Chapter 14
Prairie Fire
Morning wind slipped in through the valley mouth, still carrying the night's chill.
By the water jar in the yard, Nova bent over the last waterskin, tying it tight to the side of his pack. He had polished the flask until it gleamed, a smeared reflection of his eye staring back. Nova looked up—a thin strip of pale light was just showing on the horizon.
Under the eaves, Eren worked his shoulders and checked that the straps would not pull at the thin shoot line under the skin of his left eye. It was nothing like the wildness of its first days, but every so often it still jumped beneath the skin and set his nerves on edge.
He had found an old belt at home, cut off a half-length, punched holes, and wound it around his left arm—not tight enough to cut circulation, but enough to hold the shoot down a little.
"Water for three days." Nova straightened, brushing dust from his hands.
"If we catch a caravan on the road, maybe we can ride part of the way."
"Food's fine for five, counting Auntie Li's hardtack."
Auntie Li came out with a basket of washed wild greens and caught the last line. She shot him a look. "Times aren't safe. You two, big and small, running that far."
Footsteps outside the gate. The child who had gotten lost days before stood there with his grandparents, a small bundle in his arms, peering into the yard.
The grandmother took half a step in. "We heard you're leaving. We came to see you off."
The boy spotted Nova, then Eren. He had been holding it in a long while before it burst out: "Didn't you say you wouldn't take kids who don't know their way home?"
His grandmother swatted him from behind. "Mind your manners with Uncle Eren."
Eren hitched the pack strap higher and glanced at Nova, who was bent over checking the waterskin knots.
Eren smiled. "That's right. But he knows his way home now."
Then Nova looked up at Eren, tilted his head, and said nothing.
The grandfather took the bundle from the boy and held it out. "A little food—not much. For the road."
Eren took it, tucked it into a side pocket, and nodded to the old couple. "Thank you."
"Auntie Li." He turned to her. "While we're gone these few days, the plot's on you."
"Don't worry." She tapped his forehead—not hard. "You better come back and tell me what the west looks like."
Eren had heard bits and pieces about the revolutionaries out west—factions piled on factions, water running deep. They were not planning to plunge straight in. First they would swing by a nearby town and ask around. Safest call they could make.
"We'll look first." Eren shouldered the pack.
Auntie Li waved them off. "Go on. Early out, early back."
They adjusted their packs, nodded to everyone, and set out west.
Dust from the road hung in a thin haze under the sun. Eren's boot tops were already the color of dry earth.
They had walked half a day when wheels grinding over stone came up behind them, low voices urging animals on. A caravan heading west—common enough on this road.
Eren and Nova stopped. When the wagons caught up, they stepped forward. Bound for a town in the west—they wanted to travel with the line awhile, company on the road. The lead man looked them over and nodded. They could walk in the middle of the line.
There were not many wagons—three big flatbeds, with pack-walkers and small peddlers strung before and behind. Eren and Nova kept pace beside a wagon half loaded with cloth and dried goods. The driver was a middle-aged man, face burned dark by the sun; when he grinned you saw a few yellowed teeth.
After a while he flicked the reins and jerked his chin at Eren. "You two heading west?"
"Yeah. Someone to find." Eren kept it flat.
"Got a place to stay?"
Nova cut in. "Not yet. Heard there's plenty of towns that way."
"Closest place is Foothill Town—sits right against the old mine." The driver tossed it off. "Crowded. Easier to ask around if you're looking for someone."
"People still digging at the old mine?" Nova asked.
"You bet. Dug it hard once—stripped the ground bare. Impact hit, folks thinned out, trees crept back." He clicked his tongue. "Better there than around here now."
They stayed with the caravan two days—traveling by day, sleeping beside the road at night. On the third day, around noon, the outline of Foothill Town sharpened at last.
Wind came from the side with grit in it; it stung the face. Nova squinted toward the distance.
On the horizon a line was already visible: on one side, rolling gray-yellow slopes and bare rock; on the other, a rare band of green—trees and scrub had clawed their way back onto the land after the disaster.
The town climbed the hillside. Lower down, rows of small houses straggled along a dry riverbed; higher up, a few squat buildings rebuilt from older stock.
For a town, it was not large—more like a cluster of shacks cupped in the slope.
What caught the eye was the green behind it: woods spreading from the foot of the hill upward, broken here and there by rusted rails and abandoned mine carts half swallowed by branches, cold metal edges glinting through the leaves.
At the town entrance stood a sign patched from scrap iron, rusted so badly the letters were barely legible—something scrubbed and repainted still read Foothill Town.
Beside the sign, a line of men with tools on their shoulders headed toward the mountain. Shovels and pickaxes flashed white in the sun. As they passed, someone muttered:
"Off to the old mine for Crystone again?"
"Heard this batch is labor the Iron Crystal Guild rounded up."
After they were gone, Nova asked Eren quietly, "What's the Iron Crystal Guild for?"
Eren drew a Crystone coin from his belt pouch. In the sunlight fine gray-blue flecks winked across the surface.
"The Guild mints those. Dig Crystone, process it, sell it."
"Maybe they'd know something about the revolutionaries."
"Maybe." Eren put the coin away and headed on into town. "Bed first. Then ask."
