspire and Wickersham. All in the name of fairness. Why should people in Valebridge and under Roman’s direct payroll thrive while everyone else suffers through the famines? It’s the least I can do to chip away at the corrupt king.

At least, it’s what I tell myself.

“It’s been a pleasure,” I say, spinning out of my chair to head for the door. No need to stick around for small talk, I’m already running behind. The weight of the coin on my hip pushes my feet to move faster, and it’s with my haste that I make a fatal mistake.

The Three of Hearts I swapped for the Queen slips out of my sleeve, landing upright on the sticky floor. A momentary silence plagues the pub as a dozen pairs of eyes burn into my back.

Shite.

Without a second thought, I take off through the double doors that lead outside in a sprint. The sun is blinding in comparison to the dark pub. I've forgotten it isn't dusk. Squinting against the abrasive light, I make my way through the courtyard.

“Son of bitch!” the guards yell behind me. It’s not long before they plunder through the doors of the pub after me. My feet pound through the cobblestone square, past the dwindling buildings making up the sleepy seaside town. Past the docks and the crippling white building they call a church. I veer opposite of the Holden Sea, away from the path that will lead me home and straight for the Southern Trinity Forest.

Surely, they’d be ridiculous to follow me there. The myths alone deter most anyone. Wolves and nymphs. Sprites and murderous crows. Most who enter, rarely are seen again. But still, I take my chances. The forest has been a home to me for all my life. I’m more comfortable among the trees than I’ve ever been in a proper town.

Cobbled thuds turn to soft pads as my boots hit dirt. The breeze carries a faint whiff of freshly ripened blackberries as I step into the wooded forest. I keep my pace, but the familiar clopping of horse hooves makes my stomach dip. I risk a glance over my shoulder. The two idiots I’ve conned out of fifty shillings ride feverishly toward the woods. The grizzly snarling across their chests only fuels my fire. The royal crest. Sliding over a fallen log, I instinctively reach for my bow. Only to remember, it isn’t there.

Damn repairs. Maybe the guards aren’t the only idiots today. A smile tugs at my mouth, replaying their faces as I stole their shillings. Adrenaline courses through my veins, the thrill of the chase propelling my every step. It’s been too long, I tell myself. Pushing away my mother’s voice telling me I’m too old for this.

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