They walked the main street. Unlike Railton, Foothill felt tighter—stalls squeezed into gaps between walls and the road center, selling hardtack, rough tools, wild greens and mushrooms from the hills.
Eren stopped at one stall. "Excuse me—where can we get lodging?"
The keeper lifted his eyes and sized them up. "From out of town? Beds are tight. Mine's hiring again—the Guild brought in batch after batch, plus independents. Every cot's taken."
Eren kept it light. "Town been restless? I heard talk about revolutionaries."
The man snorted. "That's what people say. Us locals never see 'em. Nowadays any drifter with a rag and a stick calls himself an army. Wouldn't sweat it."
Eren and Nova exchanged a look. The keeper went on: "Want a room, there's an inn around the corner—tavern downstairs, owner plays fair. Might squeeze you in."
They thanked him, bought some provisions, and went the way he pointed.
The inn front was small, the sign smoke-stained. Below it the tavern door stood open; voices and a mix of smoke and liquor rolled out.
Eren and Nova went in to ask. The owner was behind the counter flipping a ledger. He looked them over. "One room left. Second floor."
They took it. Upstairs Eren pulled hardtack and dried meat from the pack, added the wild mushrooms and greens from the stall, and went back down.
Smoke hung thick in the tavern. Tables were filmed with grease and spilled drink. Eren set the food on the counter. "Can you cook something hot for us?"
The owner took the bag and waved a boy to the kitchen. "No problem. Two Crystone coins for prep—settle with the room when you leave."
Before long the boy brought up two bowls of hot stew with shredded greens floating in it, and crisp toasted hardtack on the side.
They bolted the door and sat by the window. Warm broth took some of the two days' wear off them.
"Sleep tonight. Tomorrow we walk the town." Eren set his empty bowl aside. "Every kind of stranger passes through. Word gets around."
Nova nodded and started getting ready for bed.
They were tired, but the walls were thin. Noise from below came in waves—hard to sleep.
Before long Nova sat up on the bed, head cocked, listening past the racket.
"Someone downstairs is talking about the revolutionaries." He kept his voice low.
Eren turned his ear too, then looked at him. "I can't hear anything."
"They're whispering."
Downstairs was loud—laughter, curses, cups clinking, chairs scraping. In that racket you could barely hear the person across the table, let alone a whisper. Eren's brows went up. "With all that noise, you can make out whispers?"
Nova did not explain. He only lifted a hand for quiet.
The voices came up from below.
"...Heard they grabbed one of theirs. Some researcher type."
Another man scoffed. "Who told you that? You know any revolutionaries?"
"Post's up either way—bring him back, there's coin." The first man sounded stubborn.
"Oh? How much? What does he look like?"
"Wasn't clear... said even bringing back word counts." His confidence thinned.
Everyone laughed. "Nine out of ten that's a scam."
Upstairs, Nova repeated the conversation for Eren.
"Tomorrow we'll ask the owner where the notice board is."
Early the next morning the tavern had not warmed up yet. A boy was sweeping; the owner was entering last night's tabs in the ledger. Eren came down with two bowls of hot water and asked offhand, "Boss, we just got in—where do people pick up work around here?"
The owner did not look up. "Want a job? Try the mine. With your build, digging shouldn't be a problem."
Eren shook his head. "Never mined. Delivery, finding people, guard work—that's what I know."
The owner glanced up. "Out the door, left along the stone wall—a notice board, anyone can post. Crowd around it every day."
"Thanks, boss." Eren smiled, set the water on the counter, and added, "We'll go see what's up."
They settled the bill and stepped outside.
The board was nailed to an old wall, wood gone dark under a lean-to roof. Most of the papers were creased and torn; on many only a few words were still readable. Handwriting slanted every which way, misspellings everywhere—escort jobs, lost items, all pasted up together.
A ring of people stood before it: some with bows on their backs, some with pickaxes, some in ragged cloaks, breath sharp with impatience. A few stared up at the notices; others counted on their fingers whether the pay was worth it.
Nova stood half a step behind Eren, eyes moving over the slips. He asked the crowd offhand, "Mine hiring again? Why's everyone packed in?"
A man with a scar on his face grunted. "Mine jobs ain't news. That one..." He jutted his chin at a sheet near the top. "That's the fresh one. Rest is old news."
That notice was straighter than the others, paper clean, writing clear. The phrasing was measured—not the rough directness of most jobs on the board:
"Assistance sought to escort an important missing comrade home, or to return reliable word of his whereabouts. Substantial reward assured."
Smaller text at the bottom read:
Western Line Provisional Action Team (Revolutionary Army detachment).
The signature left the front row quiet. Some frowned. Someone muttered "putting on airs." Another laughed, annoyed.
"The army needs us to save their own?"
"Probably fake." Someone else curled his lip. "Borrowing the name to scare people."
"Looks real to me." The scarred man dropped his voice. "Look at that paper, that hand—you gonna fake that?"
Eren said nothing. He moved half a step forward and read the notice start to finish. Neat paper, clean script, careful wording—next to the scrawled "find person" and "find dog" slips, it read like an official document.
Revolutionaries rescuing their own—normally they would not advertise to outsiders like this. Eren turned it over in his mind.
Someone else pushed in to stare at the line about the reward. Eyes and whispers gathered until that one sheet had the whole crowd's attention.